Darker than Darkness

Part 5

Haseena

Hell

My Nani would tell me stories of it. How it was a place far worse than we could fathom. Personalized to reflect our own deepest darkest fears. A place of repulsion, pain and hurt, delivered to those who'd sinned.

I've done a lot of bad things in my life and I was starting to realize that this... this is the beginning of the end.

My own hell.

Far worse than I could have ever imagined.

Pastels, florals, creams.

Yellow, gold, pink.

It's everywhere.

The tacky canopy bedding, the draped curtains hanging from the large barred windows, the old carpet, the wallpaper.

All a God-awful floral pattern, a mix of various yellows and pinks.

It's absolutely everywhere except on the wall opposed to the bed, where a portrait hangs, spanning the entire wall.

The old white hag in the portrait stares down at me, her face stoic, a crazed look in her ancient beady eyes. But that isn't the worst part. Neither is the smell of death, dusty perfume, and moth balls.

It's the dolls.

Porcelain dolls of various shapes and sizes line nearly every single surface of the room. The high shelves, windowsills, the furniture, some are even placed on the floor.

I debate putting myself out of this misery and using the knife tucked into my skirt to end it all.

Sure the room was an upgrade, but an upgrade in the sense that it threatened something far worse than my physical health, my sanity.

Dust slowly coats my lungs and I find my only solace in the ensuite bathroom, away from the prying eyes of the old hag and those dolls.

It's clean, lined with floral scented toiletries, a smell I couldn't stand but despite it all, I strip myself of my clothes, stash my knives and the three juice boxes I'd swiped from the kitchen earlier beneath the pillow of the bed and run myself a hot shower.

Ignoring the throb in my ankle and the weeping blood of my wrist, the warmth is heavenly. Soothing my muscles as the water washes away the dried blood, only leaving the blood actively pouring out of my wrist to tint the clear liquid red.

I slump against the wall, refusing to leave until I begin to sway, my mind growing faint as an all too familiar dizziness clouds my senses.

My papá's annoying voice rings in my head until it pisses me off so much, I'm forced to stumble out of the shower, half assedly wrap a towel around myself, another around my bleeding wrist and stagger to the bed, where I drop down and reach beneath the pillow.

I down one of the three juice boxes desperately, crushing the empty box in my hand as I wait, impatiently, paralyzed to the bed, awaiting my senses.

I don't know how long I'm laying there, but I force my eyes open and to the door upon hearing movement behind it.

My heart pounds loud in my ear with each movement I sense that isn't my doing. While the knowledge of my guard being forced down by my body's response to a lack of sugar, leaves me weak and vulnerable.

I'm able to get myself up in a seated position by the time the door opens, and when I eye an older woman trudging in a tray of food and a bag, I calm and resort to watching her, like a hunter does it's prey.

She begins to speak. I don't understand her Russian

It's only when she begins to approach, setting the tray of grey mush down and huffing out a breath, like the trek up the steps to my room had knocked the wind from her. "I fix blood."