Splattered Paint - Dan Howell

The Concrete Room

Eyes innocently fluttering open, I found myself gazing upon the same horrifying view as I had awoken to each day for what felt like a never-ending infinity of time. Four surrounding concrete walls, each decorated with crimson drawings, numbers and symbols, art disguised as graffiti. Narrow beams of yellow sunlight shone through rustic metal bars in the door keeping me enclosed from the world. A metallic toilet sat innocently in the corner of the room, rolls of tissue paper piled neatly to its right, and I thanked god that they had been restocked. It was almost silent, the nearby hum of cars and the occasional beep of a horn tormenting me, reminding me that society continued, whilst I remained isolated and hidden. 

~

Thump. My eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness of my bedroom after jolting awake from a loud noise down the hall. Thump. The unfamiliar sound made my body tremble with fear and I gripped my blanket tighter, retreating under the covers. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. The noises got louder and faster, getting closer to my bedroom door. Then there was silence. Out of the blue, my bedroom door swung open and quick footsteps were heard getting closer to my bed. My heart was beating furiously against my ribcage, and almost burst when I realized too late that an intruder had entered my bedroom.

Suddenly my duvet was throw off me and I only managed to catch a quick glimpse of a tall male before I was grabbed by the waist and pulled out of bed. I screamed as loud as possible, only to feel a hand ruthlessly slap itself over my mouth to silence my cries.  Kicking and screaming, I was taken out of the safety of my room and carried down the hallway against my will. My screams were muffled, kicking and squirming useless as I was only a young girl and far weaker than the adult male taking me away. The frozen air of the winter month whipped the cheeks of my face and numbed my fingers. He led me to an obviously suspicious van parked outside. 

My body was thrown like baggage into the back, and after every attempt of escape was resolved to fearfully endure the longest journey to god-knows-where. When centuries of crying and begging had passed , I was pulled from the back of the van by the intruder and led in the darkness through an alleyway and up countless flights of stairs. My feet stung as I was still barefoot, but I was too frightened to complain or run, too terrified of what would happen. Entering the side of the building, I was led down a dark corridor and into a room of grey walls appearing as run down as the glimpses of the many other rooms I had peered into on the way. The man threw me onto the concrete floor, my sobbing only intensifying from the pain. I examined the man and instantly regretted it, he was truly a sight for sore eyes. I found myself directing my attention to his eyes, which were wide with a mix of hunger and anger, hands fisted before a metal door was slammed shut in front of him and I was left alone, questioning why I hadn't fought back, why I didn't try to escape earlier.

~

The stench of my own dirty skin was appalling, if focused on, would make my stomach churn uncomfortably. My hair was greasy and knotted, despite many previous attempts at controlling it.

With a sigh, I turned my attention to the marker in the corner of a room and decided whether to continue sleeping or mark the wall before I forgot. In agreement with myself, I stood, ribs cracking and head thumping as I rose from the concrete floor. Each movement was a fight against the appeal of making none at all, my muscles bruised and inflicted by relentless abuse. 

I limped over to the marker which I had skillfully managed to keep working for years by taking the tube out from inside often, and filling it with water and a small quantity of my blood. The pen was my only entertainment. I hobbled to the wall on the left of me, admiring the many marks created. Every day I would draw another line on the wall, creating a giant tally chart, but there was limited space left, and I decided my tally would soon need to be continued elsewhere. The marker screeched loudly as it slid across the solid grey surface, the last of its ink being drained. I knew sooner or later I should try counting up the lines and attempt to regain knowledge of what the date was, it bugged me to no end that I didn't know what year it was, let alone the month. All previous of my attempts at counting the marks had failed, there were too many, it drove me insane.

 If I had said the worst part of being locked away was the hunger, pain or loneliness, or the filthiness and gloom, I would be lying. The worst factor was the uncertainty of a chance of rescue. There was no telling if I was being searched for. Day after day I longed for sirens, a flickering red light to shine through the bars of the door. I longed for the sounds of safety, for fear to no longer sink my stomach each time the hinges would screech as the door opened. I didn't know if people were looking for me, in my position, there was no way of telling. I am most certain if I hadn't been made orphan I would be found. My parents would be looking for me daily. Yes, they would have. 

But in my ever-growing luck, there were no parents of mine to pray rescue of. Passed years prior, myself only aged eleven. There one night, gone the next. Drunk driver. Captivity had sure been the cherry on the top of the cake of my life. I wonder if I was rescued, would society prove my pessimism wrong? Was there even a chance that being 'rescued' meant happiness? I was sure with any attempt of such positivity, whatever God looked down would deem me unworthy and kick up a storm.  My father taught me as a child that those who wait will be rewarded, but after being taken that night, and enduring countless days of abuse, I began to think otherwise. Maybe I will spend my entire life in this room.

I quickly clicked the cap back on the tip of the marker and stood back from the wall. So many lines. As I scanned the walls surrounding me, I inspected my notes and drawings I had created, noticing the colour changes over time. The marks began as a deep vibrant red and in passing weeks and months had become lighter due to the substitution of ink. 

I snapped out of my thoughts and listened carefully to the front door of the apartment being slammed shut; my kidnapper was home. He would often leave for days, only returning to beat me in ways I couldn't bear to illustrate, and feed me scraps as if I was a pet. It would often be weeks before he would supply me with a bucket of water to wash myself, or more tissue paper. He had no similarities of any decent human, and unfortunately, he was going to walk through the door any minute and I braced myself for what pain he would inflict on my body this time and what insults he would spit in my face.