A Hero in the Dark: 2nd Edition

Chapter 22: Unforgivable

He tossed me into a cell days ago and since then they haven't done anything to me, which at first, I thought was great, but I'm now realizing that they might've forgotten about me entirely. I licked my tray of food clean a couple of days ago—at least, I think it's been that long—and the bucket that used to hold water is now half empty; the other to use as a toilet—that one's full, and it reeks, just like the rest of this place. But as if the poor hospitality isn't enough, I can no longer sleep.

It's as if the sweltering pain in my wrists hasn't even stopped; it hurts worse when I rub them, so I try not to, but it's like trying to resist an impossible itch.

But the saddest part is that there's nothing to do but sit in the back corner of the claustrophobic cell, knees tucked into my chest. It's not that I haven't tried yelling for help—I have! I've tried rattling the door, picking the lock, even using telekinesis to unlock it myself, or praying to whatever God there is to do it for me. I've tried everything. Hell, I've scraped away most of my nails chipping away at the stone around the bars until my fingernails bled.

I only gave up when a soldier smacked the bars of the cell with his sword, nearly slicing my fingers. He said nothing, just stared, stared hard with that darkness in his eyes; I got the hint.

Sometimes it's easier to breathe; other times, all I can do is sob uncontrollably. I hate those days the most, those days where my body won't stop rocking, shaking, crying, no matter what I do—and I never used to cry before! Today is one of those days...

No matter what I do to pass the time—deep breathing or not thinking, per say—I can't stop worrying about my chances of ever getting out of here. What if I'm stuck prisoner here—wherever here is—for years? Like Nine or Six or Malcolm? What if this is my life? My hands shake worse, and no amount of muscle clenching can remedy that.

I should've said something else to Five that day, something subtle, something that didn't tell him who I was. I had no idea this is what he wanted to do. I'm a fool for thinking Setrákus Ra wouldn't want to use me in his conquer over Earth. It should've been obvious. I should've been smarter; spoke better, done better, and maybe I wouldn't be here now...

I just want to go home, far away from this place, far away from this war, away from aliens of any origin. I want to see mom and dad and my little brother. I want to tell them I'm sorry for ever leaving in the first place. I want to go to my own school, see my own friends, my own teachers. I want to go home...

My stomach growls for food that I know I won't get, and I curse at it for reminding me how hungry I am—when suddenly, a group of three stop outside my cell, swords hanging by their waists.

One of them pushes open the door and enters, and dread rockets up my spine as I realize he isn't here to collect my empty tray. "Please..." I waver, edging as far from him as possible. I don't even notice the bucket he's carrying until he dumps it on me. It bears cold water that's chilling to the bone. I'm shivering when he reaches for me. "No! Don't—! Let go of me!" I squirm in his hold until I fall back down, desperate to stay away from them, and press my spine to the wall. "Don't take me back there," I slur. I can't tell if it's a plea or a warning. "Don't take me back there."

He nods to another one of them who advances on me like an angry bull on steroids. He pulls me out of my corner of safety and before I know it, my cheek is kissing concrete. I struggle under his strength, kick, try to thrash out when another grabs my wrists. They bind me and tie a blindfold behind my head, and another pulls a rag in my mouth.

Once they ease up and pick me off the ground, they shove, and I fall into the hall. I let loose a muffled cry until one of them pulls me up. "Onwards!" he yells. I cringe at the sound and take a slow, shaky step. He shoves me again and my breath catches in the cloth.

There are others as I walk—prisoners; humans, maybe—and it hurts to know that there are more, but even though every cry sounds like a cry for help, I don't care for them; the only thing my mind cares for is where we're going and what will happen once we get there.

A big, cold hand grabs me when we stop, and before I know it, I'm on a wall.

I'm left alone for quite some time, I think, until the door creaks—that's what terrifies me. I hear just enough to make out someone walking towards me; their hand traces my cheek. It's rough and ice cold. I cringe and turn away, but they grab my chin, then remove the fold.

Setrákus Ra. He stands inches away.

Fear trickles up my spine, but already, I'm preparing myself for the pain he'll inflict on me; contracting my muscles, swallowing my spit, doing everything I can think of to make this somewhat easier. I shut my eyes and ready myself for the sensation of the cynical goo.

He peels the rag out and lets it sit against my chest. I take a breath then set my lips into a firm line, trying to convene that I won't tell him anything, and hang, watching, waiting. "I assure you; by the end of today, I'll have the information I desire."

I don't know what he's talking about, but I know one thing for sure: "How many times do I have to tell you? I don't know anything; I swear to you, I don't."

He walks away, giving me space. "If you don't believe me, see for yourself," he says as a lightbulb flickers on, and when it does, I am all but forgiving. Across from me hangs a man that looks so much worse; he's gagged, bloody, and beaten, head bowed as if he's been here for a while, drifting in and out, but eventually, he looks up. I'm almost convinced Henri mumbles my name.