Falling Ash

by Douglas, A. T.

  In the complete darkness and silence of the room, I’m left with nothing but the haunting thoughts and memories of the life and family I’ve lost. It quickly becomes too much, and I scramble to feel for the bucket I know is somewhere next to me. When my fingers finally find the plastic rim, I grab it just in time to pull it in front of me as I heave into it, but nothing comes out. There’s nothing left in me. There’s no future for me. I am nowhere and have no one.

  This is my end.

  Setting the bucket aside, I slowly return to my discarded position on the floor, an empty shell fading away into the darkness.

  8

  The faint, but steady sound of steps against the floorboards somewhere outside this room tells me Silas is pacing again. I’m grateful for the distraction, desperate for anything to keep my mind off of the grief and hopelessness that have consumed me.

  Because I’m fading in and out of consciousness and have no concept of daylight or nighttime while I’m locked in this dark room, I have no firm idea how much time has passed since what was left of my world completely fell apart when I saw my brother’s grave, but I think it’s been two days. The extreme thirst and dry mouth I’m experiencing would seem to support my estimate of the passage of time.

  I’m getting closer, I think to myself while continuing to count each step Silas takes. It won’t be long now.

  In my lethargic and lightheaded state, it takes me a moment to realize the steps I’m counting have become much louder and quicker in pace. The door to the room suddenly opens, casting indirect natural light into the empty room across my naked body. I squint my eyes at the brightness of it and wish I was lying on my other side to face away from the light and the door and the man who’s coming for me.

  Silas takes heavy steps into the room before stopping near my feet. He looks frustrated as he kicks the unopened granola bar to the side. I hear the slight crinkling sound of the water bottle as he picks it up from the floor and inspects it.

  “You need to drink something,” he commands before throwing the full bottle down at me, hitting me in the shoulder with it.

  I don’t even bother to reply. He can make whatever demands he wants and do his worst. He has no leverage to use against me now that I know Jake is dead. I’ll gladly let him kill me to speed up my reunion with my family. I have no intention of touching that water bottle.

  My lack of response infuriates him much more quickly than I expected. He practically growls in frustration before he turns around and leaves the room, the door wide open.

  If it were a couple of days ago and my brother were still alive somewhere else in this godforsaken house, I’d take advantage of the opportunity before me and bolt through that door and find my way to freedom and a future, but there’s nothing out there for me now. I need this to end. I need to be with my family again, even if that means letting myself expire.

  Silas returns moments later, but he has something with him. It’s a large plastic mixing bowl with liquid sloshing inside. He storms over to me, forcing my shoulder down with his boot so that I’m lying flat on my back on the cement floor. Falling to his knees over my midsection and arms to straddle me, he grabs my chin to hold my head in place and begins to steadily pour the cold water over my mouth.

  I’m not quick enough to close my lips in time, and when some of the water makes it into my mouth, I struggle to swallow it and begin to choke. Because of my body’s natural reaction to cough in an effort to expel the water from my lungs, I’m forced to open my lips, but the constant stream of liquid centered on my mouth keeps coming and only exacerbates my need to cough.

  By the time the last drops of water leave the bowl, my chest aches from the force of the coughing that still won’t stop. The feeling of drowning continues, my body painfully gasping for air, until I’m finally able to breathe somewhat normally again.

  Still holding me down with the force of his weight, Silas takes the entirety of my jaw in his powerful hand and brings his face within inches of mine. “I will stick you with an IV if I have to,” he snarls as his voice escalates. “I will insert a fucking feeding tube into your stomach if necessary. I will do whatever it takes to keep you alive.”

  My eyes automatically squeeze shut as my chest clenches. I’m unable to process anything more after what I just heard. No matter how dead I am inside, he’ll keep my organs alive with tubes and machines like some sick human science project. He’ll never let me go.

  I feel instant relief as his grip on my jaw releases and the weight over my body is lifted. My eyes open to find Silas standing directly above me, seeming satisfied with the result of his efforts to force water into my system. He waits a moment longer before grabbing the empty bowl and making his way to the door, stepping out and closing it firmly behind him.

  Within seconds of his departure, I completely break down, unable to hold back the devastation I feel at knowing the lengths to which this man will go to in order to keep me alive for him. Painful sobs rack my chest as my dehydrated body tries, but fails to produce any tears to accompany my anguish.

  I’m completely drained and still breathing heavily after the events that have just transpired, but I have new motivation to end this more quickly than before. Pushing up to my hands and knees, I sluggishly crawl forward across the cement floor and feel around for the waste bucket that I know to be tucked away in the corner of the room. When my fingers find the side of it, I try to hold my long hair back with my left hand while sticking my right forefinger far back in my mouth toward my throat. My gag reflex kicks in, and a moment later, I’m quietly expelling what little water did make it into my stomach.

  When the painful heaving finally stops, I take a moment to breathe before moving on to my next endeavor. With whatever strength I have left, I crawl around the room scouring the floors and walls in the darkness just as I’ve done before, desperate for even the tiniest object that would be sharp enough to help me escape this world, but my effort proves just as unsuccessful as the last time. The metal hooks in the floor that I was chained to when I first woke up in this place are completely smooth with no jagged edges. Other than those hooks and the waste bucket in the corner and the granola bar and bottle of water that Silas keeps insisting I ingest, there’s nothing in this enclosed box of cement.

  An idea sparks within me, the most brilliant way to bring my life to an end without Silas even realizing it. I’ll make him think his show of power and authority convinced me to change my attitude. He’ll believe I’m following his instructions to eat and drink so he’ll leave me alone and not force food or water on me again. He won’t have to stick me with tubes that will keep me alive and compel my organs to keep functioning. It’s the perfect solution.

  I move toward the middle of the room and feel around in the darkness for the granola bar Silas kicked away before he attacked me. When my sore hands finally locate it, I crawl in the direction of the back wall of the room with it.

  Even with my unsteady fingers, I manage to rip open the packaging of the granola bar and grip it to the best of my ability in my left hand. Bit by bit, I remove small pieces of the granola bar and work them between my fingers until they fall apart. When I’m convinced they’re as broken up as possible, I reach over and feel for the wall with the back of my hand, following it to the place where the wall meets the floor. I carefully spread the little bits of granola bar out along the edge and press them down into the cement as much as possible, hoping they’ll be small enough not to be seen the next time Silas lets light into this room.

  I keep working at the granola bar in the same way, moving along the wall to spread out the pieces until the entire bar is gone. Moving back toward the middle of the room, I leave the empty packaging on the floor there and instead feel around the wet cement for the water bottle Silas threw at me in his fit of frustration. I quickly find it and hold it between my left arm and bare chest to avoid the difficulty of trying to grasp it with my left hand. My fingers shake slightly as I work to open the bottle, and when the lid pops ope
n, I immediately begin to pour the liquid onto the already damp cement before I have a chance to second-guess my decision.

  When the bottle is completely empty, I resecure the lid and take up my position lying on the floor again, my naked body curled up on its side with the empty bottle grasped to my chest as if it were my most precious object. Exhaustion and fatigue quickly wash over me, and I drift off to sleep comforted by the knowledge that I’ll soon fade away into unconsciousness and never regain it. Soon I’ll never have to see Silas again.

  9

  I hear a sound constantly repeating, but it seems distant. It’s the same pattern over and over, though it’s subtly quickening over time. There’s a reverberation accompanying the sound, the same one, over and over, speeding up as well.

  Footsteps. They’re different from the constantly reoccurring sound and reverberation. They’re not consistent, starting out heavy and slow, then quickening rapidly. They’re right next to me now, and a voice is there, too. It’s a man’s voice, but I don’t know what he’s saying.

  I feel warmth against my neck, firm and directed pressure. It finds the reverberation, and suddenly I’m flying, lifted into the air, moving rapidly. I feel something hard against me, then something soft. I’m sinking into it, finding comfort and warmth. There’s something cold in the crook of my left elbow and a sharp pain follows, but it quickly goes away.

  I listen carefully for the repeating sound and reverberation. They’re still going, pulsating quickly, but gradually they begin to slow in pace. There’s an increasing tightness on my right upper arm and something cold pressing against the crook of my right elbow. They don’t last long, disappearing after just a few moments.

  The repeating sound and reverberation continue as they become more calm and steady. Between their even patterns and the soft surface that envelopes me, I feel relaxed and content. I fade into it, giving in to my desire to sleep.

  By the time I open my eyes again, I feel completely different. The fogginess is gone. The delirium has passed. My mind is clear, and my body feels rested and rejuvenated. I draw a deep breath through my lips and notice my mouth is no longer dry, and when I look to the side, I see Silas sitting next to the bed on which I am sprawled in this white-walled bedroom, the tears I wasn’t able to shed in my state of dehydration before running freely from my eyes now.

  He stopped me. He interfered with my plan to be reunited with my family.

  He saved my life.

  “Why?” I ask feebly, my voice hoarse from its lack of use.

  Silas studies me intently for a moment, his face remaining impassive. “I want you to be my partner. The last thing I want is for you to die.”

  “You want me to be your plaything,” I counter, “someone to torment and abuse.” My throat tightens painfully as I realize Jake is probably better off in the ground than being alive for this man to torture in whatever way he pleases. I can’t continue speaking about my feelings on this without losing it completely, so I quickly change the subject, nodding toward the IV inserted into my arm. “How do you know how to do this?”

  It is clear from his face that Silas is pondering my question and debating how he should respond, but eventually he answers, “I was almost a combat medic with the U.S. Army Rangers.”

  My heart sinks as it becomes clear to me just how much training this man has had, both in inflicting pain and suffering on others and in treating those wounds and injuries. He can destroy me and put me back together over and over again if he pleases. If I get the opportunity to make a future attempt on my life, he’ll try to fix almost anything I manage to do to myself.

  It scares the shit out of me to know he has that power over my life and my future.

  I clear my throat before speaking, trying not to let the concern show in my expression. “And why does someone who’s that skilled need a partner?”

  Silas glares at me, his olive green eyes scolding me for this line of questioning, but he responds anyway. “I’ve lived alone here for four years. I sought out the solitude at first, but it’s not as desirable these days.”

  His choice of words inadvertently causes a new wave of worry to flow through me, and as much as I’m afraid to ask the question, I have to do it. “What part would I play in your life here?”

  “You’ll keep me company, add some excitement and intrigue into my days.” He pauses and looks me over from head to toe. “You’ll be something nice to look at.”

  I quickly become aware of the fact that I’m still naked beneath the black sheet that’s pulled over me. If I didn’t have the IV in my arm and weren’t recovering from my hunger- and thirst-strike, I expect he probably would have taken advantage of me in my vulnerable and unconscious state.

  “I need you to get healthy again and get your strength up,” he continues as he stands up to check the IV bag hanging from its metal stand. “You’ll help me defend this property from attacks.”

  I’m a bit dumbfounded by his assumption that I’ll be any use in such a defense. “I have no idea how to—”

  “That’s why I’m going to teach you,” he interjects with a devious smile on his face. “I’ll morph you into exactly who you need to be.”

  Silas may not realize it, but he’s just provided all the clarity I need to understand what this is, why he took me and Jake, and why Jake’s life had to end. He leveraged the promise of my brother’s life against me until I was stripped down with absolutely nothing left, and now I’m this rough ball of clay with no other ties to the world that he can mold and shape exactly the way he wants.

  I’ll let him make me his partner in this life. I’ll let him think I’m doing so willingly because I have nothing and have no one, but I’ll really just be biding my time, learning from him and gaining the skills necessary to one day take his life in retribution for killing my brother. I’ll get my revenge someday, no matter how long it takes.

  I’ll do anything for Jake, even after his death.

  I’m about to give my assent to Silas to go forward with his strange plan for me when I realize there’s something we’re both conveniently ignoring in our grand schemes. How can I train with Silas and eventually kill him when I only have one good hand?

  I raise my left forearm and inspect my hand, noting it looks to be in worse shape than usual after my days locked up in the dark room. My knuckles and the bottom half of my palm are raw and scraped up from crawling through the darkness to make the food and water Silas brought me disappear into the waste bucket and edges of the room. After a couple of failed attempts to curl my fingers forward more than an inch, I abandon the effort and drop my hand to the bed.

  “It won’t be a problem,” Silas assures me, indicating toward my hand as he sits back down next to the bed.

  Before I can question him further about what he just said, he takes my left hand between both of his, focusing all of his attention on it as he begins to carefully manipulate the skin and underlying muscles.

  “What are you doing?” I ask with concern as I try and fail to withdraw my hand.

  He continues his work, not bothering to look at me when he replies, “I have some ideas for how to help rehabilitate your hand. I’m not a physical therapist, but I should be able to help you.”

  I’m completely torn inside, grateful for what Silas is trying to do, but at the same time horrified that the hands touching me and feeling me are those of the man who took my brother’s life. A feeling of panic rises within me as I wonder how much further Silas will take this effort to maintain contact with me. What other plans does he have in store for me in this bedroom?

  Silas stops what he’s doing and looks at me, demanding my gaze. “You need to relax.”

  “I’m not used to people touching me,” I answer uneasily.

  “When was the last time you were with another man?”

  His personal question causes my cheeks to flush. I struggle to find my voice and then answer, “It’s been a couple of years.”

  With a quick nod of understanding, Silas star
ts doing something different with my hand, working to stretch and bend each individual finger. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

  I don’t respond. There’s no right or wrong answer to that question when the person asking it is the man who holds your life in his hands.

  “Does this room make you uncomfortable?” Silas asks in a second attempt to get an explanation for why I’m nervous right now.

  I nod briefly. It’s true that I’m terrified of being naked between the bedsheets in this man’s room, especially while he’s touching and feeling my left hand in every possible way. I worry that his touch will progress further and expand to other parts of my body. I fear the nightmares he has yet to inflict on my brain, those scars that no one ever sees or feels but me.

  Silas stops what he’s doing and thinks for a moment before he lets go of my hand. Without any warning, he reaches into the bed and underneath me, scooping me up effortlessly into his arms with the sheet wrapped around my body. He manages to wheel the metal IV stand in front of us as he carries me out of the door of the bedroom into a hallway of the house I haven’t seen yet, but we don’t get far as we move through the first door on the left.

  This room is smaller than I would have expected given the spacious parts of the house I’ve seen outside of the dark room, but its contents more than make up for its compact size. Along the far wall there’s a beautiful upright piano, its polished ebony finish highlighted by the warm natural light coming into the room through the open window on the adjacent wall. On the floor next to the piano amidst a few pieces of discarded sheet music, I see something completely familiar to me even though I’ve been estranged from it for so long. It’s the unmistakable black case of a small stringed instrument. It has to be a violin.

  Silas lays me down on a black leather couch on the wall opposite from the piano, being careful to keep the IV line in my arm from moving too much.