An excerpt from my upcoming novella ‘The Cassandra Project’. Would love to hear what you think. I hope to release it at the end of February.
I am a sack of potatoes, a bag of sand, rocks, bricks, I am nothing. I watch my feet drag across the sterile white floor. The flickering anaemic fluorescent lights turn my pale skin yellow. My arms scream in their sockets but I shut off the pain, I don’t lift my head, my hair a welcome veil, stringy yet thick enough to obscure my face from view.
The bruises have almost healed, the swelling almost gone, but I welcome the blows that will come, they will serve as a reminder.
My body is yanked and jerked and then we come to a standstill as they open the door.
I close my eyes and exhale, preparing myself for what is to come.
They pull me to my feet, their fingers biting into my flesh. I glance up at the one to my left but she is looking ahead, her eyes fixed on the machine that waits for me.
I see them as I am jabbed and prodded forward. They stand behind a long white desk like eggs, bland and expressionless. I imagine what it would be like to bash their heads in one by one with a giant silver spoon. I wonder what the inside would look like.
Their eyes are fixed on the desk, on the screens and monitors and the strange numbers and symbols that scroll across it. They don’t speak, they barely move, just the flick of their eyes back and forth.
A shove in the small of my back propels me into the machine. I turn toward the door, panic flaring sudden and unwanted in my chest, but the door is already hissing closed, the clear surface affording me a view of both myself and my bland tormenter.
She meets my eyes for a moment, hers pale and empty, and mine dark and furious. Her clear brow crinkles slightly as if wondering what I have to be so angry about, as if annoyed that I should cause such a fuss. My hair, wild and unkempt, halo’s her oval shaped face for a moment creating a crazy doll.
I turn away, slumping to the floor and closing my eyes.
I conjure Rory’s face. Trace his smile into existence and bath in its warmth.
The machine lights up. My heart beat accelerates.
I imagine Rory’s arms around me.
The machine begins to whir.
My palms are slippery with sweat, armpits soaked with perspiration.
The pain lances downwards, through my head down to my toes, sudden and fiery.
“It’s okay Dee, I’m here. It’s gonna be okay.”
I am back in my room. They’ve lain me on my side on my bed. “Rory?”
“Yeah, who else?”
I smile through cracked lips. I feel his arms around me and my throat tightens painfully, a lone tear sliding over my nose and plopping onto my thin pillow.
“Don’t cry Dee. Please. I promise, it’ll be alright. We just need to be strong, survive. Once they have what they need, they’ll let us go, you’ll see.”
I close my eyes, his breath warm on the top of my head.