Where Darkness Dwells

by Lynnette Brisia

  Perfectly.

  She was so fucking beautiful that day.

  She's always been beautiful, but something about that day….

  Her cheeks were tinted a beautiful shade of pink that not even makeup can create against her caramel skin. Her coral lips, soft and succulent, covered in her favorite raspberry lemonade lip gloss, smiling at me sweetly. Her honey eyes, alight and so full of life.

  It had been the way she looked at me. The way she seemed so delighted to be beside me. In the heat of the moment I hadn’t realized it at the time, but looking back, I wanted nothing more than to kiss her that day. She had been beautiful. Alive. Happy. Perfect. And I wanted to bask in that perfection.

  I make that memory guide me until the dark returns.

  I make that memory consume me until I am back in Evie's arms.

  FOURTEEN

  “Mostly it is loss which teaches us about the worth of things.”

  ― Arthur Schopenhauer, Parerga and Paralipomena

  My belly aches with hunger.

  And my head has not stopped pounding for what feels like days.

  Even though I have no accounting for time in this pitch black wretchedness, I do believe more than a few days has had to have passed. The ache inside is far too great for that not to be the case.

  After my last visit with 'Little Missy,' if that's really even who we've seen, since we’ve never been given anyone of our detainer’s names, I told Evie of my discovery.

  I told her, in as quiet a voice as I can manage, that they have been watching. Listening.

  That they undoubtedly have been the entire time we’ve been trapped here.

  I told her they're using our love against us.

  I told her of the lies Little Missy tried to break me with. Of all the falsities the fiend thought would tear me down, make me beg or possibly bow at their feet. My alleged shortcomings. The fact that I am the cause of all suffering because it was my body, my organ pushing into her so viciously. Evie merely gripped me tighter, holding my hand against where her vulnerable heart still beat. Only for you, she’d said. And there was no distress, no untruth in the cadence of her heart. It knows me, wants me. Loves me wholly.

  Our captors be damned.

  We now fully comprehend why Jackson had warned us against it.

  We would never take it back. We would never recount or bluff.

  But we know we must be vigilant. We know we must be silent in the emotion we feel for one another. Offering no more ammunition to taunt us with. No more fuel to the already blazing fire.

  We can only focus on the peace we feel with one another. In the event they try to use our affections against us again.

  In that matter, we are unfailingly secure.

  We are impossibly strong.

  If only we could be so durable in every other instance.

  Evie cries often. Sometimes I don't think she even knows she is. Her body, her spirit, her very soul, they are leaking from her a tear at a time. Everything she has been forced to endure proving nearly too much to handle any longer.

  But even in her sobs, her voice, weak from the workings of lack of proper nourishment, she is nearly silent.

  All it does is reinforce a truth we can't hide from any longer.

  We are dying.

  It's slow. It's painful. There is no glory. There is no majesty.

  There will be no grand tomb to encase us after our battle has been fought. We will merely fade away into the nothingness of this place. Forgotten. Abandoned. Empty.

  It’s been some time now since, but the last bit of stale bread that was delivered to us, I gave to Evie. She needed it more than I did. Curves that at one time enticed me so stunningly, melting away into the void. I feel her bones and the way they push against her delicate skin. I know if not for the darkness, I would be able to see them as well as feel them.

  She's never been more physically fragile than she is now.

  I worry she may break with the wrong type of touch. And our experience has shown, the only touch offered here is that of the cruel hand.

  Worse yet, even though she’d tried to hide it from me, Evie had been sick. Violently. It made me worry.

  It made me sick with anxiety. It made me sick with alarmed-filled unease.

  I fretted until, in exasperation, it drove the truth from her.

  What she told me made my weak heart slow further.

  With barely any voice, she finally admitted she’d thought she was pregnant.

  She couldn't be sure, she told me. Her menstrual cycle was no longer regular or anywhere close to normal. And it honestly hadn’t been for some time, given our situation.

  Lack of food and water. The physical abuse. They made it difficult for her body to function properly. Made it difficult for it to function at all.

  And of course, there was no real way to test. No way to realistically find out.

  It wasn’t like we had access to even the most basic of amenities after all, let alone a pregnancy test.

  But she still believed pregnancy was the reason for her sickness.

  There were enough signs to dictate it was the cause for her to not question it. Besides, it’s not like birth control of any kind had ever been an option to us.

  She’d been struggling with not only nausea, but increased fatigue, disorientation and abdominal pain. Not to mention the peculiar and sudden tenderness in her breasts and at her belly.

  All of it added up. And I was grievously inclined to agree.

  No matter how much I wished otherwise. Or how badly I prayed against it.

  Sometime later, I can’t be sure how much time had passed, I found Evie cringing in agony. She refused to let me be by her side, her fear of our captors stumbling upon us, of seeing the weakness too great. Powerless, I watched as she bled in the toilet.

  It was no doubt a miscarriage. As though Evie hadn’t already suffered through enough.

  I can't help but wonder, would it have been mine? Had it been the product of the two of us and our time together? Or was it because of…? The thought makes me sick that I can question that. I can question and it's not an insult. It’s not a sign of disrespect. It's agony. Heartbreaking agony.

  Surprisingly, and I suppose in some ways, thankfully, though we are hungry, we have been left alone.

  There's no noise to indicate anything in the outside world. I haven't heard the purr of a car or the roar of a plane in months. I don't know what the weather has been like.

  The world could have ended, torn apart at the seams, and we'd never know.

  All we’ve known is fear. Pain. Anguish. Humiliation. Torture.

  Thanks to the frail woman next to me; love as well.

  Something in the back of my mind prickles though.

  It tells me I should be worried we haven't seen our captors for some time, for I don't believe we've ever gone this long without contact.

  And surely they would have delighted in Evie's agony. In watching mine as I helplessly watched hers. Because we both know cameras wouldn’t have sufficed. They’d have wanted to watch, up close and personal, no doubt with jabs and insults directed our way.

  This prickle also tells me we will surely starve to death if we never see them again. It tells me that my idea from weeks ago – or was it months? – may come to fruition all on its own. All without my ability to choose it.

  It's amazing to think, almost ironic in the worst possible way, the last thing we want is to see them again. But without them, without their presence in our lives, we are assuredly lost.

  Evie stumbles back to me from the toilet. It’s not we can be modest in our needs. And she is still spotting. Even if she tries to put on that she’s fine.

  Which makes me all the more worried. Surely she could bleed to death any moment. Suffering in her interminable silence.

  And I can't save her. No matter how desperately I want to.

  She falls to the ground beside me and I hear the distinct sound of a crack.

  She cradles her left
hand but doesn't cry out. We're past that point of pain.

  There are worse things in this life. We should know. We’ve experienced nearly all of them.

  Pulling her left hand to me, I try to focus on it as best I can. Her index and middle fingers have broken. Both bent in an unnatural angle.

  I kiss them softly. Press into them my sorrow and apology.

  Taking a ripped shred from my shirt, I tie her fingers together to stabilize them. It's all I can do.

  I hope, if we are ever able to get away, they will not be permanently damaged.

  But I don't believe we will escape.

  I do not believe we will ever be found. It seems like too much of a dream to even think about.

  The only light I now believe in is Evie. She is the only light I know any longer. I will cling to her until we are no more.

  FIFTEEN

  "Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace."

  ― Oscar Wilde, The Canterville Ghost

  I've fallen asleep. My body can no longer withstand being awake without sustenance, so it's taken to shutting down intermittently.

  Our demise is surely eminent. But I am no longer angry. Not that I have the energy for it any longer.

  Sadness. I felt sadness not long before this moment.

  But even that has departed. The five stages of grief having run their course.

  I am only seventeen. Same for Evie. We are meant for so much more. I know that. I believe it.

  But this is our fate. We will surely perish in this darkness but at least we have each other. At least we have that.

  Acceptance. That's what we've agreed on. Not that we’ve had much of a choice. It is the last stage after all.

  But we have each other.

  That's my constant thought as unconsciousness claims me.

  Moments. Days. Weeks. Possibly forever passes.

  Nothing happens. No one visits. No one comes to steal us away. There are no taunts or torments. No one comes to feed us. To ensure we are still alive. No, nothing happens but a battered loss of consciousness.

  And then violently, I am roused.

  There is a noise. But not just any noise. A banging. Harsh and fierce, somewhere nearby.

  My heart is in my throat, beating as though it might explode from the startle. I grip Evie, pull her tighter against me. Her uninjured hand grasps mine with a trembling chill. Her body is fading fast.

  "Who do you think that is?" she asks. It's barely a whisper. Our voices have left us completely.

  "I don't know." It’s not our wardens, I know that much. Still, I'm no longer terrified. After what has been done to us, there is nothing left to fear. Regardless, I am wary of the unknown lurking outside, creating such fierce noise.

  The door bursts open, light erupting into our vision. Blinding us after so long with only shadow. We shield our eyes but it doesn’t prevent sound from engulfing our ears.

  Commotion, loud and unyielding, follows. And after being in this place for so long, with only unnerving quiet as our companion, it is almost too much to bear.

  Unknown men and women shouting, huddling, grouping, rush toward us. They hold weapons, large and intimidating, and radios and come bearing gifts in their voices of "you're safe now," and "we've got you, no one can hurt you anymore."

  I know I must be dreaming. Or I've finally died. The voices must be that of angels hopefully come to take us to Heaven.

  There is no way this can be real. They simply must be a manifestation of my lack of food and water. I am hallucinating. But at least it is something beautiful.

  "Get the bus ready! Casey, help the girl," one man shouts as he kneels behind me. His hand presses to my shoulder, it's weight crushing my frailty, as I peer up at him, trembling in my uncertainty of this situation. "Caleb? Caleb Sutton? Can you hear me?" I must make some sort of noise to acknowledge because he keeps speaking. "Caleb, my name is Vince Walker. I’m an Agent with the FBI. We've been looking for you and Ms. Drake for a long time. You're going home, son. Your parents are waiting."

  My eyes turns back to Evie. There is a woman, blond hair slicked back into a bun, dressed similarly to Agent Walker speaking with her.

  I wonder idly if this is the Casey he was speaking to.

  And then everything happens so fast.

  They are helping Evie onto a bed, a cot. Stretcher. We are placed on stretchers.

  I cry out losing Evie's hand. She’s been my constant, my everything since we were taken. I can’t handle being away from her now. As if reading my mind, or perhaps simply understanding my cries, I am reassured we will be reunited once we're out of this hell hole.

  “It’s okay, Caleb. It’s okay. She’s okay. Evie is okay. We’re just getting you both out of here.”

  I close my eyes. I let this man's words wash over me. I let myself bask in the possible hope that they can really be true.

  Rescued. That word is being tossed around the radios and I want to weep.

  Instead, I let my mind drift to an old fantasy. One I haven't indulged in for some time. Not since that fateful moment where they….

  There's a small meadow not far from my house. A garden my mother planted on their land that seemingly got away from her. I imagine visiting it with Evie one summer afternoon. We've graduated. We're heading to college soon. But this is our time to be together without prying eyes, giggling at our affection for one another.

  "I love this place. Especially since it wasn’t supposed to exist. It’s just so beautiful in bloom," she says as she smiles at me. The sun is shining, casting her in a warm glow. Her presence warms my heart, heats my insides.

  We're laying in the grass and wild flowers. Hands entwined. Smiles light up our faces.

  "You're beautiful," I say, perfecting my best cheesy line. She blushes, calls me a nerd, but smiles all the same. "You are. I'm not just saying that. You know I’m not one to cast lines.” She nods, still smiling, still blushing. It makes my heart pitter patter again. “I just wish I hadn't lost so much time by not getting to know you sooner. All those years, seemingly wasted," I tell her as I sit up, my face hovering over hers.

  "No regrets," she begins, eyes alight with happiness and truth. "We've found one another. We got lucky enough to do that. Let's make the most of it now."

  I lean in and brush my lips across hers. We're smiling. We're laughing. My chest feels light and free, though my heart pounds against my ribs. Evie has that effect on me. I love it. I love her. I tell her so. She smiles and kisses harder.

  We're happy. We're in love. We have a plan for how to manage the long distance. Things couldn't be better. Nothing could ruin our moment.

  "He's coding!" someone shouts into my fantasy.

  The garden vanishes. Taking Evie with it.

  I'm back in the darkness. I can't see anything. Sound is muffled.

  I reach for Evie, but she's nowhere to be found.

  Then I hear a long beep.

  Then I hear nothing.

  SIXTEEN

  “Now there is one thing I can tell you: you will enjoy certain pleasures you would not fathom now. When you still had your mother you often thought of the days when you would have her no longer. Now you will often think of days past when you had her. When you are used to this horrible thing that they will forever be cast into the past, then you will gently feel her revive, returning to take her place, her entire place, beside you. At the present time, this is not yet possible. Let yourself be inert, wait till the incomprehensible power ... that has broken you restores you a little, I say a little, for henceforth you will always keep something broken about you. Tell yourself this, too, for it is a kind of pleasure to know that you will never love less, that you will never be consoled, that you will constantly remember more and more.”

  ― Marcel Proust

  Every centimeter of my body aches. From the hair on my head,
right down to my toenails.

  My eyes, as they flutter open, burn against the intrusive light hanging over my head. I close them instantly, to ease the immediate throb to my head from the illumination. Taking a deep, but rough breath, I open my eyes again, slower. And not all the way. Then I begin to take inventory of my surroundings.

  My mouth is dry. My throat raw and nearly burning.

  Needles poking every inch of skin, and wires blanketing the rest. I feel a balm against the lacerations on my back. It’s cool, healing the old tears. There appears to be a light blue gown or cover resting over my body.

  Under that gown, I feel a sense of cleanliness permeating over me that I never thought I'd feel again. Even if the soap does smell wrong.

  Blinking, I try to turn my head.

  White walls surround me. Their brightness nearly overwhelming after so long with nothing but blackness. And a large window is off to the side, the sun shining down upon a living world.

  There are machines everywhere. A television, on but muted, rests against the wall at the ceiling. Flowers. Teddy bears. Trinkets flood any open space.

  I realize I am in a hospital.

  As I continue my perusal, I notice another bed, close to mine. Nearly touching.

  Evie.

  Her left hand is wrapped. Bandaged. Fixed. Her slight form, wearing a matching gown, nearly engulfed by the bedding.

  I watch as a machine helps her breathe. I watch as her vitals play like a string progression on the monitor. She’s paler than I’ve ever seen her, but she’s here. She’s real.

  I feel tears prick at my weary eyes and exhale heavily. She's alive. Thank god.

  "Caleb?"

  A warm voice, full of disbelieving hesitation, pulls me away from Evie's form. It is that of my mother. Her usually shiny blond hair appears dull, her blue eyes weary. I never thought I'd see her again. Never thought I’d see anything again.

  Standing next to her, is my father and sister. And then I notice Sheriff Drake nearby too.