She wiped away their tears, but at the cost of her own. Bit by bit, as she absorbed their pain, her hair began to turn white, a silent testament to the burden she carried.
Her Tears
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Her Tears: Chapter 1
New
She lay straight on the cold, tiled floor of the damp, dimly lit basement, her arms and feet spread on the floor. The air was thick with humidity, sticking to her skin. There was a stench of humid furniture and damp soil, sickening the head but she was just lying looking at the ceiling. The faint hum of the ceiling fan was breaking the oppressive silence, a sound so constant it had faded into the background of her awareness. Her gaze still fixed on the fan, its blades rotating in a slow, lazy rhythm.
One of the blades had caught a spider web. The delicate strands fluttered with every pass, a fragile dance in the stale air. Her eyes followed its movement obsessively, unable to look away.
One, two, three, four...
The numbers escaped her lips in a soft whisper, each word scraping against the dryness of her cracked lips. She didn't even realize she was counting at first. It was just a reflex, an unbidden rhythm that filled the void in her mind. She was counting unconsciously…
...ninety-five... one hundred... one hundred thirty...
Her voice trembled, the numbers faltering as her focus wavered.
"What the heck am I doing…" she mumbled silently and closed her eyes tightly, her brows knitting together as though the act of squeezing her eyelids shut could stop the relentless march of numbers in her head. She covered her eyes with her arm…
"I should stop counting," she muttered, her voice hoarse and barely audible. "No counting. No counting. No counting..."
But then it came again, like a stubborn echo: three... no counting... four... no counting... five...
Her breaths quickened, the numbers refusing to release her. With a sudden surge of determination, she pushed herself up from the floor, her palms scraping against the rough tiles. She turned her head rapidly, her eyes darting around the room in a frantic attempt to find something, anything to distract her.
Her gaze landed on a sheet draped haphazardly over a chair, all dusty and damp. The faded floral print seemed out of place in the bleakness of the basement. She crawled toward it, her fingers trembling as she grabbed it and pulled it close. The fabric felt rough against her fingertips, and she traced the outline of a large, blooming flower printed on it. Her hand drifted to the fringed edge, the threads hanging loose like hair of a little girl waiting to get combed and put into a braid.
She began twisting one of the fringes absentmindedly. The repetitive motion soothed her. For a moment, the chaos in her mind subsided. She smiled faintly, a flicker of triumph lighting up her weary face.
But the victory was short-lived. The voice in her head returned, insistent and unrelenting.
"One, two, three... one, two, three... one, two, three..."
She realized she was twisting each fringe exactly three times. The pattern was unintentional at first, but now it had become deliberate. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she tried to stop, but her fingers betrayed her, continuing the motion as though possessed by their own will.
"One, two, three... one, two, three," the voice chanted in her mind, louder and louder.
"Stop it!" she shouted aloud, her voice cracking. She flung the sheet across the room with a sharp motion, her chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath.
Then she pulled it again to herself… and started twisting them again…
"One, two, three... one, two, three," twisting all the fringes she started counted them…
"One…. Seven...twenty... there were twenty fringes on one side of sheet
"Four sides and twenty fringes on one side… that means there will be 80 fringes on this sheet…" she thought out loud … and then pushed the sheet away with regret about what do to next …
She lay back down on the floor, her cheek pressing against the cold, unyielding tiles.
"What if they are not eighty?"
"What if there are more than twenty fringes on any of the one side or less than twenty fringes"
"Nah… I am just thinking too much … they are EIGHTY"
"They are eighty …"
"Eighty …"
"Eighty …"
She pulled the sheet again with irritation and tiredness and started counting …
A smile passed her lips… "I knew they might not be eighty…"
and then she started to untwist a few fringes and made them into smaller braids making them into a total of eighty fringes… .
She lied on the floor again … a breath of trumph came out of her mouth …
But then the pattern of the bricks caught her eye—small, rectangular, and neatly aligned in rows. Her gaze traced their symmetry, and the counting began again before she could stop it.
One, two, three, four, five...
There were five bricks in each row. She counted horizontally, then vertically, trying to calculate the total. Twenty-six.
The number made her frown. It didn't sit right. Twenty-six wasn't even—it wasn't orderly. They should have been twenty-five or thirty. A proper grid. Perfectly divisible.
She pushed herself up again, her movements jerky and impatient. Dragging herself toward the wall, she ran her fingers along the grout lines, feeling their rough texture. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted tiny cracks splintering across the surface. Her finger traced each crack, her lips moving soundlessly.
Twenty-eight... twenty-nine...
Her breath hitched. The thirtieth crack was missing. It had to be there. She pressed closer to the wall, her nose almost brushing the cold surface inhaling the muddy scent of the bricks, as her eyes searched frantically for another imperfection, another line to complete the count.
Maybe if she added the grout lines? Maybe that would make sense. She reached out again, her hand trembling as it moved over the wall. Before she could begin her absurd task, a distant sound reached her ears.
"KyrAAA..."
The voice was faint, echoing from somewhere far above. Someone was calling her.
She froze, her fingers hovering midair. The voice came again, clearer this time. Her ear sharp as it was even heard the breathlessness of the the voice calling her name…
"Kyra!?"
Your support, fuel my creativity and help me craft more thrilling and suspense stories like this one. Your support means everything to me, and I'd be forever grateful if you joined me on this writing adventure.follow me on patreon.com/Accuscripter
One of the blades had caught a spider web. The delicate strands fluttered with every pass, a fragile dance in the stale air. Her eyes followed its movement obsessively, unable to look away.
One, two, three, four...
The numbers escaped her lips in a soft whisper, each word scraping against the dryness of her cracked lips. She didn't even realize she was counting at first. It was just a reflex, an unbidden rhythm that filled the void in her mind. She was counting unconsciously…
...ninety-five... one hundred... one hundred thirty...
Her voice trembled, the numbers faltering as her focus wavered.
"What the heck am I doing…" she mumbled silently and closed her eyes tightly, her brows knitting together as though the act of squeezing her eyelids shut could stop the relentless march of numbers in her head. She covered her eyes with her arm…
"I should stop counting," she muttered, her voice hoarse and barely audible. "No counting. No counting. No counting..."
But then it came again, like a stubborn echo: three... no counting... four... no counting... five...
Her breaths quickened, the numbers refusing to release her. With a sudden surge of determination, she pushed herself up from the floor, her palms scraping against the rough tiles. She turned her head rapidly, her eyes darting around the room in a frantic attempt to find something, anything to distract her.
Her gaze landed on a sheet draped haphazardly over a chair, all dusty and damp. The faded floral print seemed out of place in the bleakness of the basement. She crawled toward it, her fingers trembling as she grabbed it and pulled it close. The fabric felt rough against her fingertips, and she traced the outline of a large, blooming flower printed on it. Her hand drifted to the fringed edge, the threads hanging loose like hair of a little girl waiting to get combed and put into a braid.
She began twisting one of the fringes absentmindedly. The repetitive motion soothed her. For a moment, the chaos in her mind subsided. She smiled faintly, a flicker of triumph lighting up her weary face.
But the victory was short-lived. The voice in her head returned, insistent and unrelenting.
"One, two, three... one, two, three... one, two, three..."
She realized she was twisting each fringe exactly three times. The pattern was unintentional at first, but now it had become deliberate. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she tried to stop, but her fingers betrayed her, continuing the motion as though possessed by their own will.
"One, two, three... one, two, three," the voice chanted in her mind, louder and louder.
"Stop it!" she shouted aloud, her voice cracking. She flung the sheet across the room with a sharp motion, her chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath.
Then she pulled it again to herself… and started twisting them again…
"One, two, three... one, two, three," twisting all the fringes she started counted them…
"One…. Seven...twenty... there were twenty fringes on one side of sheet
"Four sides and twenty fringes on one side… that means there will be 80 fringes on this sheet…" she thought out loud … and then pushed the sheet away with regret about what do to next …
She lay back down on the floor, her cheek pressing against the cold, unyielding tiles.
"What if they are not eighty?"
"What if there are more than twenty fringes on any of the one side or less than twenty fringes"
"Nah… I am just thinking too much … they are EIGHTY"
"They are eighty …"
"Eighty …"
"Eighty …"
She pulled the sheet again with irritation and tiredness and started counting …
A smile passed her lips… "I knew they might not be eighty…"
and then she started to untwist a few fringes and made them into smaller braids making them into a total of eighty fringes… .
She lied on the floor again … a breath of trumph came out of her mouth …
But then the pattern of the bricks caught her eye—small, rectangular, and neatly aligned in rows. Her gaze traced their symmetry, and the counting began again before she could stop it.
One, two, three, four, five...
There were five bricks in each row. She counted horizontally, then vertically, trying to calculate the total. Twenty-six.
The number made her frown. It didn't sit right. Twenty-six wasn't even—it wasn't orderly. They should have been twenty-five or thirty. A proper grid. Perfectly divisible.
She pushed herself up again, her movements jerky and impatient. Dragging herself toward the wall, she ran her fingers along the grout lines, feeling their rough texture. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted tiny cracks splintering across the surface. Her finger traced each crack, her lips moving soundlessly.
Twenty-eight... twenty-nine...
Her breath hitched. The thirtieth crack was missing. It had to be there. She pressed closer to the wall, her nose almost brushing the cold surface inhaling the muddy scent of the bricks, as her eyes searched frantically for another imperfection, another line to complete the count.
Maybe if she added the grout lines? Maybe that would make sense. She reached out again, her hand trembling as it moved over the wall. Before she could begin her absurd task, a distant sound reached her ears.
"KyrAAA..."
The voice was faint, echoing from somewhere far above. Someone was calling her.
She froze, her fingers hovering midair. The voice came again, clearer this time. Her ear sharp as it was even heard the breathlessness of the the voice calling her name…
"Kyra!?"
Your support, fuel my creativity and help me craft more thrilling and suspense stories like this one. Your support means everything to me, and I'd be forever grateful if you joined me on this writing adventure.follow me on patreon.com/Accuscripter
Her Tear: Chapter 2
New
Kira ran up the stairs, the voice still calling her name like a broken disc, on repeat. As she reached the last step, she nearly tripped—only to find a stout woman blocking the entrance. The woman stood at the threshold, peering cautiously into the darkness but unwilling to step inside. Her nose wrinkled with distaste, as though the very air repulsed her. The basement was too dirty for her, too beneath her to enter. But she had no problem sending Kira into it.
"KIRAAA!!"
The shrill cry again tore through the silence, echoing off the walls. Kira barely had time to react before a hand shot out, gripping her hair with brutal force. A sharp pull sent her stumbling forward, her feet barely catching the edge of the last stair before she was dragged harshly onto the ground floor.
Kira gasped as her knees hit the hard tiles of what appeared to be a small, grimy kitchenette. Her pulse raced in confusion, but before she could even regain her balance, a slap landed across her face a hot, stinging, and violent. The sheer force of it sent her head snapping to the side, a sharp ringing erupting in her ears.
"Are you deaf?!" the woman bellowed, her voice dripping with venom.
"I" Kira tried, but the words barely formed before another slap followed. Her face burned, her cheek stinging where the hand had hit.
"SPEAK!"
"I…"
The woman's nails dug into her shoulder as she bent down, her breath foul and hot against Kira's face, spitting every time she spoke. "I am asking you something!" she shrieked, shaking Kira violently.
"I…"
Another blow.
A sharp, searing pain exploded in her ear, and Kira instinctively raised a trembling hand to it. A warm wetness oozed from the inside, and panic surged through her.
"Is it blood?", Kira thought to herself.
Her fingers tentatively prodded her ear, but before she could confirm her fear, another strike followed, this time while her finger was still inside. A fresh jolt of pain rocketed through her skull, making her vision blur for a moment. A strangled cry left her lips, as she crumpled to the floor, her knees folding beneath her. Tears welled in her eyes, thick and unrelenting, sliding down her cheeks in silent agony.
"STOP THIS ACTING!"
The woman's hands fisted Kira's collar, pulling her back to her feet with merciless strength. Kira's head rolled slightly, her vision spinning, her breath coming in sharp, shuddering gasps. The woman shook her, rattling her bones as if she were nothing more than a rag doll.
"I AM TALKING TO YOU! SPEAK!!"
A new voice entered the scene, smooth and measured. "What happened?"
A man stepped in from the staircase leading to the upper floor, his presence cold and indifferent. He poured himself a glass of water, taking a slow sip as he observed the scene before him.
The woman's demeanor shifted instantly, her voice softening, her rage melting into something more controlled. "I've been calling this girl for an hour," she said,"but she refused to come up. And now, when I ask her why, she's acting arrogant, pretending like she's above answering me. She has no respect for me!"
The man eyed Kira, his expression unreadable. "Why didn't you answer your mother?"
Kira now sitting upright on the floor, her hands trembling as they wiped the steady stream of tears rolling down her red, swollen face.
She tried to speak, oh, how she tried… to suppress the sobs threatening to escape her frail soul, to swallow the lump lodged in her throat, but it was seemed impossible.
"Speak!" the man commanded, his voice sharp now, cutting through the room like a blade.
Kira opened her mouth. She willed the words to come, but nothing escaped. Her voice had abandoned her, lost somewhere between fear and despair.
There was a lump in her throat. Her hands clutched at her neck as if she could force the words out, but all in vain. She couldn't speak. Her eyes now all blurry because of the tears now falling again.
"Look Up"… he cried, "Now Speak!"
I said Speak!, man shout again.
She opened her mouth again, but then her head fell after a helpless effort, her eyes shut and tears falling with a fast trail soaking the floor.
A slow smirk curled the man's lips. He placed the glass of water down with deliberate ease, wiped his hands on a cloth, and walked towards her.
"Ah," he mused. "So you want to do it this way…"
Before Kira could react, his hands seized her shirt, twisting the fabric against her frail body. He dragged her toward the staircase leading back down into the basement, his grip firm and unwavering, and with a merciless shove, he pushed her down the stairs. She tumbled, her arms hitting and her knees scraping against the jagged concrete steps before she finally hit the cold floor below.
The door slammed shut.
The unmistakable sound of the lock clicking into place echoed through the suffocating darkness.
"She doesn't want to speak?" the man scoffed.
"Then don't let her speak."
A pause followed.
"We are not her servants!
I know very well how to deal with bad breeds like her. They're born once every century, but no worries…"
His voice dripped with amusement as he turned away.
"Let her stay there. No food. No water. And no one opens that door."
A long, eerie silence followed.
"Understand!?"
The woman replied obediently, "Yes."
"Remind the kids as well."
Kira lay there, listening to all that, without a single bit of anguish. Then she heard the footstep fading into the distance and her body curled against the icy ground. She wasn't badly hurt. or maybe she was, but her body had learned to endure. This was a daily ritual, a game they played, one she never won. And yet, no matter how many times it happened, she never got used to it. Her body still trembled at their voices, her heart still clenched at their glares, her soul still shattered at their words.
Tears slipped from her eyes, soaking into the dirt beneath her. She was not crying about what had happened with her.
She was blaming herself…
She shut her eyes, sniffling every once in a while.
Your support, fuel my creativity and help me craft more thrilling and suspense stories like this one. Your support means everything to me, and I'd be forever grateful if you joined me on this writing adventure.follow me on patreon.com/Accuscripter
"KIRAAA!!"
The shrill cry again tore through the silence, echoing off the walls. Kira barely had time to react before a hand shot out, gripping her hair with brutal force. A sharp pull sent her stumbling forward, her feet barely catching the edge of the last stair before she was dragged harshly onto the ground floor.
Kira gasped as her knees hit the hard tiles of what appeared to be a small, grimy kitchenette. Her pulse raced in confusion, but before she could even regain her balance, a slap landed across her face a hot, stinging, and violent. The sheer force of it sent her head snapping to the side, a sharp ringing erupting in her ears.
"Are you deaf?!" the woman bellowed, her voice dripping with venom.
"I" Kira tried, but the words barely formed before another slap followed. Her face burned, her cheek stinging where the hand had hit.
"SPEAK!"
"I…"
The woman's nails dug into her shoulder as she bent down, her breath foul and hot against Kira's face, spitting every time she spoke. "I am asking you something!" she shrieked, shaking Kira violently.
"I…"
Another blow.
A sharp, searing pain exploded in her ear, and Kira instinctively raised a trembling hand to it. A warm wetness oozed from the inside, and panic surged through her.
"Is it blood?", Kira thought to herself.
Her fingers tentatively prodded her ear, but before she could confirm her fear, another strike followed, this time while her finger was still inside. A fresh jolt of pain rocketed through her skull, making her vision blur for a moment. A strangled cry left her lips, as she crumpled to the floor, her knees folding beneath her. Tears welled in her eyes, thick and unrelenting, sliding down her cheeks in silent agony.
"STOP THIS ACTING!"
The woman's hands fisted Kira's collar, pulling her back to her feet with merciless strength. Kira's head rolled slightly, her vision spinning, her breath coming in sharp, shuddering gasps. The woman shook her, rattling her bones as if she were nothing more than a rag doll.
"I AM TALKING TO YOU! SPEAK!!"
A new voice entered the scene, smooth and measured. "What happened?"
A man stepped in from the staircase leading to the upper floor, his presence cold and indifferent. He poured himself a glass of water, taking a slow sip as he observed the scene before him.
The woman's demeanor shifted instantly, her voice softening, her rage melting into something more controlled. "I've been calling this girl for an hour," she said,"but she refused to come up. And now, when I ask her why, she's acting arrogant, pretending like she's above answering me. She has no respect for me!"
The man eyed Kira, his expression unreadable. "Why didn't you answer your mother?"
Kira now sitting upright on the floor, her hands trembling as they wiped the steady stream of tears rolling down her red, swollen face.
She tried to speak, oh, how she tried… to suppress the sobs threatening to escape her frail soul, to swallow the lump lodged in her throat, but it was seemed impossible.
"Speak!" the man commanded, his voice sharp now, cutting through the room like a blade.
Kira opened her mouth. She willed the words to come, but nothing escaped. Her voice had abandoned her, lost somewhere between fear and despair.
There was a lump in her throat. Her hands clutched at her neck as if she could force the words out, but all in vain. She couldn't speak. Her eyes now all blurry because of the tears now falling again.
"Look Up"… he cried, "Now Speak!"
I said Speak!, man shout again.
She opened her mouth again, but then her head fell after a helpless effort, her eyes shut and tears falling with a fast trail soaking the floor.
A slow smirk curled the man's lips. He placed the glass of water down with deliberate ease, wiped his hands on a cloth, and walked towards her.
"Ah," he mused. "So you want to do it this way…"
Before Kira could react, his hands seized her shirt, twisting the fabric against her frail body. He dragged her toward the staircase leading back down into the basement, his grip firm and unwavering, and with a merciless shove, he pushed her down the stairs. She tumbled, her arms hitting and her knees scraping against the jagged concrete steps before she finally hit the cold floor below.
The door slammed shut.
The unmistakable sound of the lock clicking into place echoed through the suffocating darkness.
"She doesn't want to speak?" the man scoffed.
"Then don't let her speak."
A pause followed.
"We are not her servants!
I know very well how to deal with bad breeds like her. They're born once every century, but no worries…"
His voice dripped with amusement as he turned away.
"Let her stay there. No food. No water. And no one opens that door."
A long, eerie silence followed.
"Understand!?"
The woman replied obediently, "Yes."
"Remind the kids as well."
Kira lay there, listening to all that, without a single bit of anguish. Then she heard the footstep fading into the distance and her body curled against the icy ground. She wasn't badly hurt. or maybe she was, but her body had learned to endure. This was a daily ritual, a game they played, one she never won. And yet, no matter how many times it happened, she never got used to it. Her body still trembled at their voices, her heart still clenched at their glares, her soul still shattered at their words.
Tears slipped from her eyes, soaking into the dirt beneath her. She was not crying about what had happened with her.
She was blaming herself…
She shut her eyes, sniffling every once in a while.
Your support, fuel my creativity and help me craft more thrilling and suspense stories like this one. Your support means everything to me, and I'd be forever grateful if you joined me on this writing adventure.follow me on patreon.com/Accuscripter