What's Done in the Dark

THREE

"Hey, I smell smoke." Trapped in a burning room with no way to extinguish the flames or get fresh air was anyone's nightmare, but mine tenfold. "Please let me out. Let me out! You're not seriously gonna watch me burn to death, are you?"

But the flames aren't visible.

I look around for traces of smoke and realize the room doesn't have air vents let alone a crack in its veneer for smoke to enter. My pulse thumps at my temples and the comprehension of the lack of flowing air suddenly hits me. However, before full panic mode sets in, my skin cools, the smell of smoke dissipates, and the light grows as bright as it was before.

I regulate my rapid breaths by inhaling and slowly letting it out through my mouth.

Someone is definitely there. Someone is definitely controlling the lights, odors, and temperature in this box of a prison, and that same someone is in control of that door.

"Did I get it wrong? Did I guess the wrong person?" I scan the room, looking for a sign, some confirmation. "That must be the game, the way out, right? Guess whose life I ruined?"

Smoke. Was that a hint?

"Sammy? You wouldn't do this to me, right?" My hand hovers over the thump, thump, thump of my heart. "You know I still blame myself for what happened to your Little Precious." As the name slips from my tongue, my mouth curls at the corners in a half-hearted smile from the fond memory of the happy child.

In the chair, the little boy is gone and Samantha, with her son wrapped in her arms, replaces him. She had playfully dubbed him Little Precious at his first birthday party after becoming a fan of Gollum. Both her son and Gollum's hair didn't fully cover their head, hence the nickname. The dark rings still encircle her eyes from the constant crying and lack of sleep. The cutoff denim shorts not only exposes her slim runner legs but the self-inflicted round wounds from the cigarettes burns.

"I should've never let you persuade me into your therapy. 'Self-healing,' you called it. You remember, don't you? How you'd pull me in to you, cradle me in your arms, and whisper in my ear how it'll hurt for a second and how great I'd feel after. I still have the scars, Sammy, and every time I look at them I'm reminded of our sessions, our 'out of body experiences.' Thankfully the scars don't hurt, not like my biggest scar, the one that always throbs and aches in my heart. You made me love you. I wanted to help you, protect you. I wanted to heal you. I never wanted to save someone as much as I wanted to save you, believe me. I knew that was true love. I know what you're thinking. I can hear it now. 'You betrayed me. I trusted you.'

"You needed help, Sammy. I loved you too much to sit back and watch you suffer. You understand, right? I promise you, I had no idea they were gonna take Precious away. It never occurred to me who would take care of him if they admitted you. It had never crossed my mind that they would make that decision permanent. But believe me, I only wanted the best for you.

"You were the only one who understood me, who truly cared. You always told me I deserved better than I allowed myself. Everything you said, I believed. I knew I shouldn't have let my dad leaving me all those years ago dictate what type of man I allowed in my heart. I knew you were right when you brushed your thumb across my lips and told me how you could love me better than any man. Remember that? You were right, so right.

"I can only imagine the hatred you must have for me now. When I heard the news... a house fire? Poor Precious. Fuck those excuses for foster parents for thinking frying a goddamned turkey indoors was ever a good idea. Bastards. I dream about strangling them every night for their incompetence.

"Still, none of that will bring your baby back. And for the part I played in his death, I'm sorry. No one should ever feel pain that severe. And I understand if you hate me, Sammy. I hate me, too."

Tears hover on my lower eyelids and I try to gulp down a lump that lodges in my throat. I clear the lump away and swallow, but the pain won't go away. It grows more intense, like a sharp blade slowly working its way through my vocal cords.

The light dims. Shadows creep up the corners of the room, more dense and eerie than even my imagination can muster. The heat returns. I cough.