Sooo I'm entering this for the Wattys. As a result, I'm editing the entire thing to improve and refine it.
Miles
The sun shines brightly over this little town, turning green leaves golden with its brightening rays leaving a soft warm glow tepid in this lazy afternoon. The temperature today is warm too, the heat prickling off my skin, my arms pale as snow sticking awkwardly from the sleeves of a dark blue t-shirt. I am on the way to the little shop not too far from my house to buy weekly groceries. I'm only thirteen, but it's been my responsibility to do the weekly shopping for a while now.
My mother has Stage 3 brain cancer - a malignant growth which often paralyses her in bed for days with severe headaches, and stiffness of her joints leaving her entirely incapacitated. The responsibilities of the household fall to me. I am also really good with money, which is helpful because we don't have much of it, and I know how to budget the small amounts we do have, integrating it into what we need most. My mother has always encouraged me to work with money in my adulthood but such a job sounds dreadfully boring.
As I turn the corner onto a low traffic suburban road, populated really only by 2 small businesses and some secluded gated properties, some sharp stones stab through the holes in my shoes. They were cheap and have been flimsy for a few weeks, and they leave small cuts and scrapes on my arches. They make it difficult to walk, and I kind of hobble across the street. When I enter the shop the door disturbs the bell above - a jingling announcement that a customer has entered. I smile brightly at the cashier, a spritely and kind older woman of Italian descent named Miss Vezza . She greets me with vigour, cheeks crinkling up in a pleased smile.
"Good morning Miles!" she greets with effervescent enthusiasm. I just smile sheepishly back, gripping the coins tightly in my pocket.
I duck into an isle, it's awkward seeing her when she's working. Miss Vezza is my one confidant, my only real friend, the person I can talk to when my thoughts get too dark; when everything just gets too much to handle. I take her for tea sometimes, save up for weeks just so I don't look too poor, I don't want to make her worry about me. I can't bare to put that burden on her. Then again, she must be poor too because she steals teabags from her fiancé. I'm really happy I met Miss Vezza, for I like making new friends. I crave conversation, don't think I could get by without someone to chat to for hours with. I wander through the isles having completely forgotten what I am here for, until I see the bakery section and laugh at my own forgetfulness. Duh, it's a weekly foods shop. Filling the basket with cheap and reduced items and having just enough left over for some candy too, I merrily gossip with Miss Vezza - probably for a bit too long. I love gossiping with her and hearing amusing tales from throughout her life. She used to be a teacher, you know.
"And how is your mother doing dear?" she asks as I pack my shopping.
I sigh, staring down at my feet. I don't want to talk about her right now, but who else can I talk to about it? And when? "Not great. She's been in bed all day," sometimes it seems like the chemo is killing her more than the cancer. She lies in bed all day, a visceral shell of fragile glass. A stationary object, inanimate and lifeless. I don't like thinking with way but it's horrifyingly true.
"I'm so sorry," Miss Vezza sheepishly stares at the counter, I know she feels bad for asking and doesn't know what to say. The register is right by the door so I grab my bag and silently walk out. I feel a little bad for not saying goodbye.
I look up and frown, for in the short time it took me to shop, the beautiful day is gone. The sun has been consumed by a hoard of dark cumulonimbus clouds encroaching on the beauty of a previously clear sky. Getting caught in the rain would be the icing atop this melancholic muffin but my feet hurt too much to run. I make it across the street just as the winds begins to pick up. The wind whistles and whips around my too-long hair, throwing strands of it into my watery blue eyes. It's irritating, so I look down to tie it back, fumbling for the hairband around my wrist. As I do it begins to rain, pouring so heavily that I feel the water soaking through my t-shirt.
Thunder claps overhead, making me jolt from the shocking noise. I look up in the hopes of catching a glimpse of lightning when I feel a hand clamp over my mouth. I look around frenetically but I don't see my assailant, who's body is pushed up behind me, their head buried in my nape. A deep voice growls, really close to my ear.
"You're all wet, little boy. Don't worry Miles, Doctor-Doctor is here to make it all better," his voice crackles in my ears and he sings each word, the syllables building in volume to a crescendo.
I struggle against this person but feel the energy drain from my body. The hand against my mouth is scratchy, and I realise they are pressing a rag against my nose. It's wet too, and as I start hyperventilating it makes me even weaker. I can't move my arms well. I reach out, my thoughts screaming for help, trying desperately to escape the clutches of this creepy weirdo. I only succeed in dropping my shopping bag, hearing it plop onto the moist pavement. I inhale sharply and everything goes dark. I lose consciousness, I lose everything. I fail.
*
Third Person
The Doctor drags the boy backwards, hoisting him up by his armpits into a narrow alleyway . It's weaving and secluded by dark tall evergreens. He made sure it can't be seen from the street unless someone is looking for it. There's an ancient CCTV camera unlikely to ever work again. Thankfully Miles is rather slim, so it isn't too difficult for the Doctor to manoeuvre his body through the tight space and into a disused parking space.
There's a rusty van parked here, white and anonymous. The Doctor bangs open the doors to reveal the storage space, empty apart from a padded chair bolted into the floor. At first glance it appears to be a dentist's chair, but up close one can see the decaying leather straps on the armrests and metal claw dangling secure clamps from the back. It's actually an old chair from the 1950s, the kind used by asylums to restrain patients. Usually for electroshock therapy. The chair is so old it's being held together by nothing but loose stitching so the folds of ripped leather hang over the metal sides to expose the loose padding. He would throw it out but this particular chair means a lot to the Doctor and he uses it to move all his new patients.
The Doctor straps Miles into the chair, although he is sure the restraints won't be needed. Miles put up quite the struggle when grabbed but he came down like a tonne of bricks once he had inhaled enough chloroform. The Doctor smirks crookedly, his grin splitting from ear to ear and as he watches his little sleeping beauty.
"You're so pretty Miles," the Doctor observes, caressing the boy's cheek with his calloused hand ad he looks upon the unconscious form with devotion. "You'll be such a good doll for me, we will have such fun together wont we?"
YOU ARE READING
An Apple A Day (Wattys2019)
Horror"Doc?" "Yes?" "Teach me to love you," A young boy, his view of normality shredded to pieces by the bleakness of his life, is kidnapped and kept captive by an insane doctor for experimentation and pleasure. It isn't long before the doomed souls fo...
