Night

Disturbance Part 2

Note: Bone snapping up ahead. Do not read if you no like. 

It is almost morning. Everything is hazy before dawn, a deep blue settling on the earth. Katrissa, once upon a time, never woke up at dawn.

She prefers to sleep in, and wake up just before lunchtime. Two reasons prompt her to change. One, she's vulnerable if she sleeps while everyone else is awake. During the bustle of the noon, no one will notice the disappearance of a fourteen year old, until it is too late. Two, she plans her words and evaluates her emotions in the morning. Ever since that maths class, she could twist her personality to become anyone she desired. Now she is a faceless sociopath.

Maybe next time she'll return to her 'old' self. The emotional, somewhat more moral self.

"Katie! It's Sam again." She glances up. It's the shadow, in a blurry outline of a stick-thin human. Two, white dots serves as eyes on an unusually round head. It hovers outside her cell.  A card is extracted and placed against the reader. Beep. The barred doors slide open. 

"Why the nickname Katie?" she asks, as she trails behind Sam down a hallway painted in brick white. The brilliant, fluorescent lights blink, sending a shot through her system. Multiple dots appear then fade in her vision.

"You never smile, love." If Katrissa can describe its voice, it will be like inhaling singed human remains. It's strangely fragrant. "Maybe a sweet nickname can help you lighten up."

She gives a soft 'tsk'. "Of course I'm enjoying my stay as a prisoner."

"You'll come to see the opposite." They've reached the end. An unmarked door stands before her. She knows it well and swallows a lump in her throat. Sam pulls down the handle and opens it in mock chivalry.

"This is your world now," the shadow says she enters the room's dim interior. In the corner of her peripheral vision, it nods before shutting her in.

A large screen, wide enough to rival those in cinemas, shines in the dark. A video is about to play. She lowers herself down on a leather swivel chair in front of it. Without delay, an arrow travels to the 'Play' button. The growing pit in her stomach sinks in dread. The mouse clicks, and a scene begins to unfold. During the video, she blinks slowly as if trying to get grit out of an eye.  She's allowed to look away  but finds no impulse to. 

The video is far more than unpleasant. A torture is displayed, with several people involved and a masked single victim, tied down. They speak in a foreign language though the sound of denial is universal. A perpetuator sits beside the victim, holding the victim's pinky between the pointer and thumb. Another refusal, and within a second an audible snap shuts up the victim. The camera zooms in to a dislocated pinky, arched backwards at a 90 degree angle. But it continues, pushing past the right angle. The victim's cries swell to throaty screams, a the perpetuator strips the finger, bone, tendons and all from the hand. She watches, silent. It's the third recording she's seen in the past week. She should be vomiting because most humans cannot stand seeing the insides of their own race.  Mentally disturbed, because it's 'deeply distressing' material. Plenty more 'should' statements  swim around in her mind. 

Another part of her is content in  the newfound 'strength'. A positive quality amongst a multitude of faults, she reasons. Finally, something useful.

After an hour and three other victims, the video finishes. Katrissa exhales and inhales. She wipes her sweaty palms on her pants, and looks behind her to check for an open door. It remains closed. Baffled, she scans the room even though there's not much to be seen. Without the screen, it's almost pitch black. The fear of the unknown overrides any relief she had before. 

Silence descends upon the room. She sits stock-still with the only sound of her breathing to keep her company. Have they decided to confine her here and show another video? From experience, the room is scarcely furnished and the door is locked. She can only wait and count breaths. 

1, 2, 3, 4, 5....

....193, 194, 195-

Just before 196th breath, the door swings open and she whirls around, expecting to leave. Instead she is assaulted by an image she'll never forget. Shock makes the world go in slow-motion. That can't be Sam, she thinks, without hesitation. Wait, hold on. 

 She was wrong. 

Sam saunters in a French maid costume with stilettos, carrying a silver platter.  

And, obviously, with a well-practiced hip sway.