One Rule

"There was only one rule: don’t open the door."

She said this last sentence with a quavering voice. Her vacant stare said more than words could. I tapped my pen lightly on my notepad and looked up at her from the notes I'd been taking while interviewing her. Her blood stained clothes and fingers were still caked with dirt, and swollen with fresh cuts.

"How long were you in there?" I asked incredulously.

She squeezed the shredded remains of her scarf in her lap. Her fingers played with the flayed tassels. She rubbed them between her palms and fingers while she sat quietly, remembering.

She didn't respond.

"That's okay, take your time," I reassured her, feeling the emotional tension rise.

"A sliver of light came and went from under the door one hundred and eighty times," she whispered.

"Thank you. That's good. I know this is hard, but anything you can remember could help save lives."

I spoke calmly. They asked me to detain her as long as I could, get as many details as possible without frightening her. Police, FBI, search dogs, had all amassed filling the woods near the road where she'd been found, wandering on the side of the road by a concerned citizen.

She turned her head slowly towards me, looking into my eyes. Her bloodshot eyes told a story only her traumatized mind could tell.

"It's all right, this is a safe space," I reassured her.

"There's no one left to save," her voice quivered as she spoke in soft, cracking sobs.

"He will never be able to open that door again," her eyes narrowed, and a slow, spine-tingling smile emerged from her cracked bloody lips.

"I had only one rule," she sneered.

The End.