Author Games: Red Room

Task Four: Hunters of Artemis

Angela Belmont

The weight of an angel is irrelevant to the amount of force it takes to lift one so gone as to be nearly dead--one who was caught within themselves in a sleep so deep, a mind ravaged by midnight thoughts--one who was coated in their own blood, their own vomit, piss, a masterpiece of humanity exposed without a single layer of skin torn back. In the light of a beautiful sunrise there came one with strength exposed through years of honest work. That one was someone who believed themselves to be pure, to be true, to be more than the average. One that grand, picking up a smudge of dirt showcasing the insecurities of plague and sin, could only be described by the way they made Angela feel as she slowly shifted to wake--warm.

Warm, for their heart still beat with the intention to live.

Angela's eyes caught the light of the sun and she blinked furiously, trying to make the spots of red leave her vision, and she watched as a line of trees turned into the backdrop of wood planks upon wood planks, rising higher than her eyes could reach, transforming from the clemency of open woods to an enmity of a building that stared her down. Its presence was a shiver down her spine. The woman shifted and suddenly Angela could see something bright overhead. It wasn't the sun, but something about it drew her in as no gravitational force had ever done before.

Inside there was no light but that which came from the holes in the rafters. It streamed down happily, dust caught in its wake, and Angela stared with half-aware wonder at their beauty.

It was only then, seeing something so familiar, that she was able to wake herself.

"What are you going to do to me?" To Angela, there was no escape, nor was the possibility of it being a dream to come true. No, for last night--if it had indeed been a night and not the year-long pain she seemed to suffer--had taught her more than her share of fear. So she shut herself down and allowed herself to submit to their wills. After all, a kidnapper wanted something. These people...they must be part of some sort of crazy-ass cult. They want a confession or something. There's too many to fight...

The only way to escape would be to first discover why the hell she was there to begin with.

Yet the maiden who carried her was silent as the winter wind as she carried Angela to the middle of the tall building. Overall, it was a rather short place, in diameter likey only ten feet both in width and length, maybe shorter. The roof extended high, boards stuck together, but nothing solid enough to call itself a roof above her. It was empty except a straw cot and a pile of brown leather.

She shivered again. It was far from cold in that place.

"Sex."

It was the only word she'd heard in hours. The voice was just like the woman--harsh, her skin like sandpaper; deep, like the circles that lined under her eyes; removed, like the way her eyes stared at nothing in particular. She was white and wore white makeup upon her face, marking her like a quaking aspen, and at the top of her tall body was a shock of blonde hair that seemed to stay in place no matter where she moved.

The woman dropped Angela and she fell, a pile of rocks to meet the dirt below her. There, she gained the best look at the maiden, her clothes made from old linen and her height like the tree her face so resembled.

"Adultery."

She walked three feet, just enough to reach the cot, then stopped to turn back to Angela, who didn't dare move from the floor.

"Moicheia."

What the shit is she on? She's got to be high, right? She isn't focused on anything. Her pupils are normal, but isn't that how it is with weed? Or would it be pink? Oh shit, it's a druggie cult. Angela shifted, letting her elbows support her, as the woman picked up the cot to reveal a hand-dug hole filled with water.