Page 163 of Hymns of the Broken
The room spins. I try to fight it, but the panic and the leftover chemicals are too much. My eyelids flutter, the world fading around the edges until I’m falling—weightless, nowhere.
***
When I wake again, it’s just as silent. The ache is still there, but the fog is thinner now, my thoughts sharper and meaner. I blink; my vision is clearer in the low light. The handcuffs bite; the chain links cool against my skin. I can taste fear at the back of my throat.
The corner where I saw the masked man is empty.
I stare at it, waiting for a movement, a shadow, anything that says I didn’t imagine it. But there’s nothing. The chair sits there, facing me, but it’s just a shape in the dark.
But I know I wasn’t alone. Ifeltsomeone watching. I still do—the prickling on my skin, the sense that every sound I make is being measured, weighed.
I wait—minutes, maybe hours, tick by.
I listen for footsteps, for breathing, for anything outside the soft metallic jingle every time I move.
Do I want to scream? To demand answers?
Yes, butthe thought of that masked figure reappearing, of hearinghisvoice, roots me to the bed. I want answers, but I don’t want him to come back.
My breath comes shallow, lips parting with the urge to call out, but I swallow it down, heart pounding so loud I’m afraid it might echo.
Instead, I listen and wait.
Terrified that he might return.
And even more terrified that he never will.
My pulse thunders in my ears, and I count my breaths trying to slow my heart.
The sound of footsteps creaking over old wood somewhere outside the door brings me back to the edge of panic. I hold my breath, every muscle straining, the chains rattling as I try to make myself smaller. The steps stop. Silence returns, so heavy it’s almost suffocating.
A few minutes later, the doorknob clicks. The hinges shriek as the door swings open, slicing through the darkness. I want to scream. I want to close my eyes and disappear, but I can’t. I can’t look away. I have to see what’s coming for me.
He walks in—tall, all in black. The mask isn’t cheap plastic or some Halloween joke. It’s stiff and glossy, half silver, half matte black, angular and almost expressionless. Dead eyes stare back from behind silver and shadow. My blood runs cold.
He closes the distance with slow, unhurried steps, boots silent on the warped floorboards. I swallow my scream, my voice tiny and cracking.
“Please don’t,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Don’t come any closer. Please don’t hurt me. Please, what do you want?”
He says nothing. He doesn’t even flinch. Just stands over me, the mask reflecting slivers of light, his stare burning through me.
When he steps to the edge of the bed, I see his hand behind his back—my terror spikes. My heart tries to climb out of my chest.
This is it. This is how I die.
What is he hiding? A weapon? A knife? Something worse?
He brings his hand forward slowly. It’s just a bottle of water like you would buy in bulk. He cracks the lid, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s a trick, if he’s poisoned it, if this is just the beginning.
He holdsthe bottle out to me, silent. I turn my head away, biting down on the urge to cry. I want nothing from him I’d rather die of thirst than let him have the satisfaction.
He sucks in a sharp breath, sudden anger flaring. Then, so fast I barely see it, his gloved hand snaps out, gripping my face by the cheeks, turning my head back to him. The plastic bottle hovers at my lips, and he pours cold water into my mouth, making it spill down my chin, soaking my throat.
I choke, sputter, try to spit it out, but he doesn’t care. He clamps his hand over my mouth, sealing it tight, forcing me to swallow or drown.
Tears sting my eyes as I choke down the water, terror and humiliation burning through me. He lets go when he’s sure it’s gone. Then he tosses the empty bottle to the floor, the silence swallowing us again.
I gasp for air, coughing as my vision blurs, shame and fear twisting inside me.
