heartless ; 𝐭. 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐤 , 𝟏

epilogue

date unknown

IT WAS DARK where they took her, where she finally opened her eyes and found nothing familiar surrounding her. Only shadows greeted her in a dimly lit room.

The first thing she felt was the floor beneath her. As cold as ice and hard as stone. Unbreakable.

The first thing she saw was a single bulb, hanging from a thin wire embedded in the rock ceiling above her. The light cast a gentle glow on her and her surroundings, but the corners remained in shadow.

The first thing she smelled was the dank humidity of the stone room. It smelled wet, as if there was water nearby.

The first thing she heard was the hum of electricity—obviously from the light source above—and the drip, drip of water, confirming the close proximity of nourishment.

The first thing she tasted was a metallic substance in her mouth, and she recognized it as blood. But the flow had stopped, and she spat the red stuff out onto the stone floor next to her, watching it splatter across the hard surface.

She coughed violently, her throat scratchy and rough when she swallowed carefully, trying to catch her breath. Pushing herself up to rest on her elbows, she looked down at herself: thin, yet lean legs splayed out in front of her, unfamiliar clothes draped over her small frame, filled with dirt and drenched with sweat. Her feet were covered with white socks, the clean color catching her off guard. They seemed to glow in the yellow light overhead.

Her hands found the solid ground, pressing against it to bring herself to a sitting position. Squeezing her eyelids shut for a few seconds, she felt the pressure leave her head and the blood return to the other parts of her body, but it left a slight throb in her skull, an ever-present pulse that refused to die down.

There was nothing but dead air surrounding her frail body—pile of bones, more like—the only sound coming from the light bulb and the constant sprinkle of water droplets onto the floor. She felt as if she should hold her breath, only letting herself inhale small bits of air at a time.

Water.

The presence of a voice in her head startled her, causing her eyes to widen, scanning the cellar for another person in her midst. But there was no one, and nothing, to be found. Just a voice that might have sounded like her own—if she knew what her voice sounded like.

Water, the voice insisted, water.

She pricked her ears for the location of the drips, and saw a minuscule puddle forming near the edge of a shadow behind her, merely the size of her fist. It was about five feet away from her, which meant she'd have to move. She didn't know if she could hold herself up—in fact, she didn't know anything right now.

It was painful and tedious work to fold her legs up underneath herself, forcing herself to her feet. When she was on her hands and knees, she reached out to feel for the rock wall beside her, and once she could feel the cool stone against her palm, she tightened what little muscle she could find in her fingertips to push herself up to her feet.

This position didn't last more than a second before she collapsed against the wall, her legs giving out. Sliding to the floor, she felt the skin on her palm rip from a sharp edge, and soon the metallic smell of blood filled her nostrils, overwhelming her senses. She gagged at the stench of the boiling red blood, and keeled over, heaving nothing out of her empty stomach. Dissatisfied, but managing to lift her head up again, she took one glance at her bloodied hand and flinched, pressing the wound to the hem of her shirt. Now with only one working hand, she decided the only way she would be able to reach the water would be to crawl on her hands—hand—and knees.