I take a hesitant step forward. The figure moves back in response. I pause, my brow furrowing. It seems afraid of me, but that can’t be right. I stumble a little and reach out my hand. The figure steps back again. Maybe it’s confused.
“H-Help me,” I say, and my voice sounds like I haven’t used it in a thousand years, which strikes me as strange. How long have I been here? Oh God, could it have been days? Or worse, much, much worse, years?
The thought propels my feet forward, and I stumble like a puppet on strings with my near-useless legs. The figure retreats until it’s backed against the wall. I continue after it and fall against its body. I cling to its arms to keep my weak body upright. The figure makes a choked sound of surprise, and I begin to babble out pleas. “Help me, please. I don’t know where I am or what’s going on. Please. I won’t hurt you, I promise. I just need to know how to get out of here. How long have I been here? Oh my God. Please help me.”
The pleading clears my thoughts and cuts through the panic. Only it’s not my own voice I’m hearing, but that of the figure I’m clinging to, who is fighting to pull away from me like my mere touch causes it immeasurable pain.
“Helpmehelpmehelpme,” it begs.
It seems to collapse, and I fall with it to the floor, banging my elbow in the process. I’m torn between my natural response to help and my surprise at the gall of this creature, my captor, to beg me to help it. The anger slices through my sorrow, my tears. I scramble away and to my feet. Without my nearness, it seems to blink away its daze, mimicking my movement.
My vision clears, and I find myself stumbling back from the alien-like being in front of me. My throat closes around the sound of surprise, suppressing it.
He’s seven feet tall, possibly taller. Massive in the shoulders and thighs. Hands nearly the size of dinner plates. His size alone would be manageable if it weren’t for the ghastly white color of his skin that shines as though it’s iridescent. The jet-black color of his closely-cropped hair and opaque, fathomless quality of his dark eyes contrast against the paleness of his skin. A suit made of some sort of rubbery material covers everything but his face, neck, and arms. It reminds me of an insect’s exoskeleton.
In short, if I was scared before, the massive something standing in front of me increases that tenfold. At least until it appears that he seems more scared of me than I am of him.
I realize this is my chance. I could cower and succumb to the panic and fear, but that won’t get me the answers I need to get out of here and go home. I suck back the rest of my tears and take several deep breaths to calm myself.
You got this, girl. You can do this.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Stepping forward only makes him press back into the wall, so I hold my ground. “I’ll help you.” The words taste as bitter as the smoke still lingering in the room.
He presses his large hands over those odd eyes and clutches his head as though suffering from an excruciating migraine. Groans rumble in his immense chest, almost lion-like.
Is he hurt? Did whatever cause the fire hurt him, too? From a short distance away, I observe his body for wounds, but aside from hideous scars on his forearms, I don’t see any others. Unless they’re internal.
I need to calm him down enough to get some answers, so I do the first thing that comes to mind. The same thing I’ve done to soothe countless times before.
I sing.
First, I hum softly, which seems to calm him somewhat, but he’s still shaking and clutching at his head. His sharpened, elongated nails dig into the forgiving flesh of his forearms. I pick the first song that comes to mind and fumble through the words with my unused voice, sounding more like a bull-frog than anything. But it stills his hands.
Singing “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor to an alien has to be the weirdest thing I’ve ever done.
Slowly, torturously, he begins to calm. His trembling eases, though his legs buckle, and he nearly collapses again. When the song ends, I restart it because I’m afraid if I do anything else, my own panic will come back. I go through it three more times before his eyes find mine again, and his hands clench by his sides, still. Blood oozes from his arms, dripping onto the floor between us.
I slowly approach him, softly crooning the last lines of the song. “Are you all right?” I dare to ask.