Chapter 21
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Lyra
I had no idea how long had passed since Bulging Eyes and Foul Breath chucked me into the padded room, but it felt like an eternity. I”d drifted in and out of sleep to try to get my energy back, but nightmares of being abducted were at the forefront of my mind, so I preferred to stay awake, even if my new reality wasn”t much better.
Now and then, Bulging Eyes would open a flap in the door and slide a plate of fresh bread and a glass of water along the concrete floor. At first, I refused to eat for fear of getting poisoned, but in the end, I gave in to the hunger. I knew that if I wanted to escape, I would need all the energy I could muster.
To be fair, the freshly baked bread tasted more wholesome than anything I”d sampled on Earth. I guessed that was because Mesothraxus”s slaves had just cut the wheat.
As I paced the confines of my cell, my thoughts inevitably turned to the looming threat of the vicious leader of Mesoterra. Thinking that he would come to visit me sent shivers down my spine. I had to keep my spirits up if I was going to stand a chance against him and see Zalantha again. I missed my alien savior terribly, and the worry of him being in pain gnawed at me like a relentless beast.
I couldn”t let despair consume me, though. I had to stay strong physically and mentally and maintain the hope that Zalantha was safe and alive. Together, we would defy Mesothraxus and whatever darkness he brought with him.
One way of keeping positive was by doing exercise. I did squats, push-ups and sit-ups to keep my body toned and spirits high. I also walked around in the cell to keep my legs in shape.
No matter how hard I tried, thoughts of my alcohol-fueled past kept popping into my mind. Now that I was away from my previous life and could look back, I hated that I”d become dependent on that damn drug.
The whole process had happened without me even noticing. First, it was Al”s influence, and then secret boozy sessions with friends, nights out at college, waking up hungover, in pools of sweat, in strangers” beds, and not remembering how I”d gotten there. I”d slowly fallen for the trap without even knowing.
While pacing around the cell, I kept thinking about how my father had taken his drinking obsession to the extreme. Physically killing himself because of some potent liquid was utter madness.
The day of the funeral was vital in my awareness that I had a drinking problem. It was a gray, somber day, the sky heavy with clouds that seemed to mirror the weight in our hearts. I stood there, watching in silence as the coffin lowered into the ground, the finality of it all hitting me like a sledgehammer. Tears streamed down my cheeks unchecked, mingling with the rain that began to fall softly. Each drop seemed to echo the rhythm of my grief.
The moment after I”d said goodbye to my father and turned to walk away, I promised myself I wouldn”t drink, especially at the funeral.
But once we had gathered inside the house, I looked around and saw everyone else with their glasses raised, drowning their sorrows in alcohol. I felt out of place, like I didn”t belong in this sea of mourners. The pain of losing my father was unbearable, a gaping wound that threatened to consume me whole. I wanted something, anything, to take away the pain, even if it was just for a moment.
”Oh, go on, just have a glass,” my aunt had said. ”One won”t kill you.”
No, but it”s never just one, is it?
And so, despite my vows, I reached for a glass of red wine and knocked it back, the bitter liquid burning as it slid down my throat, a poor substitute for the warmth of my father”s embrace.
As I drank, I wept for him, for the loss of a beloved father, for the shattered dreams and unspoken words.
I got totally hammered that day, and in the end, I was inconsolable. I remember the hangover the following morning, puking violently at home, Mom asleep in her room, also out for the count.
The damn drink had got us all, and I”d vowed to sort myself out. I couldn”t go down the slippery slope. I did manage to stay dry for a couple of months and enjoyed being as sober as a newborn baby, free from the Monday blues and pounding headaches.
But then I met up with some old buddies from college for a birthday party, and a friend suggested I have a quick one.
”Go on, it”s a celebration. Besides, one drink won”t kill you.”
So, like the weak individual that I was, I gave in yet again.
I had one drink, which turned into ten.
That”s when it clicked that I wasn”t in control.
That”s when I began to question my sanity.
I didn”t have the mental and physical strength then to battle against the drink, but after meeting Zalantha, I saw things differently. Thanks to my purple healing savior, I was mentally aware and more alert than ever.
Where the hell was he?
Was he coming to save me from this dreaded planet before Mesothraxus plunged me into a pod?
A knock on the door startled me, and the bolts clanked. I moved back and huddled into the corner.
”Feeding time,” said Bulging Eyes as he opened the door. He stepped inside and slid the plate across the floor. The appetising smell of fresh bread wafted up my nose. ”Eat up. You”ll soon have a visitor.”
”Who?”
”The almighty one is doing his rounds. He”s on his way to give you a once-over.”
”What the fuck does that mean?”
”You”ll see,” he said, smirking as he stepped backwards, slamming the door behind him.
I felt sick but knew I had to eat to keep up my energy. I bit the bread into small pieces and drank water. Damn, I hated it in there. I hoped Zalantha would arrive soon. The thought of facing Mesothraxus and trying to stop him from plunging me into one of those pods filled my heart with dread.