AN: I'd love constructive criticisms (what can be better, what should be removed) but more importantly, how you feel/think about the story.


A Short Story


She kept her eyes shut—an act which had been subtly ingrained in her waking ritual. Calmly, her mind slowly planned a schedule for the day—or night, it didn’t matter; day was simply a matter of speech—of what she was going to do next: what she would wear, how much she would cook, how much to drink, who to talk to, and what topics they would discuss. She could hear her heart beating--the rhythmic, comforting lub dub her lecturer used to talk about. SA nodes, AV nodes, the left and right atriums…she had gotten full marks for that paper and now she couldn’t recall exactly the intricate processes of the heart. She felt she should; why didn’t she, when she had remembered the knowledge, recapitulate the details? Then she would have another topic to talk about; but she had learned regrets didn’t suit this place. Rather, the only lesson she had derived was to retain her rationality—the ability to think. But sometimes…. She took in a deep breath, and let it out; the heavy rush of cool air tickled her chest, quickly dissipating, until the last rivulets of the wind trickled down her stomach and vestiges of it disappeared along her pubes—the effect of which was almost titillating.

It was time, she decided; and, upon thinking that thought, she could feel just the slightest of muscle contractions pulling at the corners of her lips. Time…she almost chuckled, but instead the feeling quickly turned into one of bitterness. She shoved it away. Her eyes still closed, she sat up and making as little noise as she could, she scuttled down the bed, and then her bare feet slid over the edge and stepped on the crumpled folds of clothes. She hooked one up with her foot, and with her hands felt along its hems to determine what it was, before tugging it over her head. The t-shirt now in place, she gripped the bedstead while her feet continued their task of discovering a pair of pants or a skirt. In honesty she didn’t really care, just as long as she was clothed, but to keep herself amused she imagined she would be wearing a t-shirt that had the Powerpuff Girls logo imprinted and a pair of dark blue jeans. Close to where she had fished up her shirt, both her feet wedged the lump of rough fabric between them and as one, threw it up to her head; her hands caught the pair of jeans. She smiled. She would have to think of a new game soon though. She righted the front of the pants, tucked her legs into them, buttoned, and then zipped up. Her hands went directly under the bed frame and tied the custom-made thick ‘foot cloths’ to her feet.

Wading through the sea of strewn garments, her walking guided only by her feet’s dulled sense of touch on the carpet, she admonished herself for the nineteenth time she really should tidy up the place, or at least fold up her clothes. But it would smell, came the immediate reasoning from the other part of her mind; true, true, she agreed, and opened the door.

An insignificant sliver of her mind murmured that it would probably be soon before she went through this chiding once more.

She realized pleasantly that she didn’t even need to grope for the knob anymore, although this had happened probably…days? weeks? ago; and just as suddenly the pride was shattered by hopelessness that she had been kept here for too long. Nevertheless, she tried to smile, but it was in vain, and with determination she sought to keep from crumbling, she moved for the kitchen.

Beneath her protected feet, loud sounds of crunching glass sporadically broke the imposing stillness.

From memory she fantasized the kitchen adjoining the living room was brightly lit by amber spotlights. The tiny two-room apartment could cause claustrophobia to some people, but not her. In fact, the small size of the place was the reason she had bought it. Living alone, she didn’t need the ample space other properties had boasted—the silence in the house when she was the only living soul would be unnervingly eerie. But now, if she kept her thoughts running, or focus on the steady beat of her heart, or be engaged in chats, she could ignore the silence constantly whispering in her ear.

Her right hand felt the cool plastic side of the fridge, and she slid along it, until her fingertips brushed along the edge. As a precaution to slipping memories, she always reminded herself of where things were. Three steps forward and she would reach the narrow kitchen counter and at right angle from there, into the living room; two steps left, her room; two steps back, entrance to the bathroom. Her hand dropped down to the open door of the long-malfunctioning appliance. She felt along its even frame and then reached into the fridge, slowly sweeping around, rummaging for food. The side of her palm knocked into something--something hard and smooth. Like long spider limbs, her fingers wrapped around their find. Almost round. Could be an apple, she conjectured. A fraction of her pleaded to unclose her eyes and satisfy her curiosity, contending that maybe, just maybe, there would be something--but it was swiftly quelled. Despite her ongoing optimism, she feared that when she did open her eyes, there would be nothing--just like the countless times before when she did; and that--the void--the emptiness--was terrifying. She removed her sustenance and took a bite—sourness flooded her mouth and instinctively she cringed--she chewed and swallowed dryly the furry, slightly chunky piece.

Continuing on her way with occasional small nips at her food, she knew she was entering the living room: her right hand had glided along the brims of porcelain on the counter, and it was touching a jagged piece of, probably, shattered plate that had cut her thrice when she was still unfamiliar in her chosen darkness. She proceeded forth, careful not to repeat the mistake as she mused how much blood she had inadvertently spilled—probably not as much as those two times she had tried to free herself from her incarceration with a knife.

Her guide left the counter. She walked on steadily, using the toes between the first and last of each foot to determine a straight path. The harsh grinding of glass on glass was louder here; she recalled how initially, when she was plunged into this horrifying space, in uncontrollable fear and defensive rage she had flung everything she could grab hold of at nothingness. In retrospect, it had been a foolish move; for in her cause, the effect was that between her best efforts to dislodge the smithereens of glass embedded in her soles and the gouging of the more rooted ones when she had been desperate, she had sheared the nerves of her soles innumerable times and they could not feel a thing. She sighed silently; it was another reason why it was always better to think first.

On the sixth step, her knees bumped into a hard beam, and she slowly knelt into soft cushion, leaning forward as her hands confirmed that it was the sofa. She turned around and sat, not daring to lie down due to the sense of oppression—of something heavy and sinister pressing down upon her, muffling her screams, strangulating her--swallowing her whole. Lying down in the living room made the darkness enclosing her seemed so much more real.

Yet, it was the only place she could talk.

Maybe it was because the living room was the largest room in the apartment, and hence one that made her feel more liberated. Whatever the reason, everything she was doing—the putting on of clothes, playing little games, eating, drinking, reminiscing with persons in her mind, when all were useless in her circumstance--was only to maintain some semblance of humanity--to deter, as much as possible, the rotting of her sanity. She still clung to hope tenaciously.

“Hi.” It came out as a silent exhalation. With what little saliva she had, she swallowed, and cleared her throat before trying again.

“Hi,” she croaked hoarsely.

“Hi,” she said more smoothly.

“I--” she cleared her throat once more; and with a husky voice whispered, “I don’t know how long I’ve been in here, since I can’t tell when is day or night. Everything’s pitch black. But I don’t think it’s been long, since my supply of water, which should last about two months if I had rationed from the start, has run out.” She gave a little bitter smile. “But stupid me didn’t. Finished a third of the clean water in, I guess, a day or two. And I’ve just eaten the last of my foods. Not sure what it was…probably an apple. If I had known, I’d buy more food and stock—no, I’d run away from here as far as I can.

“I still can’t figure what happened. You know I tried all the doors and windows, but…. I don’t know of anyone who’d want to set me up like this. I don’t have enemies; I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like me, or who hates me this much. But I hope he or she dies and is for ever burnt alive in hell. Or, even better, be in my shoes. My shoes…holes in my feet. Some of them have closed up though, but it’s…rough…but I’ve gotten used to the pain. Doesn’t even hurt now. I wonder how it...probably very disgusting.

“You know, I’m thinking about committing suicide. It’s a grand idea. Going to hell is better than still living—living…” she murmured, “living…?” She paused, and was suddenly frightened by the state she was in. What am I? she questioned; a ghost? A human? Am I even alive? Or am I dead and I don’t even know it? But I can feel pain, so I must be alive…? But where I am now…where…. Seized by terror at spectral answers, she ceased her reflection and squeezed her closed eyes taut—and suddenly opened her eyes.

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Willow: [pouty] Everyone's getting spanked but me.

"The I in Team"