In the Dark

One
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The darkness was as thick as molasses; it seemed as though it were challenging Sharon’s very survival, pressing down on her from all directions, forcing her to take quick shallow breaths that made her sound like she was preparing to give birth.



Only I sure as hell am not giving birth!



But she was definitely in pain. No, her cervix wasn’t being resized by the arrival of a sweet little miracle, but pain was certainly hovering all over her body. It was what one might call ‘perfectly balanced torture.’ She could just see her professor from college discussing pain thresholds in a matter-of-fact fashion. “And so, each individual has a unique threshold of pain, which can be measured based on his or her personal declaration of tolerance. Take Sharon Hutton for example.” Cue the Powerpoint slide change. A Picture of herself and a graph to the right indicating increases in pain experienced over the course of a few hours. “Note Sharon’s increase in pain as her torture commences. Any questions so far?”



Sharon’s pain was indeed specific; she was mentally conscious of how she was feeling based on her personalized threshold scale. On the one hand, she wasn’t experiencing a dull throbbing or achiness associated with marathon runners or frequent migraine sufferers. On the other, she wasn’t in so much pain that she was in danger of blacking out. Her pain scale had been stacked up to the perfect point of suffering.



I’m the stumbling drunk who knows she should stop swigging back tequila shots, but just can’t stop.



A vision of her last birthday party popped into her head. The picturesque, cheesy streamers and balloons, the delicious looking Dairy Queen cake, and her best friends laughing and reminiscing about the time she had made out with Zach Franson backstage during the talent show in High School. Sylvia’s laugh pierced her memory – a sound that was equally irritating as it was reassuring. Sylvia had had a lot to drink. Sylvia had approached the threshold.



But she did not cross it. Not blackout drunk. Just ‘happy’ enough to make her night a mix-mash synaesthesia – an out of control experience.



But that bitch wouldn’t pass out!



And Sharon couldn’t pass out either. All around her, that thick darkness threatened both her sanity and her survival. She was beginning to feel as though she would never escape this feeling of overwhelming oppression. To her right, a sharp whirring sound continued to serve as a soundtrack to her situation. Time had ceased to exist long ago.



Another vision of Sylvia laughing and passing gas at the kitchen table, unable to realize just how out of control she was, sprung into Sharon’s head. Sylvia, reaching up and tearing down the streamers and wrapping them around her waste as a substitute for her black skirt, which Jerry – her co-worker – had so intelligently suggested she should lose right away.



“Take that shit off!” laughed Jerry as he slammed back the last of his Budweiser.



The music had been skipping for about half an hour, but no one had bothered to take out the CD and think of turning on the radio. Britney Spears had been looping for the last ten minutes.



Oops I did it again!



Sylvia had mocked the lyrics and simultaneously slipped her skirt off, leaving her covered from the waist down by multiple coloured streamers that offered cracked peepshows into her fun zone.



That was when Sharon and the rest of the party had realized that Sylvia wasn’t wearing underwear.



“Holy shit, she’s living European!” screamed Jerry. “French, to be more specific. Look at those pubes!”



The whirring sound suddenly stopped and Sharon let out a small, sharp sigh.



“Thank God for small favours.” Her voice sounded dry and cracked, like splinters of wood were piercing her voice box, manipulating the sound.



I need water.



She hadn’t had a drink or bite to eat in what felt like forever. How long had she been down here? Days? Weeks? And why was it she was so convinced she was “down” anywhere? For all she knew she was on top of a mountain in a cave.



She tried to move her hand for the thousandth time and felt a sharp pain ripple up her arm. A soft, sickening squishing sound cut through the dark. It was the sound of her flesh being bitten into by what felt like sharp wire, wrapped tightly around her entire torso, legs and face. Her hand strained against the cage-like metal restraints surrounding her hand. She felt like that roast beef that comes in a roped packaging. Her cheeks puffed out around the wire, just as the roast’s soft, rectangle-shaped surfaces would. Only she wasn’t a fresh roast anymore. She was ten days past the expiry date. And she smelt like it too.



She had begun to smell a sharp, pungent odour some time ago. It smelled like the sour stench that wafts up through sewer caps, assaulting your nostrils and causing you to cringe and share a laugh with your friend.



“You smelt it, you dealt it!”

“You made the rhyme, you did the crime!”



Sharon couldn’t skip down the street and out of range; she was completely immersed in the foul smell and it took some time for her to get used to it. She had chucked her biscuits at least three times, each expulsion of strong-smelling bile perpetuating her nausea.



Sharon moved her right hand’s index finger, curling around the wire and grazing a piece of projectile vomit. She flicked it and heard it hit something.



Twang! A sound that seemed to mirror the noise her heat register made when it kicked on at night echoed back to her.



Well, I guess I’m not in a cave then, unless this bear’s got gas heating.



* * *



Sylvia had stripped down to the point where the only two things she was wearing were her sharp, shiny, red high-heels and her custom made streamer one-piece.



Most of the party had left by that point. Most were embarrassed for Sylvia, some were amused but had to work in the morning. In the end, her only remaining audience members were Jerry – on his ninth beer of the evening – and Sharon, passing out on the couch.



“And this one’s for . . . Jerry!” she shrieked, clicking the NEXT button on the CD player.



“Awe man, baby, you know how to pick em’!” mumbled Jerry, unbuckling his pants to relax his swelling gut. “I love Hotel California!”



Sharon had begun to drift to dreamland, the last words flowing into her ears being, “On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair, warm smell of colitis, rising up through my hair . . .”



It seemed almost instantly that she was jolted awake by the sounds of screaming. She sat upright, wincing at the pounding pain in her temple reminding her of delicious white wine spritzers. On the CD player, Hotel California was winding down to the instrumental:



’relax,’ said the night man,

We are programmed to receive.

You can checkout any time you like,

But you can never leave!



Sharon had looked over at the couch and noticed Jerry wasn’t there. Sylvia was also missing. All that remained was a pile of multi-coloured streamers.



* * *



Sharon opened her eyes (or at least she thought she had – it was so hard to tell in this god-forsaken pit). She sensed she had been awaken by a sound, but she couldn’t be sure. Maybe it was just the fact that she had been reminiscing about the party.



Oh my god, what I wouldn’t give for a Dairy Queen cake right now.



Then she heard it. A sharp, shuffling sound sliced through the silence. Sharon’s arms immediately initiated a goosebump response, just as if she had heard fingers scratching down a chalkboard.



What the hell is that?



She was terrified. Not only because something was in here with her, but also because she was utterly helpless to it. Up until now, her greatest fear had been starvation.



No, except at the beginning. At the beginning I thought I was going to be raped.



When she had first awoken and found herself in darkness, Sharon had thought she was kidnapped and had frequently called out for help. She had begged to be let go and promised large sums of money in return for her freedom. She had defined her situation based on the actions of another individual: a kidnapper.



But at some point she had pushed that conclusion out of her head. She had become obsessed with the prospect of release and escaping her cage.


Another shuffling sound, this time somewhere behind her, brought Sharon back into the present. She licked her lip, tasting a band of wire that cut across her upper lip, and whispered, “Who’s there?”

In the darkness, something prepared to answer her.