34. Past
Past
Ileave the athletic facility sore in the familiar way that means the work is paying off.
Two years have passed since Jade careened into my knee mid-tournament.
She says she didn’t see me. Maybe that’s true.
Maybe it isn’t. Suspicion ran high through the school, but the season was over anyway.
After ACL surgery and months of rehab, I’m almost myself again.
Blaine:
Hi, babe. Got caught up…Can you meet me in the lot by the field? Be there soon.
It’s late in the day, the sun sliding behind the trees.
The lot sits empty, and as I step onto the asphalt, I look around, not seeing Blaine.
No car. No headlights. Maybe he’s running late.
I reach into my pocket for my phone, and something cracks the base of my skull.
The world tips. For a heartbeat before the dark swallows everything, a face flashes at the edge of my vision: Amelia, pale and wide-eyed, shouting for someone to hurry.
I come to in blackness, my skin pressed against cold flooring. A bag is pulled tight over my head, muffling my breath. Hands shaking, I rip it off and blink. Blood slicks along my hairline, tracking to my temple. My head rings, and dots flash before I blink them away.
What the fuck?
“Hello!” My voice bounces back at me. “Blaine?” I reach around me, noting that my phone and bag are gone. “Fuck!”
Then, with dawning horror, I shift and feel a slick slide between my thighs. I bring my hands up to between my legs and choke on a sob. My shorts are gone, my underwear intact, but there is an unmistakable ache when I move.
“No, no, no,” I whisper softly.
My eyes adjust after a few seconds. Minutes? In the far corner, a red light blinks. A camera, it has to be.
I push up, unsteady on my knees, holding back bile at the thought of what was done to me while I was unconscious.
I fumble around, hoping my shorts are somewhere here, thankful they’re only a few inches from my feet.
I quickly pull them on, rubbing my thighs raw until I can’t feel a trace of it left.
“Where the fuck am I?” I shout.
Static scratches through a hidden speaker. A scrambled voice follows. “Hello, Lyra. Where you are isn’t important.”
I need to stay strong and get out of here. “Where’s Blaine?” I snap, peering into the dark. I’m disoriented, my mouth is dry, and I feel weighted down.
“Blaine has been dealt with. Now the real question is…how much do you care about him?”
“What does that matter? Let me go.” I don’t know if they can see me, but I still stare at the blinking red dot regardless.
“Follow the instructions, and you’ll be free. Blaine will be returned unharmed.”
They’re insane. Completely fucking insane.
“What instructions?”
A second voice laughs; even distorted, it’s a higher pitch. “Each corner holds a tool. You may use one. Touch another, and Blaine dies. Choose wisely.”
The room tilts. I want them to be bluffing. “You’re lying,” I throw back.
Then Blaine’s voice slices through the static. “Lyra! Lyra!”
Tears hit fast and hot. My hand clamps over my mouth. His fear echoes in my head. I crouch low and start moving. I inch to the nearest corner, palms mapping the wall. My fingers graze metal, cold and bolted. I press, hoping for give.
Nothing.
I sweep down and hiss when a sharp seam splits my palm.
“Add a little blood to your fun house, you bastards.” It burns, but not enough to stop me.
My hand bumps something, and I quickly grab it, a thin cylinder with smooth ends. I bend it.
A weak red glow snaps in my palm. A glowstick. Rage and helplessness mix, then laughter threatens to break loose. It’s the kind you give a kid on Halloween so they don’t get hit by cars. Still, I crack it fully and lift it. The room washes in dull red.
I check the other corners. A lighter. A half-used box of matches. A bobby pin. Horror-movie bullshit. Sweeping the glow toward the back wall, I catch a low grate with a four-letter dial lock. A crawlspace waits beyond, black and narrow. I lunge and yank the lock.
“Fucking psychopathic bastard!”
A gravelly chuckle rolls out of the speaker. “Ticktock, Lyra.”
“What do you mean, ticktock?” I whip my head toward the camera.
“That glowstick lasts three hours. After that, back to darkness you go.”
Panic slams into me. Three hours. I scan the frame, then the makeshift wall around it. Words next to the bars catch my eye. Written in spray paint that leaks down the sides.
You feel me but don’t see me.
I watch you sleep; I haunt you by day.
I visit the weak but seldom the bold.
I whisper the first line. “You feel me but don’t see me.” A feeling. An emotion?
“I haunt you day and night.” It’s not just a feeling.
Think. Think. Think!
“I visit the weak but seldom the bold.” A weak emotion. Four letters. I pace. My mind is going a hundred directions at once. I try PAIN. Nothing.
Fuck!
“Okay, okay, you're fine.” I take a deep breath. “It’s a feeling something the weak feel…weak. Oh my god…me.”
My fingers spin the dials. F…E…A…R.
I press the lock inward. It opens. A sob punches its way out of my chest, half relief, half disbelief. I yank open the gate, the padlock clattering to the floor as I drop it. I will get out of here even if I have to crawl through hell to do it.