Rabid

"A wounded animal will bite and claw."

-Mimi Matthews

I'm running as fast as I can. All I know about where I'm headed is that it's far from here; far away from that house. Far from those four walls of suffocating hell, far from those dreadful needles and the shimmering acids that followed...

And certainly far from him.

It's easy to lose track of time when you're kept in a square cell, far into the woods, cut off from the rest of the townsfolk and the diurnal village affairs. I wondered if my friend Polly was looking for me, determined to set me free. She probably was, given that I'd do the same for her. My freedom, or what minuscule tinge was left of it, never exceeded the dining hall of that house. He'd kept me locked in that room, with a bucket, a pale excuse of a mattress, a lantern and not a window in sight. It was easy to forget humans even existed, until he would occasionally break in with bland and tasteless meals. He spoke harshly and coldly, not a hint of empathy felt. I'd ask him, "Why? Why me?", and he'd grunt and sarcastically say, 

"I wish I knew."

But, even worse than this, were the needles. Each night, before he commanded me to sleep, he would walk into the room, and pin me to the ground. Then, as I screamed and protested in vain, he'd stab my neck with a red acid syringe, following which, I'd pass out. I would directly gain consciousness in a pool of sweat the following morning, with little to no memory of the time elapsed hitherto. Each moment was a nightmare, and I had lost hope of ever seeing it end.

But, he messed up tonight. He was too tired from the workday's haul, and let his guard down for a moment longer...and seeing the un-bolted door made me lunge at it. I was too quick, and I made a run for it. Impulsive as it may have been, it was my only hope. And I wasn't about to let it go.

As I run, barefoot, panting away on the cold and rough winter ground, my feet begin to ache, and I begin to tire. My lack of exercise manifests in the growing stinging sensation in my knees, and the pain surges through my entire body. My head begins to throb, and I don't know how much longer I can go. But as my speed begins to falter, the horizon lights up with a purple misty haze, three glowing red beads suddenly appearing in the sky, as I come to a halt. My vision suddenly gets hazy, and everything starts to blur. They appear to be moving closer, and I can see their beastly silhouettes actualize. The closer they inch, the more they seem to resemble 'hounds', only they're ten times larger than the norm. 

"Stop!" an unfortunately familiar voice calls out from behind me. I recognize it in a heartbeat; it's him. I fall onto the ground, defeated, unable to think straight, and with no strength to run any longer. He's closing the distance rapidly, his horse galloping as fast as the wind. I begin to tremble, with the strange purple mist ahead, and my harsh captor close behind. As the misty creatures are about to get into focus, the man jumps off his horse, firmly grabs my neck and stabs a syringe into it, deaf to my agonizing screams and protests. 

I black out.

Around 2 Years Later

I don't know how long it's been since the last time I've seen the Sun or moon, or anything outside. I can't remember my life before this room, if I even had one, that is. The days seem to be a blur, each one slowly bleeding into the next. My routine is a monotonous pattern of solitude, three meal sessions from my captor, and sobs that are followed by injections. My skin has lost its colour, and I doubt my past self would recognize me. I fail to understand what sadistic joy he gets from treating me so, and when I inquire, I fail to get a response. 

Since the last time I attempted to run away, he's been keeping me handcuffed to the wall, facing the door. I'm only allowed to leave the room when he decides to clean the cell, or when it gets too cold, leading him to set me down by the living room fireplace. And that's about all I can recall.

He hasn't once allowed to take the steel cuffs off, afraid that I might make a run for it like last time. While it may not be apparent enough to him, I've been meaning to plot another escape for quite a while. My meals involve 3 pale sandwiches and 6 glasses of water. These have been the only sources of sustenance for me, and I consume them in prolonged solitude, only interrupted by him coming back to take the glasses away. However, unbeknownst to him, on each day since that escape, I've carefully added a couple drops of water onto the steel handcuffs around my wrists. This was an attempt to make them rust. 

And now, at least over a year later, my efforts have born fruit. The stainless steel is no longer worth its name, for a reddish hue has begun forming near its curves; rust.

Seeing as my captor hadn't killed me yet, I had deduced that my survival was important to him. So, I came up with the plan of causing the handcuffs to rust, and, eventually, use them to make my hands bleed. I guessed that, if he saw that I was hurt, he'd take my cuffs off, and that's when I'd strike him and run.

But I had to wait until it was winter, because only then would he readily take me down to the fireplace. This was crucial, because I wouldn't make it out if I attempted it in this room.

The fateful night had come. 

I heard him enter the house after his late errands, and I heard him slam the door behind him. My body tensed, and I took a deep breath. Then I called out, "Hey! It's really cold up here. Can you please take me to the fireplace?"

At first, there was silence. But then I heard him sigh, drop his shovel, and start making his way up the old wooden staircase. As each step creaked under his weight, I began to quiver with excitement. A Christmas miracle was underway! I was finally going to escape this hellish room, and this heartless maniac! 

He pulled open the door, and eyed me for a moment or two. Then, shaking his head, he detached my cuffs from the wall, and, holding my hands behind my back, he led me down the stairs. Once we made it to the living room, he attached the cuffs to an iron grill beside the fireplace and set me down. I was surprised at the fact that he took no apparent notice of the red rust, but was relieved nonetheless. 

Then, he went to the shed and brought some firewood. Loading some pieces onto the ember bed, he lit a match, and set it ablaze. He proceeded to sit on the armchair on the other side of the fire, and started writing in a notebook that was placed on the centre table in front of him. I began counting down from sixty, my heartbeat and breathing quickening. He didn't seem to suspect a thing, and while he read, I scanned the room closely. I saw an olive green coloured box on shelf near the sofa, the one that contained syringes and that mean acid. I merrily thought to myself, Wow. No more of that after what I'm about to do! I also noticed his shovel lying a couple inches away from the door, and it was only a couple feet from me. A few seconds later, I was ready.

I quickly twisted my wrists against the cuffs, and winced aloud.

As my dark red blood began to trickle from the wound, I watched as the man raised his gaze from the book and directed it at me. I expected the sadist in him to be mildly happy, and wouldn't be surprised if he let out a chuckle. What I never expected was for him to display a look of concern, which is what I was left with.

He shook his head, and made his way towards me. He kneeled beside me, and began inspecting the cuffs. At once, he noticed the rust, and a slight frown took over his face. "Hmmm", he thought out loud. Knowing this was the moment, I exaggerated my pain, and said, "Hey! The cuffs are covered in rust! I'll probably catch an infection!" He grabbed a few handkerchiefs that were lying nearby, and torniqueted the bleeding cuts.

He seemed to linger on my words for no longer than a few seconds, and so I attempted to persuade him further. "Please get them off! Keeping them on will only worsen things!"

I could sense that he was thinking of it, but he was obviously wondering about the possibility of me running away. I had to think fast, for this was my only chance.

"Mister...I know what you're thinking about. It is most natural for anybody in your place to feel that I would consider running away, but please lend me an ear. I wanted to run away. But can you blame me? I don't remember anything about my life before this captivity, and running away would have given me another chance at living. But, with the benefit of hindsight, I can finally say I've understood you."

His eyes widened at this, and I could tell he was truly deep in contemplation. So, I pushed harder.

"You clearly don't wish for me to die. If you wanted me dead, if you really wanted to kill me, you could've done so on so many occasions. But here I am, alive, and...well."

He raised his eyebrows at this, and I attempt to cover up my error with another spontaneous burst of speech. 

"I don't know what life is like out there, but it's clear that you don't want me to leave. It is only rational to assume that this is another measure to protect me. You wish to protect me from the dangers out there, and for this, I must oblige. I know that my survival is your primary concern."

He appeared to be hypnotized from what I'd just uttered, and moments later, he spoke. 

"Y-...you mean that?"

I was shocked at his naivety, and even further by the tears that had begun to form in his eyes. Just how messed up was his brain! Regardless, I had to play along, and I had to tread with utmost care.

"Of course! I mean it."

My words seemed to have softened him even more, and with a wavering voice, he asked, "You won't go away?" His voice and expression almost suggested that he'd, somehow, in the most ridiculous manner, managed to take a genuine liking for me. How sickening! What kind of trauma did it take for someone to be so emotionally damaged? But, notwithstanding this sick revelation, I calmly assented. 

"I promise."

He moved forward, and all of a sudden, grabbed me in a tight embrace. I shuddered, afraid of my proximity to the psycho. But, still playing along, I placed my head on his shoulder, in an attempt to land the last nail in the coffin. He ever so slightly sobbed, but shortly consoled himself, and went out to the shed. He returned a few moments later, the keys jingling in his hand. He walked over to me, and took a deep breath.

He slid in the key, and unlocked my cuffs.

There was silence for a few moments. Then, as I lunged towards the door, chills coursed up my spine as I felt him grab my foot with a loud grunt, causing me to fall onto the wooden floor. Thinking fast, I reached for the shovel lying near the door, and with all my might, swung it at him. A loud sound followed, and he collapsed onto the ground. I got onto my feet, the shovel still in my hand, and I glared at my captor, who was rendered weak and powerless. He moaned in agony, and I smiled. 

"How do you feel now, you sick sadist! You disgust me!"

But he was in far too much pain to register what I was saying. It was also around this time that I noticed the gash in his neck, where my shovel blow had struck him. He was bleeding, and bleeding fast. The adrenaline left my body just as quickly as it came, and I realized the gravity of what I'd done. 

I began to shiver, and dropped the shovel. I took a few steps back and my head started to throb. I'm about to be a murderer, I thought. I stepped back further, only to bump into a shelf; the shelf with the box of syringes. Amidst my pulsating vision and a growing headache, I gained some semblance of clarity. The voice in my head ordered, Make sure this never happens to anyone again! I concurred, and at once, I threw the box into the fireplace. The fire blazed, and the liquids began to sizzle, outwardly spitting out a few molten drops. I took a deep breath, and a slight smile appeared once again.

"B-b-..."

I turned towards my near-dead captor, who was attempting to mutter something.

"The b-.."

"What?"

And then, with all the life inside him, he whispered his last words, "The book." 

I shifted my gaze towards the book that he was writing in a while ago. Huh, what a strange last wish, I thought to myself. I moved towards the centre table, and pick up the book. It was really hard to focus my vision onto the book, but after some prolonged determination, I could make out the words. The cover read, Henry's Journal. I thought, A psycho like this had the heart to write a diary? What fun.

I scoffed, and flipped to a random initial entry.

 Henry's Journal

26th January, 1862

I am certain- Emma no longer remembers who I am. To her, I’m a stranger, a harsh captor in her distorted reality. She’s forgotten her parents, her friends, even herself. The woman who once knew me better than anyone now looks at me with suspicion and, at times, pure terror. I regret having moved here, and I wouldn't have, but the people back home have rejected her, and told me to send her away to an asylum. This was the only other option. 

Her mind is a maze, and she’s lost somewhere deep within it. Some days, she’s quiet, sitting by the window and staring into the woods with a distant look in her eyes. But other days... other days are darker. She lashes out at me, at the walls, at the air of this place. Her screams echo through our cabin, filling every corner with despair.

Her reactions to sunlight have worsened as well, leaving me no alternative except for doing away with all the windows in her room. Also, I’ve had to resort to the syringes Dr. Watson prescribed—a sedative strong enough to pull her from her manic episodes and into the stillness of sleep. Every time I press the needle into her skin, I feel like I’m failing her. But what choice do I have? When she’s in that state, she’s a danger to herself, to me, to everything around her. The beasts in her head would get to her, and so these syringes are a necessary evil. 

Last Friday, she tried to escape. I found her running barefoot through the woods, her hair wild, her voice hoarse from screaming about the monsters that were "coming towards her". She fought me the entire time I tried to sedate her, clawing and biting, fueled by sheer panic. That night, as she lay in her bed, I stared out into the woods, choosing to make my most dreaded decision.

The next morning, I brought out the handcuffs. They were meant as a last resort, a line I never thought I’d have to cross. But her safety- our safety- left me no choice. When I told her what I had to do, she cried. For a fleeting moment, I thought I could see the real Emma, beneath the surface, calling for help. I thought the woman I once knew and loved would convince me that the reign of terror that had taken a toll on us had finally passed. But the moment passed, and the fear returned to her eyes. And shortly, the hateful glare followed.

She hates it. I hate it. The sound of the metal clicking into place hurts more than a hundred daggers to the chest. I tell myself it’s temporary, that it’s for her good, but the guilt eats away at me. What kind of husband does this to his wife? Is this really the only way? Is there anything I could've done differently?

The morning after her attempted escape, she called me a 'harsh, cold hearted monster', and yelled all sorts of curses at me. She thinks I'm heartless, and that I'm a sadist, enjoying her suffering and powerlessness.

But deep down, I’m terrified. What if this is our life now? 

The woods are quiet tonight, except for the light whistling of the breeze through the living room window. Emma is asleep, steady and calm. I wish I could say the same for myself. The weight of the taxing weeks, of these choices, it feels unbearable. But come tomorrow, I will do it all over again- because I have to. After all, she’s still my Emma, even if she doesn’t know it. Yet.

My heart sank. My vision was pulsating harder than ever before, and I couldn't help but gaze at the box of syringes, burning in the fireplace, the contents oozing out and instantly fizzling away. I fell into the armchair, head spinning, tears forming in my eyes. I stared at the man who lay dead on the floor, finally cold-hearted. 

Finally, my gaze shifted to the window, and the familiar fear fills me yet again, as I see the purple clouds outside, approaching me, accompanied by three hellish hounds with their glowing red eyes. 

They look hungry.

- Armaan Kothare

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