The cold was becoming too hard to bear and her stomach refused to stop growling, twisting, no matter how many times she’d begged it to. She lay sprawled across the frigid floors, goosebumps scattered across her exposed arms and legs. She let out a long exhale, watching her icy breath fan above her before dispersing once more.

She glanced toward the dilapidated door to her right; tall, wooden, and covered in scratches like those from a deranged animal. It was unlocked. She’d even peeked out of it once when her curiosity got the better of her, but she didn’t leave the room. Probably never would.

There was nothing out there for her.  There was nothing to give her any resemblance of hope. No food, no water, nothing. Just another door that she refused to pass.

A soft, melodic humming started up some distance away. It didn’t startle her. She’d heard it before, but never quite this close. It seemed to be getting even closer. Her lips trembled and she closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply. She’d known she wasn’t alone, but she’d never seen the other creature that was getting closer and closer by the second. She was scared and she despised it; wished she could gain some semblance of control over herself. 

She didn’t know who steadily approached but she did know she didn’t trust them. She did know they had to have something to do with what she was doing there and why she couldn’t even remember her own name. Perhaps the creature would explain everything to her? Perhaps she could then leave and merrily forget about the entire experience? She was aware that was only a possibility and a slim one at that. As the humming finally reached her door, the soft tune shattering the glass walls she’d built around herself in a matter of seconds as if a piercing scream, she suddenly felt like taking a leap of faith through the window. It didn’t matter how high up she knew it was. Anything felt better than facing the sure-to-be monster who was now turning the door knob and stepping a long, bony leg through the door.

She held her breath as the creature revealed herself, but not completely. Her ungodly tall and bone-skinny form was concealed within a long, black cloak. With her hood pulled over her head, her facial features were nothing but shadows. Her voice was raspy and calm when she spoke, her speech broken. “Hello. I assume you’re hungry?”

Only then did she notice the small bowl of food within the creature’s hand and the bottle of presumably water held in the other. She shook her head, now trembling head to toe in fear but continuing to channel her last thread of nerve. She glared at the creature.

“Witch… Don’t come closer. Stay exactly where you are.”

The creature sat the food and water down on the floor beside her feet with a clunk. She held up a glossy journal, the midnight blue cover gleaming in the dim light, and said, “you can expect to be here for a while. You might as well be productive in the meantime. Use this journal to record your memories as they come back to you.”

“What do you mean?” she questioned. “Where the hell am I?” 

The creature didn’t answer. Setting the journal down beside the food along with a pen, she made her exit without another word, humming that strange but familiar tune once again. As soon as the sound could no longer be heard, she shot to her feet and hastened toward the bowl, engulfing its contents without a second thought. As soon as she finished gulping down the provided water, she picked up the journal along with the pen. Flipping the cover open, she ran her fingers over the smooth, white pages. She tried to think of something to write, thought better of it, and instead finally set about exiting the room and trailing into the next, journal in hand. 

She instantly took notice of the small, potted rose in the corner of the room, shriveled up and wilted. She crouched before it, running her finger over the ridges of the dark rose, frowning as the plant withered into dust from the slightest of pressures. She winced, gasping as her headache from earlier came back tenfold just as a particular memory did. 

When she was younger, her mother used to have a small garden out back; partially full of flowers and partially full of produce. She remembered the time she’d gotten the bright idea to rip them from their roots and eat them. She’d only been around four at the time. 

The one flower within the garden that’d managed to pique her interest had been a single black rose. Up until the first day she’d seen it, she hadn’t even been so sure they existed. They were so mysterious-looking, so dark. They seemed so less pretentious than the various bright-colored tulips and daisies. They were the most beautiful pieces of nature she’d ever laid her eyes on.

She moved to sit to the side of it, her back pressed against the wall. She rubbed at her forehead with a wince. In spite of the pounding in her head, she felt an abnormal inclination to write her thoughts down. She pulled out her pen and flipped her journal open. Things were starting to come to her, even if only a minuscule portion.

The sun had just gone down, the night quiet with the exception of the ever obnoxious cicadas outside of my kitchen window. My father was seated at the table, newspaper in hand. My mother was busy preparing dinner; some sort of broth that I’d grown accustomed to along with a small loaf of bread. The delicious smells of her cooking encompassed the room, making me more impatient than ever to shove some food down my throat. I was so naive at that tender age. So ignorantly worry-free as if the world was problem free in itself.

My dad was smarter, though. So quiet and observant; well aware that no one could be trusted, not even his own daughter and wife. At the time, I hated him for it, but now it made perfect sense. He wasn’t cold just to be cold. He was cold because he understood the reality of our situation in a way a child couldn’t. He had always been that way, and my older brother’s disappearance didn’t exactly aid his wariness. It was a surprise for him to be eating dinner with us at all. Most days, he’d disappear for periods of time only to show up later in a distant night with splatters of blood, dried and already flaking, across his dark, cultured clothing.

Each and every night it happened, my mother grew increasingly distressed. I never quite understood why. No matter where he went or what he was doing, he always came home perfectly fine with a little extra cash to show for it. 

That particular night, however, my dad forgot what it meant to be smart. He forgot what it meant to not let your guard down. Two men approached our door, banging big, strong fists against it until my father finally took the initiative to swing open the door. Maybe he’d gotten arrogant, maybe it just wasn’t one of his good days, but he lost.

He’d lost the fight, lost his dignity, lost his life.

He had slunk to the ground, a knife plunged deep into his heart as his blood seeped out around him. My mother screamed, screamed as if it would somehow bring him back, and told me to run.

I didn’t.

She’d taken a knife, one she’d just been using to chop the vegetables that would have gone into the soup, and charged the man. The man who had killed her husband along with her remaining will to live. It was stupid, reckless, and with a strangled breath, she would soon lay beside my father. 

Their eyes remained open, cast up to the sky as if asking the deity above why their life had turned out that way. Why couldn’t it have been someone else? Why them?

I let the men drag me out of the house; let them trample over our garden as if walking around it wouldn’t suffice. As if they needed to add just a tad bit more salt into the wound. Their big feet left death in wake; as major as the death of my parents, and as minor as the deaths of dozens of small, helpless tulips. The singular rose remained untouched, standing tall and still and silent.

That became the last time I’d see a tulip, a rose, or any flower for that matter, for a long period of time. Because after that, my life became dressing in pretty, delicate lingerie and laying on a smelly, uncomfortable bed waiting to be mounted as if I were nothing more than a horse, an animal.

I didn't fight back, but why would I? That'd be stupid, a battle lost, and I'm anything but stupid.