Was it a Light?

That shone on the structure? Or was it something else; a shaft of something that left a shine of brightness in the darkest of nights?

Amri didn’t know. She couldn’t. Even if she had eyes that could see anything at all, she wouldn’t be able to answer that.

Why?

She was locked in a room – and she did know that – so far underground that moonlight or sunlight or candlelight would be hard-put to make any appearance, let alone be felt on her skin or her mind.

And she was blind. And not just blind, but without anything in the place where in a normal person’s eyes would be.

So, how did she know where she was?

Because the audio-chatter from the signals that came in – so vague, so distorted – each day at the same time (and she knew that because she had to work hard to change her body-clock from waste removal by one hour so she could listen to the only sound in her world).

Into the silence came the ticks and drags of a sound that she finally discerned as a code. And after – it seemed a long time, but probably wasn’t – discovering the main keys to the language, Amri had something to listen to. Not a voice, exactly, but it was a lesson each day – someone somewhere was putting this noise on the soundwaves that penetrated into her prison. It spoke of thousands of people who suffered at the hands of – she thought the word might have been ‘heathens’ but she wasn’t sure – the ones in charge of the surface of the world.

Many lived underground, fed via a long tube with cubes of fibrous matter that would keep them alive until the ‘heathens’ could find a use for their army of slaves.

Many suffered her fate – the eyes removed to remove the need for visual stimulation; so they wouldn’t miss what they couldn’t see. And what couldn’t they see?

The world changed to dust, the mountains felled to plains, the oceans dried to salt- and silt-pans.

Every day, Amri listened to the sounds, decoded and spoke the words made. Spoke them many times so her swirling mind had one focus. Spoke them to remind herself who she was, and what she was part of.

Every day, until the day the sounds stopped. The food stopped. The drip of water from the plastic dripper stopped.

The light? It was there, in her mind, in the message.

Copyright CageDunn2017.

Advertisements

Author: 5bayby14u

Where stories live, where they wait for you, where you can find fiction from the group of writers who live in and around, are from . . . storysphere.