Page 138 of A Silence So Divine

You know the end.

You know the end.

Fifty Eight

Cecil

Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

My vision swims. The only thing I’m able to fully grasp is the dull sound of steady drips. That, and the distant wails that tumble beneath the door across from me. An unsteadiness surrounds me. There’s not a doubt in my mind that they're carried over from Eden’s screams of terror.

It’s the worst kind of torture I could endure.

The room is small, resembling a tomb from medieval times. This part of the Sanctuary, the Underground, is very seldom visited by its members. Reserved only for the execution of some of the particularly Damned—those labeled as direct disciples of the devil—it’s said to be cursed. The levels of Darkness were beyond what any amount of prayer could keep out, so it crept into walls, fusing itself with the infrastructure of the building.

It’s no wonder they brought us down here. It’s astoundingly hellish, for a house of God.

I was awoken some time ago with a toss of frigid water. Mumbled words were spoken, but I was too delirious to make sense of it. Not that I wanted to hear whatever bullshit theyhad to say, anyway. The pain radiating throughout my body took precedence, and I did a mental evaluation of my injuries. I remember hitting the ground, and with the throb in my shoulder, I’d say it’s dislocated. That, and my face has taken quite a bit of damage. Prying my right eye open is arduous, a tell tale sign of a shiner. Binds have been replaced with manacles, the metal biting into my wrists much tighter than what’s necessary. Other injuries are sure to be discovered once I’m free, but right now, I’m grateful to be coherent. Well, sort of.

Consciousness floats in and out of grasp, like an elusive firefly. At first, I was willing to succumb to exhaustion. It wasn’t until I first heard the shrieking, unmistakably Eden, that I was able to lift my limp head and really listen.

Without any light, there’s no sense of time. If someone told me I’d been out for days, I’d believe them, but I don’t feel dehydrated. It must not have beentoolong ago that I was brought here. Which means Eden hasn’t been here too long, either.

As horrible as it is, if she’s screaming, she’s alive. It offers me little in the way of comfort, but if I want to get us out of here alive, I have to hold tight to whatever hope I can muster.

Wriggling my wrists behind me, I cringe at the lack of circulation in my arms. Glancing down, I can’t make out my feet, so I shuffle them along the ground. They’re bound, too, but not with metal. If I were to guess, I’d say rope, which is much easier to free myself of.

The distant screaming stops abruptly, and I freeze. The second’s stretch on, and I begin to count.

1…

2…

3…

I reach thirty two seconds before Eden’s shrieking resumes, and I’m able to release a breath of relief. It’s fucked to find solace in her agony. It only adds to my torment.

There has to be a way out of this room. If I can take down one man, I’ll have a weapon.

I have to free my hands.

Pain licks at my nerves, sharp and blinding. Eyes squeezed shut, white hot flashes paint the back of my lids. Every cell of my body is on high alert, begging my hands to still as I attempt to wrench it from the manacle. It takes a great deal of mental gymnastics to convince my brain that the hurt is necessary.

Warmth flows down my fingers and the iron slips. The blood serves as a lubricant, aiding my push and pull. A low grinding sounds in the room, and I’m only halfway aware that it’s coming from metal against bone. I hesitate, slumping down in my seat as I catch my breath, head heavy on my shoulders. It’s halfway now, and if I keep pushing, I’ll have a free hand. A chance.

And I can find Eden.

“Come on,” I rasp. “Do it. Fucking do it.”

Baring my teeth, I brace my feet flat on the floor and bite down, molar to molar. One more quick tug, and I’ll be free.

One more.

I don’t realize I’m screaming until my throat begins burning from the force. Whipping my hand in front of me, hot liquid coats my lap. My hand is mangled, I don’t need vision to know it, and I cradle it to my chest. Lurching to the side as much as I can, mucus and stomach acid splatter onto the ground beside me.

Second by agonizing second passes that I sit that way, head hanging. The wakefulness I fought so hard for slips through my fist.

When blinding light splashes into my face, I assume I’ve passed out and begun to dream. Or maybe I’ve died. There’s supposedly a white light, right?