The Bunker

How long has it been? Five days? A week? It's probably more than that. Time had become meaningless in this suffocating darkness. The uncertainty gnawed at her yet again, a constant reminder of her despair.

It was terrifying—terrifying enough that she wished for death, if only to escape this unending misery. But even that, it seemed, was beyond her reach. The pain that coursed through her body was relentless, adding to her torment.

She had no idea how she ended up here, and worse still, she couldn't remember anything—no name, no past, not even a hint of where she came from. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess, a void where memories should have been. The cold floor beneath her was unyielding, a cruel contrast to the dull, persistent throb in her skull. As she shifted, a grimace twisted her features, her hand trembling as it reached for her head. Fingers brushed against a rough bandage, unfamiliar and unsettling. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing in the emptiness of her mind. The more she tried to remember, the sharper the pain in her head grew, as if her mind was punishing her for daring to search for answers.

The air around her was thick and stale, carrying the faint, acrid scent of rust and decay. It felt like the very walls were closing in, suffocating her under the weight of an unseen dread. Her eyes fluttered open, struggling to adjust to the oppressive darkness that surrounded her. It was as if the blackness itself was alive, pressing in from all sides, threatening to consume her. The only sound she could hear was her own ragged breathing, echoing off unseen walls in this forsaken underground chamber.

The place felt ancient, like a tomb that had been sealed away and forgotten by time. Her hands groped across the floor, feeling the cold, slick stone beneath her fingertips. The distant drip of water was a cruel reminder of her isolation, a constant, rhythmic echo that seemed to mock her. She strained her ears, hoping to catch any sound beyond the oppressive silence, but there was nothing—only the heavy, all-encompassing quiet that seemed to smother her with its presence.

As her eyes began to adjust, shapes slowly emerged from the darkness—rusted metal beams, crumbling brick walls, and the faint outline of a door, barely visible in the far corner. The sense of abandonment was palpable, clinging to the air like a thick, oppressive fog. This place had been left to rot, forgotten by whoever had built it. But there was something more—a chilling conviction that someone had put her here, deliberately, with a purpose. Whoever it was didn't want her dead—not yet. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of creaking machinery, a noise that shattered the stillness like a hammer blow. She froze, her breath catching in her throat as she listened. It was the dumbwaiter, the rickety device that had been delivering her only source of sustenance. Her captor never revealed themselves, never showed their face, but they kept her alive, feeding her through this mechanical lifeline. The timing was always precise, as if calculated to the minute. It was this cold, methodical precision that terrified her the most—she was part of someone's plan, a pawn in a game she couldn't even begin to understand.

With a surge of willpower, she forced herself to move, her body protesting every inch of the way. The cold air seemed to cling to her, sapping what little strength she had left. But the sound of the dumbwaiter had stirred something primal in her—a need to survive, to cling to whatever thread of life was offered. She staggered towards the faint outline of the dumbwaiter, her legs shaky beneath her, each step a battle against the darkness that threatened to swallow her whole.

When she reached the dumbwaiter, her hands trembled as she pulled it open. Inside, against all logic in this forsaken place, was a tray of food. But this wasn't the stale, unappetizing fare she might have expected in such a dungeon. No, the food was fresh—remarkably so, as if it had just been prepared.

The first thing she noticed was the bread. It was a golden-brown loaf, its crust perfectly crisp, still warm to the touch. She could smell the earthy aroma of freshly baked bread, a scent so comforting it brought tears to her eyes. Next to it was a generous cut of meat, seared to perfection, its juices glistening in the dim light. The savoury scent of herbs and spices filled the air, a rich, mouth-watering promise of sustenance that her starving body ached for.

Beside the meat lay an assortment of fruits, each one perfectly ripe. There were plump, glossy grapes, their skins taut and bursting with sweetness; a peach with skin so velvety it seemed to glow, its fragrance delicate and floral; and an apple, its red surface polished to a shine, looking as though it had been plucked straight from the tree moments before.

What unnerved her most was the warmth radiating from the food. It was as if it had been prepared mere moments ago, its heat still lingering, defying the cold, unfeeling nature of the chamber. The steam rising from the bread and meat created wisps of fog in the chilly air, almost too surreal to believe. This bounty felt out of place here, in this chamber of despair—a bizarre contrast to her grim surroundings, like a cruel joke played by an unseen hand.

As she reached for the bread, her fingers hesitated. The food was a lifeline, but it was also a reminder—someone was watching her, keeping her alive. The implications were terrifying, but the hunger gnawing at her insides was stronger. She had no choice but to eat.

After finishing the meal, she leaned back against the cold wall, her body still aching, but now warmed from within by the food. Her thoughts, however, were far from settled. She needed answers—anything to shed light on the mystery of her identity and how she had ended up here.

With careful, deliberate movements, she began to feel the fabric of her clothing, hoping for a clue. The coat she wore was thick and heavy, offering some protection against the chill of the bunker. As her fingers traced the material, she realised it was a fine wool, the kind that spoke of quality and purpose. The deep crimson hue, though impossible to see clearly in the darkness, seemed to resonate in her mind, like a colour she had once known well. The coat's stitching was precise, almost elegant, with buttons that felt smooth under her fingertips—perhaps made of bone or polished wood.

Beneath the coat, she could feel the thin camisole against her skin. It was soft and delicate, almost like silk, and it clung to her body in a way that offered little warmth. The hem brushed against her legs, reaching down like a nightgown. A sudden realisation struck her—this was nightwear. Why was she dressed like this? The thought sent a chill down her spine, colder than the air around her.

Had she been taken from her bed? The idea gnawed at her, unsettling and all too plausible. It would explain the nightgown, at least. But as her fingers brushed against the bandage on her head again, another thought intruded, one that didn't fit with the theory of a simple kidnapping. The injury—this sharp, throbbing pain—didn't add up. If she had been taken while sleeping, why was her head wounded? Has there been a struggle? Or something worse?

She couldn't remember. The frustration of it was maddening, the gaps in her memory yawning like a void she couldn't bridge. Yet, the presence of the injury hinted at something more violent, something deliberate. It made no sense, and the lack of answers only deepened her fear.

She pulled the coat tighter around her, the weight of it somehow comforting despite the questions it raised. Whoever had dressed her in these clothes—had they intended to keep her alive, or was it simply part of some twisted game? Her mind raced with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last.

As her fingers continued to explore the pockets of her crimson coat, they brushed against something soft. She hesitated, then slowly pulled it out—a handkerchief. The fabric was delicate, finely woven, and in the dim light, she could just make out the faint outline of an embroidered name in one corner: Euphy.

She stared at the name, her mind racing. Euphy. Was that her name? The word felt familiar, but no memories surfaced to confirm it. It hung in the air, offering a glimmer of identity in the vast emptiness of her mind. But it was just that—a glimmer. There was no certainty, only a fragile connection to something that might not even be real.

She held the handkerchief tightly, as if the name could somehow anchor her to the truth. But doubt gnawed at her. What if this wasn't her name? What if it belonged to someone else—someone important, someone she was supposed to remember? The more she tried to force the memory, the more her head throbbed, the pain making it impossible to think clearly.

Still, Euphy was all she had. It was a small, fragile thread in the vast darkness, but it was something. She folded the handkerchief carefully, slipping it back into her pocket, holding onto it like a lifeline.

Euphy. Whether it was her name or not, it was the only clue she had, and for now, it would have to be enough.