New Year's Evil

SAM

It's dark like blindness, and the silence is so thick it's oppressive. It's hard to breath, hard to move, hard to do anything in this heavy, dense darkness. It's like swimming in ink, except there's no wetness or refreshing cool, only a humid sweat trickling down my back and the stench of stale, damp air slowly becoming poison.

That's how it feels in here, where I'm doing it for the first time; I'm staying up the whole night through.

It's ironic that this is the night, because it's New Year's Eve. Everyone stays up all night long, waiting to cheer when the clock strikes twelve and shake their noisemakers while drinking a toast to a new beginning, another year to fail in all their resolutions.

It's fitting I guess; I'll stay up all night and hope that I get to see another year, another sunny sky, another cartoon, another smirk on my awesome-idiot-brother's face.

I hope that my Dad will save me.

I shiver even though it's not cold. It's hot actually, but I think it's because I'm getting sick, my head feels swollen past normal size, and my hands won't stop shaking. It might have something to do with the slash on my side that's dripping a steady stream of thick stickiness, or the bruises on my back that are throbbing in time with my heartbeat. It might be because when that monster of a man threw me into this small space I fell on my side, dirtying my cut, and it's probably infected by now.

Either way, I'm shivering.

I'm trying not to think about how small the space is, trying to ignore how the walls I can't see are closing in on me, smashing me in a compact cube. I try not to panic, forcing myself to breath long and deep instead of short and shallow, trying to quiet the whimpers that escape my parched lips every few minutes. I try not to think about my captor telling me to be a good peice of bait and stay quiet or he'd come back and make sure I never made a sound again. I try not to think about the way he hurt me, slashing at me and kicking me down. I try not to remember how the sounds of my own screams surprised me, how I'd never heard myself sound like that before.

I'm trying.

I'm failing.

At least I'm not crying anymore. I think I've run out of tears, but I don't feel girly or stupid. I think it's okay to cry about what's happening, I think I'm entitled. But sobbing had hurt my side and back, so it's better that I'm not doing that anymore.

I can feel the salty tracks on my face, though.

I groan without meaning to, everything hurts so much, and I wish I could pass out, but I can't for some reason. I've never wanted so badly to sleep, to fall away from consciousness, but I stay awake. I know hours are passing, each minute feels like it's slowed, but my awareness of my surroundings comes in dollops. I realize I'm in a corner for the first time, and I wonder why I hadn't realized before. I notice that the wall feels rough and prickly, like the walls of a concrete building. It's like the details jump out at me in waves, and I wish again that someone would find me, that someone could get me out of this place, this too small cell, this dark, dank, hot space that makes it hard to ignore that way my body is screaming at me, the way my mind is screaming to keep my panic at bay, that way I can barely keep from screaming out loud.

I begin to sob again, but they're dry, tearless. It hurts like being beaten all over again, but I can't stop myself, just like I can't stop my shivers and intermittent moaning.

For the first time, I wonder what'll happen if they don't find me. My mind starts to stumble over itself as I allow the possibility of dying alone in this place to register, and I suddenly feel like all of my insides are constricting, because this can't be happening, I can't be dying, I'm only nine years old, my family needs me, I need my family, and I don't want last night to be the last time. I don't want my last memory of Dean to be of his horrified expression when I was pulled from the bedroom and he couldn't stop them because they'd tied him up. I don't want his frantic shouts to be the last thing I heard him say. I don't want my last image of Dad to be how I saw him through the window of the black van they took me away in, seeing him pull the Impala up to the motel not knowing I wouldn't be inside.

I don't want to die here. I don't want to die alone.

I don't want to die at all.

I start hearing sound, thumps and cracking, but I begin to think I'm imagining it, because I'm imagining streaks of color in the air too, and faces made of shadows leering at me. I know I'm losing it, but I'm past caring, I'm terrified and shaking, still shaking. I'm exhausted and hurting and sweating and bleeding, and all I want is for my Dad to find me and save me from this.

The sounds are louder, and in the midst of them, I imagine that I can hear someone speaking. No, not speaking, shouting.

Sammy

I squeeze my eyes shut, hating my own mind for playing tricks on me, because it aches to know it's not real, that I'm imagining it.

He's not here - Dad I don't see him

My breath hitches.

Sammy

I open my eyes. The imaginary voices sound close, almost real enough to be...

The thumps become bangs as something slams what could be a fist against the hatch door.

I can't breath. My eyes are watering again, and I want to shout, but my throat is suddenly too dry, and I can't make myself move. I pray. Please, please let it be real.

I hear a loud click and a massive screeching sound. A large and rapidly growing strip of light on the side of the space opposite from me blinds my eyes, and I gasp, finally inhaling.

"Sammy!"

Dad's voice is the most heavenly sound I've ever heard, and I try to respond, but I can't make a word. I know I'm not even trembling anymore, the relief has paralyzed me. I feel him take me in his arms, and the smell of him is so familiar that I think I might finally be able to pass out because I feel so safe now, so unafraid.

"...swer me, please answer me, son! Sam? Sammy, can you hear me?" Dad's voice sounds so scared, it's thick and shaky, wet sounding.

"Dad?" Dean's voice isn't Dean's voice at all, but the voice of a child even younger than I am, I'm sure,"Is he...Dad, he-he's not..."

"D-d-d..." is all I can say, and I'm not sure which of them I'm trying to address. It's enough. I hear Dad's heaving sigh and hear him thank god. I relish the comfort when he pulls me close and picks me up. I hear Dean sobbing hard while he follows behind us, which is strange because I never knew Dean could cry. Dad is rushing me out of the cell and past the body of the man who kidnapped me, through doors and down stairs. Dad's arms feel good, but moving is hurting me, each step jarring and a rippling pain. I think I'm crying out, because Dad is talking to me, telling me to hold on.

"I know, Sam, I'm sorry son, we're almost there."

I feel the outside air and realize it's not black, but pink. Morning. It's blissful to see colors again.

I realize we've reached the car, because Dad's handing me to Dean, whose eyes are red in his wet face.

"It's okay Sammy, you're gonna be okay, I've gotcha."

I scream once when the car starts moving, because the my bruised back feels like I'm being crushed, like I'm being pummeled.

"Dad he's lost a lot of blood, you gotta go faster-"

"Hold on son, stay with me-"

They keep talking, and I give up trying to talk back. I can see the sky lightening as we break the speed limit on the way to the hospital, and again I'm struck by the irony of it all, even just nine years old I can see the sick joke in it.

I've always wanted to be able to pull an all-nighter.

As Dean holds me and keeps talking reassurances in my ear, I finally lose consciousness, no longer afraid that I won't wake up.

My Dad and brother have me.

I know I'm safe.

Still, I doubt anyone else has ever spent a New Year's Eve that was worse than this one.