Kuzey- TRNC
…
...Don't judge me. Okay, this will definitely be the last fic I start, but I really like writing horror!
So yes, also based on a picture I posted on DA and Tumblr that got pretty popular, this time one of Turkey lost in the woods with a short explanation to a plot. I won't explain much of the plot, in case there are people who haven't seen the photo, but I will say it has a new setting: a fictional indoor kids play area similar to Wacky Warehouse in the UK, but with extra rooms like a bowling alley and arcade etc. So basically a huge building for kids.
Again, I won't give any spoilers away, but there are quite a few warnings: murder, torture, blood, and general nasty things. So yeah proceed with caution.
...
His head seared with sharp, agonising pain, as if it had been split open with an axe. It might well have been, but he had no way of telling, other than he was still alive, still just about able to string a thought together. The pain came in waves and dragged him back into consciousness; it refused to allow him to slip under- slip back to sleep or coma or even death- and eventually he could feel cold, hard tiles pressing against his face and chilling his cheek. Warm blood dripped from his nose onto his face and the ground. He wanted to sleep though. He was so tired. It hurt to think.
Eventually, he could sense his whole body, freezing and thrown in an uncomfortable position, half of it pressed up against the floor. A thin coil of rope dug into his wrists and bound them together in front of him and one of his elbows poked against his chest, adding to the pain and discomfort.
This was all he knew.
He could not divulge his location, situation or even name, even if his very life were to depend on it. He had no clue as to what string of events caused him to be here, if there had been a life before this or what was beyond his closed eyelids. The pain made sure they stayed closed for the time being.
He wasn't too sure he wanted to know where he was, or what horrors would await him once he awoke. Nothing had disturbed his dull, distressed groaning so far. Maybe his suffering was in isolation after all. There was a nagging feeling in his chest though, like there was something he had to do. Something important. But what?
Far in the distance, the noise of thousands of rocks hitting brick could be heard, faint and soothing, and his only company.
He did not know how long he lay there, barely registering he was alive, before his frigid fingers gave the tiniest of twitches. He wiggled his toes, flared his nostrils and shifted a leg until he finally breathed life into all of his creaking joints. There was a dull pain in his shoulder, and one of his legs stung, but he didn't appear to have any serious injuries, besides the one in his head.
Well what now?
He decided there was nothing left to do but get up. If he could, that is.
With great effort, he fought the waves of pain and opened his eyes, the first thing in his line of sight being the tiles he was laying on. They were cracked and caked with a layer of grime, their original colour lost to time and the pitch-blackness of the room. He could see little else.
He lifted his head up, vision swimming and it took all his effort to pull himself into a sitting position. A set of stairs dug into his lower back, but he didn't turn around. He just stared at the black stain on the floor where his head had been. Had he fallen? Possible, but who tied his hands together? All the clues pointed to him being thrown down the stairs, but why? What had he seen or done?
Who did this?
He looked around, but the darkness was too much and all he could see was the strap of a rucksack. Well, it was something at least.
He reached forward, and pulled it towards him. It was open, torn with its contents spilling everywhere. Tangled in the strap was a torch, thankfully, and he grinned as he picked it up and turned it on. It worked.
With that shaky circle of light, he finally looked around the room he was in, and was greeted by a wooden table surrounded by chairs, too small for someone his size to sit on. The white table cloth draped over it was torn and covered in newspaper; a chilling sight, but he knew he'd have to read those later- they might hold clues to getting him out of here. The chair nearest to him, at the end with its back facing him, was carved into the shape of a throne, streamers draping over the thing and a pile of ruffled velvet resting on the arm. Faded paintings of clowns adorned the walls, faces distorted by the cracked plaster and shadows.
He was in a children's party room, he realised. But why? He was clearly an adult! He looked down at his hand, large and rough. What business did he have here? It wasn't like he had children or anything, and even if he did, it was clearly after hours.
On the wall closest to him was a message, scrawled in something dark and still dripping.
We didn't mean to go this far, but you left us with no choice. Go home.
He frowned. But who did this? And why?
He wanted to go home. He'd happily leave this place and whoever was in here but he couldn't! He didn't know where his home was, or if he even had one. And he must've come here for a reason, right? If whoever was here wanted him gone, then surely they weren't the ones who brought him to this place.
A quick glance around the room bore few other clues, other than the place was completely decrepit. It wasn't just after hours, the place had clearly been shut down for some time. The room had no windows, though he could still hear the rain.
Turning his attention back to the rucksack, he pulled out the empty cover of a book, pages torn out with a few scraps remaining. He set it on the floor using the torch to read the tiny, neat handwriting.
I want to go home… I don't like London… She's so kind… It's boring here… Baba's always busy…
He frowned. What on earth did these mean? Did he write these? Well, at least he had pretty handwriting!
And again with this talk of home...
The rest of the bag's contents were quickly shaken out: smashed mobile phone, probably broken in the fall; a soft, leather wallet; a dusty map; and- thankfully- a small pocket knife. It seemed he had been an organised person- and hopefully he still was.
The sight of the knife brought a grin to his face, and he picked it up, using the thing with some difficulty to saw away the ropes around his wrists. Free at last! He rubbed his wrists, hissing at the sting.
He didn't think the wallet would provide that much information, but he decided to have a look anyway.
The lack of money was immediately obvious. Had he been mugged or was he just poor? Neither sounded too pleasant to him. Where money should have been, however, there was an interesting collection of items. He pulled out a Turkish drivers license, bearing a photograph and name, presumably his. His name was Sadik Adnan? And he certainly was a handsome chap, he noted as he stared at the tiny photograph on the left, a headshot of a man with a chiselled face and neat stubble. The considerably newer oyster card confirmed his identity, though he was a little disappointed to see how old he'd gotten. His styled brown hair was now flecked with grey, and there were more lines around his eyes. He tried to imagine that face in the dark, hair caked in blood from a large gash, but couldn't. It just didn't feel real.
The last thing in the wallet was a pair of tiny, wrinkled photographs, one of himself and a small boy, no older than five, smiling at the camera, the other of the same boy, a couple of years older and frowning. He held an ice cream, melting and covering his hand, though he didn't seem to notice, too preoccupied with glaring at whoever was taking the picture.
He had a child? A young son? Sadik turned second the photograph over and found a caption scrawled on the back: My dear son Kuzey, the best thing to happen to me.
Kuzey...
The name sounded familiar, though he could've sworn he'd never heard it before.
Was Kuzey here? Had they gone into this place together and been separated, or was he here to look for Kuzey? He hoped the child was at home, safe and sound and not wandering around lost and afraid.
There was only one way to find out though. Sadik pocketed the wallet and packed up the bag, picking up the map to see where he was.
As he did so, a memory flashed before his eyes, a blurred image of his own hand picking up the same map illuminated by torch light. A feeling of joy came over him, the feeling that he was making progress; it was from the memory.
And in a flash, it was gone.
Sadik frowned as he looked at the map, what the hell just happened? He remembered something? Well why couldn't it be something useful? Like where his son was!
He glared down at the map, trying to ignore his pounding headache and make sense of the thing. It was brightly coloured, and clearly designed for children, and his heart fell as he realised just how big the place was. 'A World of Fun for Kids' play area certainly seemed like a whole world, and Sadik wasn't too sure where he was in the building, given that there were two rooms labelled 'party room', an upstairs one and a downstairs one. He glanced behind him; oh, right, the downstairs one, most likely.
Well, now he had two objectives: find his son and get out. Seemed simple enough, so long as he was actually able to stand up.
Sadik zipped up the rucksack and slung it over his shoulder, grabbing the torch and map before slowly pulling himself to his feet, clumsily and awkwardly like a toddler. His head swam and his vision doubled as he stood up straight, and it took all his strength to not collapse and throw up. He felt so sick, like his stomach was churning and writhing, everything in front of him blurred and melted. He stood as still as he could, waiting out the long minutes until his sight steadied and the immediate threat of vomiting passed.
Deciding it was safe to move, he turned around, fighting another wave of dizziness to look up the stairs. The place was deserted.
He chanced one more look around the room, and remembered the pile of newspaper clippings on the table. Well, it could be worth checking them out.
He slowly, shakily walked towards the table, focused on the papers though the ruffled material- a sleeve- resting on the throne also caught his eye. Was it a doll?
Reaching the table, he glanced at the throne and nearly jumped in the air.
Nailed to the throne, in a tattered party dress, was the battered, mutilated body of a small child.