of blood and lies ; dystopian

1

PRESENT

I dreamt of thirty-one beheaded children.

When my mind slipped from the nightmare's hold, I woke in a cold room. I did not move upon finding consciousness. I didn't dare make a sound. Where I found myself was not where I was supposed to be.

I stayed still and held my breath. The space around me smelled of metal and blood. Beneath the smell was something familiar, but I did not focus on it.

I slowly opened my eyes. My surroundings were dark. I waited, for a moment, to adjust to the nothingness, but nothing revealed itself. I was in a void, no silhouettes appearing before me.

I ran the tip of my tongue against the roof of my mouth. Taste buds grazed against dry meat, tasting of copper.

The room was deafeningly silent. It felt heavier knowing I certainly was not supposed to be here. I was supposed to be in a world of nothing, rather than a room fronting as nothing.

I was not alone. I knew the feeling of being watched. I had learned it from a very, very young age. I would not have survived however many years without knowing how to hyper-tune into my senses and surroundings like I currently was.

Eyes.

My throat tensed. I could feel them, touching the length of my spine.

After a few seconds, I was able to make out a wall in front of me. It was white, appearing gray due to the darkness. It was not made of concrete nor stone, but rather cushion; it appeared similar to what I'd imagine a psychotic cunt to be locked inside of.

My jaw twitched. I could not use the wall as a weapon if need be; I could not grab the presence in this room and slam them until the wall was painted with brain and blood.

The room was filtered with moonlight. I was able to see it now, the subtle touch of light on the bed beneath me. I lay on a few white-hued blankets, lazily acting as a fitted sheet. Above my still body was a single, thin white blanket.

I debated how easy it would be to strangle someone with a blanket. I could do it.

Without making any movements, I concluded I lay in a twin sized bed. I felt a flattened pillow under my head. It was damp and smelled of sweat.

I always woke in sweat when dreaming of my beheaded children.

I shouldn't move. I knew this. I should stay still and pretend to sleep; seep into the nothingness as I had before waking. If eyes were silently watching me, in a foreign room, no good could come from making myself known.

Nonetheless, I turned over to give my back to the wall.

I felt my muscles tense and cramp upon moving. I hadn't felt this sore in years; I needed water to soothe the pain of dehydration.

I looked to the ceiling first, given the only light was coming from it. There was a window in the center of the ceiling, allowing the moonlight to fall in and cast shadows around the room. It was too high up to reach, but so far it was the only means of escape I saw.

Next, I looked at the door a few feet away. It was in the center of the cushioned wall, perpendicular to the bed I lay in. I winced seeing the door made of white cushion. I needed a weapon. Anything.

In the center of the door was a small metal slit. A flap covered where the opening would be; a keyhole was in the center of the metal; I assumed if I were to push on it the flap would not bulge.

There was another door tucked in the corner beside my bed. It was ajar, with darkness slipping out of the smaller room. There was a shower, toilet, and sink in the small room, but I did not focus on that; everything was made of metal, but nothing seemed flimsy enough to grab and use as a weapon.

My fingers itched and my throat grew tighter. I could feel my heart beating hard against my ribcage. My head throbbed from how fast blood was pumping through my body.

Trapped. Trapped. Trapped.

The words echoed in my head like some twisted chant. I'd been trapped for an eternity just to be saved and placed into another prison.

I looked at the bed across from mine. It was lined against the opposite wall, mirroring my own circumstances. For a moment, I believed I was looking at a reflection of my being. But, the blankets on top of the other bed looked messier. Worn.

And, a man sat on top of the bed.

I stopped breathing.

His eyes were as cold as the bodies of my thirty-one beheaded children. Under his gaze, it felt like he was throwing daggers into a suspended piece of meat. Me. Beneath this all, I felt fire. Red. Blood. Pure fucking rage replaced the blood running through my veins.

Him. 

authors note

what we thinkin??? this story is a lot of world building, so if it is a little confusing at first it will be explained. but, if it is too confusing to read without getting distracted lmk!!!

any theories??

love yaaa