In the Dark

Chapter One

"The devil is real. And he's not a little red man with horns and a tail. He can be beautiful. Because he's a fallen angel, and he used to be God's favorite."
- American Horror Story

...

I wake with a shove.

My body tumbles to the left, but I react quick enough. I roll over my shoulder, gain my footage, and crouch in defense. My head whips up in a growl that quickly dies in my throat when I see who has disturbed my sleep.

Automatically, my neck tilts to the side in submission. I want to whimper, but I refuse to allot myself this weakness. I can feel my fear. One of the few emotions I have. It spreads up my veins and arteries, rushing up the trunks of my legs, past the pelvis, all the way until my scalp itches. Out of the huge rainbow of emotions in the world, fear is by far the most volatile. It is the one that reaches down your open mouth, past your esophagus, and swishes around your insides like solid food in a blender.

Nose filling with his fetid smell, he vices my neck with an iron grip. He squeezes a bit, and for a second I cannot breathe, but then he releases, and just lets his hand rest against my pale skin. I swallow deep as I come face to face with my personal monster.

He is tailored just right, with a long face, and hollow cheeks. He looks to be an average creature, not handsome nor ugly on the outside, not noticeable in any way. I am sure his anonymous looks have worked to his advantage more than once. His fleshy lips drag into a smile beneath the small black mustache on his upper lip. The teeth are white as snow, and straight as an arrow in the gums. My monster has spaced eyelashes curling around the pits of his eyes, which are a frosty blue, like he lays under icicles in the night, and lets the water drop down, down until it freezes over the irises. They are the only noticeable feature he has. He matches his clothing to his looks, they are average and unprovocative; a polo and khaki pants.

He goes by Bram.

"More training." Bram whispers against my cheek before he brushed a kiss against the side of my face, the lightest touch. Goose bumps sprout all over my skin. The kiss of his lips feel like two baby sardines sandwiching together for a brief moment. They are greasy with oil and festered with scum. Just like him.

Bram takes a moment to run his fingers over the scars along my mouth and chin. They are deep, ugly, and they twist in a dance up to my temple, landing just beside my eyebrow. A malicious look is pasted on his plain face because it is finished product. The scars on my body are his babies and I am his surrogate for the malevolence he holds in his black heart.

In one swift movement, he drags me from the neck onto the ground, and my hands hit the floor with a thud. A collar of silver replaces his hand, and he tugs on the leash to get me moving.

Another few guards wait outside with stern faces, a knife, flashlight, and radio is strapped on their person. They dress in a uniform of black, consisting of cargo pants and a slim t-shirt with jacket. In a group they surround me and stalk through the hallway to the door waiting at the end of the hall. Other captives walk up to their bars to see who is coming. One guard does not like this; he pulls out his flashlight to hit the knuckles of a man on the left. I can tell the prisoner wants to howl in pain, but he instead turns his back, and lumbers back to his blanket in the corner.

I catch his eyes before he turns, where an understanding passes between us. I know he will lay down and try to seep as much warmth into his bones from the little scrap of fabric. I know his gaze will be dead until he is disturbed again, and I know he will remain not himself just as I do when I am left alone.

Worse yet, he knows where I am going.

My neck is a sore when we arrive at the training room, but I do not dare complain in this place. Bram can walk far faster than I will ever be able to crawl on my knees. Im a dog, a filthy bitch. The training room is solid concrete, excluding the contents and the mirror spanning the entirety of one wall. There are puddles and stains scattering the floor, reminding me of the freckles on my nose. They march me to the center of the cold room, where Bram grabs my collar and hauls me to stand. He unlatches the leash, but keeps the collar there. I know my place. Then, four of the men leave to watch from the two-way mirror outside, except Bram and one remaining guard.