In The Dark

[Author's Note: This is my first time writing a story as well as my first time doing so in first person. That being said, this is just a small introduction to a larger story I hope to work on in the upcoming months. I hope you enjoy.]

Darkness greets my open eyes. It’s the first sign that something is gravely wrong here. Desperately, I search my mind for some indication of what happened, where I might be. I know there should be something there—a hint, a clue…something to account for my existence before this moment. Only, there isn’t. All I seem to remember is that I am not blind, at least, I shouldn’t be. My heart is racing, my pulse quickening. Without knowing what else to do, I begin to grope hopelessly around me. It’s cold and hard like stone. How do I know this? How can I remember the feeling of stone, but not what is happening to me?

Frustration quickly replaces panic as I find myself screaming into the darkness. Deep, feral sounds come from my mouth as I lose control. Maybe someone will hear me. Maybe someone will come and tell me what the fuck is going on.

I don’t know how long I scream for. My throat burns long before anyone answers. I’m left gasping for air as I wear myself out. Maybe screaming like a maniac into an unknown room, if that’s what this is, wasn’t the best idea. I don’t care. I need answers.

I try to stand, but something quickly snaps me back to the floor. For the first time, I notice something cold against my ankles. With tentative hands, I investigate the foreign object. It wraps securely in a circle, hugging each ankle with no room for give. A chain connects my ankles to each other. Two more connect each ankle to the floor.

I’m trapped.

Even without my memory, I know this isn’t good. With renewed vigor, I tug furiously at my bounds. Nothing gives. I manage to irritate my ankles, though the skin already feels bruised and cut. Have I woken like this before? The pain is dull; any previous wounds have had time to heal. My stomach growls. For the first time, I realize I’m hungry. When did I eat last? What did I eat last? The thoughts seem stupid in lieu of my current situation, but I don’t give a fuck. None of this makes sense, and I’m growing tired of trying to figure it out.

Not far from me, a door’s hinges squeak. Someone’s coming.

“Hey!” I’m shouting before I realize it. “What the fuck’s going on? Where am I? I swear to God if this is some sick joke….” I’m angry, and I don’t care to hide it. I need some goddamn answers.

“Awake, Princess?” An older guy chuckles. At least, he sounds older. Maybe in his 30s, or maybe nowhere near. I need to fucking see.

“I’m not a goddamn princess,” I spit in return. He’s getting closer. I want to punch and kick at the noise, but I have no idea where he is. All I can make out are footsteps that seem to echo in this endless room. My body starts to shake. It’s a natural instinct, really. How can my body still itself when I’m blind and trapped with some stranger that seems amused by my handicaps?

“No, perhaps not yet.” He’s towering over me. I can feel it. I can feel him. Instinctively, I reach forward with a balled fist. I give it my all, but it doesn’t matter. A huge, calloused hand grabs me by the wrist and pulls backwards hard. I let out a scream. “Tsk, tsk.” He clicks his tongue against his teeth disapprovingly. The iron grip doesn’t let go. “Don’t worry; I won’t break it.” I can hear the goddamn smile in his voice. I’m biting my lip, trying not to let more sounds come forth, but it feels so fucking useless.

“Fuck you.”

His hand retreats. I quickly follow suit, drawing my abused wrist close to my body. I tentatively rub it with my good hand, all the while waiting for his next move. Will he taunt me? Attack me? “Mmm. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I nearly piss myself as his breath hits my ear. He’s beside me now, and I didn’t even notice. Was he that quiet, or did I really rely on my eyes that much? I’m terrified, I’m not gonna lie.

I open my mouth to say something, but quickly close it when his hands find my body. Together, the massive hands paw at my chest and run towards my legs. For the first time, I notice I’m wearing what feels like jeans and a t-shirt. No shoes. I guess in the midst of everything, clothing seemed like the last detail to worry about. Now, it feels like the first.

“Get the fuck off!” I’m shouting as I squirm beneath his touch, trying my best to inch away from his body. I don’t know what he’s doing, but I don’t like it. I don’t like any of it. He doesn’t say anything; just keeps moving his hands down, down, down…one’s starting to rub against my crotch, as if there’d be anything there. The other has disappeared, and it’s safe to say, I don’t want to know where it’s headed.

Silence settles in as I’m left not knowing what else to do or say. I want to keep screaming, keep fighting, but what good is it gonna do? This guy doesn’t seem phased by it, and it’s wearing me out. He isn’t trying to get into my pants—literally, that is—at least, not yet. He’s just rubbing absently, like some stupid kid that hasn’t figured out how bodies work. I can barely feel it beneath the layers of denim and cloth, but it’s still there. Like he’s trying to get me hard. Like that shit’s gonna work.

“Mm. You’re so much better like this,” he comments after what feels like hours. “Who knew you’d calm down after the procedure…” His voice is heavy and horsed, though I already know why. I’m trying not to think about it.

“Procedure… ?” I parrot, unsure if he’s fucking with me or not. I’ve managed to keep my panic at bay, saving my energy for something more useful, whatever that is. Except, now, it’s rising again. Bubbling quickly to the top like a pot about to boil over. What if… What if he’s the reason I can’t remember or see?

No response. Just more awkward rubbing and panting. I’m getting angry. I want to know. I want this fucker to explain himself to me. “What procedure?” I repeat, this time with more emotion. He stops. A snicker sounds. He’s fucking enjoying this. Not just idly molesting me, but fucking with my head. My hands ball into fists at my sides. I’ve kept them there this long, given how well my last “attack” worked, but my patience is growing thin. “Just fucking tell me!”

“Oh, but Princess, you already know.” My body tightens. My heart stops. He doesn’t mean… He couldn’t… “Why else is your world so dark, and your mind so empty?” He’s lying. He’s trying to get to me with this little game of his—whatever it is. “Don’t believe me?” He can tell I’m panicking. He can smell the fear that’s permeating the air. “Touch your eyes. Go ahead. Touch them.” No. My hands remain at my side as his words linger in the air. I’m just blindfolded, I tell myself, refusing to move. But there’s a nagging feeling at the back of my mind, something that says to listen to my captor. He’s quiet now, letting his words settle in. I wish he’d talk. Wish he’d go back to just fondling me like we’re some kind of awkward couple.

He waits a few moments, just to let me squirm, before he’s finally had enough. “C’mon now,” he almost sounds like a parent waiting on a child. “It’s not that bad. It doesn’t even hurt.” His hands are on mind now, the larger palms encompassing mine like they’re nothing. No matter how hard I pull or struggle, no matter how many desperate pleas I make, he keeps pulling them towards my face. It’s not long before he’s forcing my own hands against where my eyes should be. Against lids that feel hollow inside. His fingers are menacingly gentle as they prod mine against the flesh that is hiding a terrible secret. He even moves them down a bit, just enough for me to feel the unnatural cross marks that now mar my face. Stitches, I’m guessing, because why the fuck not. The finer detail doesn’t make a difference.

They’re gone. My eyes are gone.