My head hurt. Really badly. It throbbed, at my temple, where I knew without looking there was a large lump. I raised my hand to the sore area; sure enough, the skin was swollen. I could also feel a large amount of dried blood, crusted down the side of my face and in my matted hair.
Before opening my eyes, I tested my body for injuries. Gingerly stretching out my limbs, I found that they were slightly sore, but just from being in the same position for a long time. I had a headache, but it was bearable. I thought that my wrist was sprained, and two of my fingers, my pinkie and ring, seemed to be broken – all three injuries on my right arm.
I braced myself, and opened my eyes.
Everything was blurry, my vision swimming for a moment, before focussing. I assessed my surroundings.
I was lying the ground, which was made of cold, hard cement. No wonder I was so sore. I sat up and looked around.
There wasn’t much. I was in a very small room, only a couple of metres square. Everything was made out of concrete. The only features the room had were two cement benches and a door. The door was wooden, with a small window near the top.
I closed my eyes again, thinking hard. What happened?
I think back to when I was sitting in my bedroom. I had a…..what would it be called? A flashback? No, because I had never seen anything like that before. I have no idea what it would be called. Me going mental? That sounds about right.
So I went to the library. I got an address. I went to the car park.
I started hearing noises. I felt someone in there with me. That someone hit my temple. And I fainted.
I can find no recollection of what the person looked like – I can’t even remember seeing a person at all. Yet somehow, I know that it was the same people that hurt Delilah. They knew I was coming for them. So…they came for me?
These are people who are highly trained, if they could sneak up on me like that in a silent car park. And if they knew where I was, and what I was doing. And the ones that kidnapped Delilah were dressed like…
FBI agents! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that before? It makes sense.
I sigh, leaning my head against the wall, pushing my knees to my chin. There’s only one problem. What would the FBI want with Delilah?
Just then, the door slams open, and a woman walks in. I jump to my feet, but she gives me such a look that I sit back down.
She sets a bowl of what looks – and smells – like soup on one of the benches and then just stands there looking at me.
“What the hell is going on?” I spit out. “Who are you? Where am I?”
“None of those questions are ones I can answer,” she replies smoothly, calmly.
I look away, at the cold, hard floor, and I think of Delilah. I think of how they caused her to commit suicide, how they damaged her life so badly that she no longer wanted to live, and now I can’t even have answers. This woman can just stand there, with possibly all I want to know on the tip of her tongue – everything I want and need, everything to explain the loss of my soulmate, just in my reach – and yet she chooses to withhold it from me. But instead of feeling angrier, more frustrated, more hatred towards this woman and her colleagues – or whatever they are – my anger suddenly fades. “Please,” I just whisper.
She sighs. “Look at me.”
I look at her. She is pretty, it strikes me suddenly, and very pale. But how does that help me?
I look at her eyes. They are a funny colour, a strange shade of violet.
She shakes her head a little, almost as if she is disappointed. “You’ll figure it out,” she says.
“Figure what out?” I stare at her hopelessly.
“I can’t say anything. I’m not allowed to. It is strictly forbidden to disclose any information, especially to someone like you. But many people have found out, figured it out for themselves, without help. If you’re smart, you will be one of those people. And if you are really smart,” she leans forward slightly, “You will keep it to yourself.”
I am confused, and I frown slightly. What is that supposed to mean? “Is that a threat?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “It’s a piece of advice.”
Then she turns on her heel and walks out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her. I don’t hear a lock, but I don’t even bother trying to open the door. There’s bound to be some other kind of security measures in place – a guard, or another room with a lock. The possibilities are endless, really. I’m sure that if I attempted to escape, I would be punished. And I’m not really keen on finding out how.
I force myself to concentrate, to return to the matter at hand.
I try to ignore my rumbling stomach, the way it is reacting to the smell of the soup, onion I think, and try to decipher the woman’s words, the meaning behind them. But in the end I give up, picking up the bowl and gulping down its contents. I feel slightly better afterwards, but still unable to figure out what the woman was trying to tell me.
I have a feeling, a gut feeling, that it has something to do with her eyes. Those strange purple eyes. I can feel a strange tugging at the back of my mind, like a memory trying to come free. I’ve seen those eyes somewhere before. But I just can’t remember where.
I drift in and out of consciousness for the next ten hours or so. I am haunted by the same nightmares, of Delilah flinging herself off of the cliff top, of me being too late to save her, but also new ones. Ones of the suited men. The ones that hurt Delilah, who damaged her so bad that she thought the only way out was to take her own life.
These dark and mournful dreams that shroud my mind terrify me to no end. Every time I resurface, they plunge me back under, forcing me into their murky depths. There is no escape; even while I am conscious, they sit at the back of my mind, waiting for the moment when they can reclaim me again. I am always aware of them.
They wind through my head, tainting everything with a horrible darkness, making me feel hopeless and depressed. I also feel a lot of guilt, guilt that every psychologist said made no sense, that I shouldn’t feel it at all, but I do. I feel it almost as strongly as the depression, the wistful longing, the loss. Why didn’t I suspect something was wrong with Delilah? Why didn’t I save her? Why wasn’t I there for her?
I see only one way to escape. I need to kill these suited men. Rip their throats out. Hurt them physically the way they hurt my soulmate emotionally.
I must fight for vengeance. Fight for freedom.
Fight for love.
YOU ARE READING
Dear Delilah West
Teen Fiction'Dear Delilah West, Why? Why would you do that? Why would you take your own life?' Sam, a sixteen year old boy, desperately in love, falls into a deep depression when his soulmate Delilah commits suicide. He cannot imagine what drove her to do it. B...