Zero Hour
an excerpt

Remember this. Remember this. Remember-
“Hold still, girl. This’ll be much easier on both of us if you’d just fucking hold still.”
A gruff voice, but quiet, controlled. I remember the voice now, from the nights before this one. I’ve never seen his face because he wears a balaclava, but I know the voice.
I was holding still, or at least I thought I was, but when his words break my mantra, I realise I have been moving, my body trembling. Looking around the room, I take in as much as I can, again and again, working intently to lock in every detail, filing them away in the metal box in my mind labelled “Important – remember this”. In the corner opposite me is a toilet, and next to it a small sink attached to the wall, a towel rail next to that. I can never recall using it, but it’s there. Further along that same wall is a door that gets locked from the outside. The corner to the right of me is empty, as is the one to the left. Six long steps to each, or fifteen when I’m walking heel-to-toe, hands groping along the cold brick wall.
Remember this.
Following the line from floor to ceiling, there’s a vent in the wall on the left, three long steps across and directly up. On the right wall, four steps along from the bed, is a small window, too high up to see out of, but it’s big enough to let in a sliver of light as day breaks, painting lighter shades of grey over the unintentional colour scheme of dark grey and black.
Where I am now there’s a small fold-up bed, a thin, worn mattress on top of the metal frame, with a lumpy, mildewed blanket, apparently for my comfort and warmth. Running my free hand slowly across the mattress, careful to not draw his attention to my movement, I feel for the split in the material, poking a finger inside and touching the sharp tip of the spring that’s poking out.
Remember this.
A sharp sting in my arm draws me back again, as it always does. I turn my head slowly to watch as he pushes the plunger down then draws the syringe back out of my arm, the tip of the needle jagging my skin and tearing a tiny hole.
“All right then, there we go.” Deceptive words. He says them in the same tone a doctor uses after injecting a flu vac, calm and reassuring. I try to tilt my head up to look at him, searching for eyes in the gaping holes in the balaclava, but dizziness takes over and my vision blurs.
His hands on my shoulders guide me back to lay down on the bed. Soft thudding as he walks away, heavy-footed but the sound is distant and fuzzy.
“See you tomorrow, girl. Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel.” A muted chuckle as someone laughs at the joke.
Rolling my eyes downwards, I focus my attention on the thin, pale line stealthily creeping across the floor as dawn enters the room, stealing away the darkness and my memories with it.
*****
A gasp. What’s that thumping noise? Where is it coming from? Look left, look right. Eyes swivelling and then the body following, turning a full circle, scanning every corner for the source, but there’s not enough light to make out anything. There are darker areas of dark, shadows cast by who-knows-what.
There it is again, rapid like a drum beat ba-boom ba-boom ba-boom and that other sound, that rasping sound, like dry leaves blowing across a concrete footpath. But where are the trees, and where is the breeze? Not leaves then, but paper, a newspaper, pages being turned and then let to drop in place, one page sliding across another.
Another gasp. That thumping noise must be my heartbeat, I can hear it clearer now, ba-boom ba-boom, matching the hammering feeling in my chest, the pressure in my veins. And that rasping noise - my breath, harsh and fast. The hot-cold feeling, sweating and shivering at the same time, I recognise it now. Fear.
A dull ache draws my attention to my hands, and as I focus on it, my breathing slows. My fingers are clenched into tight fists around harsh material, my nails digging into the palms of my hands. I flex the muscles in my hands to squeeze them even tighter, wincing as my nails break skin, then loosen them slowly as I realise the material is a blanket. I run my hands over the fabric then drag it away from my body, the mouldy smell tickling my nostrils.
Moving the blanket aside causes my hand to brush against something cold and rough. I reach out, and as I do, my body rolls to the side and I discover that I’m on a mattress, and that cold rough something is a brick wall. Patting my hands along the wall, I get to my knees on the mattress, edging cautiously across, feeling my way. A sharp thing digs into my knee and I jerk back, running my hand over the mattress and searching for the culprit. There’s a spring poking through the mattress. I dig my fingers deeper into the mattress, feeling the curl of metal smooth and cool between my fingertips, letting the tip press gently into the pad of my thumb. For just a second a memory flickers through my mind and I try to grab it, but it’s gone too quickly.
Resting back on my heels, I think for a minute. It seems as though it should be an easy thing, to remember something, but when I try to focus on specifics things, it’s like a switch is flicked, a button pressed to change the channel, and I can’t remember anything. I don’t know where I am, let alone why I’m here, and worse, I don’t know who I am.
On that realisation, panic rushes through me in a wave of heat, fear spiking my skin with goosebumps. How can I not know who I am? My hands reach up and touch my face, feeling my forehead, curving over my eyebrows, my nose. I have these features, this face, and I can’t remember what it looks like.
Okay, breathe. Calm yourself. Breathe in, breathe out, relax.
Following my own instructions, I inhale and exhale, concentrating on the rise and fall of my chest. Turning on the bed, I feel my way across the mattress, searching for the edge, and when I find it I lean forward, balancing myself with one arm and reaching out with the other til my hand touches the floor. I pull back up and move my legs over the edge of the bed, feet touching the cold ground cautiously. The only way to figure out where I am is to move around.
Standing up, I press my calves against the cold bed frame and step slowly to the left, my hand pressing empty air til I feel the wall. I navigate my way along the wall, heel-to-toe tiny steps with one hand gripping the bricks of the wall and the other in front of me, waving tentatively to feel anything that I might bump into. Fifteen small steps later there’s another brick wall in front of me.
Leaning back into the corner, I look around me. It’s dark, but not pitch black. My eyes search the darkness and I find darker smudges. The blurry shape in the direction I’ve just come from is the bed, and in the corner to my left is another blacker area. From where I’m standing I see a small rectangle high up in the wall, lighter than anything else in the room, and realise it’s a window, and moonlight leaking in through the glass is the reason I can see things.
One hand clasps the wrist of my other arm, squeezing firmly, reassuring myself. Sliding my fingers upwards, brushing over goosebumps and cold skin, my thumb rubs over a bump. A scratch, a cut. Recent, the sting tells me as I touch it again, smoothing my thumb over it, then further up my arm, another cut, and another, and – how many are there? They keep going up in a line, in a row, unevenly spaced, scabbed and sore. Starting at my wrist and counting upwards to fourteen, fourteen cuts. The ones at my wrist feel new and tender, the ones at the other end of the line harder, older.
As I press my fingers against the cuts, the pain prods at another memory. The scratches came from somewhere, obviously. I close my eyes for a minute, concentrating, willing myself to remember. A quick flashback to the spring poking into my knee on the bed darts through my mind. Had I moved while I was asleep and been scratched by the spring? That doesn’t seem right, but I can’t catch the reason.
Opening my eyes and finding myself looking to the left, I decide to move forward. Taking small steps again, I count my way warily across the room, bumping my shins against something smooth and cool after another fifteen steps. My fingers explore and discover a toilet and sink in this corner, and a metal bar along the wall. I turn the tap on and let the water run for a little while, then splash cold water on my face, hoping to clear my mind a little in the process.
Shaking my hands dry, I turn and walk back to the corner I’d come from, both hands out in front and taking bigger steps. Six long steps to the corner, then six more back to the bed. As I walk, more memories tug at me.
You remember this…
Turning back, I retrace my path along the two walls. I’ve walked along these walls before. I’ve discovered the bed, and the toilet, and the window before. I spin on my heels by the toilet and walk along the walls back to the bed. My heartbeat quickens again, this time from excitement.
I remember this.
Climbing back onto the bed, I feel for the hole in the mattress. Once it’s found, I sit back, leaning against the brick wall, and hook a finger around the metal spiral, pulling at it gently as I think. Dark room, brick walls, six steps. The window, the moonlight. Waking up on the bed. Remembering all of this – how many times have I remembered all of this?
Fourteen cuts.
The tip of the spring pricks my finger, tearing at the skin a little. Fourteen cuts on my arm, all in a row. I made those cuts, I sliced my arm to count the nights, and to jog my memory. I change my position on the bed, laying on my stomach, and mark the passage of the fifteenth night on my skin.
The pain brings with it a flood of new memories. As blood trickles down my forearm I remember the man and the needle, and dawn. It’s been fifteen days since I’ve seen daylight.
My elation dissolves. These memories are good because they bring me back to myself, but I still don’t know where I am or why I’m here, and when the man comes again I’ll forget even these small memories all over again.
A jangling metallic sound. I know that sound, a key turning in a lock. I freeze in place, my eyes squeezed shut. They can’t see me if I can’t see them. A door handle turns, then creak as the door opens slowly.
Silence. I wait, holding my breath in the back of my throat. The whoosh of blood is deafening as fear returns and my heart races. I sit still and silent, pretending to be invisible but knowing it’s pointless. He knows where I am.
One footstep, then another, heavy, solid, definite. My eyes widen, watching his large, shadowy form moving towards me. His footsteps echo in the near-empty room.
“Good morning, girlie. Time for your morning medicine.” He lets out a deep, rumbling laugh, sinister and startling in the steadily fading darkness.
I run through everything I’ve just rediscovered, every memory, etching it in my mind. Feeling frantic, I chant to myself remember this remember this remember this as he takes my arm.
The needle slips beneath my skin and my eyes sting with tears, frustration and despair overwhelming me. His footsteps fade and I cry as the pale light of dawn crawls into my mind and steals my memories away.