20. Emily
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Blood trickles from the wound I’ve dug into my thigh like a broken faucet. And still, I scratch.
The voices in my head haven’t stopped – not once – since I woke this morning. Ma. Declan. Liam. Da. Each of their voices has echoed on a continuous loop.
“Today is the day,” they’ve taunted. “Your pitiful existence is about to end.”
Every one of their taunts make it unbearably hard to not see some truth to them.
What if this really is the end of my life?
What if my suffering is finally going to be over?
Would I even care?
Today marks day ten of being in The Hole. The longest I’ve been placed here and if I hadn’t gone insane before, I am now. Logic has no place here after I started seeing the faces and hearing the voices of women who have said they were also locked in this Hell.
Their cries of pain and suffering seep through the concrete walls and into my very soul. They are becoming part of me at this point.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
My nailbeds scream in protest from the constant strain. I haven’t been able to find anything I can use to cut into my skin to give them a rest. I’ve traced my palms over the walls repeatedly – hoping to find a large enough crack to pull a chunk from. It was no use.
Shuffling to my left causes every muscle in my body to tighten.
Nonono. Please, no.
Despite the darkness surrounding me, I watch as tendrils of black vines travel up the wall. They spread across the concrete, growing thicker and taller by the second.
I can’t contain the tremors that force their way through my body. I clench my jaw until I fear my teeth will shatter. The vines continue to grow, drawing closer and closer. I’m already plastered against the wall, but I push against it as if it’ll absorb my body and shield me from what’s to come.
The cries of the women from the past slowly fill the air. The misery and sorrow that seeps into my soul from those sounds cause my chest to feel seconds from caving in.
So much wretched agony is harbored within these walls. Within the very foundation of this building. I’m sure the grounds are saturated with just as much suffering.
My heart is beating so rapidly, I don’t know how I haven’t had a heart attack yet. Despite constantly being haunted by these signs of past lives; my psyche goes into a panic every time.
I feel the sensation of my hair being moved and I jerk away.
It’s not real. It’s not real.
Something that sounds like metal scrapping on the concrete sounds from within the darkness; followed by the sound of a whimper.
“Please, help me,” a woman’s plea flows through my body, and goosebumps spread across my skin.
I slam my hands over my ears and close my eyes.
“You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real,” I mutter repeatedly. The air in the room is thick with desperation, hopelessness, and death. So much death.
I hear the muffled sounds of metal clanking and screams through the barrier I created with my hands.
The hairs on my arms stand on end as the sensation of eyes watching me coats my skin.
“Go away. You’re not real,” I whimper.
A shriek so loud, it shakes me to my core, breaks through my barrier and I choke down a sob.
Then… nothing.
All the sounds and feelings that have flooded my system cease all at once.
My mind is no longer my own and I don’t know how much more of this torture I can handle.
I’m pushed into the communal showers after my twelfth day in The Hole. The dim lights of the room burn my retinas and it’s hard to keep my eyes open. I can’t decipher if the faces I see are from past or present.
The icy water pelts my skin. My teeth chatter violently, and I wrap my hands around myself.
“You get five minutes,” the guard growls but his beady dark eyes still travel down my body in hunger, and I choke down the bile I feel climbing up my throat.
I lather myself with the small bar of soap and scrub my skin until I’m satisfied that I’ve taken off the first layer. There are a few young women in here with me. Their faces are shadowed in deep-rooted sadness and their eyes are red-rimmed and downcast.
The fissures in my heart widen every time I’ve seen the others. Their bodies are painted with bruises in different healing phases and are pale from lack of sunlight and malnutrition.
I lather the soap in my hair and the suds tangle my strands. Tipping my head back, the water cascades down my hair and washes the soap away. I run my fingers through it and feel the sharp pain of the roots being ripped from my scalp. The intertwined strands create a spider-like mass that falls to the floor.
I stare at the pile and my eyes burn from tears gathering and grief growing in my heart.
Feeling the loss of hair seems so pathetic considering the entire situation I’m in. How could I feel pain from the loss of something that will grow back? But the more I think about it, the more I realize it’s more the loss of another piece of myself because of this place.
“Time’s up,” the guard grunts and we jump at the sudden sound of his voice.
He throws us old towels that are littered with holes and stains. The material scrapes against my skin with each pass. Once we’re relatively dry, we’re handed a clean set of ragged clothes that smell of mildew. The fabric sticks to my damp skin.
We walk behind the guard as he takes everyone to their cells. I’m the last to be locked up. The palm of his hand presses between my shoulder blades and he pushes me with a force that causes me to stumble and fall. The concrete digs into my knees and I wince.
I bite my tongue to refrain from crying out. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how his treatment affects me. The door slams behind me and I hear the sound of the lock engaging.
Only then do I let the emotion break through, and a tear slides down my cheek.