A Sharp Clash With Reality
What is hope?
Chills overcome my body as I hear the soft thuds of his steel-toed boots approaching. I know what’s coming, but I’m terrified. Or maybe I’m terrified because I know what’s coming.
It happened about a month ago, or something like that, I can’t tell in here. I was walking home from school, as usual. Everything goes black, and the next thing I know, I’m here.
Every day (or something to that effect) he comes here, wherever that is. He strides, seemingly in slow motion, over to the chair he tied me to. And as always, he unsheathes that damned blade. And as always, he draws the knife, over and over, upon my exposed skin, which has long since acquired an odd pallor. Where there used to be bare arms and legs, there are now jagged, dark red lines. He is silent, as he always is during this ritual, only allowing himself a small chuckle when his knife finds a particularly painful scar.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, an irrational part of my brain cries. If this were a movie, I would have overpowered him, taken his knife, and escaped. But life isn’t a movie. I know no one’s going to save me, either. I used to imagine myself leaving this place and running away, far, far, away, and never having to look back. All I imagine now is the only possible future left for me: my corpse, lain across the floor, more crimson than pale, and drained of blood. I have long since realized that these thoughts are the only ones that hold any truth to them, and this was confirmed when, upon finishing, he whispered into my ear,
“They’ve stopped looking for you.”
I have accepted the fact that I will die here. Any fantasies I had of salvation were just that: fantasies. And now, they are shattered, permanently. So, I’ll ask you again.
What is hope?
