Pitch Black

Portia.

I sigh as soft, feathery lace falls across my face. It's black and heavily stained from being tucked away for so many years, and the smell that clings to it makes my stomach churn. It's musty. Dry, and reeks with dust. I suppress the urge to fling it away because it belonged to my mother. It's the same one she wore on her wedding day. The same one my grandmother wore on her big day as well.

Clove pink and discarded daisies are scattered, littering the stone floor. The huge, black woman who's been brought to help me prepare grumbles behind me. It's the fifth time she's wondering aloud why she has to work with an old, musty, smelly veil when a new one stays tucked in its box a few meters away. I move my foot, tossing the delicate clove pink about, before crushing it, impaling it's bright pink petal with my heel.

It's my wedding day, but it feels like a funeral. No, a funeral would have been better. My funeral.

Wish I had it a while ago.

The strong, heady smell of the pink carnation makes my stomach turn. I've envisioned my wedding day so many times, despite my fate. This doesn't match the picture-perfect image I have in mind at all.

Not that I expected it to.

“Done,” the woman whistles, stepping away from me and dusting her hands. “At long last.”

I exhale as I stand, the now-dirtied petal sticking to my heel. Not that I give two fucks about that. Lifting my face tentatively, I let my eyes roam over my reflection in the mirror. “What do you think he'll say about the veil, Amma?”

She tsks, shaking her head as her lips curl up in distaste. “Fernando is the embodiment of niceties, but I'm doubly sure he won't like that veil. It's old and an eyesore.”

I shift my gaze and let my eyes settle on her fully for the first time, taking her in properly. She's average in height, plump and has a huge black birthmark on the side of her face. Her soft, pitch-black tresses frame her almond face, and enhance her small, pretty eyes. The expression; a green snake underneath a green grass fits her so well. She's just as cunning as the rest of the devils who kept me confined her, her gentle outlook be damned.

“I guess he'll have no choice but to get used to it. I'll only have it on for an hour at most, anyway.”

“Why don't you just wear the damn one he sent? I swear, you and your brothers are stubborn.”

I don't bother to answer her, smothering the crinkles on my gown. She has a point though. The veil was a gift from my brothers.

A gift.

No, not a gift.

Just another cruelty to make me wear my mother's veil for this disgusting wedding ceremony. They know how much I detest this. How much I loathe Fernando.

He's an enemy of our family for crying out loud. Why are they honouring his wants like little, needy puppets?

Amma snorts and turns to gather the dress, the keys jangling on her waist. I stare hard at them. Tiny metal demons. I could take them. Knock her over. That part would be easy as pie. It's the men with guns outside the door who'll be the problem.

Noisy footsteps advance from a mile away, announcing the approach of soldiers to my basement room.

A basement. A fucking basement, that's where they locked me in. My own brothers. Flesh and blood. Same mother, same father.

From the way things are going, they're expecting me to put up a resistance. A strong fight. They'll take me kicking, screaming and crying if I do, I very well know that. Besides, I'm smart enough not to waste my energy on them. I'll need it after for something more important. For the wedding night.

A man shouts something in Russian, and another laughs. A low whistle pierce through the air, followed by a loud thud like something heavy falling. Scuffling feets, and blows are heard.

It's then that all hell breaks loose. Gunfire explodes just beyond my room. A bullet slithers its way through the thick, metal door — straight into the mirror, shattering it, shattering my miserable reflection into a thousand, tiny pieces. I groan, skidding back forcefully into the stone wall.

Amma shouts out a strong of words in Russian.

I steady myself. Touching the back of my head with one hand, I somehow still manage to keep a staunch hold on the bouquet of daises. Suddenly, the door is kicked open, banging against the wall as heavily armed men in military uniform file into the room, infiltrating every corner. A cloud of powerful smoke follows behind them, seeping into my wrecked basement.

The smoke billows out and their faces become clearer. They're twice a dozen, and I don't recognize any of them. Not one face. They're not my brothers' men.

What the hell is going on? Had Fernando turned on us?

Amma sits on the floor, still blubbering something in Russian, sobbing uncontrollably.

I just stare at the space where the door previously was in a daze, trying to make sense of what exactly is going on as another set of footsteps approach. Slow, firm, not in a hurry. The minute he steps into my line of vision, I know for sure that he's the big boss.

He's got a mask on his face. He's the one I should worry about.

He's here for blood. I can feel it.

He halts just inside the room, surveys it, sizing up every soldier, every stone, every cobweb, every sand particle. And when brilliant cerulean blue eyes land on me, a weight drops in my stomach, a hundred-pound cement block.

Amma boldy stands now, tripping over her own words as she advances toward him. He looks down at her, mildly irritated, and she doesn't make it far. An echo of bullets knocks her down, splattering blood on my face and neck. She falls to the floor with a loud crash.

I swallow hard. Fuck.

I don't spare her a glance. I can't afford to. One bullet would let her live, but several?

She's dead. The worst kind of death.

The man's eyes return to mine, and they narrow. When he takes a step forward, I gulp, taking one back too, knocking the chair behind me to the floor, my heart in my mouth. My hands trembled by my sides, and blood whooshes to my ear. I'm shaking now, frightened.

I turn around to run but see a dozen pair of eyes staring back at me. The leader — the masked intruder, biggest and baddest of them all blocks the exit with his huge frame. There are no windows for me to jump out through. Besides, I'll never be that lucky. Suicide was never an option, not for my brothers. I'm important in the grand scheme of things. Way important.

But something's off. This wasn't meant to be the pattern.

Before I can decide what to do, before I can make up my mind to try to charge them, to risk a dozen bullets putting me down like they did Amma, he's got my wrist in his right hand and he's squeezing it.

I let out a choking sound, my hand falling open. The daises fall to the floor. I watch them, then watch him lift my hand to his face. His thumb comes to my ring finger where the hideous, pathetic diamond ring catches the light from the waning sun streaming in through a hole in the wall. He inspects it, and for a brief moment I wonder if he's contemplating on breaking it or not. But he twists and forces the ring off. Pocketing it, he shifts his gaze to my face again.

Something clogs my throat, making it difficult for me to breathe.

He cocks his head to the side and snarled, one hand still locked around wrist. I gasp when he spins me around all of a sudden.

What the hell is going on?

I let out a scream as he jerks me to him, his body a solid, protective wall at my back.

He releases my wrists and banded his arm beneath my breasts. With the other, he pushes the veil of my neck, out of the way, his fingers rough against my skin, fingers tugging, bruising. I fear he's going to snap my neck. One quick twist is all it'll take anyways. He's a shocking six foot eight — twice my size.

But he does the unexpected. The unexplainable.

Instead, the moment I turn my face up to his, he squeezes and instantly, my knees give out. My arms drop uselessly to my sides. He shifts his grip and as I slip, weakened, he lifts me up and hauls me over his shoulder, turning the room upside down before it all goes pitch black.