The Dark Room

It’s been almost 30 cycles since I started keeping track. I don’t know how many before that.

I'm not sure if they're days, since I have no sense of time in here.

Only when the lights are on and when they're off.

After each cycles ends, I reach under my pillow and tear another slit in the Table of Contents of my book. 29 today.

The room is extremely dark, even when the lights are on.

I've searched everywhere and there are doors. No exits at all.

Only one large square window in the middle of the far wall that seems to be unbreakable.

I’ve tried and I can only assume it’s made of plexiglass.

On the other side there's a small room, maybe a closet.

My only source of light in this dungeon is what seeps through the cracks around the edges of the door in that room.

Sometimes I lie awake when that light disappears and I'm in complete darkness and wonder what lies behind that door.

I wonder if I'd even want to know.

--

Everything in this room, down to the carton of milk in the fridge, is labeled CC.

Every single thing.

The bed frame, the mattress, the tag on the blanket, each and every book cover, the bookshelf, the countertops, the fridge.

Every corner of every wall, the floor, the ceiling.

Everything in this room is branded, even me.

--

I noticed the mark a few cycles after I woke up here.

After the shock started to die down.

On the back of my hand, right below the knuckle of my ring finger, like a stamp from a bouncer letting the bartender know you’re of age.

Permanently scribbled there, like a child's signature on their favorite toy to mark that it belongs to them.

That the toy is theirs.

--

I wonder about my family.

I miss talking about any and everything with my mom while we drink tea together on the front porch once a week.

Visiting my sister at her art studio so she can show me her newest addition.

“This is my favorite.”

She would say that about every piece she ever made.

My personal favorite was the dolphin that she made out of plastic water bottles to emphasize the impact of plastic on our oceans.

She’s insanely talented.

We've always been close. I miss her.

--

I bet my mom calls the police station every single day asking about me.

Begging for an update.

Will she receive good news or bad news today?

Maybe they're close to figuring out where I am.

Maybe they have a lead.

Those thoughts are all the hope I have in here.

--

I’ve gotten into somewhat of a routine.

It’s the only way to keep myself sane.

When I wake up I sing all of my favorite songs until the lights come on.

Then, I drag the little rocking chair over by the window and read while sipping on hot tea.

I just microwave water and then steep a couple of Lipton tea bags that I found in the cupboard.

It’s nothing like the matcha I use to drink every morning, but it’s something.

--

I’ve read over half of the books provided to me on the bookshelf.

It’s amazing how much you can read when your free will is literally out the window, behind the glass I long to shatter.

I keep hoping that I'll wake up to new titles, but i'd re-read The Catcher in the Rye a million times if it meant I could sleep in my own bed again.

Sometimes when i'm reading I hear things on the other side of that door that give me chills.

Some of the sounds are often repeated.

A soft sound, like that of someone slowly ripping paper in the most gentle way imaginable. That one creeps me out the most.

A sound similar to raindrops tapping on a rooftop. I like that one.

Most often, I hear a short, high-pitched squeak.

It terrifies me to not know what's going on behind that door, but I find comfort in those moments, knowing that whoever is keeping me here is in there and not in here.

--

Every night, I sleep with my head fully under the covers. It feels like an impenetrable force field, the way it did when I was a kid hiding from monsters.

I’ve tried breaking the window, yelling, screaming, pounding on the walls. Nothing works. I've even tried looking for hidden passageways because, no matter what I consume from the fridge or the cabinets, it reappears before I come back for more.

I have a recurring nightmare of a giant hand reaching down from the ceiling, refilling everything while I sleep. When I look up to see who it belongs to, I see myself, as a little girl, reaching into her dollhouse. I wake up every time she reaches out to grab me.

Sometimes I wake up to the lights behind the door flickering on and off. Not erratically—just in intervals of maybe 30 seconds. On, then off. On, then off. It only lasts about five minutes, but it feels like it drags on forever. Then they're off again, but i'm still wide awake wondering what the hell is happening out there.

--

This cycle, I wake up to a much brighter light then i'm use to.

It takes an eternity for my eyes to adjust after all of this time in the dark, but once they do I see that the scenery in the window has changed. What the fuck.

I run across the floor and peer out to see... my sisters art studio through the now open door.

Tears start to form at the edges of my eyes and I have to blink to un blur my vision.

I can see the plastic dolphin.

I have to be dreaming. I close my eyes and count to ten, then I open them again. My heart nearly jumps from my chest. I'm face to face with my sister. Carolyn?

"CAROLYN?" I shout at her. "LET ME OUT. CAROLYN. I'M IN HERE." She doesn't move or speak. "CAROLYN" I notice there are tears in her eyes too. Why can't she hear me? What is going on?

Then it all hits me. The sound of the paper slowly being ripped. Her paintbrush stroking across a canvas. The sound of rain was her splattering paint on her art wall. She loves to do that and I can see it’s still dripping, implying that she’s recently added to it. The squeak could've been her sliding her stool around the room as she moved from project to project.

She uses glow in the dark paint on her splatter wall and she likes to watch it shape shift from one creation to another. That's why she kept turning the lights on and off. It’s her ritual to do that before she leaves her studio.

She was here the whole time?

It does make sense why I never heard her speak. She usually listens to music through her headphones and likes to be undisturbed when she’s creating.

"I miss you." She says with a sad smile. "This is my favorite."

She looks away and wipes at the tears on her cheeks with both hands. Then, she grabs a blank canvas from somewhere to the right and then turns to walk back out. "NO WAIT, CAROLYN" She closes the door. “CAROLYN” My voice cracks and breaks apart her name as she disappears behind the door again and leaves me in the darkness.

Every organ in my body feels like it's melting. The air wavy and my surroundings distorted. I don't know what's going on. This is my favorite. She usually says that to her pieces. I look around at my dimly lit dungeon and something feels familiar after having seen it fully lit up and all at once.

The rocking chair, the Lipton tea bags in the open cupboard, the bookshelf with popular literary titles written on the spines. This room looks exactly like the painting.

The one my sister drew when she was 14 and I was 12. The one of us as dolls, trapped inside a dollhouse, playing for eternity.

In the bottom right of the painting she would have signed her work. She always did. CC.

Carolyn Calvin.

I'm inside of her creation? How? How is this possible? I have to be dreaming or… dead. Did I die? I don’t remember dying, but the way she looked at the painting felt so emotional. Not just nostalgia, but grief.

I close my eyes, my mind spinning. Am I losing it? Is this real? I'm all alone in this place that she meant for us to stay in forever? Will I ever get to leave or will I truly be here for eternity?

Will she join me someday?

Then, I hear an unsettling sound.

A child's laugh. Two children laughing. Echoing from somewhere far beyond my sisters art studio.

Then, it's gone.

The silence is suffocating.