Secrets of the Past

Prologue

I wake up from a restless sleep. I am lying on something dry, brittle, and prickly. It scratches and pokes my skin. I dimly register the pounding in my head and the aching of my body as I take in my foreign surroundings.
     Where am I?
My nose scrunches up as the stench of decay and must flood my senses. A rat runs in front of my face. I try to scream, but my throat is like sandpaper. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, preventing me from making a sound.
My body jerks into an upright position, and I scramble away from the rodent that is long gone, yet fresh in my memory. Whatever I had been resting on digs into my hands and falls from my hair, brushing the bare skin of my arms on the way to the floor. I begin to examine the offending material as I shake it out of my hair. Straw.
I adjust my awkward position on the ground. I hear a metallic clanking sound and feel something cold and heavy around my wrists and ankles. I look down. I see metal shackles chaining me to the stone wall at my back. I look around, still trying to figure out where I am.
I find myself in a room with stone walls. The room is dimly lit, a single torch on the wall near the entrance where a staircase leads above ground providing the only source of light. Cobwebs cover the wooden rafters and the old wooden chandelier barely dangling from the ceiling by a rusty chain. There is a thick layer of dust and straw all over the floor, which was presumably stone like the walls.
I slowly and hesitantly force my aching body into a standing position. Thankfully, the shackles allow me to rise to my full height. I look around what appears to be my cell once more, noticing a small bowl on the floor in the corner. There is a wooden spoon that looked as if it hasn't been cleaned in many years and a piece of dry bread in it. A small tin cup, dented and bent out of shape, is on its side next to the aforementioned bowl, its precious contents dampening the straw around it and going to waste. Man, I could really use something to drink.
     I return my attention to what's in front of me. Rusty metal bars separate me from the rest of the room. Some are coming from the ceiling, like stalactites. The others resemble stalagmites. They all seem to have tips that are sharp enough to slice your finger open just by touching them. They meet halfway between the ground and ceiling. I look to my sides. The same architectural design is on both my left and right. It extends all the way to the stone wall behind me.
     I notice a bit of movement to my right. I peer between the bars and discover another person in the cell next to me. He has midnight black, shaggy hair, matted and covered in filth. His clothes are dirty and torn in many places. His tee shirt is stained with a ruddy brownish red color, likely dried blood and dirt mixing together. He is unconscious, with shackles adorning his hands and feet as well. His cell is identical to mine, with matching iron bars and dining ware. The realization hits me full force as my foggy brain finally catches up to my eyes. I'm in a dungeon.
Why am I in a here? How did I get here? How do I get out? Who is that man? Is he alive? What is going on?
I begin to get dizzy as I lean on the wall behind me, suddenly grateful for its presence as support. My vision starts to swim and my head starts to throb. I raise my hand to my light brown hair and feel something sticky. I pull my hand down to examine it. There is something red and wet covering it. Blood.
     The sight of my own blood makes my head spin even more. I slowly slide down the wall until I am lying down on the straw covered floor, suddenly feeling nauseous, and eventually slip back into unconsciousness.