Frozen
by Beau Cameron
I drummed my fingers against the tabletop, thinking back. “It was twenty or so years ago. So I would’ve been...five? Christ.” I stared into my latte. The foam heart had begun to disperse, wisps of white sinking into the depths. “I was only five.”
Chelsea waited for me to say more, leaning across the table. “So? What happened?”
I snapped out of my trance. “Yes. I was five years old. I woke up in a room: steel walls, slippery floors, patches of ice slick on my feet. Terror gripped my heart, the panic frigider than the dry air around me. Every breath hurt. I could feel the air in my lungs, encasing my organs in a layer of frost.”
“That’s certainly…” Chelsea frowned, “vivid.”
“I guess some memories stick with you.”
The silence was heavy, implications weighing on the cafe’s otherwise light mood. She broke the silence, “What happened next?”
I could feel myself in the room again: my small feet scrambling for purchase on the metal floors, a frozen drip of mucus dangling from my nose, the numbness of my face. “I cried for help. I yelled and screamed and sobbed until I couldn’t anymore.” My throat had grown raw from the maltreatment. I only stopped when I began to cough up blood,
“But no one came.” The foam heart was gone now, barely a memory. “I was in there for days, maybe weeks. There was no way to judge time. All I know is that when I woke up there would be a cup of water and a piece of bread.”
“Did you ever see your captor?”
I shook my head. “I tried to escape a few times. I pretended to fall asleep so that I could wait for them to come in with food, but they knew. They gassed the room.” It ad started as a small hiss and the faint scent of lemon, and then a yellow mist had covered the room. There’s still an indent in my head where it hit the floor. “They did the same thing when I stayed awake for days, refusing to sleep and thus, refusing to eat.”
“But how did you feel?” She was fishing for a quote, but the question was intriguing nevertheless.
I pondered it. “Lonely.”
She scribbled it down on her notepad, eyes remaining trained on my expression. “And afraid?”
“Not really.”
Her pen froze. “What?”
“I wasn’t really afraid, just lonely. I missed my parents; I missed my friends. I knew I had to get home, but I couldn’t even fathom what would happen to me if I didn’t back then.” My gaze wanders, drifting to the window. “I can’t fathom it now.”
Regaining her composure, she continues, “Can you describe your rescue to me?”
The scene replays: heavy footfalls echoing from the hall, the creak and groan of the door as they tried to open it, the thump of a body hitting the ground, yelling, loud and panicked, the crack crack crash as the glass shattered, the flood of armed men that followed. “Loud.”
“And facing your captor at the trial?”
His gaze from the stand was ingrained into my mind: I perched on the edge of the witness stand, the prosecutors voice a dull reminder in the background. His eyes: gray and old and coating my vocal cords in a layer of ice.
“Cold.”
Chelsea waited for me to say more, leaning across the table. “So? What happened?”
I snapped out of my trance. “Yes. I was five years old. I woke up in a room: steel walls, slippery floors, patches of ice slick on my feet. Terror gripped my heart, the panic frigider than the dry air around me. Every breath hurt. I could feel the air in my lungs, encasing my organs in a layer of frost.”
“That’s certainly…” Chelsea frowned, “vivid.”
“I guess some memories stick with you.”
The silence was heavy, implications weighing on the cafe’s otherwise light mood. She broke the silence, “What happened next?”
I could feel myself in the room again: my small feet scrambling for purchase on the metal floors, a frozen drip of mucus dangling from my nose, the numbness of my face. “I cried for help. I yelled and screamed and sobbed until I couldn’t anymore.” My throat had grown raw from the maltreatment. I only stopped when I began to cough up blood,
“But no one came.” The foam heart was gone now, barely a memory. “I was in there for days, maybe weeks. There was no way to judge time. All I know is that when I woke up there would be a cup of water and a piece of bread.”
“Did you ever see your captor?”
I shook my head. “I tried to escape a few times. I pretended to fall asleep so that I could wait for them to come in with food, but they knew. They gassed the room.” It ad started as a small hiss and the faint scent of lemon, and then a yellow mist had covered the room. There’s still an indent in my head where it hit the floor. “They did the same thing when I stayed awake for days, refusing to sleep and thus, refusing to eat.”
“But how did you feel?” She was fishing for a quote, but the question was intriguing nevertheless.
I pondered it. “Lonely.”
She scribbled it down on her notepad, eyes remaining trained on my expression. “And afraid?”
“Not really.”
Her pen froze. “What?”
“I wasn’t really afraid, just lonely. I missed my parents; I missed my friends. I knew I had to get home, but I couldn’t even fathom what would happen to me if I didn’t back then.” My gaze wanders, drifting to the window. “I can’t fathom it now.”
Regaining her composure, she continues, “Can you describe your rescue to me?”
The scene replays: heavy footfalls echoing from the hall, the creak and groan of the door as they tried to open it, the thump of a body hitting the ground, yelling, loud and panicked, the crack crack crash as the glass shattered, the flood of armed men that followed. “Loud.”
“And facing your captor at the trial?”
His gaze from the stand was ingrained into my mind: I perched on the edge of the witness stand, the prosecutors voice a dull reminder in the background. His eyes: gray and old and coating my vocal cords in a layer of ice.
“Cold.”