62. Fifty Nine
Fifty Nine
Creed
Leaving the flashlight behind was a mistake.
The further my feet carry me through neverending passages, the less I can see. The soles of my shoes drag wearily, ensuring that I don’t step into a hole and fall to my death. The only sense of safety I have comes from the gun aimed ahead of me and the blade that I whiteknuckle.
Without direction, I march forward. My only true plan is to blindly search until I find Eden. But, I can sense that she’s near. The ground beneath me pulses with energy.
Like a bat in the night, I follow where the static carries me. The back of my left hand drags along the wall, feeling for doors or turns. So far, it’s been a straight shot.
Keeping Eden at the forefront of my mind, I force out the images of my brother. Beaten, bloodied, broken. Missing was the strong man that I know. It was then that I knew no matter what, I couldn’t back down, or flee in the name of fear.
If he could endure that, then I can find our girl.
There’s no other option.
The smooth concrete beneath my feet has turned soft and uneven. What feels like soil and crumbled rock forces me to slow my pace. The air has grown staler, too, smelling of decay and rotted leaves.
For a fleeting moment, I feel like I’m being buried alive. When the greedy hands of claustrophobia reach for me, I smack them away and carry on.
For Eden.
For Eden.
For Eden.
Movement in the air startles me and I scramble for my gun. Aiming into the nothingness, I crane my neck in either direction as if a light will suddenly illuminate whatever is in here with me. Bracing myself, I wait for a hit or the heat of a bullet, but nothing comes.
Air whooshes again, small but incessant, and I flinch. A few quick poofs, a flutter, and I back myself against the wall. It’s not particularly threatening, but it’s wildly misplaced down here, where everything is stagnant.
The sensation reminds me of… flapping wings.
Tentatively, I close my switchblade and step toward the movement, wiggling my fingers into the open air and praying something doesn’t bite them.
When the edge of my thumb brushes something, I recoil. Cool to the touch, yet somehow electric. It’s alive with energy, trembling. My lips part on a silent gasp, and I place my full palm against the object.
I know it’s impossible, but I swear I can hear her in my mind. Not enough to harm me, but it’s there. Almost like a dream you can’t quite remember; the keening is just out of reach.
Fumbling for a doorknob, I’m met with nothing but an expanse of metal. Inching higher, a splinter snags the heel of my palm. A wooden board is stretched from one end to the other, and while heavy, with the amount of adrenaline I have, I easily shove one end up until it gives.
Self preservation flies out the window as I work to get the door open.
Scratching at the edge, my fingernails dig into the crease where the door meets the wall.
Frantic, I grab my knife and flick the blade out.
Without sight, the task is grueling. A painstaking minute passes before the sharp point finds a crack, and I pry the door open.
When the door gives, so does the blade. I drop the broken weapon to the ground, useless. Bracing myself, I raise my gun and point it straight ahead. My index finger hovers over the trigger. I step in.
I’m met with something even the worst of my nightmares could never conjure.
People, real people, are strung along the ceiling.
Bound at the ankles, they hang upside down like cattle waiting to be butchered.
A metallic copper floods my nostrils, and I don’t have to look to know they’re being bled out.
The room is illuminated by black candles spaced unevenly along the dirt ground, and I wish to be thrust back into the darkness.
For a split second, I consider closing my eyes, but I can’t.
Because there she is, a vision of tragedy.
A cage, barely large enough for a person to fit in, is placed in the center of the room, directly beneath the bodies. And Eden, tears of red trailing lines from her eyes to her chest, grips the bars, face contorted in suffering.
It isn’t until I step closer to the grisly scene that I realize some of the victims are still alive. Swaying on the chains, their blood drips in streaks along the floor, painting patterns of demise.
They’re using Eden’s gift as a means of torture.
Rushing forward, I ignore the squelching feel beneath my feet as I step in puddles of gore. I glance over my shoulder and around the room, ensuring we’re alone. While Eden is screaming, I don’t think anybody would enter. I don’t think anybody could.
It had to be me.
If Eden’s aware of my presence, she shows no signs of it. Her fingers curl around the iron bars, body heaving as she suffocates on her own shrieks. With eyes squeezed shut, it almost looks like she’s stuck in a night terror.
The force of her ability stretches over my skin, prickling unpleasantly along my senses.
It fights to force me away, and Hell knocks at my psyche, pleading for entry.
I’ve always rejected that Eden carries Darkness, but now, it feels like exactly that.
With everything I have, I block the misery out.
I lower onto my haunches. A foot separates us.
I could rip my heart from my chest, and it would be less painful than seeing her this way.
Carefully, in an attempt not to startle her, I close my fist around her own. With a supernatural speed, her hand snatches back and she’s pressed against the iron behind her.
Silver eyes cloaked in crimson widen, and her mouth clamps shut for a heartbeat. And then it’s open again, and she keels over, digging her fingers into her scalp. She yanks at her hair, mindlessly inflicting harm like an animal stuck in a snare.
I raise my hands to tell her to stop before I come to my senses and lower them. Getting through to her is impossible, so I switch my focus to the cage and how I can free her.
Frantic, I tug at different rods, hoping that one might come free. Circling to the back, a padlock the size of my fist keeps the door from being opened.
The chances of me finding the key is about as likely as this all being a bad dream. Digging into my pocket, I search for my switchblade.
The switchblade that I broke.
Fuck.
Gripping the lock with both hands, I tug with all my force.
It doesn’t budge. My heart hammers in my chest, and although it’s been maybe two minutes since I opened that door, it feels like an eternity.
How long can she go on like this? There might not be anyone in here to kill her, but by the looks of it, she’s able to do it all on her own.
Grasping my head in between my hands, the handle of the pistol digs into my temple. My gaze flits over the room, but there’s nothing. It’s all Earth, and death, and suffering. Liquid rains down intermittently, dotting my clothes, my arms, my face. I keep my mouth firmly closed.
Lowering my gun, the shining black catches the light of one of the winking candles.
Slowly, I lower my gaze to the weapon.
It might work. It might not. But I don’t have any other options.
Even though Eden can’t see me, I sign in a rush, “I’ll be careful, don’t worry,” trying to convince myself more than anything.
Lowering myself to a crouch, I press my right hip against the iron bars. With a heaving inhale, I raise the gun. There’s a tremor to my hand, and I struggle to take aim.
My finger hovers over the trigger, and I squint my right eye. Eden rocks back and forth in the cage, oblivious to my presence.
It has to be me.
I fill my lungs and hold it.
3…
2…
1.
The spark of metal against metal flashes and I flinch, head snapping in Eden’s direction. Other than the demented state she’s in, she doesn’t look injured.
But neither does the lock. There’s a mark where the bullet grazed it.
Fuck.
I take aim, and try again.
Miss.
The panic truly sets in. There’s no one to help, and I can’t even get a lock open. Sylvie would know what to do. Or my brother.
Cecil’s going to be so disappointed in me if I can’t—
Something hits my arm. I glance to the ground beside me. There, coated in sticky red, is a hairpin. I blink, look up, and search for the source.
The young woman that hangs above us, eyes glazed over by the kiss of death, has her hair curled and pinned neatly. Gravity pulls it down, mussing the do, and I guess…
A pin fell out.
It feels too intentional, too perfect, but I don’t have time to second guess anything.
I get to work on the lock.