It is dark. It is pitch black dark. She can't even see her hand in front of her face. That's how dark it is.
There is no light. No light playing through the cracks of the crumbling brick walls and no light shinning through the bottom of the heavy, iron door. It's like all the light has been stolen from the world leaving her in a cold, dark nothingness.
But the only thing worse than the lack of light, is the lack of sound. And as she brushes her hands through her hair, she cannot remember a time when sound wasn't important. Sound became her hope and joy, her salvation. The only light left in her dark life.
There is no sound here. The room is clean of bugs. (No bug feet skittering on the stone wall.) And water has not yet begun the slow creep into this prison. (No trickle of the water through the cracks.)
And as slowly as the evolution from ape to man, she begins to rock back and forth. She strains her ears and her eyes. Looking. Listening.
There is nothing.
No light.
No sound.
Something clicks in the back of her head. A forgotten little thing spun from silk and gossamer. A memory that is one cm by one cm by one cm. A pathetic little thing, really, but something very important.
Slowly, she takes the memory from it's shelf and begins to unwrap it. Layer by layer, like an onion. And she discards the delicate wrappings. Watches them float to the floor of her mind to collect in a little pile that sparkles like fairy dust. Layer after layer. Until all that's left is a bit of dust that flies away into the cold, bitter night. And then she's alone again.
Alone.
No light.
No sound.
Yet something reminds her of days gone past. Days when there was always light and sound and friendship. An age long past when she wasn't a hero but she did have her moments. But this fades as fast as her voice.
Her voice. She used to have a wonderful voice. Long ago, months or years or decades, when she sang. The time long past when singing was the only thing she had, the only thing she actually did right.
Those days are gone. Swept away by power and dreams not her own and people she never really knew.
People. Yes, there was a time when she knew people. People who could have gotten her out of this situation. Friends who would have done anything to help. That's over now. The friends are gone. Her lover is imprisoned. And she is without a voice.
Once again, she rakes her long nails down her face. The pain from the cuts makes her slightly happy. The pain reminds her that she can still feel. That she is still alive. Alive....
`This isn't alive, Alison' her mind whispers. But it's not clear whether or not she heard.
Because all she knows right now is that there's no light and no sound.
The End
Feedback is gladly accepted, flames are read, laughed at and thrown away. Archiving is granted if I'm told where the story's going.
