A Collection of Short Stories

Rose

Inspiration for this short story was found on Pinterest, where occasionally I find short prompts that get me thinking. The prompt went as follows:

"She still won't talk."

"Drive another nail through her arm."

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  Rose struggled against her bindings. The thin plastic bit viciously into the flesh of her wrists, but she was beyond feeling pain.

  Footsteps echoed down the long corridor, and she stilled. Dried blood napped her hair to her forehead, and her arms ached from being held up for so long. Her body trembled, but not from fear. From sheer exhaustion.

  He began his whistle as he came closer. The same tune every time, an almost childlike melody that lilted and faded off into nothing after a few seconds. She bowed her head to the ground before he came into sight. A chair scraped across the concrete and he took a seat in front of her. She breathed the damp, molded air quietly. He sighed, followed by a click that illuminated her dirty, unwashed body. The light burned her eyes, but she didn't move.

"Are you ready to talk?" He always started each session with the same question. And she always gave him the same reply. Her silence. "Look." He continued. "The quicker you talk, the sooner you leave." A note of desperation entered his voice. But she didn't mind. He was new at the game of torture. A game she'd been winning at for decades. Her body had frailed from the lack of nourishment at being held captive for nearly two weeks. With no food and only enough water to keep her alive, she hardly even felt the pangs in her gut anymore.

"Please." He begged, scooting the chair closer, and then standing. She felt his hand breach the distance between them slowly, cautiously reaching out to touch her.

Footsteps in the hallway once again sent him reeling backward.

"Updates." A gruff voice ordered as he entered the small room. This new man appeared to be the head of this operation. He accompanied most visits, but only stood quietly at the back of the room. Only occasionally would he give orders.

"She still won't talk, sir." He added the formality almost as an afterthought. She dared a glance at the quiet leader. His arms were crossed and he pursed his lips at the news. Or lack thereof.

"Drive another nail through her arm." He decided.

She glanced up through her greasy locks of hair at his henchman. He hesitated for only a moment before bending to retrieve a rusty nail from the ground. He aimed it toward the fleshy part of her arm, and with one solid smack from his right hand, he drove it home, between its two buddies embedded in her bicep. She didn't even wince.

His superior turned on a heel, obviously satisfied, and began back down the corridor. 

A dark chuckle filled the room, and he paused. The laugh dripped like venom from her lips.

"You'll never find them. I buried them well."

The man whipped around furiously, crossing the room in moments, and sending his hand across her bony cheek. She felt the blood fill her mouth, and she spit. His henchman blanched in the background.

"Where did you put their bodies?" Collections of saliva spat from his mouth as he yelled. His voice changed with his next words. "What did you do with my babies?" And with that, he broke in front of her, collapsing to his knees and sobbing loudly. 

She spit blood again, and grinned.