Ella

Present

When I’ve gathered enough flowers, I stroll through the streets until I get to the cemetery. I open the iron-clad fence, its loud squeak a stark difference from the silence up ahead. As I walk along the pebble path, I notice I’m not alone, but that’s okay. Everyone here has lost someone dear to them, and not a single soul would dare to say they don’t miss them.

I do too.

I place my hand on top of the cold stone in front of the grave and say a prayer. Sometimes, I even talk to her in my head.

I brought you these flowers.

I place them on the grave.

I know you always loved to steal them from the park, so I thought I’d pick them for you instead of buying a bouquet. Are you okay here? Do they treat you well in the afterlife? I hope you don’t miss me too much. I promise I won’t be long. But I won’t come until it’s my time. I know you’d want me to enjoy the life I have here. It’s just hard, you know? Of course, you know … you lived it.

I sigh and bite my lip.

Twelve long years. And still, nothing has changed.

The world still revolves around the sun. People live their lives, oblivious to the pain of others. And me? I’m still stuck in that same memory … still unable to move on.

I turn around and make my way out of the cemetery, determined not to stick around for too long or else I might even spend the day. I have to get this out of my head. Have to find my happy place again.

Turning the corner, I start across the bridge over the river and stop in the middle. I grab my loaf of bread and pull off a few pieces, chucking them into the water. The ducks and seagulls quickly gather to gobble them down, fighting over every last bit as if it’s the only food they’ve gotten in a week. Except they’re as fat as can be, so that can’t be it. They’re so used to people that they practically follow me around just to get more of that bread, and it makes me giggle. Especially when one of the ducks nibbles on my dress.

I try to shoo it away but have no luck. When I twist and spin on my heels, I notice a car with tinted windows on the road at the end of the bridge. A man in the driver’s seat has rolled his window down and is staring at me.

A chill runs down my spine.

I don’t know why, but when he drives off seconds later, I feel like I can finally breathe again.

To this day, every single incident scares me. Makes me want to scream with the voice I’ve lost long ago.

I’ll do anything to stop the terror, so I start walking. Even with all the ducks chasing me, I keep going. One of the ducks latches onto my dress again. I pull it back and throw another piece of bread behind me. They’re so busy and distracted that I can make a run for it.

I’m completely out of breath when I get home. I can’t believe I got so worked up again over just a car. It was fun feeding the animals, though.

I take off my coat and put the loaf away then I put a cup of water in the microwave and heat it up. After I make a cup of hot tea, I sit down on the couch and pick up my Kindle. I love reading … and I love tea. It’s odd because most people I know don’t drink tea, but I love it. Then again, I’m not like most people.

I like silence. I like the serenity it brings. Silence is when the world is still spinning, and everything is okay. Silence is what I’m used to. It’s all I’ve known since …

I choke up just thinking about it.

I gaze at the clock and at the pictures on my bookcase. They’re so unique and detailed. I can’t stop looking at them from time to time. I made them myself. Dad always says it’s okay to be proud of yourself even if it’s a small thing.

I smile to myself, thinking of how happy he was when I picked up this hobby, as he calls it.

To me, it’s my job. I sell these pictures to newspapers and magazines—whoever is willing to pay for them. They’re my bread and butter. I can live off it, so it’s more than just a hobby. Even though it doesn’t make me rich, it’s something I can do. Something that doesn’t require me to talk to people. Something that makes me feel less out of this world.

Sipping my tea, I enjoy the day until it’s time to cook. However, just as I’m about to get up, I hear the lock in my front door rattle. Seconds later, Bobby, or Bo as he likes to call himself nowadays, bursts in with a paper bag filled with groceries.

“Hi, Ella!” He’s always so vibrant; it amazes me.

I wave.

“Feeling good today?”

I nod.

“Sorry about the sudden entry. I just thought I’d surprise you by cooking for you. That okay?”

Bo’s sweet; I have to give him that even though he just barged into my home.

He does that from time to time—to check up on me, I suppose.

Ever since my sister’s gone, he’s been keeping an eye on me. It’s like he feels responsible for me, in a way, which is cute.

“I’ve got some fresh veggies here that we can cut up,” he says, placing the paper bag on the counter.

He didn’t have to buy all that, but I can’t say no to a hearty meal either, especially when he cooks it. His dishes taste much better than mine do.

“Mac and cheese but with veggies?” he asks, turning around to wink at me.

I nod, smiling.

“I knew you’d be a sucker for it.” He points at me and laughs. “One mac and cheese coming right up.”

He’s too sweet for his own good. Always taking care of everyone. I don’t remember him being any different, at least not toward me.

Other people sometimes say he’s a weirdo because he’s so shy and doesn’t have many friends. But I don’t mind. I’m the same, so I guess that makes us friends by default.

I smile to myself, watching him toil about in my kitchen. He’s such a kind soul, despite being so closed off to the outside world. He hides his pain and sorrow underneath thick layers of fake happiness. Anyone can see that. But I won’t judge him for it. After all, I have baggage of my own to deal with.

When the food is done, we gobble it down together while watching television. Then we wash the dishes and play a board game. He doesn’t talk much, but I like it that way. We both like the silence.

I just enjoy the time I have with him without feeling judged. When we’re hanging out, we focus on the good things in life. And it makes me happy … if only for a moment.

A few hours later, the day has already passed, and Bo has gone back home.

In bed, I lie awake and stare at the ceiling, wondering if my simple life will ever be anything other than boring. If I could ever handle anything else again.

Because as I turn in my bed and curl up into that comfy position, I still feel my heart banging out of my chest. The crippling fear that has chased me for so long still holds me in a vise grip every single day of my life.

And there’s no way to escape.

No other way … but sleep.

* * *

I wake up to something covering my face. A sickly sweet smell enters my nostrils as I breathe, but it makes me want to vomit. My eyes burst open.

A man is standing mere inches away from me.

His hand covers my face. A damp cloth between us.

My eyes dart around the room, looking for an object I can use to smash his face in, but he’s holding me down with his other hand. I’m paralyzed from both my fear and his control. And the more I struggle, the harder it becomes to breathe.

To move.

To see.

I’m weak—so weak and tired—but I don’t want to close my eyes.

What is he doing to me? Who is he? Why is he here? How did he get in?

I want to open my mouth and scream, but when I do, nothing comes out.

His voice is all I hear … whispering to me like a snake right before I fade away.

“Shhh, it’ll all be over soon.”

* * *

When I come to again, the first thing I feel is a roaring headache. My lungs burn when I breathe through my mouth. A metallic taste lies on my tongue, and I swallow to make it go away, but it lingers. Everything hurts. My head. My mouth. As if I’ve been hit a couple of times, but I can’t remember a thing.

And when I open my eyes, I’m still so dizzy; I can barely make out a thing.

It’s dark as night. Not a single light surrounds me except the one at the far end of the room.

The room … with no windows.

No plants.

No sunlight.

Nothing.

All I can see is a gray concrete wall surrounding me.

I try to get up, but my feet don’t feel like they belong to me, and I struggle to get anywhere. But I don’t give up. I keep crawling across the floor, hoping to make it to the light, just so I can see where I am.

But I can’t.

Not because my muscles gave up.

But because I physically, literally can’t.

Between me and the light … is glass.

I turn around, trying to find a way around it, but there’s no crack. Not a single one in all the glass surrounding me. Not even at the top as I try to stand on my toes. Nothing … but glass.

A cage.

My heart stops beating.

The panic rises again, bubbling to the surface.

I open my mouth and scream, but no sound comes out except for a faint sigh.

Just like always. My voice was taken from me a long time ago. And I know no matter how hard I try that no one will hear me.

Where am I? Who was that man? Where did he bring me and why?

With my back against the glass panes, I sink to the floor.

I can still barely make out my environment or feel my own skin. I’m numb from the drug he gave me and numb from the shock.

But I still don’t cry. I close my mouth and stop breathing. I stop moving. Like a rock, I stay put and pretend I’m not there.

Why?

Because something across the room, not far from me, still captures my attention.

Something lurking in the dark behind the glass.

I’m not alone.