Chapter Text
Dark .
That's all I can see. My eyes are open, but my visibility has been reduced to mere nothingness. An abyss with simply no end, a tunnel with no light at the end. Moving was pointless; I was completely restrained. I can feel the cool touch of what I guessed to be metal clasps that were rubbing against the skin of my neck, arms, and legs, and each time I tried breaking free of them they would just fight right back very unforgivingly, absolutely no give in return to my struggles. The table that I'm restrained upon is hard and flat, which, by assessing how sore my back is, has also been very unforgiving. The only thing I can hear is the deafening sound of my heart pounding aggressively in my ears. The distant memory of a sharp, dull pain in the back of my head and then darkness as I slipped into an unconscious state crept back into my mind as I gained a stronger sense of the reality that currently surrounds me. My head felt like it was splitting in two.
I had been knocked out.
How long I had been out, I had no idea, but with how much my body ached from the harsh metal table and restraints, I can only imagine I've been out for at the very least a couple hours. And now, I lay here awake and aware, fear seeping into every bone in my body, as I have been rendered completely and utterly defenseless and vulnerable.
My mind racing a million miles a minute, still trying to see through the darkness of the room, I begin to try and force myself to take stock of my current surroundings. I strained my eyes to cut the darkness, and in doing so, was able to notice small dots of light at the top of the ceiling that seemed to almost be blinking. But apart from the blinking lights, the darkness was far too opaque to make out much of anything else. My visibility greatly reduced by the restraint around my neck, I could only swivel my head 180° around the room, and in the heavy darkness, it felt more like staring into a never ending abyss on either side. This aspect made the roaring heartbeat in my ears feel more threatening, as the blistering silence and intense darkness of the room mixed, my anxiety began to reach new heights. My head was becoming light, like the beginnings of a panic attack settling in, and my breathing started to become erratic. I could feel the hot sting of tears forcing their way from my water ducts, sending a burning sensation through my nasal passage, contributing more to ensure my panic attack is released right here on this table in the pitch, black dark.
How did this happen? I thought to myself, my silent whimpers from my strained crying were beginning to break through my heartbeat in my ears. What if the person…persons…responsible are here?
"H-Hello?" I shakily called out into the room after mediating my breathing, allowing it to resume to some normalcy. The voice I heard come from me was raspy. Clearly, crying with a dry throat wasn’t helping my condition even a little bit. My voice verberated around the room, giving me some clue of just how big the room was. Not big enough to echo, but enough that my call carried out into the dark. I waited. 30 seconds. A minute. Another minute. It felt like eons had passed. But I was met with nothing but icy silence.
The silence in response to my call churned my insides, my composure beginning to unravel again. I hadn’t realized that I was genuinely afraid I'd get a response back. I was left defenseless and vulnerable in a dark room located God knows where. A response was seemingly terrifying to me. To have the feeling of someone lingering in the dark, stalking me while I lay here, trapped. It felt like I had been doused in an ice bath, my spine shivered and the cold fear spread throughout my restrained person without prejudice. My anxiety picked up more at the comprehension of the full situation at hand, my palms began sweating profusely and my breath began to quicken once more, except this time it felt like I couldn't get oxygen into me, like it was an impossible feat.
'Why would somebody put me here, trap me here? Who would do something like this?'
My frantic thoughts were instantly quickly cut short by the sudden burst of light that filled the entire room. I gasped sharply, closing my eyes immediately, burning from the sudden change of light to the room. My eyes, already stinging from crying previously, were now burning from the aggressive fluorescent lighting overhead that now lays bare every aspect of the room that currently held me captive. And it sure wasn’t doing any fucking favors for the migraine I was currently harboring. Slowly, after many trial and errors of adjusting my retinas to the belligerent lighting, I was able to open my eyes again. The first thing I noticed about the room was the old, dingy fan placed at the top of the ceiling with ventilation holes placed behind it. The fan itself was slowly turning, causing the stars behind it to "blink" back at me. My eyes drifted to the ceiling, which was dome shaped. The paint appeared to be cracking and peeling in patches across it. What once appeared to be white paint, has now become beige, even brown in some areas. Spots of blue and green mold could be seen, and rusty pipe work littered the interior dome structure, each bent at odd angles to conform to the dome-shape.
From what the metal clasp around my neck could allow, I turned my face to the right to see a vacant metal chair placed beside me. The color was a hostile ruby red, however, the seat area had become much more faded over time due to its usage. Decorating its exterior was patches of crimson rust, leaving the chair looking more harmful than useful. It didn't look like it could withstand much weight, either. Time had not taken too kindly to it from the looks of it, rendering the chair frail and delicate, as if too much weight would cause the seat to collapse. Why a chair of that condition would be left here to use is beyond me, yet I was left here alone so it appears that the upkeep of the place was not common.
'Jesus, Isla, you're strapped to the table and you're thinking about 'upkeep??' My inner thoughts barked at me. I clamped my eyes shut to clear my mind before opening them again, and began to focus more on the room.
I opened my eyes and slowly turned my head to the left and saw what appeared to be a glass window placed in the center of the wall. The glass was dark and impossible to see through. ‘ One-way mirror,’ I thought. It reminded me of those police crime-fighting shows, where the detectives gaze through the window to watch their suspect and discuss how they are going to approach and question the suspect to get them to confess to their crimes, yet the suspect can't see them at all.
'Is that what's happening here? Am I the "suspect"? Is someone watching me through the window? I guess there's only one way to find out...'
Summoning all the frail courage I have left in my body, pushing aside my fear of a response towards the furthest reaches of my mind, I take the deepest breath I can and begin to shout.
"Hey! Hey, you! Whoever you are! What do you want with me?! Why am I here?!" I yelled towards the window, desperate for someone to come forward and tell me what was going on.
Silence. That's all I received back.
'Someone heard me earlier. Someone turned the lights on.’ I thought to myself. ‘I know you’re fucking behind there.’
"Hey! I know you're watching me! Answer me! Why am I here?!" I screamed again back at the window. Seconds ticked by, but they felt longer, as time seemed to lose all relativity in this circumstance. But it worked. I got my response.
The awful sound of what appeared to be metal grinding against metal went sharply through me, causing me to clench my jaw and grind my teeth. The horrible sound was then followed by a long and high pitch whine.
Someone had opened the door.
It had been behind me the whole time, out of my line of sight, made impossible to see with this ridiculous metal clasp around my throat.
Clever.
Footsteps. That's what I heard next. I could feel my anxiety rising. I knew I wanted to find out who put me here. It did occur to me that being strapped to this table gives me no chance at defending or protecting myself. But I let my anxiety and desperation for answers make my decisions for me. Because in the end, I would still be clasped to the table regardless if I sat here silently or not. It was merely wishful thinking to believe if I had taken more time I could have found a way to free myself before confronting whoever placed me here.
I am completely and utterly vulnerable.
I have no idea what this person wants from me or why they put me here. I have no idea if this person wants to hurt me, experiment on me, kill me . But I can't do anything, I can't do anything because of these stupid restraints. I have no plan, no weapon, no freedom, I have nothing but insurmountable questions and an impending anxiety attack that I keep forcing into the backseat of my consciousness. Yet I still screamed for whoever walked through that door to come in here and give me answers.
The footsteps halted and the room fell eerily silent, with only the sound of my heart pounding in my ears being audible to myself.
"A-Are you feeling okay?" The stranger asked, stuttering slightly as he spoke.
A man.
His voice was deep, husky almost. He sounded sincere, like he was actually concerned for me.
‘ What kind of psychopath locks a human being up like this and the first thing they voice to you is their concern of how you feel? As if they weren't the ones to knock me out and put me here.’
I remained quiet, mostly due to my anxiety rendering me completely speechless. How does one go about responding to their concerned kidnapper? But my silence didn't stop him from continuing his one-sided conversation.
"I'm sure you're scared right now. I didn't exactly handle this properly, the restraints are a little much, I know. H-Here, let me make you more comfortable." The strange man stuttered again, as if he was anxious himself. His footsteps echoed off the floor as he made his way to the front of the room. Again, clever, putting the control panel out of my line of sight. As he walked past my left, I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a man, no taller than 6 feet, well built, with what appeared to be hints of a tattoo etched across his right forearm which was barely made visible by the long sleeve he wore. He was wearing black jeans, a black shirt, and black workman boots. No wonder his footsteps echoed so loudly. Once he walked past my line of sight, I heard his footsteps stop at the end of the table where my legs were laying. I could still hear my heartbeat in my ears, but I could also hear the stranger let out a deep, long sigh before pressing a button and releasing the clasps that were locked against my neck, arms, and legs.
"Does that feel better?" The strange man asked. I again elected not to respond.
I slowly raised my arms, making sure to stretch them out. I was so stiff and sore. Only God knows how long I have actually been strapped down to that table. With great effort, I placed my hands beside me, slowly pushing myself up off the table to place myself into an upright position, my legs still outstretched. I pulled my legs one by one to my chest, making sure to keep my head low, my gaze remaining locked with my feet where I noticed my heels were noticeably missing from. Looking my kidnapper in the eyes terrified me to my core, regardless of my intentions of calling his attention upon me whilst strapped to the table. It was taking all my strength and courage just to move into a curled position in his presence, never mind acknowledging the stranger before me, who I could feel burning his gaze into my very soul, no doubt craving for me to respond to him. The silence stretched, neither one of us breaking it, like some sort of non-negotiated ceasefire. If I didn't know any better, I'd have thought he was just as anxious and disoriented as myself, but no, that couldn't be possible. Could it?
The silence was turning suffocating, as if each second that passed sucked more and more oxygen from the room, leaving it drier and more claustrophobic. But no matter how big the chasm of silence was growing between us, I refused to speak, whether it be from anxiety, from stubbornness, possibly both. Instead, I gathered the courage to slowly raise my head from looking down at my bare feet so I could finally see the man standing before me. I saw his boots first. They looked rough, as if they were worn through the harshest of conditions, never being treated to an easy day in their entire lifespan. The toes of them were scraped to hell, the laces were frayed and frail. They definitely have seen better days. Slowly raising my head more, I started to notice that he had long legs, covered with the black jeans I had noticed before, but with the closer look I had, they were faded in multiple areas, whether by design or from consistent wear, it was impossible to discern. However, with the state of his boots and how scuffed and tattered they looked, it was easier to imagine the jeans were faded due to his mistreatment of his belongings. They were held up by a faded black leather belt with a silver buckle. His torso was covered by a tight, black long sleeve shirt, which truly left little to the imagination of what lay beneath it. It was fitted to his muscular form perfectly, highlighting every muscle in his upper body. His long sleeve shirt hid his arms, though the beginnings of the tattoo was more visible from this angle. What I could see on the wrist of his right arm that wasn't being covered up by the sleeve of his shirt looked to be waves, maybe. His left hand however was covered with a black leather glove.
Only his left hand.
' Odd'
Ripping my eyes from his gloved hand, I pushed my eyes further up, traveling along his neck - 'he has a rather visible neck vein' - and noticed the faint lines of what appeared to be the end of another tattoo right on the nape of his neck where his shirt’s neckline ended. Searching higher, and with a final boost of confidence, my eyes landed upon his face.
He had a dark stubble that traveled up into his voluminous hair. It was a deep shade of black, like the midnight sky, but was styled so elegantly that it framed his head perfectly. He was slightly aged, faint lines visible in the creases of his eyes and around his mouth, which was slightly hidden from his facial hair. He had a notable tanned tone to his skin which complimented him. Very much unlike myself, I unfortunately can only master the colors of Casper white and lobster red in terms of being sun-kissed. The only highlight coming from a solid burn however is the fact that my freckles get darker and stand out more prominently on my skin. His eyebrows were the same color as his hair; they were tamed and put together, unlike most men's eyebrows. His lips were thin, slightly parted, and resembled the color of a soft, pink rose. They looked soft, probably the only soft thing about him, considering the rest of his exterior appeared so rough and worn.
Then there were his eyes .
They were a brilliant blue with turquoise hues, and they seemed to shine beautifully under the fluorescent light, damn near glowing. They were staring me back in my own eyes, unblinking, unwavering, piercing the very core of my soul. He had stood his ground as I stayed silent and looked him over. But once he realized I was now looking him shakily in the eyes, his face softened, and his eyes began to wander across my body. It was an odd sensation, like I could actually feel his gaze roaming my body. Ironically, I felt more comfortable being strapped against the cold, hard metal table than I did with his wandering of my form with his piercing gaze. His eyes slowly made their way down my sitting form, making sure to soak me up the best he could. I hugged my legs more tightly to my body, my knuckles a very noticeable white color from how hard I was squeezing them. My gaze immediately began to plead to him, wordlessly trying to express my distress and desire for him to stop. I wanted him to stop staring at my body. It must have worked because he dragged his eyes back up to meet mine, immediately correcting himself and crossed his burly arms over his chest, and leaned back against the remote panel that had set me free from my restraints. We stayed that way for a moment, his eyes never once leaving my face again.
"I heard you yelling earlier, I know you have a voice. You can use it, I know. I'm not here to hurt you, I promise. I just want to make sure you're okay. You've been out most the night, but I guess that's more of my fault than anything else." The man said, finally breaking our stint of silence, raising his right hand to scratch the back of his neck and turning his head to avoid my gaze. His voice seemed less weary now, but his voice still remained soft, twinged with guilt. He looked guilty.
'Was he actually going to admit what he did to me?' I thought to myself, with slight eagerness and uneasiness growing in the forefront of my mind, growing more by the second.
"What-" I began, clearing my throat to hold my anxiety back as my voice began to falter, "What do you mean your fault ?" I asked sharply, not taking my eyes off his face. I watched him bring his gaze back to me. I remained steady, holding his gaze as he went through a series of expressions. One of mild stun, probably due to the fact I even responded to him, one of regret, and finally landing on a look of sorrow, which reached up into his eyes, causing the crease by his eyes to deepen further., and a visible frown taking over. He drew in a deep breath, and slowly exhaled the hot air out of his mouth. Remorse seeped into his eyes, glistening in his bright blue irises so delicately I almost thought he would break.
"I snapped." He didn't even try to elaborate. Did he think that I knew what that meant? That I could read everything in his mind that he meant by those two words? I decided to swallow my anxiety and press him further.
"What do you mean you 'snapped'? " My voice was laced with something akin to venom. My whole body began to tremble from anger. The man seemed to notice my change in demeanor, noticed the trembles emanating from my body, but his eyes never changed, nor did his demeanor. It made it much harder to comprehend that his remorseful eyes and guilt-laden voice was an indication that the man before me was being sincere. That he was trying to give me some version of a truth to the events that had happened. But his lack of context and explanation was only fueling the rage that was growing and spreading like a wild fire within me. Even further, he continued to just stand there, staring at me with his remorseful doe-like eyes, and that just pissed me off more. I unwrapped my arms from my legs and straightened my posture, sucking in a deep and calculated breath before pushing the man further for an explanation.
"Do you think I understand what that means? Snapped? Do you think that qualifies as a justifiable excuse for kidnapping me?" I spoke again, my voice teetering on the verge of demanding, the words harsh and cold as they dripped from my tongue.
Big mistake.
Pushing him was the incorrect response to his statement. Almost instantly after my harsh questioning, his face hardened, his body went rigid, and his eyes turned black. Dropping his crossed arms from his chest, he pushed off the control station and began to stalk towards me, his steps deafening. In a reaction of defense, I tumbled back off the table, scrambled to my feet, and even though I knew I had nowhere to go, I proceeded to flounder to the other side of the room, my back pressed up against the wall. It didn't take many steps for him to reach me, but I turned my head and clamped my eyes shut before he did, bracing myself for anything he was about to do to me. But nothing happened. He was standing in front of me, I could sense his presence. I refused to open my eyes, but I could feel his hot breath on my face. His breaths were even, yet deep, as if he had just run a marathon and was trying to steady his breath.
“Fuck, I don’t know what’s happening to me.” He spoke to me, his voice seemed nearly panicked. My eyes remained shut. “I can’t hold him back anymore. I don’t know what’s happening to me.” He spoke again, definitely panicked this time. I could hear him taking in deep, rhythmic breaths to steady himself.
‘Him? Who is he talking about?’
"Please look at me, Isla." The man said, his voice almost pleading for me to obey him. His voice was like silk, it wrapped itself around my entire being, and nearly placed me into a faux sense of serenity. It cut through my thoughts of his admission, and rendered me completely still. But when his words settled in, finally registering in my brain, they caused me to snap my eyes open immediately.
He had spoken my name.
I knew every word I had spoken while conscious within this room, each and every syllable that left my mouth. But not a single one included my name. Eyes wide open now, shock and confusion meddled within my own irises, I turned my head to meet his gaze. He wasn't more than 6 inches from my face, his eyes scanning my entire face, reading every emotion it conveyed. Scared. Confused. Desperate. Curious .
"H-how do you know my name? W-who are you?" I pleaded to him. My voice no longer steady, no sign of any strength within. He knew my name, which meant he knew who I was. God knows how much he knows, but it was an advantage for him. I don’t know a single thing about him other than how conflicted internally he is and that god forsaken vein that keeps screaming at me from his neck. But at the fear in my pleading voice, he stopped scanning my face. Instead, he backed away from me slowly until he reached the table, leaving me pressed against the wall, my chest noticeably rising and falling from the intensity of my breathing. Placing his palms behind him, he leaned back against the table and stared at the ground for a moment, evidently contemplating how he wanted to approach the topic. Seconds ticked by before he sighed in what appeared to be defeat before he spoke again.
"I'm sorry," he started, lifting his head from the ground to look at me again. "I don't know what's happening to me," He repeated. The words hung between us like a thick fog, obscuring everything around us, only allowing ourselves to see the other in front of them. Everything else, including my own erratic breathing, was seamlessly drowned out and the only focal points in the room were each other. "The moment I saw you in that bar last night, something happened inside of me. I lost control and I'm sorry I scared you." He continued his explanation, his words laced with regret and, if I didn't know any better, honesty. He signed heavily and scrunched his eyes shut.
"I have this voice talk- no screaming inside of me...all the time." He opened his eyes. "But you..." he stood up straight from the table, pushing off with his palms, "...you quieted the other side of me. The side that screams for me to let him out. To do horrifically awful things. The side that corrupts everything I touch."
He took a step closer to me.
"You, Isla-"
Another step.
"-have managed to do something-"
Another.
"-that I haven't been able to accomplish for years."
He was now standing in front of me again, this time even closer than last time. He brought his right hand up to catch my chin gently with his fingertips, like I was the most fragile piece of glass ever to exist, and slightly tilted it upwards to ensure we were in fact staring into each other's eyes. The look on his face, the glint in his eyes, it was something primal, wild, like he was tasting his first moments of freedom and everything he had ever wanted was laid before him, ripe for the taking.
"I did something that the good side of me has never done before, and that is why you're here. I snapped. I couldn't possibly let the only medication that has ever quieted the demon inside of me to just walk right out of my life."
I stared at him, completely speechless. My mind was reeling. A voice? His medication? I'm just a human being, I am not some drug meant to sedate the criminally insane. I wanted to retort back to him, to tell him off for what he'd done, to tell him he was insane, delusional even, to tell him exactly what I thought, that I was no form of medication, but a human being with a life that he was actively stealing from me. But the words died on my lips; my mind was too busy trying to reconcile the sincerity behind his voice. With my mouth slightly gaped, I remained petrified in my stance, searching his eyes for any sign of deceit, any sign that the man before me was lying through his frustratingly perfect teeth. But, I found nothing but sincerity.
He was being honest .
And with that realization, my mind snapped back into motion, reality flooding back into my body, and repeated the question of the hour once more.
"Who are you?" I breathed out, barely even at a whispering decibel. My eyes frantically searching his, as if trying to will him to answer. He took a deep breath and spoke once more.
"My name is James."