What Blood Leaves Behind (The Poison Rose) by Delany Beaumont Page B

no longer a part of me, start to work its way inside the hole. I’m both disgusted and fascinated. A second later, I’m awake.
Two
    When I open my eyes I see a bottle of water. It’s not an unopened bottle but a battered plastic one liter container with the original label missing. I snatch it, unscrew the top and let the water slosh into my mouth, not caring if it’s poison or what it tastes like. It’s warm, flat, with a strong metallic taste but I drink deep, letting it trickle luxuriously down my throat. Then I start choking and have to slow down.
    Past the water bottle is a plate. On the plate is a hunk of bread and an apple. I snatch at the bread, tear at it with my teeth. The crust is hard, the soft flesh of the inner loaf stale and bland but it feels like a miracle to hold this thing in my hand, to be able to chew and chew. To be able to take another sip of water.
    Soon the bottle is empty, the apple entirely consumed save for the seeds and the stem, every crumb of the bread devoured.
    I lie back down, close my eyes, take deep even breaths. A few minutes pass before the full effect of the food hits me. I’m still hungry, still thirsty but I begin to feel a sense of wellbeing. That terrible gnawing hunger I’ve felt for so long recedes a little. It’s easy to swallow again. I know the hunger will begin nipping at me soon enough but maybe by then someone will have brought more food.
    I finally sit up and take some time to look around. I see that I’m in a small basement room, dim shafts of light wavering through the broken glass of sooty window panes near the ceiling. It’s completely still, totally silent. I’m beside an enormous, ancient furnace, a rusting hulk that looms over me. There are mops and brooms and dusty tools scattered around, everything broken and rusted.
    I’m lying on a dirty mattress. The plate and the bottle were set on the cold cement floor next to me. The floor is grimy and littered with scraps of paper, clumps of dust, hair, broom straw and mop yarn.
    I notice mouse droppings in the dim light and wonder if part of the bread had been nibbled at while I was sleeping. The thought makes me nauseated for a moment but that might be because I ate so fast. The nausea passes and I promise myself I will be awake the next time food is delivered and keep it from touching the floor.
    Finally, I push myself up from the mattress. When on my feet again, I feel wobbly, lightheaded. I hurt all over. It feels like I’ve run a marathon with a heavy pack on my back. My head starts to ache.
    I begin walking around this cellar, this basement I’m in.
    It’s a large space, the lower level of a large building. There are double metal doors at one end painted gunpowder gray. I make my way haltingly across the room toward them. The muscles in my legs and back and shoulders fight me every step of the way.
    When I reach the doors, I push and pull on the handles but they won’t budge. I flip a row of light switches by the doors, looking up at the florescent light fixtures above me but none of them work, not even a flicker.
    That’s ridiculous, Gillian. Where would the electricity come from?
    It gets easier to walk and stand the farther I go. Slowly, I make my way all around the outer wall of the room, in no hurry, feeling my way in the gloom. I’m convinced that whoever put me here made sure that there was no easy way to escape. And where would I go if I did get out? Someone might be waiting right outside the door.
    The smeared, sooty windows are too high to see through and too small to crawl through. If I could climb up to them, I’d have to try to squeeze myself through a tiny space lined with broken glass. And the Black Riders might have their motorcycles parked just beyond these cellar walls.
    There are stacks of old iron bed frames and dusty boxes full of moldering paperwork, books, dishware and clothes. There are bicycles with their tires flat and their greasy chains drooping on the floor. There are