Into the Dark: Eight

Co-authored by Ciarente and Silver Night

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There was pain.

There had always been pain, of course. It was what she was for, the pain, the burning. But this was different.

Sharp, cutting pain, sometimes. There were people talking. People with needles. People with knives.

And questions.

Je suis ici, cherie. Je suis ici.

It was a lie, had always been a lie.

No-one was there. Except him, and his questions.

More knives.

They said too much damage. And then they weren't there anymore, with their needles and their knives.

After that it was worse.

Lassitude ran into her veins from the tubes to her left, drip, drip, drip, coiling through her body like thick tar. She tried to sink into it, away from the lights and the questions and the things that he did, but what was in the tubes on the right kept her there, nerves buzzing, heart pounding, straining for the shelter of sleep like a swimmer trapped in the current strains hopelessly for the shore.

When the needle was in her arm, she couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't tell him I don't know, Cia knows, I'm not the one who knows.

When he took the needle out she tried to explain.

He never believed her.

He went away, and came back. He went away, and came back.

He went away.

There were noises. A dull thud. The clang of metal on metal.

A woman's voice. "What exactly was the sick fuck doing?"

Another. "Looks clear, sir."

The first again, closer. "Cia?" A hand touched her, cool and gentle. Not like the hands that brought the needles and the knives. "Cia? Can you hear me?"

But Cia had gone. Cia had gone into the dark.