Forgotten
I never thought these words would ever come out of my mouth, thought Darren as he heard himself praying to a God he never believed to exist. However now, more than ever, he was certain there was no God. God wouldn’t allow these horrific things to happen. Darren could taste copper as blood flooded his mouth. It washed over his dry, cracked tongue and poured down his wretched throat. Another pain shot through his leg, as the shackles round his ankles tore deeper into his flesh. This pain was far too familiar now and he gritted his teeth to deal with the pain. Tears formed in his eyes, and Darren was surprised that there was any moisture left in his body. The darkness of the room smothered him, reminding him how hopeless his situation was.
Darren was once a young, attractive man, with a fiancé who he loved more than life itself. He grew up in Glasgow, as a coal miner. Because of this, he wasn’t recruited for the second war. He was only young when he heard his father speak of how terrible the first war was, and he was always thankful he would never have to experience it for himself. Now though, he was trapped. He couldn’t remember how long he had been shackled for, or how he got there. The permanent night of the room had killed any sense of time he had. Time however wasn’t his main priority. He had been trapped for several years. This was an easy assumption. He often wondered about life outside. Was the war over? If so, who won? How was his fiancé? Had his family forgotten about him? All these questions ate away at his sanity day by day. He knew if he was to ever be freed, he would never be able to adjust back to what was normal. He was institutionalised, in a prison that should only exist in the darkest depths of his mind.
Over the years, Darren had made this room his home. He appeared to live in what he believed used to be a wine cellar. To his Right was an old bucket, covered in rust. He lived with the monotonous drip-drip from the ceiling into the bucket. The water in the bucket he was sure couldn’t be clean. Although he could not see to confirm his assumptions. In the bucket was a sponge. Which he used to wash himself, although it probably made him filthier than he already was. This bucket was also the toilet he was made to use. He would have to wash it afterwards with an old rag that might’ve once been his shirt. To Darren’s left were an empty cup and a tray. Every so often a man would put food on the tray, but the cup was merely for show. He shared this food with a group of maggots, flies, cockroaches or anything else he could feel or taste, as he wolfed it down using his hands. Once upon a time, he picked away at this food, but he no longer had the dignity or self respect to do this anymore.
Darren woke up unsure if he was awake. The darkness was so intruding there was rarely a border between his dreams and his conscious thoughts. This hell had invaded everything; he had tried long ago to find sanctuary in each dark chamber of his mind, but failed. There was no safe place, or safe thought, or safe feeling he could take comfort in. Every aspect of him had been corrupted and distorted, chewed up and spat back out. He didn’t even see himself as a good person anymore, he had learned to hate and no longer cared for the outside world. His family and fiancé could be dead. He no longer cared; he had much more important priorities. Like milk, he had turned sour over the years. A rat scampered across the floor, Darren reached out to it, the rats were his friends, although like a blind person, he could never see where they were. He had to determine where they were by sound, between each drip of water that plummeted from above. It vanished, Darren knew the rats weren’t really his friends, they stole his food often, and occasionally tried to eat him whilst he slept.
A few bangs from above sent Darren cowering into the corner. This rarely happened, perhaps about once a week? It seemed like longer, but he believed it happened still far too often. His brutal provider was about to arrive. He came down the stairs at a far corner of the room, and walked slowly towards Darren. The pace of his footsteps made Darren believe he was drunk. The pace was irregular, but just as menacing as usual. There became silence, then heavy breathing, then a rumbling roar to his left. Darren knew this process was vital, the noise was his food arriving. This time it seemed to be potatoes, judging by the sound. However this event was the thing he dreaded most. The man was always silent and never seen; Darren was only ever familiar with his presence. He braced himself for pain and torture.
Darren woke up with a pungent smell of wine, and broken glass on the floor. Blood was dried on his face and he instinctively crawled to the bucket as part of his usual routine; to wash the dry, cracked blood from his face, and to inspect himself for wounds that need cleaning. However he collapsed, glass was new and unfamiliar. Then something odd happened, he felt adrenaline. This feeling had never been felt for years. He yelled with rage, and cried at the sound of his own voice. He had never spoken out for a very long time and believed he had lost the ability of speech. He felt himself stand; he relished the movements that he had forgotten were possible. His mind had forgotten all of these basic things. Darren laughed hysterically. He bent over and grabbed the biggest shard of glass he could find, and then swiftly he plunged it into the side of his neck. He collapsed, and in the last few seconds of his life he felt the spray of blood on the side of his face, his smile relax , and he ventured into his idea of bliss. Nothingness.