All the Little Raindrops
Mia Sheridan
PART ONE
Man is the cruelest animal.
—Friedrich Nietzsche
CHAPTER ONE
Noelle had tried to keep track of the days, but they were indistinguishable from the nights, both bathed in still silence and utter blackness. So finally, she’d given up. How could she have known how hard it was to measure an hour when that hour was spent in dark, quiet terror?
She’d become aware that there were places where time did not exist. Because even in the absence of a clock, its measurement was based on sensory input: the rising and setting of the sun, the sounds of traffic, a church bell in the distance . . . or a hundred other signals from the surrounding world. Not here in the cage she currently inhabited. And so instead of counting, the way she’d done once she’d gotten her bearings and forced herself to stay as calm as possible, she drifted. She tried not to let her imagination take over, tried not to picture herself in an airtight box deep under the sea. That only made her blood pressure spike and her breath come in ragged pants, as though her air were actually running out.
The only things that did give her any indication of the passing hours were the clues of her own body. She grew hungry and thirsty. But food and drink came at random intervals from some type of small door in the wall just beyond her barred enclosure. She would hear it being lifted, and then a small shaft of milky light would appear, causing her to turn her head away, even the very dim glow too much for her dark-adjusted eyes. Like a bat in an underground cave reacting to a slant of muted sunlight streaming through a crack. But even turned away, she could smell the yeasty bread within, and it compelled her to crawl toward it and reach mostly blindly toward the food, her fingertips just barely reaching the plain piece of bread or a few crackers and a paper cup of water. The first time, unaware of its presence, she’d accidentally tipped the water over, and later, she’d grown so parched, her tongue had swelled and her lips cracked. Now she knew to be more careful when reaching for both. And then, before she could force her eyes fully open, the slot rolled shut, leaving her only with the hazy picture of the shape of the opening.
Sometimes food and drink came when she was so famished and dehydrated that she shook as she reached for the nourishment, and sometimes they arrived when she still felt mostly full. It had to be by design. To confuse her. To torment her. At first, she’d yelled and begged when the food deliveries were made; after all, a human must be somewhere just beyond, but no one had ever answered. She’d thought she heard footsteps somewhere far above. But other than that? Nothing.
If she had to guess, she’d say her cage was about six feet by four feet, and there was a toilet in the corner. She’d found it when she’d finally worked up the nerve to feel around her surroundings after waking there, disoriented, petrified, and alone. She’d felt its shape, determined it was made of metal like one of those prison toilets. Apt. After all, she was a captive. Whose, she did not know. She could not guess. The toilet flushed the same way an airplane toilet did, with a loud sucking sound followed by the soft closing of a flap. At least it offered some dignity. But it wouldn’t save her from dying of thirst.
When she’d realized her predicament and that she’d been kidnapped, Noelle had cried and rocked, imagining how terrified her father must be. He would have been raising hell with the police to find her. Recently, they only saw each other in passing, or not at all, but he would have called her or grown worried if she hadn’t called him back. He was working a night job right now, and because it was currently spring break and school was out, she was working her waitressing job during the day. But they spoke by phone at least every other day or sent quick texts. I love you. There are leftovers in the fridge. Don’t forget to put the trash out tonight. And it’d been at least a week. Right? But maybe she was wrong. Maybe it’d only been a few days. At this point, maybe her job hadn’t even called to see why she hadn’t shown. Eventually she had to stop thinking about her dad because it made her panic ratchet higher, made her want to wail for him. Made her feel like she had when she was a little girl and had woken from a nightmare, screaming for her savior. Her father had always shown up then and taken her in his arms. “Hush,” he’d said. “Daddy’s here. You’re safe.”
The depth of longing for that now almost made her hyperventilate. And she wondered how long it would be before she began losing her sanity. Part of her reached for the reprieve of a broken mind, one that could not think, one that could not fear. Or imagine things that lay in wait in the surrounding dark. But the stronger part of her rejected giving up one of the few things she currently possessed: her will to live.