Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
“Then I could wear that blue jacket she had,” I say, cutting off my mom and smirk at the thought. If having my sister at home was good for one thing, it was her closet.
My mother huffs and a smile forms on her face. I watch her as she brushes out my hair and makes it more presentable than I ever could.
“We should have gone to get our hair done yesterday,” she comments, almost to herself I think, and her voice is forlorn. I almost tell her that I reminded her in the morning, but I keep my lips shut tight. She’s having a good day, and I’m not going to ruin it.
“I’ll do your hair and you bring home the trophy. How about that?” she says and smiles, pulling the hair tight with the band.
“It’s not a trophy, it’s a plaque and if we go to finals, a scholarship.” I can’t help the pride in my voice, but the nervousness shuffles its way through me too. The judges are heads of various university departments. I can’t mess this up. My portfolio needs more accolades, and a scholarship couldn’t hurt either.
“You’re going to be so much more than I ever could.” My mother’s musing breaks the silence. “I just know it.”
“Mom, it’s just a competition,” I tell her, trying to downplay it. Dad said it’s important, though. My extracurricular activities matter and first impressions last forever. Again, anxiousness wracks through me.
“I know, baby. I know.” Her tone is … upsetting. I can’t shake this uneasiness as I watch my mother. She’s so close to me, but I’ve never felt so distanced from her.
“Are you all right?”
“Just thinking about things, baby girl. Don’t pay any attention to your mother.” She puts the brush down on my vanity opting for a comb instead, and a jar of pomade.
“You’re going to make this world a better place,” she tells me.
“As if I need more pressure.” I don’t hide the sarcasm in my response. “You know you could still do something about making the world a better place.”
“I already did. I had you and your sister.”
The creak of the front door opening travels all the way up the stairs to my bedroom.
My mother peers at the open door, and I watch her smile fade and her movements falter.
“Dad’s home early. Maybe he can come.” I can’t help but smile at that thought. He’ll see me in action. My mother’s smile reappears, mirroring my own but she doesn’t answer me.
I can’t die here. Not like this. Not yet.
Even though my body aches with every small movement, I push myself up onto my hands and knees. My palms press against the cracked cement floor as my body arches involuntarily from the pain of laying still for hours with so many cuts and bruises. I don’t know how long it’s been, only that it’s been far too many hours of feeling hopeless and beat down.
There aren’t any cameras in here that I can tell. The four walls of old brick could tell endless stories I’m sure, but unless I’m blind to them, there isn’t a record of what’s happened here apart from the camera Brass brought in. My eyes strain as I inspect each crevice again. Some stones are damp, others stained from water or blood or something else entirely, I’m not certain. Crawling and then slowly standing, I test any crack that may be weak from decay and time. Everything aches, but the pain doesn’t affect me like it did before. It simply is.
I spend my time testing every weak spot, searching for any out. Nothing gives, though. The door is next. It’s a foolish thought, but I test the doorknob. It’s iron and the handle is antiquated. If I gave a damn about history, beyond cases and precedents, maybe I’d know more about this location and what it was possibly used for, but I haven’t a clue. In my wildest guess I imagine the Civil War and bunkers where men hid or held prisoners. The thought has occurred to me more than once: How many people have died here?
I question if I should risk screaming for help, but I’m certain I’m being held underground. Given the damp smell and the layers of stone and dirt, I would be surprised if I wasn’t hidden away beneath some rotten barn or perhaps it’s only a small door, hidden in brush that would reveal a stairway and lead down to this dungeon.
I test the hinges on the door, praying they haven’t been kept in good condition. They match the knob, so I imagine they’re original. And just like the knob that’s unmoving, so are the hinges.
Losing the last piece of hope and purpose, my arm drops heavily to my side.
I have no way out, no weapon. My mind races with all of the stories I’ve been told, the horrible nightmares that came true.