Page 55 of Her Magic Light

My laughter became bitter as I identified one bright spot I’d found to having been moved. Regular meals. Regular meals I didn’t have to make for myself.

I knee-walked over to the bed, tucked against the wall, my head still ringing from when the guard had shouted in my ear. There was one thin blanket up there and no mattress to speak of—just a piece of foam that looked older than me, pitted with holes and flaking to pieces.

Each movement was an effort, like shock was setting in, and I clambered onto the narrow bed. I was cold now, too, so I grabbed the thin cover with my teeth and tried the best I could to pull the material over my body. Half my body stuck out from underneath.

Freezing slipped right into my soul, and my bones ached with it. My thoughts had slowed to something with all of the liveliness of a swamp, and I twisted the blanket around my legs tighter. It was smelly and a color even I didn’t recognize, but it was real and I needed something I could hold in my hands—my teeth—and know existed.

It proved I was still alive.

I was still here. I still existed.

I shimmied and wiggled until the cover was mostly over me, creating the illusion of warmth if nothing else. Carefully, I scooted until my back was against the wall, resting my head against the mattress as I tried to center myself.

The strange vibrations in my body from earlier hadn’t gone away, and they itched deep inside me. It was still like a yawning beast wanted release, feeling like I harbored a powerful being inside me that shouldn’t be there. Had I? How could it be true?

Something inside me had changed. It was off. Like I was on the wrong frequency now. Dr. Anderson had adjusted me, perverted me, and I didn’t know what it was. Everyone kept me in the dark, and now maybe darkness grew in me.

My teeth chattered. Is that what had happened? I didn’t know.

But power had shot out of me—a killing, murdering force. I had a disorder, maybe. A late-occurring one. Nothing like this had been in any of my medical records.

Frowning, I bit my bottom lip. More than a symptom or a disorder. It was something more. Dr. Anderson suspected what I was, and he probably had the key to my understanding it myself. The oily, icky, creepy doctor probably had the answers I needed, and I hated that truth with every cell in my body.

I let my eyes slip closed, and I tried to escape into my thoughts of warmth and sun, but ignoring the vibration was more difficult than I thought. It fizzed through me, almost a hiss, like a creature, alive and separate from me all on its own.

I shook my head, but the hissing became louder and more insistent. So I tucked my face beneath the top edge of the blanket and covered my ears as best I could until the only sound left was my heartbeat.

The tempo was too fast, and I drew deep breaths in and out, trying to calm myself and slow my heart rate back down. I couldn’t change anything right now. There was no need to be anxious. Being anxious helped no one. It distracted me from getting free. I took several more intentional breaths in and out. Once I was satisfied I was back under my own control, I moved the blanket.

The hissing started again. Shit. What the fucking hell was the hissing? Was it an audible sound or all in my head? I squeezed my eyes shut. Should I test my theory? What else did I have to do in solitary?

Violently, I slammed my head against the flat pillow, and I paused to listen. Several times, I repeated the same movement until I was sure the noise wasn’t simply in my head. It wasn’t originating from me at all, but where could it be coming from? I was sitting on the only piece of real furniture in a tiny box of a room. The toilet didn’t really count as a chair.

Toilet, though. Maybe the toilet had an issue with a faulty valve or a washer. I could get used to white noise. In fact, having a little white noise or pink noise helped me fall asleep. Butwas itthe toilet? Curious, I kicked the blanket to the side and crept from the bed into the small room, keeping all of my movements small and quiet, like someone might hear me and come investigate.

Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed closed and a flurry of bangs followed, but then silence fell, and it was heavier than any silence before. Every rustle and shuffle I made disturbed the weight of it.

In my head, it was like I was connected to everyone else in the place, and they’d feel the ripples of my explorations in my cell. I behaved like I was moving through water, keeping the disturbance to a minimum, going slow, even steadying my breathing.

I almost rested my ear against the metal surface near the toilet, but there was something unclean about the smell, the odor lingering even under something else that smelled of bleach and pine freshness. There wasn’t the soft hiss of water in pipes, and sewage or water wasn’t running down the back of the bowl. I didn’t examine the interior too closely, though. I doubted they cleaned well. What convict had the luxury of a spotless john?

I worked away from the toilet, hoping to track the pipes through the walls, but the walls were thick and rough textured, and I scraped my cheek when I moved it across the surface. The walls were cold, too. Not damp exactly, but definitely chilled to the touch. Almost like years of sadness had permeated them, become trapped in there, and now they couldn’t get warm.

I drew my face away from the wall and shook off the seemingly ridiculous thoughts. But something about them rang true. I sensed way more sadness and despair in this room than anger or fury. Like the people who came here lost all hope.

But still the whispering-hissing continued, and I renewed my hunt. It faded as I followed the wall to the edge of the door, so I backtracked, past the toilet where it seemed to bounce off or echo from, and back to the bed.

It was loudest here. Definitely. I should have realized before. And it was coming from underneath it.

I swallowed a groan as I surveyed the narrow gap between the bed and the floor beneath it. It would be darker and dusty under there, and I physically recoiled at the thought of the shadows.

But the whispering noise continued, and it called to me. I wanted to find the source. What would dare whisper where the silence was so heavy and unbreakable?

I lay flat on the floor and shimmied sideways, catching myself on sharp pieces of metal on the bed frame. My handcuffs made the movements extra difficult, and I brushed against the bottom of my bunk more than I wanted.

The cot snagged at my skin and my hair, and the dirt and debris from the years pressed into my back. I was almost blind under here without light, but it probably saved me from seeing the worst of the sights.

Something much softer than metal brushed over my face, and I shuddered as I fought then banished all thoughts of spiders from my head. I’d emerge from here with hair gray from dust, anyway. I didn’t need to imagine spiders taking solace in the strands, too.

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