Hollows In Time (✔️) | 'Hollows' Book Ⅱ

Chapter One

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T h e   H o l l o w s   O f
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Fingers ran through my hair, soothing me gently. Then the fingers were gone.

Footsteps were heard, trailing away from me. They stopped.

The shed door opened. Then the footsteps were gone.

He was gone.

As an ache overwhelmed me, I began to hear Jameson's lasts words echo in my mind again.

"You're going home." He had said.

I was going home. But where is my home?

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T h e H o l l o w s O f
H I R A E    T H
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H o l l o w s I n
T I M E
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Broth was passed through the wires of the cage. More broth. Always broth. Why eat broth when you can eat broth?

"Hey! Crazy pants!" The man growled through the bars and hit the metal restrictors with his own metal bar, of which I wouldn't be surprised if he broke off from another cell in his fury. Always furious. Why so furious? He's imprisoned. Like me. But not like me. He's imprisoned by himself, by his past, by his present, by his future.

"You gonna eat or do you wanna bathe in it again?" He shouted again and prodded me through the bars with his new metal tool. I knew that marks and bruises would appear, some had already appeared. In this world, being shut off from the real world, from the warmth, from the laughter, from family and friends, from him–

Him. Why isn't he here? When will he save me?

"Come on, pretty face." The guy then bellowed. Upon venturing—or more like being dragged against my own will—into this dark, dank and deserted place, I had been given the nickname 'pretty face'. I disliked it back then. Now I didn't care. About anything.

I daintily picked up the spoon and swashed the slimy trash—broth—around the bowl. To satisfy the guard, I gingerly—and very unwillingly—gulped down a spoonful. I grimaced before putting the spoon back into the bowl and sitting back as if I was finished, letting my unruly locks distort my vision. I couldn't even tell if it was blonde anymore—too much dirt, too much darkness, too much pain. Maybe I look like how I feel. How do I feel? Numb, maybe. But before, I used to cry. Cry out for him. I always cried for him. But he doesn't care.

"Seconds?" The man joked and then bellowed at his own joke as he took back my bowl.

Now I sleep, because after the last broth of the day, all the greyed guards would laugh and play dusty old board games. Then they'd laugh, bang poles against the metal bars of our holding cells and then fall down drunk on the floor. Though, sometimes they had the decency to find beds.

I knew no one else here. No one talked. By the time I got here all the captives had gone so crazy that they'd all become mutes, having google amount of conversations in their heads at once. One about cats, one about global warming, one about me, maybe. When I was first chucked away into this cell to rot, I swore I'd never become like them. Now look at me.