Polar Opposites

Lana

The room I've been thrown into is bare, stripped of all furniture and possessions, apart from the lone bed I'm sitting on against the wall, and the two rusting buckets in the corner. The fluorescent light coming from the bulb in the ceiling makes my eyes burn, which were accustomed to the smothering darkness that engulfed me in the cellar.

I break out of my reverie and spring off the bed towards the bread and apple that lie on the floor. Without stopping to chew I gulp down the apple, but return to my senses enough to leave the bread for the future. I quickly follow it by slurping down half the jug of water; the relief of the cold water on my parched throat making me almost groan in pleasure.

A minute later, and a wave of nausea hits me, so I crawl over to the bucket, and empty out all of the meagre contents of my stomach. For a minute, I just sit there, hunched over the bucket, panting with fatigue and a strange sort of adrenaline. My stomach continues to churn, but it seems to have nothing else to give.

Slowly, I return to my bed, and take small sips of the water to calm my intestines. After a while my head stops spinning, and my blurred vision returns to normal.

And then, I cry. I cry because all my emotions have finally built up to a tipping point. I cry because I want to feel safe again. I want to go home. I cry because I'm tired. I cry because my life has never been what I had planned.

Everything- everything comes pouring out of me, in banshee like sobs, and oceans of tears. My chest shakes with pain, my entire body steaming with rage. My eyes cry tears of violent storms, as I weep for those I've lost, and those I never knew. I scream for the life I could have had, and I wail in mourning for the future I've lost. Everything has crashed down. The dam has broken.

When I wake up, my cheeks are crystallised with salt, and my already dank clothes are crumpled and sodden with pain. But my head feels clear, the fogginess that's been building up over the past week banished to some far off corner of my brain. It's a strange contrast to (the night?) before, as while I'm in no better a position, it feels as if the door of hope in my heart has been opened, and is making my veins run gold with positivity.

First I need to regain my strength. I've learnt my lesson from last time, so I break off only a very small hunk of bread, and begin to nibble at the crust. It tastes weeks old, but there's no mould on it yet, so I'm not one to complain.

I let my stomach settle for a bit before getting off the bed. I feel disgusting and most likely stink like an alleyway behind a supermarket, so I head towards the bucket of icy cold water. I quickly tear off a bit of my sleeve and dip it into the water. I bring the material up to my face, and begin to thoroughly scrub my entire body. Slowly the layers of congealed blood and mud begin to shift to reveal my caramel-white skin beneath. Next I move onto my clothes. I wash one item at a time so as not to be caught indecent by my captors, and plunge it into the water, my nails scratching the dirt off beneath the surface. Once I'm satisfied, I wring it out and leave it to dry, before replacing it with the next thing. Overall, it must take me hours, but eventually I'm sitting on my bed with a fresh set of clothes and a rather murky bucket of water opposite me. To reward myself, I have another nibble of bread, and this time, no nausea follows it.

With nothing left to do, my thoughts begin to consume me again. I wonder if my Dad is worried about me. If right now, he's trying to figure out where I am. Or, if maybe he thinks there's no hope. If deep down he just might be a bit... relieved?

When we lost my mother, he had to raise a child on his own. A child, who, statistically, he should have been mourning, not bringing up. And he tried his hardest, but nothing quite fills the hole of bereavement, and a living reminder of what he lost, well that just drills the whole deeper. And he tried, he really did, but that child, that little girl, had to raise herself.

So would it really be his fault if he felt just a tinge of relief at the chance for all reminders, all of his past, to be over.

I want to be understanding, I really want to, but I'm scared. I'm scared because it has never felt like he truly cares, and I really need him to right now. I need him to, because I can't make it out of here alone.

Dad, I don't ask for things a lot, but please, just for once, can you listen to my pleas?