The Heir of Aiwan--Book 1

Chapter 3

Emma gripped the wall, rising on unsteady legs, unable to stand up completely, even with her small frame. With her consciousness coming in slow awareness that the ceiling is lurking closely above her hunched frame. Vaguely aware of a rancid smell that lingered just out of my reach. That sickening sweet smell that reminded her of the bathroom back at school wafted back to her, she let out a dry retch. Her body sunk back down like a sack of potatoes, banging back down on the cold surface, she winced against the roughness beneath her. Her ass would definitely be bruised. She fought the urge to stand back up and collapsed back into the wall, letting her back slowly sink against the stone, lest her whole body end up bruised. Leaning back forward as nausea crept in, her stomach clenching against it. She pressed her head between her folded legs, not wanting to breathe in but forcing herself to ignore the putrid scent of this cell. The hard ground as unforgiving against my backside as her high school bleachers. With an exaggerated sigh, she lay her hands at either side of her legs keeping her back from slumping fully back again against the cold and uneven, uncomfortable wall.

Clenching her eyes tight, her concentration drifting back to chilly ground beneath her. The world tilted and tossed, as a ship does in a thunderstorm. She feels the nausea begin to rise inside of her again. Her body prepares to heave, although in this small cramped space, that would appear to be very unwise. Housekeeping was not a likely luxury afforded her here. She forced herself to take long, deep, concentrated breaths. The damp, thick air settled in her lungs. It is hard to pull in a much air in this cramped space. Her hands shake with the growing anxiety of her situation. Finally, the feeling of queasiness concedes. Peeking out again under her fluttering, unsure eyelids, she see the room with a little more clarity and it is pretty tiny. It didn't just have a low ceiling. Her back was now pushed hard against the wall opposite the only door, her legs sprawled out before her and only a few feet lay between her heels and the steel entrance holding her in there.

She lifted my head slowly off of her knees, aware that at any moment the nausea could return. The only window of the space was the smallest sliver set into the door, letting the smallest amount of light in. She had the feeling she was underground. She gripped the small edge of one of the stones that made up the wall at my back, lifting myself slowly again, pressing the entirety of her body weight onto her shaky palms. Cautiously she lifted my head level, the top of her hair grazing the roof. Surrounded by rock, her cell looked as if it had been chiseled out of a mountain except the stone was too perfect. She crouched down again, fearful that she would crack her head against the uneven stone ceiling, the only thing that would make this situation worse would be a concussion or a pounding headache, or so she thought.

The dripping in the distance sounded like the pipes at the group home we had lived in for a few weeks. Old, rusted and in desperate need of repair. The creaking might very well be the soundtrack of her incarceration. And even that grew quiet during parts of the day from the lack of use. Without the sun or moon to guide her, she had no idea how long she had been down here. The only sign that time had elapsed was the empty gnawing deep in the pit of my stomach.

As if someone could hear the loud growling of my protesting belly, a plinking sound of jangling keys grew closer. She pulled my legs tight into her chest. Trying to make myself as small as possible, hoping they wouldn't be able to see her. Even if that thought came with the zero logic of a tired and hungry brain. With a panicking fear she realized that there was nowhere to hide in here. A sharp fear pricked her heart. What did they want from me? she wondered, vaguely, if she should pretend to be asleep still. Which would serve me better?

They stopped at the entrance as if my heart could be heard through the thick, hard door. Before  had time to really look asleep, a dark shadow resting under the small sliver of a crack set toward the bottom of the door, it was too small to fit anything besides a stack of paper. She could hear nothing but the quick thump of her heart as if it were trying to escape her chest. It too was terrified about the prospect of whatever lie on the other side. She tried to relax it with slow, sure breaths but they caught in the back of her throat as the small latch suddenly gave a sickening creak as a peephole swung back. Impossibly she pushed her back even farther against the stone, wishing she could sink within its hard protection.