Caged in Darkness (Caged #1)(2)

I think of my childhood in two separate stages: the time before I was safe and the time after. I didn’t always live with Maye. I was born with a mother and father. It wasn’t until I was a bit older that I understood my parents were different from other parents. Other children did not need to raise their hand to ask permission to talk. They were not locked in a cage to keep from complicating their parents’ lives. They were given typical punishments, such as being grounded or having a time out. Other children did not have parents who practiced the dark arts.

My parents were raised in a community of witches. The coven did not practice the dark arts, and instead used their gifts to the benefit of others. My parents were inordinately powerful witches, but were not satisfied with the power they had been gifted. The more they used their gift, the more addictive the magic became. They were similar to drug addicts. They built up a tolerance to their particular drug, and now required more power to sate their cravings. My parents were drawn to the dark arts to sate their addictions. They didn’t seem to mind that black magic comes with a price.

When the community discovered my parents’ use of the dark arts, they were repulsed and banished them. They firmly removed my parents from influencing the other members of the coven, but didn’t realize my mother was pregnant with a daughter.

Those who practice black magic are not always evil. Usually, dark witches fall into shades of gray. However, my parents were firmly grounded at the darkest end of the spectrum. Twice a week, until I was nine years old, I witnessed my parents sacrifice the lives of innocents. Their screams would echo through the house and reverberate against my eardrums until my mind would fracture. With each fracture I lost a piece of my soul until I became lost and empty inside.

When my parents were without an innocent to sacrifice, they spent their time finding other ways to entertain themselves, which usually included focusing their powers on me. Living energy would emerge from their flesh and envelope them in a haze of darkness. When they focused the mist on me, the evil would gather around until it found a fissure to wither through. It would invade my body and corrupt any piece it could find that was still pure. When the darkness dispensed itself from my pores, it would take that bit of innocence with it. My soul screamed at the loss as it was torn from me.

When I was nine, my parents made a mistake. They allowed me out of my cage. Nine years of being subjected to their never ending abuse had turned me into a feral being. Luckily, my intelligence was not hindered by my feral nature. My parents were distracted when they released me from my cage to bathe. The smell emanating from their neglect had become obnoxious.

I learned years before that fighting them was senseless. They thought me meek and obedient. I wasn’t. When my mother shoved me into the bathroom, I landed on my side and allowed a breath of pain to escape. I knew that was what she was waiting for. She enjoyed my pain; monsters usually do. The bathroom on the main floor had a small delicate window in the shower stall. It was bubbled glass, which ordinarily provided privacy, but now provided my escape. My parents were about to perform one of their rituals, and I knew from experience that this one was loud. The house was enspelled to contain sounds, but that didn’t stop the noise from spreading to every corner within it.

This was my chance. I turned the water to full and I examined the metal towel bar. Over the years I loosened it, in expectation that I might use it to escape. Grabbing hold of the toilet plunger to use as leverage, I managed to pull the bar loose. It didn’t take long to burst through the glass, and use a towel to brush away the stray pieces that remained.

The opening was petite, but so was my frame. Nine years of neglect and malnourishment had ensured I would be tiny. I grasped the edges of the frame and pulled myself through. It was difficult. I made it through the window by pure determination.

My feet hit the ground and I tore across the grass. I was surrounded by homes, streets and signs. I didn’t understand this world. It was loud, due to a lifetime of sensory deprivation. The sound of cars flying through intersections and children screaming as they played in the street disoriented me. I covered my ears in a halfhearted attempt to block out the unknown. My mind was swallowed by the rush of senses I was experiencing.

I knew the name of the village my parents grew up in, and had seen a picture of their old coven. My escape plan was limited. How would I find freedom in an unfamiliar world? Who would help me? I was quickly realizing that my escape was short sighted

I knew I needed to make a decision. My parents were distracted by their ritual, but I didn’t know how long that would last. I looked in all directions, and noticed a woman loading her trunk with some luggage. There was barely enough room left for me to fit, if I squeezed into a tight ball. I waited until the woman went back into her house, ran over to the open trunk, and squeezed my small frame into the back beneath a blanket.

I tried not to panic at the length of time I was entombed within the trunk. I could hear each car that passed, faint country music from the radio, and occasional noises I didn’t recognize. The trunk was filled with a pungent odor: a cross between stale bread and mildew. Eventually, the car came to a stop. I held my breath as the trunk opened. The woman let out a squeal when she saw me, and then a sigh when she realized I wasn’t a threat. It took her a few minutes to take in my appearance, before she raised her hand to her mouth.

A building beside a large highway lay behind the woman. Benches danced around the building beneath the sparse trees, and cement walkways led to a set of doors. A sign next to the walkway, directly behind the woman, said “Rest Stop”.