Iris

by Nick Whitesides

  The lock gives a metallic clink once it’s back in place. Panting hard, I stand back and listen. Is this real?

  BANG. The door pulsates, as a pair of fists pound against it. I flip the light switch. No response. Eli probably used most of it when he first brought me down here.

  “I know you’re in there!” a creepy voice sing-songs femininely from the hallway. “Won’t you come out to play?” The voice laughs maniacally.

  This is real! “Who are you?” I yell. Again, no response.

  I hear footsteps fading down the hallway till they’re gone. Panic buckles my knees, sending me to the floor. What just happened? Who was that? My shuddering lessens as I regroup my strength.

  Some seconds go by quietly. I fumble in the dark for a match to light the room. “You’re safe in here, Krys. He can’t get in. The walls and floors are cement.” But I can’t stay here forever. A few minutes pass. I find a box of matches among the bottomless items.

  Maybe I should take a peek. With all my courage, I twist the knob inch by inch to prop the door back open. I move it forward barely, just enough of a sliver to see through. My lungs are out of control; letting out brayed gasps. Through the crack, I see a light.

  One of the house candles, recently lit. With great reluctance, I put out the match, push the door a little wider, and look to the end of the hallway. I don’t see anything. I close the door, locking it once more. I light another match just as another door closes from the back of the room.

  That’s right. The room next to this one is connected through a door! The footsteps reappear out of nowhere, racing furiously. Fear paralyzes me, all I can do is scream. The figure pushes me against the now-locked door and chokes me with his skeletal fingers.

  My SIO training triggers as I grapple his wrist for a counterattack. The fear turns to determination as I begin to overpower him. I’m not gonna die. Not here. Not in a shack in the middle of nowhere. I grit my teeth and squeeze as hard as I can. His grip on my windpipe loosens, then he screams in pain.

  I take advantage and use my other hand to grab his other arm and apply more pressure. He drops to one knee. With wide eyes, a sense of authority envelops me, seeing the one who threatened me down on his knees. “Get out of my house,” I thunder angrily.

  He rolls one of his wrists free and in the darkness, and a sharp pain stabs into my stomach. I let go out of surprise, pushing him away. I pull the object out, even in the dark I know the sharp needle of a syringe.

  I kick my assailant as hard as I can into the wall and unlock the door. Wait… something’s wrong. I’m walking funny. My legs aren’t working. The candle lit at the end of the hallway blurs more and more. The walls, the floor, everything, stretches and warps.

  Unable to hold myself up, I fall. All I hear for a while is the sound of my breathing. For a moment, I feel my body being dragged and say, “Where… are… you ta-taking me?”

  The ominous voice replies, “Back to the city.”

  Chapter 13

  To the Slaughter

  Where am I? Who am I? What’s my name? Oh well, I don’t care. Blissful ignorance submerges me into a perpetual state of oblivion. Eons pass before me while my consciousness drifts in and out. Over time, a faint bead appears out of nothing, illuminating brighter and brighter, pulling me close, bringing me back to awareness.

  Loud clangs of metal ring in my ears along with hideous laughter. A grotesque symphony only heard in my nightmares. Feeling returns to my extremities. First as a tingle then as stinging needles pricking every inch of my body.

  I’m hanging from my arms, my legs having gone limp. I open my eyes but everything is a fuzzy, gray swirl. Why is it so hard to keep my head up? I can only lift it for a moment until it falls again. So weak. Why can’t I remember? Where am I? What’s my name? I can’t remember my name!

  It comes back to me in a sudden flash. Krys. My name is Krys. I escaped the Sphere. I was saved by Eli. The pain comes back just as swiftly with that same insidious laughter roaring from afar. I force my eyelids open, the swirl takes form into separate shapes.

  There’s a long table directly to my right in front of cement stairs. Displayed on the table, are strange tools covered with red stains and small chunks of flesh. The pain intensifies as my fight or flight response activates.

  I look up at my shackled wrists and struggle to break free.

  “Wakey up sleepy head,” sings the voice, the demented lullaby making my skin crawl. A pasty skeletal face materializes just inches away from mine. I let out a violent cough as my lungs attempt to scream.

  “Oh, there there, little lamb,” he says stroking my chest with his hand.

  “Don’t touch me!” I scream, his stench worsening my nausea.

  “Oh, you don’t like?” he asks, sliding his hand downwards toward my stomach.

  He removes his hand as I dry heave involuntarily. “If you’re going to be rude, I no play nice anymore!” He slaps my cheek with the back of his hand.

  With a huff, he walks to the table and picks up a small knife, placing it against my abdomen. So sharp, it even appears to slice the blood dripping on it. I turn away as the blade penetrates, my abuser giggling with manic joy.

  I will myself to move, to fight, anything! But my body has no more energy. With the ghoul having chained me into a corner, I hang powerless to stop the dissection. All I can do is scream. He leaves deep gashes from the right side of my stomach, to the left shoulder.

  “This is what happens when you not play nice.” He returns the knife to the table with a resounding slam. I look at myself in horror, the winding gap from the laceration oozing out blood. The shock must be improving my sight.

  I see a slender man with pale skin, nearly naked except for a tattered pair of undergarments. He could be as young as forty. But it’s hard to tell since most of him is covered in dried blood.

  He looks down at me dominantly and dances around. “Oh my, oh my, oh goodie, you can finally see me now! Hahah!” He hops up and down like a deranged child, clapping his hands together and laughing. “Now we can play, now we can play. Play, play, play, play together.”

  His demeanor reminds me of watching lightning. From afar, it seems harmless and entertaining. But the closer it gets, the more obvious the danger. He stops his cheers, becoming maddeningly quiet, head cocked slightly, staring me down with hollow eyes. Rows of rotted yellow teeth are on full display as he widens a smile across his sunken cheeks. He stands at the ready, motionless as a statue.

  Without a word, he runs at me wildly. Mouth open, screaming at the top of his lungs. I tense my muscles as he raises both arms high above his head to slap me repeatedly. Over and over and over, laughing psychotically as his bony fingers sting my flesh. “Bad boy, bad boy, bad boy!” he wails.

  After a minute, he gets tired and steps away, panting hard. His blows leave dark purple bruises all along my torso, mixed with spatterings of blood, covering his hands in a new coat. I let my neck dangle, too broken from the abuse to lift it.

  Still panting, he says, “You need be a good boy.” He holds up my head, forcing me to look into his freakish eyes. “Cause if you no good boy…” He leans close to my ear, breathing against it and tickling it with his grotesque tongue. “If you no good boy… hahah… I make you a girl.”

  Then he punches me in the face only to coo and hush me. “Oh no, I’m so sorry, poor lamb. So sorry. Daddy will make it better.” A demonic grin burns into my retina as he returns to the table. “This my art station. I use tools for art. I’ll show you sometime.”

  He pulls out a cloth and places the various tools on it. “But nobody understand my art!” He screams, folding the cloth into a square, mumbling inaudibly. He takes the lopsided bundle and places it into a chest under the table. As soon as the instruments are locked away, he turns back to me with a look of terror.

  Hands cover his mouth as he stumbles forward. “What, what happened to you? Who did this to you?”

  “Wh-what?” I bluster breathlessly.

 
; He kneels down and checks my wounds, gasping with shock “You poor man. You poor, poor man. What happened to you?”

  What’s going on? What is wrong with him? I have to get away. Maybe he’s confused. I should take advantage of this if I can.

  “I was attacked,” I reply woefully.

  He shoots me a look, as if my answer offends him. “Attacked?” he repeats sarcastically. With clenched fists, he straightens himself up. “Attacked?” Then furiously smacks himself while spinning and vaulting in the middle of the room.

  Finally he stops and lets out a revolting scream. The bones in my skull vibrate from the intensity. The scream eventually dissipates, letting silence fill into the space. He sticks his face right into mine and says, “I saved you,” with the awful smile reappearing. “Yes… hmmm, haha. Saved you,” he repeats, clapping his hands and walking backwards up the stairs.

  I hear the squeak of a door open and then close; leaving me alone to hang in the darkness. This is worse than anything I could have imagined. The most perverse nightmares are put to shame compared to dehumanizing torture this is. My arms are on fire, the weight too much to bear. Everything hurts.

  Summoning all the strength that I can, I pull up on the chains. Grunting as I find my footing. First my right foot, then the left till I can push against the gritty surface. With each inch, I feel relief in my wrists as the sting becomes a tingle.

  It takes a few minutes and tremendous effort until I’m standing up on my feet again, arms over my head. Blood drips down my chest, leaving a crimson path towards a drain in the center of the room.

  It’s not deep enough to kill me. The cut was superficial. But that doesn’t stop my panic stricken mind as it shrieks from the trauma.

  Ok, ok, so what do I know? Where am I? His words bellow in my ears. “Back to the city.” Is that where I am? How did he find the house? How long have I been unconscious?

  I wait for reason to calm me, but the hysteria impedes my mind from rational thought. Retracing my steps is impossible. I just don’t have enough information. I’m so tired. I keep nodding off, my knees buckling. I’m so cold. Could this be a basement maybe? In a house? No, an abandoned building most likely.

  My bones feel as fragile as glass and my muscles are torn to shreds. I crumple, letting myself hang again, waiting in the dark. Too tired to stand. Unable to stay conscious any longer, I welcome the escape. I want to be anywhere but here. Anyone but me.

  Tears falls into the gaping cuts. I cry, not knowing if I’ll ever be able to stop. Nothing is all I know for now and that’s all I want. The squeak of the basement door jars me from my pitiful sleep. He’s back.

  Fully dressed in a ripped pair of slacks and a half buttoned up black shirt. He appears cleaner than before, even looks like he combed his hair. Timidly, he sits on the edge of the table, looking down, twiddling his thumbs and mumbling to himself.

  What is wrong with him? My chest is painted with dried blood. The cut is tender still but has clotted. It hurts just to breathe. Almost embarrassed, he takes glances from the corner of his eye then looks away.

  Like he wants to ask me something and is too shy to say. One minute, he’s a crazy psychopath and the next acts like a toddler.

  Maybe I can convince him to let me go? I’ll need to be careful with my words. I don’t want to accidentally set him off like the last time. I’ll plan out what I’ll say beforehand. How about “who are you?” No, that could sound hostile. “What’s your name?” Yes, that sounds better. Make sure your tone is gentle.

  “Excuse me?” I peep softly. His head pops up, this time more surprised than offended. If I can keep my composure, I might have a chance. “What’s your name?” I ask as politely as I can.

  He smiles and lets out a bashful giggle. “I don’t like my name. I like Jaak. Call me Jaak.” He swings his legs back and forth while I block out the increasing discomfort.

  “Jaak. That’s a great name.”

  He puts his hands over his mouth and laughs. “Thanks.”

  I swivel my head around to look at the room. “Why am I here, Jaak?”

  “I dunno.” He shrugs his shoulders with a playfully sinister grin. It’s like trying to diffuse a bomb. My eyelids blink a few times; the loss of blood making me lightheaded.

  “J-Jaak. Why did you bring me here?” I ask again.

  He twiddles his thumbs. “Can’t tell you that.” He responds with a childlike huff, crossing his arms.

  “Why not?” I ask, trying not to sound impatient.

  His face droops into pouting lips.

  “Why not, Jaak?”

  He rolls his eyes and lets out a sigh. “Because you didn’t say please.”

  Exasperated, I let out a pathetic plea. “Pl-ple-please.”

  He unfolds his arms and grunts, clearly displeased. “O, fine.” He hops down from the table. He crouches down and whispers, “Cause I wanted to play with you.” He yelps another creepy laugh. The stench of his breath and yellow stained teeth is too much.

  I convulse slightly, my body jolting from the contracting muscles. Can’t hold it in! I vomit profusely, just barely missing Jaak as the liquid bile splashes to the floor.

  “Look at this mess!” He screams frantically, pulling at his hair. “Who’s going to clean this?”

  My arms are still in terrible pain. Jaak begins taking off his clothes saying, “Bad boy, bad boy, bad boy.”

  Desperately I say, “Jaak, I can clean it up. I just need to reach it.”

  The fury leaves him. “You’d do that for Jaak?” He reacts like it was some grand favor.

  I nod my head. “Yes, I would, but please I need more slack. My arms are hurting.”

  With renewed zeal, he puts his shirt back on and pulls out a key from his pants pocket. He reaches for the chains, then stops just before putting the key into the lock and looks down at me. “Will you try to leave Jaak?”

  I wince from the stinging pain in my wrists. “I won’t,” I mumble, biting my tongue to hold back a scream of agony. My shoulders blades rub against each other mercilessly while my arms are almost torn from their sockets!

  WHAM! I collapse down; the alleviated pressure is like a drug to my tender muscles. I move them slowly, not realizing that I could barely breathe. My wrists have turned dark red and throb horribly. I massage them with my fingers to help reduce the numbness.

  Jaak steps back, giving me space to stretch. The room is rather small. Concrete floor and walls. Pipe lines protrude from where I was hanging. There are no windows, no way out except for a single door perched at the top of the stairs. The only source of light comes from a candle on the table.

  A biting sting pierces the side of my neck. “Ah! What was that?” I yell, my patience having worn out.

  His expression is that of shame, like he’s being scolded by a close friend. “I’m sorry.” His shoulders slump down remorsefully. “I just need make sure you don’t leave. It’s smaller so you won’t fall asleep.”

  The table in the corner has a set of drawers underneath it. Jaak removes a dirty rag from inside and tosses it over the vomit. “Clean it.” His tone shifts to one of authority.

  My focus slips back towards the near-unconscious nothing. I shake my head, trying to snap out of the daze, and grab the rag. The texture has long since lost its softness.

  Jaak sits in the corner, watching my every move while I struggle to wipe up the mess. It’s a fight to keep myself up. The drug saps away any of my remaining strength and I plummet face first into the puddle of filth.

  Jaak lets out a giggle. “Y-you got yuck on face. You yuck face!” The giggle evolves into full blown laughter. I roll over and gently touch the cut which is now covered in yellow puke, hissing from the sting.

  “Jaak help,” he says pleadingly, holding in his obvious amusement. He slinks over to me, picks up the rag, and wipes over my gash with no thought of tenderness.

  Pressed against the floor, I manage to keep from showing any discomfort. “I so sorry,” he says bashfully.

>   “It’s okay,” I answer with a grunt. The rag turns the same disgusting shade of yellow. Jaak flings it across the room while I push myself up and sit on the ridged cellar foundation.

  “I so… so angry sometimes.” He whips back his blonde hair. “Jaak gets… urges and I can’t help myself.”

  With my vision focused on the table, a lump forms in my throat. “What kind of urges, Jaak?”

  He covers his face with his boney hands and sobs uncontrollably. Even through the daze, I’m struck with pity. I blink a few times as a thought escapes me. What was I going to say? “Jaak, how did this happen to you?”

  My words are beginning to slur together as I speak. Snot drips out of his nose as he wipes away the tears. “Always been like this. Since I was small, small, small.”

  The drugs he used are very potent. The sting is lessened as they reach their full effect. Moving my arms is harder than lifting the tillers in the fields.

  It takes a while, but I slouch into the corner nearly paralyzed. “You don’t have to be like this, Jaak.”

  He scratches his head in confusion.

  “You just need some help. I have a friend that can help you.”

  With joyous howls, he claps then covers the front of his mouth. “We can be friends?” His tone is now gentle, almost innocent sounding.

  Conquered by my desperate need to survive, I forge a counterfeit smile across my limp face. “Yes Jaak, we can be friends.”

  He smiles jubilantly. “Jaak has a friend… Jaak has a friend! Jaak has never had friend before.” He celebrates, twirling and leaping, laughing and hooting.

  “Yes, Jaak, we can be friends. But now I need you—”

  His body shakes, flailing his arms and legs in some strange dance. He stops and thoughtfully says “Jaak must bring friend for new friend.”

  His smile becomes more off putting as the excitement takes over. “What friend’s name?”

  That’s right, I haven’t told him my name. It might not be a good idea to use my real one. Should I make it up? With some hesitation, I claim the first name that comes to mind. “Eli.”