Tuesday, October 6, 2015
Randy Speeg

#OctoberFrights Blog Hop: Day 6, The Dark Room (flash fiction)

Good Evening Blog Hoppers,

Tonight I’m sharing what is the beginning of a work in progress that I wrote some years ago and never got back around to it. This is something that may lay dormant for many more years or might just find new life and get finished next year. Only time will tell, but here it is for your enjoyment presented as flash fiction with warts and all. I didn’t even bother to dust off the spider webs. Enjoy!


The Dark Room

She awakens, opens her eyes, and sees nothing.

She closes her eyes quickly, tightly—waits for her mind to come fully out of her dream world—and then opens her eyes again.

Nothing.

She blinks; My God, I’m blind!

She tries to raise her hand to her face and feels the sharp sting of a rope digging into her wrist. She gasps and tries moving her other hand, her feet, and finds no movement. Nothing but the tight strangle of ropes.

Suddenly the fear of being blind is the last thing on her mind.

Where am I?

She cranes her neck, lifts her head to look around her, and still sees nothing. Everything is blackness. She feels no fabric upon her face—she is not blindfolded. She lets her head fall back onto the pillow, stares unblinking into abysmal darkness, and attempts to gather her thoughts.

Where is she? She is on a bed, or so it feels. There is a pillow; soft and thick—it is nestled around her head and neck perfectly, a bit too perfect. She twists her body to the side and back, then feels the motion continue after she stops. A water-bed. She is lying on a water-bed and now it is rippling with her movements. Her fingers feel for the ropes. They are thick and coarse, and frayed. She feels the splinters of the fibers prickling her skin.

How did she get here? Do I have amnesia? She thinks. No. She knows who she was. Timberly Meadows is a twenty-six year old journalist for the Chicago Tribune. The last thing she remembers clearly is getting out of her shower, drying off, and slipping into bed. She turned on the lamp on her nightstand, picked up the new King novel she bought yesterday, and began to read. The next thing she remembers is waking up, opening her eyes, and seeing nothing.

“H…He…Hello?” Her voice feels horse and raspy. She pauses and waits, holds her breath, then inhales deeply. To her ears, it almost sounds like a sigh of relief. Perhaps she is relieved to be answered by silence. Her mind races with thoughts of serial murderers and rapists, of what her captor will do to her—what they already may have done to her.

She swallows, wets her lips, tastes a harsh metallic flavor. After a moment, she recognizes it. Blood. Blood is on her lips, inside her mouth. She feels the soft inner tissue of her cheeks, her gums, and her lips with her tongue. She has no cuts inside her mouth, she feels no pain and assumes she is not injured anywhere else on her body. It is someone else’s blood.

“OK Timber, what fucking shit have you gotten yourself into now?” She says aloud.

As a journalist, I have done my fair share of political muckraking. Slandering mobsters who are being tried for tax evasion because the fucking DA can’t pin anything else on them, slandering the fucking DA because…

Get a grip girl! If the Mob had kidnapped me I would be laying in a dumpster slit from crotch to crown, and the DA would never pull this shit.

So what then? I was lying in bed, reading my book, and then…

Nothing.

Why can’t I remember?

A shiver cuts her off. She feels a cold draft of air blow across her thinly trimmed pubic hair and up over her stomach. Her nipples become hard erect nubs and her skin tingles with goose bumps. She realizes she is naked. Very naked, and now that she knows she can’t believe she hadn’t realized it before.

Timberly Meadows, Pulitzer Prize winning journalist, is naked, tied to a bed, and in the darkest place she has ever been.

She shivers again. She closes her eyes (or were they closed already? It is hard to tell in total darkness) and her mind drifts back to her childhood.

***

A young girl, age twelve, runs through the grassy field of Wicker Park. Her long chestnut hair cascades down around her shoulders. A swift wind blows out of the west catching her hair as she runs; it billows up in waves like the wake of a sleek ship. Clouds of seed fuzz exploding as her jeans brush through the dandelions. The half set Sun shines golden on her flawless skin. Small mounds hint at her blossoming womanhood from beneath her shirt.

Timberly stands beneath a tree and watching the little girl play. Timberly recognizes the girl—it is herself as a child. She watches herself with the almost immediate understanding that this memory is not her own. She’s watching from behind a stranger’s eyes.

The stranger watches her from the shadows of a cluster of trees. Young Timberly does not know she is being watched, doesn’t know that she has always been watched, and always will be.

Someone has been watching over her for a very long time.

Someone very dark.

The stranger closes his eyes and Timberly wakes up.

***

Timberly opens her eyes. Was that a dream? She asks herself. She hears faint music coming out of the darkness. The record needle scratches as it hits the paper label, lifts, moves to the beginning, starts again. This is definitely not a dream.

Timberly quiets her mind, and tries to put her situation into perspective. This isn’t the Mob, is not the DA. So who the fuck snatched my ass in the middle of the night? They are smart, whoever they are; they grabbed me on a Friday. I won’t be missed by anyone until Monday. She sighs.

The record stops abruptly. She can hear faint footsteps coming from the direction of her feet. The sound of creaking wood fills her ears as a door opens.


Thanks for stopping by and reading! I hope you enjoyed reading and hopefully I gave you a little shiver on this chilly October night. You know, I really want to find out what fate has in store for Timberly. I need to finish this story some day.

Randy

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