Page 3 of Trapped: Until The Darkest Of Night

Annoyed that I didn’t bring along a multi-outlet, I recharge the devices and batteries one after the other. Afterward, I go outside, switch off the generator, and let it cool down before I store it back in the pantry.

I sit on the floor between the couch and the window, the only spot with a rusty red carpet. Although I have the laptop on my lap, the cold doesn’t seem to do its inner workings any good. After the fifth boot crash, I’m tempted to slam the wretched thing against the logs. I resist the urge only because I’m thinking hard about the words girls’ hearts.

It takes another hour before I’m sitting in front of the white screen with its colorful logo: Google.

I feel like an intruder who is trying to get a forbidden glimpse into a strange world. Funny, so far nothing has drawn me back to other people or their world.

For a few seconds, I consider typing girls’ hearts, but then I type blondes. I don’t know why, but I prefer blonde hair to brunette hair. Maybe because the blonde appears so innocent, pure. Everything I’m not. I click on Google Images and a bunch of photos of good-looking women line up.

Wow—none of them look innocent. Half-open lids, lashes a mile long, the bedroom look. Red lacy bras that reveal more than they cover.

“It seems I have unlimited choices,” I whisper to myself. The harsh sound of my voice startles me. When was the last time I spoke, really spoke, not simply in my head? Maybe that’s why I feel so shitty because I haven’t even heard a real voice.

Again, I look at the blonde women in their skimpy lingerie. Did I accidentally type the word sex? Blondes and sex?

I stare at the photos, strangely unimpressed. Nothing stirs. What is wrong with me? I no longer even feel anything when I look at hot women? Maybe they’re simply not my type. I open a new page. The same flood of cheap Barbie copies smile at me, showing me their breasts.

I feel overwhelmed. They remind me of too many Sandys, Mandys, and Candys from back in the day. Groupies who always spoiled the winners after the underground fights. No request was too crazy—the main thing was that they were part of the show and received some of the fame. Even then I didn’t know what to talk to them about afterward. You have met my needs and I may have met yours. No idea. A kind of sex to go.

How long has it been now? Two and a half years? Longer? In the middle of the pristine wilderness, the life I’ve led in the slums seems like a surreal dream. Looking back, I don’t even know if it was a good one or a bad one.

I sit back and reach for my cigarettes. As I light one up, I finally register what all these women on the screen are lacking: the truth. They look like mindless dolls. They have no authenticity. They are imitations of something of which they do not even know how it feels.

But how does life feel?

I inhale the smoke. The nicotine clears my brain. I end up typing girls’ hearts, feeling dirtier than if I had put my hands on the voluptuous blondes.

I click on images.

A couple of wacky manga characters stare at me with bulging eyes. Next to them, a group of pubescent teens grins at the camera. On the far left is a picture of the pale, young, vampire movie star. I can’t remember his name anymore. I keep clicking more and, at some point, I come across a brown-haired girl—the first one who doesn’t immediately put me off because she appears so harmless. Preppy ponytail, round face, blue polo shirt. I log on to Facebook and check out her profile. Emma Miller, age sixteen. God, so young. I’ll be twenty-two in January. But who cares?

Out of curiosity, I study the information she gave about herself. She likes to read, preferably vampire novels. Her preference makes me snort and wince. That young vampire star probably makes her little girl’s heart beat faster. I don’t know why this suddenly makes me so angry.

I stub out the cigarette, still staring at the screen.

All of a sudden, my head is empty. All thoughts are blown away but this time it doesn’t feel unhealthy, rather serene. A bit like floating. After a while, I realize that my eyes are fixed on Emma Miller’s Facebook header. Not on Emma, though, but on the girl next to her. She has a small oval face, a soft chin, and a sweet mouth. Everything about her is kind of cute, but the most striking feature is her huge, deep blue eyes. Never in my life have I seen such innocent eyes. Bright as the Alaskan sky.

The edges of my field of vision start to blur. Like tunnel vision, I stare at the screen and only see her.

Her blonde hair reaches all the way to her elbows and shines like a shawl of perfectly smooth silk. She holds Emma in her arms.

There is something about her that I can’t quite grasp but something about her touches me. I can’t say what it is or why it’s having such an effect on me. Maybe because she looks like she has nothing to hide from the world. A real sunshine.

A hot, cold shiver crawls down my spine. Brought on by fear or joy? Why should I be afraid? Since when do I even feel such emotions?

I close my eyes for a moment, this girl must be a fantasy. She cannot be real because the emotion I’m experiencing cannot be real.

I blink and she looks at me. My mouth feels bone dry.

“Who are you?” I hear myself whisper, and this time, I’m not startled.

Gradually, I memorize all the details of the photo. The two friends are standing in a dried-up meadow with a simple wooden house on pillars surrounded by endless desert sagebrush in the background. The girl with the blue eyes is wearing an apricot-colored blouse that somewhat clashes with her apple-red cheeks. She’s got to be fifteen at most. I try to swallow with my throat still dry and click through Emma’s friend list. It’s short, so I find the girl quickly:

Louisa Scriver.

Click.

The header is the same as Emma’s. I stare at her profile picture. Again, her blue eyes are looking at me, though this time her raspberry lips are tightly closed.

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