Edinburgh, Scotland. Day 24. 4:32pm. 30/12/2015.
Small beads of ice strewn across the cold, wet earth. Left behind and abandoned, like the frayed woollen sky in which they had fallen from. Clumsily embroidered with dark, heavy clouds; all uneven and falling apart. Melancholy and dismal.
Once, she had been a bird.
She could spread her wings and fly. She was free to escape from the world.
To live.
She did not understand the cruel ways of life. But at the time, it seemed as though there was no need to learn.
Why try and fix something that is not broken. Why search for the stars when you already have them within your grasp.
She, a creature that strived for greater, better things. Things that, in her world, did not exist. Exposed to the bittersweet truth.
No longer could she dream. No longer could she fly, for her wings had been broken. Her bones splintered from where she had been shot down from the skies by the darkness that now consumed her.
Broken. Caged. A prisoner of her own, dark thoughts. Unable to escape.
A small barred window stood alone in a shadowed corner. Thick treacle-like liquid dribbling down its dank frame, glistening every so often, reflecting off the battalions of ice that pounded through the sky.
Illuminations of light animated the concreted walls every so often, shocking the dark colours to which the room was based upon.
A white door. Bright and oddly out of place. Like an art piece. The door was the focus point. It stood out against everything else. It was metaphorical, the door that lead to freedom. Only... It didn't.
" Well, well. Cameron Morgan. You just don't know how to stay away do you? Do you never learn? You were off the system. Completely off the grid. Why haul yourself back in the firing line? You know you can't take us on alone? So who are you working with?" a deep, husky voice bellowed across the room. A tall, muscular looking man ascended from the doorway, making his way around the maze of furniture to the desk beside me. I looked up slightly, though I was unable to see his face. He was new.
My mind flooded with images of people. I flitted through them all looking for the man who had led my interrogation for the past couple weeks. I couldn't see his face, though I could hear him speak. An eastern european accent. Every day it had been him to question me. Or beat me into confessing at least something. I wouldn't speak though. I wouldn't even lie, because I knew that if I spoke, I would not be able to stop. And that would lead them to the truth.
Open wounds still wept silently from my lips. My brow still had dried on blood, which was now beginning to crackle and split. My dark, bloodied eyes staring out at the world through two black, puffy circles.
There was something about him that seemed vaguely familiar. Maybe it was his tone... I was warned about this. Your mind can only take a certain amount of pain before it shuts off. You start to see things. Hallucinate. You can be doing things without even realising. Speaking without meaning to.
He rolled over a chair and started working his way through a checklist he had pinned to a clipboard, holding it close to his body as to hide it from sight, although I could tell what he was writing. He stopped. "Cammie..." slouching in his chair, he kicked both legs onto the table before him and cracked open a can of coke. He had another which he launched in my general direction. I took it, although I didn't open it. Probably too afraid of what drugs had been put into it beforehand. He continued "...look gallagher girl. I'm going to need you to tell me the location of that box..." this grabbed my attention. I stopped listening. Nobody called me gallagher girl. Not anymore. Not since...
I panicked.
"Who... Who are you?" It was a human enough response. A normal persons response to being put in a slightly daunting and confusing situation. It was not however, a response that a trained operative should give. Ever. You should never let your captors think they control you or own you. It's just unprofessional. But there are times when you can't really help it. I suppose we all have weaknesses.
But I could not give up the fight. Not now. Not now that we were so close to the finishing line. I would stay strong. I would strive to go on. Even if that meant my life coming to a virtual end. They didn't need me. Not really. Yes, I was an asset, but I wasn't an exact necessity. Maybe that's why I was chosen as a pose to anyone else. They could afford to lose me. To the rest of the world, Cameron Morgan was dead. Died in an Alpine convent of some disease or infection, so what would it matter if someone who was supposed to be dead, actually died? They may call it unfortunate, but is it not already a misfortune that I no longer have anybody to mourn for me when I do die, because everyone who is supposed to mourn over my death, has already done so. Tears have already been shed. Run dry even. And words have already been spoken until there was nought left to say. I was someone who had nothing left to loose except that, that no longer existed.
He leaned in slightly and the door opened. Someone walked in, carrying something in one hand and concealing it with the other. "My name is irrelevant. I am only here to ask a few questions." My mind went blank, as though all thoughts of who I was, suddenly disappeared. I had no meaning. I was nobody. Nothing. A spec of dust in the universe. I had no goal. I was going nowhere and doing nothing. And I felt strangely calm... Until I felt the slight prick of a needle as it left my skin.
"The first and final thing you have to do in this world is to last in it, and not be smashed by it." -Ernest Hemingway
A.N. Please read and review :)