Body of Scars

Chapter VII

(Charolette’s P.O.V)

The shift from dark to light is so sudden it leaves my head throbbing and sore. My eyes attempt to cling to anything before me but my vision is harshly blurred, the only thing I am able to make out, a shadowed figure standing above me, artificial light pouring from the bulbs on the ceiling. “Charolette was it?” the figure speaks and I recognize the harsh tones of a male voice. Gradually my vision is improving, bringing forth my other senses which throb to life, startled by the new surroundings. I smell the foul stench of urine and an unclean body. I feel heavy restraints locked onto my wrists, fixing me to the brink wall my back is pressed against. My bones quake as I feel the cold seep through my body while I sit on the concrete floor. I hear the soft breathing of the man before me. His gentle noises punctured by my loud uneven breaths. “Yes” I manage, unsure even why I answer him. “I’m Raphael. And you and I-” begins Raphael, stepping toward my huddled silhouette and crouching beside me, placing an absent hand on my shoulder. “Are going to become very much acquainted” he finishes, his hand suggestively sliding to rest easily over my heart, which beats with the frantic rhythm of a trapped mouse. My vision is totally clear now and I horrifically drag my eyes over Raphael’s profile. 

His skin is a waxen shade, ugly sun spots freckling his pointed nose and cutting jawline. His eyes appear pressed into his skull, reflecting a disturbing shade of cobalt as his light shaded eyebrows heavily hood his sockets. The shade of his eyebrows match his hair, which is slicked back menacingly, a patchy auburn color. “Your an ugly fucker” I comment breathlessly, uselessly struggling against the chains that bind me. “Right” he responds, dragging his face closer to mine so I can smell the pungent stench of his breath. “But I’m not shackled to a wall” he continues and I jerk back instinctively, my head violently hitting the wall behind me. Smirking roughly, an act which involves his thin lines curling back to reveal stale yellow teeth, he stands and turns his back to me, walking from room. 

Before he leaves the room through a door on the right wall he turns back to me. “You have been brought here by Mr Johnson’s men. You will be punished for murdering his son and I-” he halts, shaking his head dramatically, “Cannot describe the torture that is in store for you” I scoff loudly and shake the loose strands of hair from my eyes, “Just tell me where I am” and I see the flicker of amusement which ignites his entire expression, “24 Colombian Drive in San Diego” he quotes and I knot my brows, my mouth turning downward in a reflective frown. “Why would you tell me the exact address?” I ask quizzically, the confusion evident in my voice. “Because you will never leave here”, he responds quietly, a wicked leer transforming his face, “Your going to die here” and with that he leaves the room, the door swinging teasingly from its hinges, stray beams of sunlight leaking from the outside and brightening the dirtied floor of the dungeon. 

Dungeon? I pause musingly, taking in the soiled four walls, spotted floors and the six pairs of shackles which are chained to the walls. Opposite the only door of the room lies a table holding a mean set of tools and blades. A bucket of water sits blamelessly beside it and the sight of it makes my chest tighten with an anxiety I haven’t felt in a long time. Tools mean torture. Water means they want me alive. Though for how long? I ask myself worriedly, preferring an easy death over a slow torturous one. “Ugh” I groan loudly, uselessly rattling my chains and attempting to miraculously pull the shackles from the wall. 

Testing my restraints I discover I am able to stretch my lengthy arms in front of me and fold my legs beneath me. Sighing deeply I don’t allow myself to honestly register the seriousness of my situation, instead I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes wistfully. A plan. I need a decent plan. ‘Cause you know Jared won’t find you’ comments the sinister voice in my head, itching violently at the walls in my mind and plucking the flesh from my bones. “Shut up” I murmur through gritted teeth and a stinging tongue. I begin the process of evaluating each possibility of escape. The door. The tools and blades. The other sets of shackles. The slight indentations found on the wall above my head. Occasionally I snap my eyes open to examine a particular subject of interest though tirelessly close them again when I find its useless. Next I listen intentionally to the sounds outside the stained walls, hearing only the faint tinkle of a goading wind chime and the screech of a lost bird. “So I’m possibly only a floor down from the outside” I comment hopefully, itching a scabbed knee and looking around the prison to see if I missed anything.