by Marcia DM
RESILIENCE
Resilient Saga #1
Marcia DM
RESILIENCE Copyright © 2018 by Marcia DM. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover design © Arijana Karčić, Cover It! Designs
Translated by Laura R. Criola
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
RESILIENCE
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
EPILOGUE
STAMINA
Book #2
Coming soon.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
He’s coming.
I can hear his footsteps through the door. That’s all it takes for me to know it’s him; I recognize the particular sound his rugged shoe soles make, the exact time between each step, how long it takes him to unlock the door. Even the hesitant minutes he takes to open it.
Again, I know he’s coming to my…
Wrong again— he’s already here.
CHAPTER 1
The day I was brought here, everything was fuzzy. I was able to glance at something, but I couldn’t make out what was going on. I remember a long hallway with countless iron doors; every door had a scribbled letter painted on it. Yellow was the color of choice for these alphabetic symbols. The smell in this place was a mixture of dirty clothes, uncleaned floors, sweat and death. All of which made my eyes tear up and my throat burn.
Finally, my cell letter —M.
The two men in ski masks who were dragging me locked the iron door behind them after throwing me in.
I never knew why I am in this cell. I never had answers. The only thing I know for certain is that these walls feel like family now; they comfort me, despite the smell, dirt and cold that surrounds me. At least within these walls, I know I’m safe —outside… that’s a different story.
I lost track of days, let alone years, so I can’t tell how long I’ve been kept captive, I simply don’t bother my mind with it anymore. Whenever I try to remember my life before this, who my loved ones were or even my favorite color, my memory fails a little more each day, and I get the same result: my brain sends me back to THAT day and makes me relive it— the day everything changed…
After finishing yet another boring, stupid task as a receptionist, I step out of the office to grab a bite. I walk down the streets of this beautiful city of mine and pass by every crappy food joint as if they’re not even there. I’m never gonna eat that disgusting pile of carbs just to make my stomach shut up. If I do, I’d have to walk for an entire day just to shave those calories off. So, I make way for my favorite organic place, ‘Market farm.’ I must think about what I’m buying before I get there just to try to avoid the woman at the counter —who I suspect descends from sloths— asking meaningless questions and wasting my time. Just one block before I get there, the streets are already packed with people looking for food or running last minute errands, which means everybody’s looking at me— yeah, I know, my body’s wanted, badly, Instagram approved and all that comes with it. That’s why I work on it so much every day. The tight dress I’m wearing hugs me the way all those men want to, my cleavage makes my boobs look like a double D dream and my hasty pace is making them bounce. I know they can’t resist THIS. I like the attention; it’s not a sin, is it?
I’m about to grab the door handle, when an invisible force with an insufferable sound drags me back into the streets. Something blunt and metallic hits my head. I’m trying to open my eyes, but there’s so much smoke hurting them and forcing me to keep them shut, it’s like I lost control over them; I can’t move. My head hurts like hell and spins like a rollercoaster. Loud noises go by, I hear car doors slamming, men and women screaming, children crying. I still can’t move; instead, somebody does it for me. I try to see who it is, but fall in a deep slumber.
The next conscious thing I remember is the ski-masked men dragging me like dead weight, and at this point I’m not even sure I’m not.
At first, the only thing I did was sleep; food was stacking up around me, almost blocking the hole they used to throw it in. But I still couldn’t move.
Hours and days went by, until he appeared. That was game-changing. I only have contact with him or, to be more accurate, he has contact with me. That’s it— that’s the only thing that happens in this waking nightmare.
My sole duty is, basically, wait for him to come to me and do his job.
Right now, I’m moving on what passes for a bed and waiting for him to get here, trying to calm myself to prevent my heart from exploding.
The door opens, and he enters with his usual neatness— tailored suit, shiny black shoes, leather gloves and light green eyes.
His hair is always skull-trimmed, which goes along with his wide, manly, sharp jaw.
Today, his tie is dark red.
He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a burger wrapped in aluminum foil. He reaches out and gives it to me without even looking.
He never told me, and I wouldn’t even dare ask, but I think he’s smuggling food.
I only get a meal a day. I imagine it’s breakfast, because I’m always sleeping when I hear the tray slide through the rough floor. There’s a small opening at the bottom of the door, which they use for this. I never know which are the contents of the tray, but as far as I can see, it’s yellow —what is it with these people and yellow?—, gooey and tastes like corn or oat. I also get a glass of water, but he always brings something else, small enough to fit in his pants pocket.
“How are you today?” he asks while dragging a chair— his chair, since only he can use it. I’ve learned that the hard way.
“Fine,” I reply while slowly opening my burger, because I don’t want the foil making any noises. I’d rather not disturb him. “Thanks,” I whisper.
“You’re welcome,” he says and nods after unbuttoning his suit to seat and adopting his usual posture: right heel to left knee, hands on his lap, frowned eyebrows and staring gaze upon me eating the burger he provided, without even speaking another word. Sometimes he lets me finish then leaves, others he stays a little longer, and then there’s the times when he pulls my hair and d
rags me to the torture chamber and I throw up everything he gave me nonstop. However, this time the silence lasts more than usual. I’m not looking into his eyes and yet I can see something is bothering him, something in the back of his mind makes his left leg restless, jittery; I’ve never seen him like this. I can sense his doubtful eyes all over me.
“You never asked why you were here, in this place. Don’t you wanna know?” he enunciates in a curious tone. This is the first time he mentions the subject, this is the first time he wants to talk.
What the fuck is going on!?
“You never showed a sliver of interest in conversation, sir, not even when I begged you to tell me,” I fire back and automatically punish myself for mouthing out— that wasn’t very smart. I shrug in my place waiting for one of his usual reprimands, but nothing happens.
“I would have told you, if you had used the right words,” he raises his right brow, and I think I even see a smirk.
“Why am I here, sir?” I straighten my back trying to mirror his posture. He doesn’t miss a single move. He looks at me, starting on my breasts, jumping to my hands and then back at my eyes.
He has unusual eyes, both in color and size; something you don’t see every day, not even in movies.
“You were abducted by a terrorist cell,” he lets out and then shuts up, waiting for a reaction from me, which I try to suppress, and look indifferent.
“Why?”
“It was a random event; you were as they say ‘in the wrong place at the wrong time.’”
I don’t believe a word he says. Not because I think I’m special, but because he has a weird look on his face. There’s something he’s not telling. Something’s missing here, something hidden between the words, which I can’t figure out.
“The explosion, was that a terrorist attack?” I’m clearly confused. Never, ever in all this time I would have thought this was just an attack and now I feel like a moron because it was crystal clear. He just nods slowly. “And what are you trying to accomplish with me here?” Aside from torturing me for fun. “What’s the end game?” I’m raising my voice. I struggle to keep my feelings in check, I don’t want him to know he’s affecting me. I don’t want to give him that kind of power. However, I find it strange— I was clearly out of place with both my comment and my tone, and yet he’s still there, sitting, quiet, calm, just like it never happened.
“To show the world what they’re capable of.” He exhales the words as if he was holding his breath. “Every time you were worked on, you were also filmed and broadcasted live for the world to share your pain.” His upper lip twerks upward, showing something I haven’t seen in him before— disgust. Maybe he did not approve? But why?
The very few patches of skin that aren’t full of scars from excessive whipping react to the jolt of adrenaline that was just released within my body.
Why is he so burdened?
I like thinking he’s not okay with this, but it only lasts a few moments. Because then I realize I’m in the hands of a deranged fundamentalist lunatic and a fanatic of some ancient distorted religion brought to the 21st century that must show the world they have a big, throbbing, holy dick. Classic.
Then out of nowhere, something flashes before my eyes— my parents, a vivid memory of them. I wonder if they saw me being ‘worked on.’ What a horrible thought. I can’t even begin to imagine their pain, feelings and thoughts, the sense of impotence and hopelessness they must have experienced. Are they even alive? How long has it been? That’s right, ask him that!
“How long have I been locked up?” I ask calmly. What sort of feeling should I experience? I’ve lost my ability to show emotions naturally, I’ve learned to contain the need to scream or show fear. And now, after faking so much for so long, I can’t express myself as I should without even considering that my body doesn’t work the way it used to. The void is growing by the minute and I literally feel it both in my chest and mind; it’s something I’ve never felt before. This void has no sounds, but I can feel vibrations in my body that feel like an empty space, nothingness. It’s not hot or cold, happy or sad; it just is.
“Three years.”
My heart stops —or at least I think it does—; another dose of adrenaline fills my body.
Three years? How old am I?
Twenty-eight.
I guess when you don’t get to see the sun every day and lose track of time, the very meaning of it becomes abstract.
Damn! Even after I’ve made my peace with not knowing for how long I’ve been here, right now, knowing makes me feel like shit!
There’s something that’s not right…
“What changed?” I ask.
Making a facial expression I can’t recognize, he replies with a question: “What do you mean?”
“Why are you talking to me now, sir, after all we’ve—” I want to say, ‘been through,’ but I can’t because it sounds positive and good, and it really wasn’t. “What happened to you that made you want to tell me all this?” There’s a twitch in his eye, barely visible, but it’s there. He drives his palm from the front to the back of his head. I don’t think he expected that question, and in any case he probably pictured my reaction to be abrupt, harsh, that I would even try to punch him.
Is this a new technique?
Maybe he thought he could work on me after my reaction, but here we are, sitting and facing each other, chatting away like Starbucks buddies. He’s still thinking what to answer, his eyes are no longer steady; instead, they are all over the place.
He’s uneasy, nervous even.
For the first time, I feel in some kind of control.
“Things are about to change around here, and I had… the need… to, erm… somewhat explain why you’re going through this. They need you to deny… certain accusations made against them in the past years… about them being weak and…”
“Them?” I cut in. Is he not part of this group? “Why are you talking in third person? Are you not one of them… sir?” Then, it strikes me. He slipped. He let me in and couldn’t control his words. Finally he lost a battle of wills and his emotions got the best of him. His expression says it all.
How did I miss this?
I’ve known this man for a long time now; in fact, his face is the only one I saw in here. His hands were the ones touching and torturing me, his eyes watching me squirm, his voice was the only one I heard, and yet I never saw that expression.
Ever.
“You’ll understand soon enough, Cassandra,” he whispers, jumping out of the chair and pushing it against the wall. He opens the door and in an instant he’s gone, slamming the door shut. The metallic sound echoing in my small cell is the only thing left here with me; after a second, I hear the lock being engaged.
Yes, he’s gone.
Cassandra, that’s my name. I haven’t forgotten it, I just stopped saying it in my head a long time ago. He never used it, until now.
Why?
I can’t avoid having this feeling that something big is about to happen. I’m scared shitless, and my throat is swollen, blocked.
Are they going to kill me? If that’s the case, then I’m relieved— I really need this to end. I only hope that they don’t work on me until I am. I want it to be fast and snappy, like a well-earned gift. After years of pain and agony, this is all I can think of. I never thought I’d say it, but if my life goes on like this, I’d rather die.
I wouldn’t wish the things I’ve felt and had to endure in here to my worst enemy. All of this and much more by his hand. At least, he never raped me. He threatened me with it, but never actually did it. His proficiency lies somewhere else— with the whip, the knives and the chair… Oh, God. The chair is the worst, because when I’m in the chair, I get to see him in the eye.
CHAPTER 2
CASSANDRA
Ican’t sleep. I’m jittery, fidgeting, incapable of staying in one position. I don’t even have enough space to move this much; but somehow, I manage to do it.
In more r
ecent news, I’ve been noticing my legs are getting numb lately, so I started to walk around my cell —my home, my tiny world. It’s so small that once I tried to touch two walls at the same time by placing my feet on one and trying to reach the opposite with the tip of my fingers. I almost made it.
The walls are gray— no surprise there, right? With a scent of humid concrete, just like I imagined a real dungeon would smell like; the floor changes color —from regular dusty concrete to damp concrete with a layer of mud. How come I have mud in here, you say? Well, the random water splashes I receive make my already not friendly dusty cell a little more unpleasant.
My feet can’t tell the difference any more, I’m very used to walking in watery surfaces now.
If anybody asks me, how does it feel to be a prisoner? I’d say it feels as if God had stopped looking your way. At first, I had hope, I clung to it like a lifesaver. But eventually that faded and the only thing I’m left with is despair, which is the worst. I’d also say that living here made me realize that sometimes death can be felt and considered as a gift and not a punishment, as our society usually teaches us.
To ‘feel’— that’s a word I rarely hear in my head anymore. I think I’ve lost that faculty, or maybe by losing everything that was good in my life, my heart might not beat as it used to. Right now, if I feel anything at all, it would be that my body’s inactive, as if it switched off, because I can’t feel anything. Some days I’m grateful for it, but others the need to feel burns so hot that I must scream from the top of my lungs.
And I do it…
For hours…
Every breakout attempt failed, again and again. I still can see the claw marks I made on the wall my first days here. Hopelessness had taken over and for the first time I felt I’d lost my sanity, that I was crazy at last. I wasn’t even thinking about my self-inflicted injuries and how serious they were, until he came to heal my bloody fingers. I couldn’t use my hands for a long time. Because of this, he had to feed me like a baby— you know, with a spoon to my mouth. I hate him for it, for being good to me. I didn’t want his kind side to poison my mind. I wanted to hate him. That was the last time I lost control. I decided I didn’t want to give him more power than he already had.