Buried in Concrete, She Wept With Regret

The iron door clicked shut. The basement had no windows, only a dim light bulb hanging overhead, its light streaming down like dirty water. The dampness clung to my skin, seeping into my bones. The walls were covered in white scratches from my fingernails, with dark red bloodstains in some places .

I stood up, but my legs gave way and I knelt down again, my forehead hitting the ground. My stomach churned, as if someone was churning it with an iron brush. I swallowed the acid in my throat, my tongue tasted bitter, and my vision blurred in waves.

The small window in the door opened, and a familiar fragrance wafted in first—not the musty smell of the basement , but the overly clean floral scent that Elena wore.

She pushed the tray in; the plastic bowl contained cold soup and a clump of misshapen rice. Next to it sat a syringe and a half-full glass of murky liquid.

I stared at the drink, my throat tightening involuntarily.

“Drink it.” Her voice was very soft, as if she were coaxing a child who didn’t understand. “Victor, don’t make things difficult for me.”

I want to say I'm not crazy, I don't need medication. But every time I open my mouth, it feels like my brain is being smashed open with a hammer, the pain so intense that I can only manage hoarse, breathy sounds. The memories I try to organize into sentences fly around in my mind like shards of glass, impossible to grasp, only cutting deeper.

I shook my head, my fingers digging into the ground until my knuckles turned white.

Elena sighed, knelt down, and brought the cup to my lips. Her fingertips were icy cold, yet carried a familiar intimacy that gave me the illusion that she was on my side.

"Have you forgotten?" She looked at me, her eyes as gentle as a thin film. "The people outside are looking for you. The underworld has put a bounty on your head, saying you cheated them out of their money. If you go out, you'll be chopped up and thrown into the sea."

My heart skipped a beat.

I'd heard this countless times; I could practically recite it by heart. The isolation of the basement, the medication, and her repetitive words felt like three iron locks on my mind. Whenever I tried to doubt, she would repeat the phrase "Going out means certain death," accompanied by an injection that made me dizzy.

I don't know what's outside, but I know the pain is real, the dizziness is real, and the vomiting is real. The scariest thing is—I can't prove whether what she said is true .

"Drink it, sweetie." She pushed the cup forward.

I bit down on the rim of the cup, like I was clinging to a lifeline. The liquid poured down my throat, spicy, bitter, and with a hint of pungent sweetness. A few seconds later, a surge of heat exploded in my stomach, rushing to the back of my head. The light bulb in front of me began to elongate, the walls swayed like water, and my ears buzzed.

I lay on the floor, retching, my palms bracing against the cold concrete. Elena stood up, her skirt brushing past my eyes, and the fragrance drew closer.

"I will protect you," she said through the door, "as long as you obey me."

The footsteps outside faded into the distance, and I drifted between illusion and lucidity. For a moment, I saw a strange hall, a long table, cold white lights, and many figures sitting on both sides. Someone tapped on the table, making a crisp sound. In another instant, it all turned to darkness, with only the damp, cold concrete floor against my face.

Thud—

The iron gate was kicked again, and dust fell in a flurry.

"Not dead yet?" David's voice was like a rusty knife scraping against iron.

The small window suddenly opened, a foot reached in, and kicked the tray over. Soup and rice grains spilled all over the floor, splashing onto the back of my hand and making me shiver from the heat.

“Useless.” David laughed loudly, as if looking at a dog. “A year has passed, and you can’t even stand up straight. Weren’t you quite the actor before? A conman?”

I looked up at him, my vision blurred. His face was distorted into two images under the light, one smiling, the other cursing. My temples throbbed, as if they were about to split open.

I wanted to argue, to say that I wasn't. But as soon as I opened my mouth, my tongue got tied up, and the sound I made was like a leaky whitish whisper.

David was about to kick me again when Elena's voice suddenly came from outside the door. It wasn't loud, but it made him stop.

"Don't hurt his hand."

David clicked his tongue, withdrew his foot, and said with even more malice, "Did you hear that? Your hands are valuable. Your life is worthless."

He closed the small window, and the sound of their hushed conversation could be heard outside, as if through water.

I lay down, feeling around on the ground with my fingers, picking up the food grain by grain. Dust clung to the rice, and mud mixed in the soup, but I still stuffed it into my mouth. My stomach churned immediately, but I dared not stop.

I have to live.

I swallowed the last bite, my throat burning with pain. Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably, dripping onto the ground where they were quickly absorbed by the cement.

The sound of footsteps returned outside the iron gate.

The small window opened, and Elena's eyes appeared in the narrow patch of light. She saw me kneeling on the ground, my face covered in tears, my hands stained with food and blood. She frowned slightly, as if disgusted by the dirt.

"You've made a mess of it again." There was no blame in her tone, only a hint of annoyance. "Give me your hand."

I instinctively reached out. She slipped a piece of hemp rope through the crack in the door, her movements as practiced as if she had done it countless times.

The next second, I realized what she was going to do.

"No...don't tie me up..." I struggled to pull myself back, my back slamming against the wall, making me gasp in pain. "Please...I'll be good, I won't go out, I won't go out—"

“Victor,” her voice suddenly turned cold, “you banged on the door last night, yelling that you wanted to get out. Do you want to die?”

I froze.

Last night's memories are shrouded in a black fog, leaving only fragmented images: I gripped the doorknob, my nails cracking, my throat hoarse as I called out a name—not Elena, not David. That name burned like a spark, but vanished in an instant.

I dare not think about it anymore.

“You’re the man with a bounty on your head.” She repeated each word carefully, as if brainwashing me. “I’m hiding you here to save you. The people outside want you dead. You only have me.”

She looped the hemp rope around my wrist, the rough fibers chafing my skin painfully. She dragged me to the rusty iron pipe by the wall, deftly wrapped it around twice, and tied a knot.

I struggled, and the rope immediately dug into my flesh.

"It hurts..." I trembled.

She paused for two seconds, as if finally remembering that I was also alive. The door opened, she walked in, her heels in the soup, frowning in disgust, but still bending down to hug me.

The hug was short and perfunctory, like labeling an object "soothed".

"Bear with it," she whispered in my ear, the fragrance filling my nostrils, overpowering the musty smell, like a gentle poison. "It'll be fine once this blows over."

My tears flowed even more, and I nodded as if grasping at the last straw.

“Okay…I’ll endure it…” I said in a hoarse voice, “I’ll be good…don’t leave me.”

Elena released her grip, took a step back, and glanced at my wrist, reddened by the rope, as if checking the tools for damage. Then, she turned and left, her skirt brushing the ground, without looking back.

The door closed, and the light bulb hummed.

I was tied to an iron pipe, my body slowly sliding down until I was kneeling. A headache surged up like a tide, and those fragments began to appear before my eyes again: a thick piece of paper covered with dense writing; a cold, hard seal, like an eagle's head; someone whispering in my ear, "Sign here."

I reached out to grab it, but the rope tightened even more, and a sharp pain shot through my wrist. The illusion shattered instantly, leaving only the bloodstains I had scratched on the wall.

I was panting, and I could hear my heart pounding, as if reminding me that I was trapped, and someone wanted me to be trapped forever.

Outside the iron gate, David's hushed voice could be faintly heard: "...Have you taken care of everything with Uncle? Does the board really believe he went overseas for recuperation?"

Another man's laughter came through the wall, muffled yet certain: "Of course. As long as the report is decent, plus some shares—who would chase after a 'missing' person?"

I couldn't hear much of what they were saying, but words like "board of directors," "shares," and "report" pierced my confused mind like needles.