I moved my thumb along the sharpened edges of the spoon's handle, rewarded by the feeling of skin close to tearing—but I wanted these edges to be sharper.

Viciously sharp. For Jerome.

I turned back to the wall and rubbed the spoon's metal against it. The rasping sound it made was loud in the silence of my cell. In methodical moves, I worked on the edges and the tip, each stroke sharpening them, preparing them for the task to come.

Sometimes, the movement of metal over concrete struck a small spark—not bright enough to tear the solid darkness around me, but sufficient to briefly outline the contours of my hands and the tool they held. Brief flashes of light reminding me that there was more than this pitch black hell, that the visible world was not a dream.

I'm still alive. I won't give up, Jerome.

The scent of my work, reminiscent of flint striking flint or of a train braking, filled my nostrils. A hot and dry fragrance, a welcome change over the musty, moldy stench of this place.

I paused the sharpening and sat down on my narrow bunk, resting my back against the hard wall. My breathing was the only sound, and when I held it, there was silence. Except for the occasional plop—like a drop of water falling into a pool, somewhere outside the locked door.

Plop.

A regular sound, one plop every seven heartbeats. It had tolled the minutes, hours and days I had spent here. Weeks, probably. Months, maybe.

Plop.

The image of a beach ghosted into my vision. White sand and waves glittering in the sunlight.

Plop.

A man sunbathing. Jim? I tried to remember Jim's face and failed.

Plop.

The sun over the beach was high in the sky, but it didn't warm my skin.

A new sound jerked me from my revery or my sleep.

Steps, approaching.

Jerome!

The familiar sound made my stomach cramp.

The spoon!

Frantically, I began groping for it in the dark.

It must be here somewhere.

I moved my hands over the bunk. They met my rumpled, clammy blanket, and a small, limp pillow, but there was no spoon.

The steps came closer.

I kneeled down to run my hands over the cold, rough floor, quickly. My right palm hit something. A sting and the sound of metal bouncing over concrete—they told me that I had just found the spoon and lost it to the darkness once more.

The steps stopped, to be replaced by a scratching sound.

I reached under the bunk, my motions frantic.

A key clanked in the door's lock.

Then I made contact. My right hand took hold of the weapon. I rushed to get up. The spoon's head felt uncomfortable in my palm, its handle cold along the back of my wrist. I stood still. My calves pushed against the hard edge of the bunk, my face was turned to the darkness that was the door.

Hinges groaned.

"Hello, Jane." Jerome's voice was soft, like a cat purring.

I stared into the nothingness, willing it to reveal my enemy. But there was only black dread staring back at me, and a faint smell of something cooked.

A hand struck my face.

"Didn't I teach you to sit when I come in?"

I sat down, on the edge of the bunk, fingering my stinging, hot cheek with my left hand.

You piece of scum.

"Don't make such a face." He chuckled. "I wish you could see yourself now. Like a grim ghost in black and white. One of these days, I'll lend you my infrared goggles and a mirror. You'll laugh your head off."

Yeah, you seeing things through these goggles while I'm in the dark. You love that, don't you?

The sound of my bucket and bowl being placed on the ground announced his impending departure.

Stay, I need more time.

"Have you..." My throat was dry, my voice shaky and hoarse. I gulped. "Have you heard something? From my family?"

"Your family?" The voice feigned surprise. "No negotiations with kidnappers, they say. Some family you've got there."

The words stung. But I visualized him, pinpointing his position about three steps from me, standing in the frame of the door.

Or closer?

I needed more. "Didn't they receive the tape, the one you recorded?" The memory of the recording made me gag—how he had forced me to plea for help.

"Sure they did. But it didn't change their mind, it seems. So sorry."

No, you're not sorry, you jerk.

He took a breath through his teeth and the sound placed him. Right in the doorframe, that's where he had to be.

My grip on the spoon tightened.

"Maybe..." The leer in his voice was distinct. "...we need to send them something else. Not your voice, you know. Something more solid." He paused, letting the words hang between us, like big, black bats.

I lunged, stabbing the spoon into the dark. It struck, the force of the impact tearing it from my hand.

"Hey!" Surprise was in his voice. "Shit!" And pain.

A blow hit my head, making my vision flash. I fell.

The taste of blood filled my mouth.

I tried to push myself up when something hard and fast made contact with my side. I labored to take a breath against a searing pain in my ribs.

"You piece of shit!" His voice was a hiss. "I'll teach you."

Frantically, I rose to my feet and tried to find my way towards my bunk, thinking of the blanket there. Or the pillow.

Anything to hold between him and me.

A cold hand grabbed my wrist and yanked me through the room. I kicked something that made a clang—the bucket. My head hit a wall and exploded in agony.

"This is it!" He panted heavily. "I tried to go easy on you. That'll change now, you ungrateful bitch."

I was on my knees. Groping in the dark, my hand hit an obstacle. Another metallic sound—the cold, rounded metal of the bucket.

"Listen, you shit." His last word was like a dagger, sharp and hateful. "You wait here. I'll go upstairs and get a knife. When I'm back, we'll cut something off to send it to your parents."

My hand moved along the bucket's body, searching for its handle.

"While I'm away, you can decide..." He paused.

My fingers finally found the wooden grip.

"... which part of you I should cut—"

I rose to my knees and swung the bucket, aiming for where I imagined his head to be. There was a clang, and a rumble, and—light.

A small, whitish glowing object described a trajectory through the room and came to rest on the bunk. It cast a weak illumination on the blanket, the adjacent wall, the ceiling. The cell suddenly gained substance, became a piece of reality, and the glow held me mesmerized—the glow of Jerome's infrared goggles lying on the bedsheets.

A movement broke the spell. A dark outline made for the bunk. I jumped, hitting all my weight and despair into his shoulder. We fell.

He was below me, his face ghostly black-and-gray in the pale light, roundish, with a receding hairline.

Such a trivial face.

His eyes were wide open, dark irises darting left and right.

He swung an arm, aiming for my head. I blocked him with my left hand and smashed my right one into his nose. His mouth opened.

Beside his head, on the floor, there was a spoon. My spoon. I grabbed it by its head.

And I plunged it into the face, aiming for where his left eye met his nose.

An instant of resistance struck my palm, quickly yielding. The inertia of my arm drove the weapon on.

His struggling ceased. A sigh escaped his lips. His right eye stared at me. Astonished.

I pulled on the spoon. It stuck, making his head shake as if in denial. I pulled harder, and the metal came free. A rivulet of black poured from the wound. He lay still.

Jerome?

My throat constricted. I averted my eyes, searching for the light, for its cleansing solace.

Holding the goggles by their strap, like a dangling lantern, I left the cell, not looking back, not thinking back, concentrating on the short corridor outside. The light was barely able to reach the second door at its end. I approached and put my ear against it. There was a slight hum, nothing else. I was trembling.

My teeth clenched, I pushed the door's handle and then pulled, slowly.

Light seeped in along the doorframe. It made me squint.

Holding my breath, I opened the door some more. A flight of concrete stairs led upwards. Everything was quiet—and full of light.

One step at a time, I climbed upward, reaching a third door standing half ajar. I pulled, and the squeak of its hinges shattered the silence.

I froze, waiting for yells and commotion. But the scene before me was still. A hallway, bordeaux wallpaper, the faint tick-tock of an old-fashioned clock, the dreary smell of old carpets.

The hallway led to a glass-paneled front door. I walked five steps to reach it, tore it open and stumbled outside. The screaming brilliance of a golden sky blinded me. Sunset or dawn—I didn't care.

I ran. My feet pounded the ground, the muscles of my legs like pistons of an unstoppable steam engine, the breath in my laboring lungs powering them.

I stopped when I reached a road. Looking back, panting, I saw a small house and some junk in the midst of untended fields.

My prison. His grave.

Goodbye, Jerome.

My right hand hurt. It was still clutching the spoon with its bloodied handle.

Gradually, my panting slowed. I let go of my weapon. It tinkled as it hit the ground.

The air carried the fragrance of trees. I turned back to the road and the peaceful village it led to.

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1572 words

This is my contribution to mystery 's writing prompt 5, "It's All About Descriptions". It has ranked #1 😀