4. Four Ella
Four: Ella
The night air sliced through my thin pajamas like a razor. What the hell was going on? My heart hammered against my ribcage, and my palms were sweaty. The man with the tattoos was a shadow come to life, his large hands clamping over my arms with bruising intensity.
"Let go of me!" I screamed, my voice ricocheting off the walls of the cramped hallway as he dragged me toward the open front door. Priscilla's mocking laughter followed from somewhere behind us. The bastard's black bandana obscured his face, but the hardness in his eyes spoke volumes. His soul-less gaze was deep and blue. His eyes would have been beautiful, if not for the complete void of emotion.
"Shut it, doll," he growled, his grip tightening, making my hands go numb. "You're coming with us."
"Please, you don't have to do this." Tears blurred my vision, my pleas drowned out by my own frantic breathing. I clawed at his iron-like arms, my nails scraping flesh but failing to break his hold.
"Enough!" His voice was a whip-crack in the silent night. We were outside now, the darkness hiding the tears that streamed down my cheeks.
One moment there was resistance, the next, only the oppressive blackness of the dungeon. The switch was so abrupt, my senses reeled, trying to catch up with reality. The air here was dank, thick with the scent of mold. Chains rattled in the distance. My feet stumbled on the uneven stone floor, the man's relentless pull never easing.
"Where are we?" Panic clawed up my throat, my eyes straining against the dark to make out my surroundings.
"Your new home, little ember," came his snide reply, his voice echoing against the stone walls.
"Please, I won't tell anyone—"
"Quiet!" His command ricocheted around the room, and I bit back a sob.
My thoughts scrambled through incoherence. The grim reality set in with each step deeper into the bowels of this hellish place. In the faint glow of a single bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling, I could make out the faint stains of my predecessors painted against the walls.
"Move," he barked, shoving me forward. I tripped, catching myself against the cold, damp wall. The rough texture scraped my palms, cutting into my skin.
"Chris," I remembered his name from hushed whispers and fearful glances among townsfolk. A man without mercy, the executioner of the Cinder Crew. "That's your name, right?" God, I'd read somewhere that humanizing them can help them see reason.
"Chris, please," I tried again, my voice barely above a whisper, hoping for a shred of humanity.
"Save your breath." His laughter was a low rumble, devoid of warmth.
I let out a choked cry. This couldn't be happening, not to me, not when I had dreams waiting to be lived. My mind raced back to Psych 101, my aspirations to heal minds—to understand the very darkness that held me captive now.
"Welcome to hell," Chris said, a smirk evident in his tone as he pushed me into a cell, the clang of metal on metal sealing my fate.
"Fuck you," I spat before the door slammed shut, the sound reverberating through my bones. Alone in the gloom, I wrapped my arms around myself, a poor shield against the freezing air of my new home.
The cell's iron door groaned open a few hours later, spilling a sliver of dim light across the stone floor. I flinched, recoiling into the shadows. A figure was pushed in—a girl with long brown hair that fell over her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and round, mirroring my terror, the kind of fear you can't fake or hide.
"Who the hell are you?" I demanded, voice ragged, fingers curling into fists. Trust was a luxury I couldn't afford; not here, not now.
"Name's Belle," she said, her voice quivering. She seemed to shrink under the weight of her new reality, her curvy frame huddled against the cold that seeped from the walls. "They grabbed me and now I'm here... just like that. One second I'm free, next, I'm in this hellhole."
"Stay away from me," I warned, backing up until the wall pressed against my spine. Maybe she was a spy. A plant. Get me to trust her and then bam, kill her. Or me. Something. Why the hell couldn't I remember that movie? This reminded me of that movie...
"Look, I don't want any trouble," she pleaded, her doe eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I'm scared shitless, just like you."
My breath hitched, heart slamming against my chest. "Scared doesn't even begin to cut it. I'm Ella." My thoughts spiraled, each one darker than the last. Chris and his goons could be listening.
"Got any idea why we're here?" She edged closer, desperate for answers or maybe just human contact.
"Fuck if I know," I sighed.
"God, what do they want from us?" Belle murmured, sinking onto the floor, her body folding in on itself. "First my dad is arrested, and then I'm thrown in here... what is going on?"
"Survival, that's all we should focus on."
Belle nodded, swallowing hard. "Right... survival." Her beauty, undeniable even through the grime and fear, felt out of place here.
The door creaked open, a slice of dim light cutting through the darkness before it slammed shut again, plunging us back into shadow. He turned on the bulb in the middle of the dungeon before turning towards us. His silhouette loomed—a mountain of muscle and ink—Chris Charming, the devil's right hand. Oh, I'd heard the rumors. I'd even had a few... shower sessions to him. The tales of brutality. The cold hand of death delivered by his. Tattoos snaked up his forearms, and stopped just below his jawline, as he stepped closer. Turns out, it's much different seeing darkness up close than it was hearing about it from passers-by.
"Please," I choked out, "you gotta let me go."
He just stood there, a statue carved from sin, his tousled dark hair casting shadows over eyes that could drown a soul. He was a vision. A nightmare vision, wrapped in the most beautiful package. The black bandana concealed his mouth, but I could feel the smirk behind it.
"Listen to me," I begged, inching back as he opened the cell door. "I'm not who you want. I—I'm nobody."
His laugh, a low rumble, bounced off the walls, mocking my plea. He paced like a caged animal, blue eyes flickering. "Nobody, huh?" His boots thudded against the floor, each step a countdown to my breaking point. "When your father was appointed a Duke, you stopped being a nobody and became a somebody."
"Dammit, Chris." My hands shook as I held them out, pleading for some scrap of humanity. "I'm just a girl trying to live her life. I have dreams—"
"Everyone's got fucking dreams, princess." He leaned in, the scent of devastation and death invading my space. "Yours just turned into a goddamn nightmare."
Collapsing back onto the damp ground, I drew in ragged breaths, fighting the tears threatening to spill. Belle's hand found mine in the dark, a lifeline in this pit of hell. I hardly registered his fading footsteps and the clank of metal, leaving me to wallow in my terror.
"Hey," she whispered. "We'll get through this."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because we have to." Belle's grip tightened. "If we don't... I don't want to think about it."
I needed something, anything else to think about. "What were your dreams, Belle?"
"Helping people," she said, soft yet unwavering. "Making a difference. What about you?"
"Understanding minds," I admitted, suddenly laughing. It seemed ridiculous now. How could I have ever thought I could understand the human mind, when I could hardly understand what the hell was happening here. "I wanted to be a psychologist. To bring light to the darkest corners."
"Still can," Belle insisted, even as our reality loomed over us. "This isn't the end, Ella. We're more than what they want us to be. More than pretty dolls in a fucked-up collection," I murmured, drawing strength from her resolve.
"Exactly." Her chuckle was a small spark in an endless night. "And when we're out, we'll chase those dreams down and make them beg for mercy."
"Mercy," I echoed, letting the word roll around my tongue. It felt right. "Yeah. Mercy."
Our whispers wove together, a silent pact that bound us. In the pitch-black void, Belle and I clung to the one thing that couldn't be taken from us—not by force nor fear.
Hope.