Birth of a Legend
Just past her eleventh birthday, Alyson Adnarok woke in an anguished daze, her head throbbing and vision blurry, finding it difficult to open her eyelids. Everything around her seemed dark and obscure, with her other senses slow to return - until Alyson smelled it. The faint stench of death and decay crept up her nostrils. It sent shudders through her, reminding her she was still alive in this nightmare of captivity, as she realized her arms were bound tightly at her sides to a chair, her forearms cut raw by rough ropes that ripped into her young skin.
She tried to scream, but the damp gag in her mouth muffled any sound. As her eyesight slowly returned, she recognized the silhouettes of her captors looming over her. Two disheveled men with twisted features and malicious grins. They wore ragged clothes that reeked of filth and decay, like creatures risen from the depths of hell.
One said, “Welcome back, little Briar Rose,” with a morbid laugh. “We thought we would have to wake up our little Sleeping Beauty with a bucket of cold water...but there is no water.” He shrugged and laughed again, the disgusting sound hurting her ears.
Memories flickered in her mind, shattered fragments of how she’d ended up here. It had been around dusk, walking home from the market. They’d grabbed her from the shadows and hit her so hard on the head that she blacked out. Now she was here, in this dark and foul-smelling place, bound and helpless.
One of them loosened the rope, and his tight grip cut her soft skin. He slashed one of her wrists, then the other. She almost fainted at the sight and sound. That would have been a mercy. When her flesh was first slit, the other man stood back, waiting. Anxious. Feral. At the sight of the bloodletting surge, he became manic, lunging wildly for her wrist, only to be shoved aside as the cutter took the first lap.
Undeterred, the cast-off carnivore nudged back to the crimson spillage, nestling in with his partner like two feeding hyenas gorging on their kill. Slurping and lapping away at her fresh, fledgling taste. Growling and gnashing as the other got too close.
The two men continued nursing from the child like wild animals for days, their mouths dripping with her fresh blood. After each feeding, they would redress her wounds, only to cut again hours later.
Surrounding her were others also secured to chairs. Tied tight like tourniquets at the arms and legs. Bound across the mouth. Two who had been sitting in the silent circle when she’d first arrived had been dragged dead into another room when the brothers could feed from their life juice no more. The empty chairs were soon refilled with fresh essence.
For hours, the two men would taunt their prey, threatening other unspeakable horrors.
The trapped meat, like Alyson, could barely keep their eyes open, heads drooping as their organs failed to replenish vital fluids and exhaustion dissipated any urge to fight. To survive.
But even in her weakened state, Alyson never lost hope. She knew she had to escape, or she would never see her family again. She prayed the opportunity may come, studied the cloaked windows for a clue of her whereabouts.
Had it been days or weeks they’d feasted on her very life? She heard them say the word, “brother.” Were these monsters a family?
The brothers would come and go. Leaving the flat just before daylight and returning with the nauseating smell of fish and fuel oil just after dark, which added to the hanging odor of body rot.
Through endless nights and nightmares, another morning arrived. By the look of scant light in the room, a faint beam passing through a curtain crack, it was nearly time for their departure.
Alyson struggled against the ropes, but they remained tight, her strength sickly and frail.
One of her captors, who spied her futile efforts from a dark corner without her noticing, cackled. “Don’t bother,” hespat. “Everyone has the same idea. Same attempt. Same end.” He drew his finger slowly across his neck, then let his head flop to the side.
The two brothers left as usual, but this time one returned before the silence following their departure could even be enjoyed.
Alyson’s panic increased as he ran towards her. His pupils were black and large, his jaw clenched. She had never seen him move so fast.
She braced for a blow.
“Run,” he snarled, his fingers fumbling behind her. Once her binds were unknotted, he dashed back for the door. “Free the others if you wish.”
Alyson heard his loud footfalls but not the locking click she’d grown accustomed to.
Did he leave it open?
Alyson questioned for a second if it was some cruel joke. A test? Some sick game the brothers played when they got bored. She waited for a while, expecting a demeaning laugh to echo through the halls. But it never came, and the brother’s sense of urgency told her time was of the essence. She freed one raw hand from the ropes, then the second before quickly untying the gag and trying to get up. But her unsteady, shaky legs did not provide any support. Her knees met the hardwood floor, the pain ringing through her legs. She kept going on her hands and knees.
Alyson tried to rouse the others, but they were unresponsive, lost to the darkness. She stumbled and crawled toward the door, her bloody bandage trailing behind her like a gruesome banner of her suffering.
One hand in front of the other, she inched toward the door.
Her knees slid along until she reached a heavy table and pulled herself up.
Her legs were numb and unwilling.
On the table was one of the tin cups the men had used to collect the bloodletting when their bellies were full, but the crimson was still flowing. Parched and starved, she closed her eyes as she more than just contemplated the abandoned offering.
She took it into her hands, preparing to take a drink.
When she let the cup touch her mouth and the thick liquid crossed her lips, the metallic taste and thought of what she was doing made her retch.
She had to do it.
Had to build strength.
The blood seemed to help the brothers when they grew weary.
Resolve took over, and she tried again to swallow. It flowed lukewarm and heavy to her belly. She stopped to breathe.
Alyson turned back to the others as she wiped her mouth and chin. Her heart broke for them, but she had no choice. She couldn’t help them in her state, but she could find someone who could.
Her eyes returned to the cup in her grasp.
She must finish it for them. And so, she did. Gulping their gift to her.
In mere moments, she was on the move again. Dragging herself down flights of stairs and staggering out of the building and down the street. The rising hot summer sun beat down on her and engulfed her in the weight of suffocating humidity, bright and burning her eyes.
She stumbled and fell repeatedly, her wrists throbbing with pain, but she forced herself to keep going. She was soiled and stained. No doubt smelling as putrid as her captors and the confining space that had been her prison.
As the youngster ambled and groaned further down Royal Street, receiving neither help nor eye contact from those she encountered, she spotted a beat cop holding down a vacant street corner.
She approached with overwhelming relief, tears running down her cheeks, her speech barely rising above strained whispers.
Alyson wheezed, “Help me,” before falling into his arms, her tiny body nearly drained of life.
