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Untitled Fiction

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is a girl
Mar 19, 2006
n. 1. a place of settlement, activity, or residenc
Okay, so through lack of time, I'm sort of out-of-sync regarding writing. Dx I've had ideas in my head for months but due to exams, and the end of school, I haven't really been able to set them down and work them out.

Here's one of them, I guess. I came up with it at work. The beginning is fairly dark - a little bit violent, if a warning is needed - but it won't all be that way. Forgive me for my inarticulacy, too... I had all the ideas, just wasn't putting them down well. Maybe more work is needed, but oh well. I'm considering this as writing practise, but it will most likely be continued.

... I'll come up with a title if I keep writing this. xD I hate titles. Anywho, on with the wall of text.

Syla felt her skin physically crawl, each individual hair pricking up in turn as she shivered in the cold, damp room. Were it not for the contorting of her stomach, coupled with the pounding of her increasingly heavy head, she might have considered herself void of all feeling. Even the grinding of rough rope upon her wrists could no longer be felt, the grating against her worn skin not registering in her exhausted mind. She closed her eyes. No point in keeping them open if she couldn’t distinguish whether they were open or closed; the darkness around was so thick that she wasn’t even sure of what this room looked like.

How long had it been? She could not remember, though it had most likely been about a day. Though, a day would seem like an eternity when so little filled the hours. Just sitting in the darkness alone was hardly something that would fly by.

There it was; the sound of an opening door, eyes open, a brief glimmer of light from behind. Then it closed again. Darkness prevailed, only this time, it was not empty. Syla shivered again, the footsteps soft, yet resonant in the now obviously empty room, growing closer, before, she sensed from the sound, coming to a stop right in front of her.

With a brief flicker, a lighter snapped, illuminating the hardened features of a masculine face before going out once more, only this time leaving a rather small, weak red light moving before her eyes.

“Still think it’s a good idea to do this?” the male questioned, the light being lifted from her eye level to a little higher, making Syla assume he was taking a breath of his cigarette. The bobbing continued throughout their speech. “What makes you think you need to protect him?”

“He is my father,” she croaked, the last words of her sentence the only audible ones she spoke. The dryness of her throat made it difficult to talk. She heard him breathe a laugh, the smoke from his exhalation hitting her in the face a moment later, the scent choking her briefly.

“Your father,” the man repeated. “Tell me, how old are you? Your file says 25, is that correct?”


“Now, we know that your father and his buddies have been committing acts of terrorism for at least 27 years,” he said, “so that means he’s been doing this since before you were born.” Syla felt air rush towards her all of a sudden, and, feeling the breath upon her face, instinctively tried to move back - of course, this move was useless considering she was tied to a chair. “So, if we track his known activity through incident reports, they’re fairly frequent.”

His breath smelled horrible, and at some points, she could feel his arm brush hers as he grabbed the armrests of the wooden chair.

“So if he was busy with his little ‘freedom-fighter’ pastime,” he continued, “I can’t imagine that it left him with a great deal of time to spend with you, or your mother.”

Syla silently cursed him. It was obvious he was trying to break her down.

“It was for the greater good,” she hissed as best as she could.

“Oh, is that right?” he laughed into her face, closer now, her skin able to feel his every breath. “Is that what he told you? Is that how he tried to justify it?”

Skin covered in goose bumps, she shrunk into the chair as well as she could. These interrogations had been happening periodically for as long as she had been here, each one by a different man, each one attempting to break her trust in her father. Though knowing in herself that she would never give up the information of his whereabouts, she could not deny she could feel herself weakening. No food, no sunlight, no water - other than the moisture in the air - all of it was taking its toll.

The man went on.

“I bet that’s why you and your mother were robbed,” he whispered, face close again. Syla closed her eyes. “If he had been at home, that burglar would have been scared off before he could have done any real damage.”

Voices pulsed in her aching head, the memories of the night as clear as when they had happened.

“You and your mother might not have been hurt had your father been there to protect you,” he suddenly roared, catching her off guard, prompting her to yelp slightly. He roughly grabbed her about the chin, his rough fingers gripping her skin tightly, forcing her mouth to close. “You two might not have spent so long in the hospital had he been there to protect you.”

Gritting her teeth, Syla prayed that he would leave. She was not sure how he and those other men knew about the robbery, but each time it was mentioned, it got to her.

Her face was stung with a sudden slap from nowhere, the force sharp, leaving a prickly sting in her cheek. Drawing a short, whimpered breath, she forced her eyes shut, attempting to ignore the pain.

“He didn’t protect you, Syla!” he roared from behind now, hands slamming down upon her shoulders, grasping them with iron fingers. “He didn’t protect you, so why should you protect him like this?”

Remaining silent, she gave no response, nor did she move. She couldn’t crack, no matter how much his words hurt, no matter how much she believed him, no matter how scared she was. Feeling another touch, she shuddered as his fingers traced the back of her neck.

Biting her lip, her entire body tensed, apprehensive of his next move, almost bracing itself for pain. He’d probably slap her again, she assumed.

“You have family?”

“Uhuh,” she replied, not managing words.


It seemed they all knew how to get to her. Not content to answer, she replied with silence, her body shuddering as his fingers traced down to her collarbone.

“I know who they are anyway,” he growled. “You forget that your files contain all information about you, not to mention, they are grouped with the files of all your relatives. Your mother, your aunts, uncles, husband…”

Those cursed files. They were just another way to keep track of the populous. The government updated them with new information as often as possible, through a strict regime combining their own investigation with relying upon the masses to impart important information. Though, they were threatened into it more than anything else, for not informing the government of any changes regarding themselves was treated as a serious crime.

Syla sighed at the thought. She knew for a fact that her father had not been giving information to them for a long time. Just another crime to add to the list, she supposed.

The rough grip of his hand tightened, darting from her collarbone to her throat.

“Y’know, you can stop this,” he insisted, the smell of cigarette smoke drifting into her nostrils, “and all you have to do is answer a few easy questions. What makes it even simpler is that you already know what I’ll ask. I’ll ask exactly the same as the others did. Maybe you’ll answer me instead of giving me the silent treatment.”

The girl shook in her chair as he tightened his grasp again, his hand constricting her breathing entirely for a few moments. Panic rushed through her. A fruitless gasp escaped her, doing nothing but producing a helpless squeak. Her fingers clutched at air, her scrambling legs rattling the wooden chair against the solid ground. The others had been rough, but none of them like this. A few slaps had seemed the worst a few hours ago, but with this one… it seemed he was not afraid to try more violent methods.

After what seemed like an eternity, he released his grip, prompting a huge gulp of air from her, her breathing erratic, heart pulsing as though it might break the boundaries of her chest. She cursed him as she heard him laugh.

“Now, then, perhaps you won’t be so reluctant to give us the information we want. Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Syla murmured, between long draws of cold, smoky air. This was the question she had always co-operated with - simply because she truly had no idea. “I told the rest of you, I haven’t seen him in months.”

“I don’t believe you,” he spat, his voice somewhat distant. Syla furrowed her brow.

“Why not?” she asked quietly. “Just earlier you mentioned that he probably had no time for my mother and I. You were right. He didn’t. And he still doesn’t have the time.”

Footsteps rushed forward, stopping with an almighty thud as the solidity of his knuckles met her face once again. Clearly, he did not like to be proven wrong. Slapping her face with the back of his hand, he took a few steps back, leaving her to absorb the shock of the hit. Syla repressed her cries, fighting back pained tears as the new agony rang through her face, the stinging of his first strike being summoned once more by the sheer force.

“Who are his allies?” the next question came, barked, and sharp. Biting her lip, Syla felt tears spill down her stinging cheeks, her eyes burning with rage. Clearly she had paused too long. “Well?!”

“I-I don’t know,” she whispered, “he never let us know about any of their activity.”

“Is that so?” he smirked, his face illuminated briefly as he lit another cigarette. She saw the little red light bobbing around once more as he moved - at least his motions could be seen now. “What if I were to tell you we captured one of his fellow terrorists?” The red dot moved closer. “And what if I told you he confirmed that you were present during a number of their planning sessions?”

“That is just what you’re telling me,” her assured mumble came quickly, the quiver of her silently sobbing lips well hidden. “I have no proof such a thing occurred. The earlier men didn‘t mention it, either.”

“It was recent,” he replied, voice low. The change in his emotion was sudden, suggesting he wanted to speed things up. “We received a tip-off from a reliable source that a face matching the description of our only suspect had been spotted in the city centre. Seems he’s not as professional as the others.” He smirked. “Well, obviously not if he was the only one to get himself sighted. So an hour ago, we sent some men down, who retrieved him with little difficulty, before bringing him back here for questioning.” Syla heard a cold laugh. “Let’s say he’s not as strong-willed as you are. He cracked after a few minutes.”

Syla pondered this thought for a few moments. She knew for a fact that she had only been to one planning session - and that was to yell at her father. Plus, it had been a year ago at the very least. Either this guy was lying, or an ally of her father’s was lying about her to get himself into the clear. Her eyes narrowed in the shadow. It was likely the latter. His voice, once again, broke the silence.

“I’ll leave you to think about that,” he smirked, stamping his foot on the floor to put out his cigarette, “so I hope you’ll have a response by the morning. If not, then things might get just that little bit tougher.”

Reddened eyes widening in disbelief, she sat bewildered as he abruptly left, his footsteps hurried, the door slammed on his way out.

Silence ensued, but only for a few moments. The unusual hastiness of his exit was soon forgotten by Syla’s plagued mind, the thought of man’s cold words and violent actions taking up most of her consciousness. Merely blinking stung her face further, her eye clearly beginning to bruise after the onslaught it had received. Almost her entire body ached, both physically, and emotionally, her exhausted form pulsing with despair. Tears dripped down her face unbridled, dribbling down her cheek to her jaw, before finally falling to her clothes.

Syla cried. She sobbed in the dark, cold room, the pain from inside spilling out in short whimpers, sharp tears upon her sore skin. Thoughts, faces, and memories, the trio flashed in her mind one by one. All she could think about was her family. Her mother. Her aunt and uncles. Her husband. Their baby. She couldn’t bear to ponder how worried they must have been. After all, Syla had told them she was leaving to go to the market. It had been a day-long trip, for she had left that morning, and night was falling now - or so the man had said.

It meant she was most likely going to be sitting alone for a lot longer. Her stomach was already knotted with aching hunger, her dry mouth gasping with thirst. If Syla was honest, she was not sure she’d make the next morning.

What if I die in here?” she thought, for a brief moment, before shaking her pounding head, trying to shift this particularly morbid notion from her mind.

She simply had to snap out of this. Syla was not a quitter. She was not a weak woman, nor a woman that would submit to whatever fate had in store for her. No, Syla was stubborn. She questioned destiny, laughed in the face of fate. As far as she was concerned, an individual had the power to control what would befall them.

A saddened sigh was breathed from her lips. Well, she had always thought she was the one to say what would happen to her. It seemed that she had thought wrong. There was no way she’d get out of this.

Criticism would be nice.


Essence of Elegy

How long shall you delve into time?
Oct 17, 2007
Yeah that's a nice start. Goes along very well. I'll have to check in once in a while. Lol I always say that but I sometimes never do.

Still, it's better than some fictional works I've read on these forums.
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