Etched

Chapter 1

Jenna Stephens

Darkness. That's the only thing I am able to see, that seems to surround me. Circling me from all  dimensions, holding me a prisoner. My eyes shoot up and look around, frantic, in search of radiance, in hopes of light. They dart hopelessly to look for a crack that would show me a ray of brightness. Just a little, just enough to satisfy me, to let me know there could be anything illuminated, that there in fact is a break. A fracture that would be sufficient to light the darkness I'm trapped in. That would give me hope, hope of escape. Just an evidence that would snatch away my wild thoughts, bury them and free me. Liberate me from the clamps grasping my body, restricting my movements.

I struggled, pulling, thrashing and attempting to look for a source of light, without making any sound. A sound that might attract them, that might divert them from their tasks and come hunting for me. I could hear muffled cries, I can hear begging and insisting. A screech is all the more I can take before I stamp my palms against my ears, trying to brick the sounds away. To block the fear away.Tears pour down my eyes as a waterfall, not seeming to be in control. My heartbeat surpassing the normal rate, numbing my ears. I fist my mouth to drown the sobs threatening to bubble in despair.

Despite trying to hide away from the helpless cries I am unable to save myself from hearing them. The voices resonating, slicing through the darkness, digging at my vulnerability. I want to run away and stop all the cries, to stop the torture when I hear a gunshot.

I shoot up in the bed, sitting up straight with my eyes wide. A horrified scream escapes my lips as I clutch the blanket tight in my fists. I look around gasping, working to collect huge chunks of air that might normalize my breathing, that might calm me. Wiping the sheen of cold sweat from my forehead, I slide backwards to rest myself against the headrest.

Placing my hand over my heart, I follow the breathing routine to control my heart rate and to normalize the abnormal panting and puffing. My gaze travelling to my shaky hands, seeing them cold and trembling, as though they've been exposed to cold for long. As though I've been exposed to the iciest environment.

My throat constricts, making me feel parched like it had been scraped dry. I reach my hand forward to grasp the glass of water from the nightstand, which is always kept for purposes like these. Gulping the contents, the liquid washes lubricates my throat, calming me a little. I sigh, placing the empty container back in place. Weaving my slender fingers through the tangled brown locks, my eyes shut close in frustration.

Why does this always happen, how long will it keep happening? Same nightmare everyday. Same fear every other day.

I lay back down, gazing at the ceiling, washing away the routine pain and fear that engulfs me every morning, leaving me breathless. My droopy eyes conversing with the walls that have witnessed so many of these nightmares. Seen my reaction to each one of these, yet they stay unharmed, unmoved. Claiming to be as helpless as I am, seemingly pitiful at my state.

I don't know how long I stayed in my comatose state, blankly gazing at the roof. Willing to unravel my feeble thoughts. To contemplate my impotent cries that haunt my existence to the very core. When suddenly,

'I knew you were trouble when you walked in.

Now I'm lying on a cold, hard ground'

My phone starts buzzing, replacing the tranquility of the room, spreading the tunes in all the nooks. My head snaps towards the object, taken by surprise. A slow sad smile crosses my face. Apparently, the predicament seems totally different. I'm actually lying cold, even if not on a hard ground as I've already woken up, way before then the alarm was meant to do its task; due to the regular horrific start of the day. An unpleasant dream in the name of an alarm, which I don't even prepare myself for. Never have, I don't know if I ever would.