When All Light Dies

To Burn the Eye

"Burn in your own hell, life grand holding cell. Two become as one, one become a slave." — Trivium

***

Footsteps.

The door to the basement squeaked open, and now someone is descending down the stairs. I see the outline of my abductor standing at the bottom a moment later, appearing inhuman due to the frightening, dominant aura clinging to him, the blackness of the dark covering him, and his intimidating stance facing me.

He takes a step forward, and then another, until he's only a few feet away from me. I remain still, trembling on the mattress I'm too afraid to leave. He's studying me, wordlessly, calmly. I shudder as he takes another step towards me, my breath stalling in my throat at the closeness of us. Warning sirens explode in my head, screaming danger desperately. Being this close to something so evil is wrong, and every part of my being is terrified.

Can my abductor see the fright on my face despite the darkness? Does he feel my fear, does it feed him satisfaction, does it affect him at all? How does he interpret my silence? Why did he choose to abduct me — at random, or for a reason? What is running through his mind right now as he stares at me, what is he looking for?

"You didn't listen," the man says softly to interrupt my thoughts, disappointment apparent in the hoarseness of his tone. His voice is hard with disapproval, the sound of it full of disgust. "I told you to change."

As if I wasn't already paralyzed with fear, I am now locked completely in place. I can't even breathe. If my eye would so much as twitch, it would feel like the walls of this dungeon would collapse.

"I told you to change your clothes," the man seethes, his redundant words muffled slightly as though he spoke through angrily clenched teeth battling to remain composed. Cold fear splashes down my spine and I feel the urge to slink away, apprehension about something bad moments away overwhelming due to the dark emotion in the man's voice.

I am unable to move, though. Even if I were brave enough to, I wouldn't have any place to go. What's the point of running to the corner in fear if this man could just follow me there? There's no place to hide. There are no weapons, no shields, no hope. It would be foolish to challenge this man in any way, though I feel that not changing my clothes did just that.

I suddenly regret my decision.

Survival may mean doing things I would rather not do.

"Good girls listen," the man continues, leaning in even closer to me, close enough so that I can feel faint traces of his cool breath wafting against my face. Close enough so that I can hear the patter of his eyelids blinking. Close enough so that I can make out slightly more than just the contours of his face.

The dark limits what I can see, but I notice deep scars on one side of his face. The uneven surfaces of rugged skin seems to glitter with the play of light and shadows, like a mountain range seen from far away. A long, thick line of an old, messily stitched gash splits down that side. It slices through his eye, down to his strong jaw line dusted by a stubble. That particular eye is frightening, an injury that didn't heal. There's no way he can see from it, I decide to note in case that could come to use to me. I have to tear my own eyes away from the wound, a sight I didn't want to see but was hard to look away from.

The other side of his face isn't as littered with scars, is slightly cleaner, but hardly any friendlier. His eye without a cut pierces my own, narrowed and dark. His gaze feels evil, like he's a monster from my nightmares preying on me. Curls of ebony hair falls long enough to cast streaks of shadows over his forehead, disguising more scars, I'm sure. He's an intimidating sight to stand, and I find it much harder now to resist the urge to scurry away in cowardice. I understand now his preference for a lack of light.