Annihilation

Agony

Trigger Warnings: Sexual Assault (Nondescriptive), Suicidal Ideation

The noise outside didn't die down until the sun rose and fell twice. I was thankful that I kept my lunchbox stocked with water and a bag of chips that I stretched over the two day period. Every few hours I would pick up the phone again, only met with a signal that wouldn't allow me to dial out.

Relief washed over me when the sound of grumbled moaning faded, another day passing before a set of doors slammed closed, the footsteps and voices that came down the hall giving me hope that I was being rescued. I stood from the spot where I'd been tucked away beneath my desk, pulling back the chair I'd propped against the door after someone knocked, looking for a sign of any noise inside my office.

I cracked the door open slowly, an ounce of relief washing over me as I was met by three pairs of familiar eyes. They weren't the rescuers I was hoping for, but I hoped they wouldn't harm me since the look in their eyes held more fear than anger.

"Dr. Monroe, are you okay?" Patrick, the redhead who'd made a lewd comment toward me on my first day questioned.

"What happened out there?" I asked, conscious of the way John, the inmate who came to my defense, stepped forward as if he were in charge.

He was a burly man, thick and hairy with muscles that protruded from the sleeves of his jumpsuit. "Everyone out there is dead, or alive, a mix of the two. The only place they haven't taken over is this hallway and the cafeteria." He walked over to my window, pulling the blinds open to reveal my view of the yard. My eyes widened as I peered out at the undead, an image I'd only seen in movies, their feet dragging slowly across the browning lawn.

"I have to be dreaming." I blinked a few times, pinching at the skin on my arm. "Wake up, just wake up." I spoke to myself, counting backwards from ten with the expectation that I would wake at one.

"I'm glad you're alive." John smirked as I recalled the thick file I had on him, riddled with notes that cited narcissism, egomania, and a charm that masked it all. Patrick, who hadn't been shy about making an inappropriate comment toward me on my first day, was the least of my worries, all bark and no bite. John, on the other hand, spent the last seven years in prison on multiple charges of torture and sexual assault. My body responded to the fear that coursed through it, my heart pattering in my chest and a lump forming in my throat as John turned to the other two men. "And now we have everything we need, boys." He exclaimed with a sinister excitement, gripping onto my arm and yanking me with a force that made my feet trail across the floor.

I yelped, Patrick and the other, mute inmate, Wes, keeping up as he stomped down the hall toward the cafeteria. "What are you doing man?" Patrick asked, taking my other arm and lifting me so that I maintained some sort of balance.

John laughed, stopping in front of an old utility closet. "Making the best of a shitty situation. We have this section with all the food we need and now a pretty lady to fulfill our other needs until someone comes to free us." He tugged me so hard that Patrick released me, running a finger from my cheek to my bottom lip.

I was completely frozen, knowing I was alone with the three of them and that neither Patrick nor Wes possessed the gall to stand up to him. A lone tear slipped down my cheek, processing my circumstance and he pressed his lips to where it fell, a dark grin on his lips as he pushed me into the empty closet.

The door closed and locked behind me, making the room nearly pitch black, only the smallest trace of light shining through a crack at the bottom. I spent the first few minutes slapping my cheeks in another attempt to wake myself from the nightmare, moving into a full blown panic that had me banging my head against the wall until a small bump formed on my forehead.

Once I accepted my reality I turned to gathering the information I could, feeling against every corner of the room in search of anything I could use as a weapon, against them or myself if it came to it. I groaned when I only found a tiny nail, too dull to do any real damage.

Without the clock from my office I couldn't be sure how much time passed before John reopened the door, setting an open can of corn and spoon on the floor in front of me. "Eat." He demanded after a minute of me staring at the can without moving.

"You don't have to do this John." I tried to reason with him. My mind flooded with thoughts of what he might do to me if I didn't find a way out, but it was impossible.

When he realized I had no plans to meet his command to eat, he kicked the can over, moving swiftly to clutch my neck so that my airway was cut off and lifting me so far that I stood on my toes. He slipped his tongue past my mouth and in a moment of resistance I clamped my teeth down on it, a little of his blood spilling onto my lips as he let go of me, jerking away from the pain. When he looked up I spit in his face, speckles of red coating his cheeks.

My chest rose and fell harshly with his response, more alarming than if he'd been infuriated. Instead, he wiped his face with the back of his hand, giving me a bloody grin as he stepped back up to me, his body pressing me against the cold wall. "You'll learn that I like when you fight me." He grimaced, the feeling of terror stilling me.

People have a multitude of responses to trauma. In some cases the mind protects itself by forgetting, by blocking out the details. I remembered in tiny pieces, a breath against my neck, the sound of a zipping jumpsuit, or the smell of sweat. I knew that John was the worst and that even if Patrick was the kindest, apologizing for it all while I ate, he was still part of the horror.

In the beginning I protested, refusing to eat for days until John shoved food down my throat. I begged Patrick and Wes to free me from living, fighting them harshly with hopes that they would respond with enough rage to end it all.

Once the food stopped coming, so much time passing that the hollow feeling in my stomach disappeared, I cried out with gratitude, sure that they'd finally given up on me and that I would be left to perish. I laid on my side against the cold floor, humming the tune to Shelby and my favorite song as I waited, part of me hoping that I would see her on the other side and the other wishing she'd survived.

My lips chapped and throat dried from lack of water, and I was unable to keep warm, my jaw trembling at the chill of my skin until I felt practically nothing, numb to any fear or pain.

I'd closed my eyes without plans to reopen them, to keep them shut until my last breath. Dread ran all over me at the sound of footsteps in front of the door again as I realized that it wasn't over, that I'd been teased by death only to be dragged back into my personal hell.

I braced myself to meet John's devilish gaze, letting myself sit limply in the corner of the room and knowing I couldn't stop whatever was to come. I blinked a few times at the increase in light from the doorway as it opened, my legs curling to my chest when an unfamiliar man stepped inside, quickly kneeling in front of me with worry behind his eyes.