He holds her photo, his fingers trembling violently.
She shouldn’t be here.
He shouldn’t be here.
Why is he here?
A low whimper escapes his lips and he brings his hand to his mouth, curling it into a fist before biting firmly down on his knuckles.
He can’t cry. He can’t scream. He needs to stay calm. There will be a way out of this. There must be. There always is.
The photograph must mean something. And there are three more boxes.
His gaze darts to the box in the corner directly opposite him, then down to his foot, tethered to the wall. The chain will reach: the room is only narrow. He crosses the floor slowly, dragging his left leg behind him, his ankle throbbing from where he was tugged violently back towards the wall when he tried to escape.
Clutching the photo to his chest, he leans down and lifts the lid.
He frowns. The photograph in this box is not face down, and a very familiar face is staring up at him.
Mum?
He reaches quickly down into the box and grabs it, his fingers now slick with sweat.
In the photo, she is standing under the porch of their family home, her heavy brow low over her tired eyes.
Has someone been watching them? Watching the house?
Fear trickles down the back of his neck, like freezing drops of rain. They’ve been watched. Whoever has done this, whoever has been taking all of these people, they haven’t been random attacks, snatching the first pair of people they come across … they’ve been planned.
His eyes dart around the room. A flash of white in the darkness of the box catches his attention. There’s something else in there. A few pieces of paper, folded in half.
He pulls them out, unfolding them hurriedly, his rough movements creasing the crisp pages. But as his eyes scan the first page, it’s as though the world has stopped, his heart slowing, the room itself freezing in this moment. His grip slackens and the photographs scatter to the floor.
How did they get this? How?
His letter … the one he wrote for somebody to find. The one he wrote after he lost his girlfriend and everything became … too much. The one he had deleted when he changed his mind.
They shouldn’t have this … it’s impossible.
He riffles through the pages – three sheets of his manic thoughts spilling out, recorded in perpetuity. They were meant to be gone forever.
He tries to look away but –
I’m sorry to whoever had to find me.
And Mum … I hope you can forgive me.
I’ll see you on the other side.