Seventeenth Dawn

9) Broken Bones and a Guilty Conscience

Casey

There's a fire. A fire that lives and breathes and slinks along, leaving a burnt trail in its wake. It's evil and sadistic. It leaves intense pain all throughout my leg. And the longer I sit, the more I realize another one has resurrected itself in my wrist.

The tears come before I can stop them, blurring my vision until I am all but blind. I stare helplessly up at the blob of faint light coming from the square opening. It soon disappears entirely, leaving me alone in the dark. I feel around myself, trying to ignore the searing pain in my leg and wrist--a feat too grand for my particular capabilities, and end up huddled in a ball, cradling my hand to my chest while trying to find a semi-bearable position for my leg.

I swear under my breath, the oath shaky as I suck air through my teeth. I should have taken the Vicodin. I ended up falling in a hole anyways--how much worse would it have been?

I finally locate my phone with my good hand and turn on the flashlight with numb fingers. The beam falls over my broken wrist, and I look at it closely, eyes burning as they adjust. It swells, but I can still rotate my hand. Not broken then, just sprained. And it hurts like the son of a motherless goat.

I press it to the cold cement, using my surroundings as a makeshift ice pack. When I lift my hand again, it's covered in blood. I scramble, trying to stand but my leg fails me. I turn the beam around the room, illuminating the space and the blood pooled on the floor. It's still wet. Someone was here recently, by the looks of it. Injured--stabbed and sliced and tortured.

A thought flits through my mind, gone like an insignificant wisp. The thought was more of a hope, really--a hope that it's Benny's blood instead of Daniel's. And I instantly feel awful.

Crawl helplessly across the floor, clawing my way to a rather large puddle. It has a more chemical scent and is much thinner than blood. I change course until my fingers land on a hard, brown lump. This one I hope is Daniel's...there are few other people in this world whose poop I would prefer to touch over his if I had to. I try to hold back vomit at the thought, and the overwhelming stink consumes me again. My stomach empties as I brace myself with one hand. Every forceful lurch of my stomach flicks my wrist and leg a smidgen, and the pain makes me throw up more.

I turn to plop down on my backside and stare in the direction of the trapdoor, forlorn. There isn't a latter reaching down, even if I doubt I'd be able to pull myself up without use of my right appendages.

I'm forced to sit and wait, checking every so often to see if my phone has service while trying to conserve its battery. I hiss under my breath.

"This is ridiculous." The sound echoes back to me, reminding me of how alone I am. Not even the light can keep me company. Just feces and urine, which I think came from either Benny or Daniel--or both. Maybe Rick, too.

I lay back at such an angle that I can barely make out the top crack of a window through the trap door. Hands on my stomach, I try to relate by listening to my breaths, but they come out too shallow. Too quickly.

I have no doubts that Daniel was here. Some of the blood is too wet to be Benny's; it's less than a day old. Probably a few hours at most.

I just missed them.

Something sinks in the pit of my stomach like lead: If Daniel isn't still here, does that mean he's gone for good? It can't be. He still has three days to live!

A sob climbs up the back of my throat, and I resign myself to endless, choked tears. I shiver against the cold and clench my teeth against the pain.

***

I must have fallen asleep. How--I can't say. It's almost as if a drug still hangs in the air and I was affected just by breathing. Or maybe my brain simply sit down, unable to process any more horrors without a bit of rest. Either way, when I come to once more, it's light out.