He sits there as he usually do, strumming music as ancient as his soul might have been.
It is a song I’m not familiar to, or maybe because of years of captivity in this underground nothingness, where every day is night and all colors merge into black, I already forget the songs I once enjoyed listening to, songs of love, of fun, of sadness, and anything that is pop and in hype.
I don’t know what’s happening above now. I don’t even know how I came to be alive until now. I don’t even know why I am here.
But I count.
I count the days since I got here. And that’s what he didn’t know.
And that’s why I know something weird is going on, not just because he kidnapped me in which I could recall just like yesterday, but because I’m stuck here in a rut, in a cold underground bunker, with nothing but him and his heavenly ancient music I anticipate everyday that is now as constant as the steady beating of my heart.
And he’d never given me anything yet I still exist.
No food, no water, no anything. Just the music that wakes me up each day, making me mark another day.
It’s been 55, 482 days now.
And I’m born in 1911.
– – –
In response to #FWF Free Write Friday: Time and Place Scenario.
And as requested by A. I. Sajib, here is my promise little fiction for you! Though I’m not entirely sure this would fall as ‘cute’ one. 🙂