Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Drip.
I startle, searching around like a caged animal.
Drip.
Water. It has to be water coming from somewhere.
Cold air bites into my skin and the pungent smell of moist earth, along with the faint stench of something rotten, linger in my nostrils.
I stretch my arms out on either side of me and touch damp stone.
A tunnel?
A cave?
Carefully, I take one step forward, then follow with another while still touching the stone. The silence is oppressive, only broken by the occasional drip of water ringing in the darkness. Each footstep is loud, almost as if the walls are echoing them.
Once I’m sure the ground is safe, I walk faster. My clothes cling uncomfortably to my skin and my heart beats loudly. So loudly, I can only hear the thumping in my ears.
Someone once said it isn’t darkness that’s scary, it’s what lurks inside it.
So despite the complete annihilation of my vision, I still squint and blink and struggle to make out something, anything around me.
I’m not sure how long I walk, but it’s long enough that I feel the strain and my throat turns dry. But maybe that’s because of how hyperaware I am. As if I’m waiting for one of those horror-ride skeletons to jump out at me.
Though I could handle that or any other horror-esque scenarios. Fictional jump scares don’t faze me. Not when I spent my childhood surrounded by actual monsters.
I walk farther, still feeling the walls, my heartbeat finally dropping to a relatively normal rhythm.
My trial is probably at the end of the tunnel. The sooner I get there, the better.
“Dahlia?”
I still, my breathing deepening, and a shocking shiver slashes through me.
M-Mom?
I haven’t heard that voice since I was six. It’s been over fifteen years. After my parents’ deaths, I hopped from one home to another, meeting one foster ‘mom’ after the other until they all blended together, but I could never forget Mama’s voice.
The softness, the affection, and the slight exhaustion from spending late nights sewing dresses.
No one has ever loved me like Mama.
“Dahlia, honey?” She speaks again in the darkness, like an angel.
I bite my lower lip to keep from calling out to her and telling her how much I miss her.
This is a trial. They’re trying to mess with me.
A strong light shines in front of me and I squint, then close my eyes. An orange film forms behind my eyelids as my sight gradually adjusts.
The sound of giggles reaches me, and I slowly open my eyes again. There’s a light before me, projected into a wall, that shows an old video of my toddler years. I look close to one year old.
My chubby little hands grab onto a leather sofa covered with a colorful quilt, my brown curls chaotic and lighter than they are now.
“Come on, honey. Come to Mama.”
My vision blurs when the camera shifts to Mom, who’s sitting on her knees. It’s been such a long time, I almost forgot what she looked like. After the accident, the bank foreclosed on the house, then auctioned most everything in it and threw away the rest or sent it to an old distant aunt who refused to take me in. I didn’t even get a picture of my parents.
The only image I have of them is in my head.
After so many years, it’s gotten distorted and changed, but as I watch the video, I can finally see my mama again.
I look so much like her, though her skin was a bit tanner, her hair lighter, her eyes brown, while mine are hazel.
She was a beautiful woman, but what I recall the most about her is the stunning smile that never left her lips, no matter how hard things got.
“Come, baby. One more step,” she encourages, both her hands stretched out.
Little me finally takes the leap. I reach toward her and walk like a drunken man. “Mama…Mama…”
“Yes!” She squeals as I take a few steps and fall into her embrace. Mom hugs me tight, stands up, then whirls me in the air as I giggle uncontrollably. She stares at the camera, tears of joy forming a sheen in her eyes. “Did you see that, hon? Dahl’s first steps.”
“I did.” Dad’s voice sounds deeper than I recall. The video zooms in, slightly shaky, as he approaches us. The last still is a blurry image of Dad with his arm around Mom and me, his face unclear.
My hand reaches out of its own accord as a tear slides down my face. I’ve never seen this video. I wasn’t even aware it existed. I don’t know what I want to do. Touch the screen? Touch them?
Hug their image?
The still flickers on the screen and then a darker video appears. Road surveillance footage. My lips part as I see a grainy image of a car flipped beside a cliff. An older blue Toyota.