Hi there, i am a new member and i have been dying to upload this extract from a story i am currently working on entitled 'A Lifetime of Regret'. Please read and offer me constructive criticism which will be thoroughly appreciated and noted.
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As the first rays of sunlight were cast through the gaps between the iron bars in the prison cell, James Paul Verne slowly opened his eyes, disturbed by the sudden light. His view gradually came into focus, showing him the now familiar sight of the 8 by 9 cell. He had lost count of how long it had been since he had last breathed fresh air, tasted clean water, smelt cooked wholesome food. Every day felt the same, there were no minutes, hours, weeks, months, there was only time, endless time.
He slowly stretched his arms outwards, hoping to keep his muscles loose, not allowing them to tighten up, as there was no other form of exercise he could perform in such a small space. As he stretched his arms, he let out a well deserved yawn, after not sleeping for multiple nights, in fear of what was in store for him when he woke up, if he went to sleep. His eyelids felt very heavy, as they had not had any rest, so he brought his hands up to his eyes and rubbed them vigorously, as if to remove some of this tiredness from them. As he brought his hands down from his eyes, they brushed his bristly, overgrown beard. He twirled his index finger around a lock of hair on his beard, feeling as if it was his only companion in this terrible void. His beard showed his only act of freedom – it was up to him what to do what he wished with it, although there was not much he could do with it without the aid of a razor or some sort of cutter. His beard was his only possible way of telling how long he had been imprisoned for – it had now grown down to his chest and didn’t show any signs of stopping there. Like his beard, his children were too growing and he yearned to embrace them and his wife. It had been so long since he had felt the touch of their hands and sensed the warmth of their love for each other. If only he had not left for work on that fateful night, that dreadful weekend when the conflict that was brewing for so long, finally came to the boil and was unleashed upon the country.
The conflict between the Mantu clan and Zeki clan in Milejah had been going on for a long time and he had been working as a journalist in the field, conducting secret interviews amidst the dispute and violence. He was in his hotel room, on a Saturday night, when he received a call from his colleague, saying that the leader of the Zeki clan had finally agreed to an interview in which he would explain everything. Seizing this once in a lifetime opportunity, Verne quickly left his room and got into his Land Rover and travelled to the shabby, worn, deserted Hotel Lutu, which the Zekis had taken to use as their main headquarters and safehouse. Upon arriving at the hotel, Verne noticed that the area was more deserted than he would have thought it to be – there wasn’t a single Zeki in sight, no one seemed to be guarding the building. He parked in a side road, just off of the main road that the hotel was on and turned off the engine. He opened his glove compartment and grabbed a wad of notes, which he had packed together just before his colleague called him. He put the notes in his trusty shoulder bag and proceeded to thoroughly check through his bag, to make sure he had everything he needed. He quickly went through a mental list, checking each one off as he went through them – Notepad, Pen, Contact Card, and Voice Recorder. He paused and then chose to remove the voice recorder from his bag. There was no point in taking it in, the guards, if there were any, would almost definitely search him and would not want him to record anything the leader said – they would not want anything to be used against them, if a matter arose, which required evidence. He opened the jeep door, which let out a moaning creak, breaking the calm silence of the night. He stepped out of the car onto the uneven cobbled ground. He slammed the door shut and locked the vehicle. He swung his bag over his shoulder and proceeded towards the hotel. It was a crisp night, there was a slight breeze and not a cloud in the sky, the moonlight was illuminating the entire street, casting eerie shadows all over the walls of the various abandoned buildings, scattered randomly around the street. He arrived at the steps of the foreground of the hotel, leading to the huge oak doors, which provided access to the hotel. He took a deep breath to clear his head, before climbing up the stairs and towards the doors. He staggered up the final steps and towards the door. It was evident from the door that the Zekis wanted to keep the hotel as inconspicuous as possible. The door showed no signs of forced entry whatsoever and looked to be in the same condition that it would have been in, when the owner left the hotel, with a few signs of weathering, due to lack of treatment. It was clear that this clan was highly intelligent and therefore highly dangerous, as they had managed to take over the entire hotel, without making it noticeable to any outsiders. Verne had only come to know that they had obtained this place, through a colleague, who themselves obtained the information from an ‘inside source’.
He clasped the large brass knocker and struck it firmly three times against the door. He waited for a minute or two, but there was no answer. He started to panic; maybe this was all a set up, maybe they had brought him here to eliminate him, maybe his colleague who called him was in on it too. However, his mind was soon put to rest, when the door slowly opened, revealing a sliver of light inside. He leaned in closer towards to door, trying to see if anyone was behind it. He then heard a voice mutter, “James Verne?” He quickly replied, “Yes. I was told to come here to conduct an interview with your leader.” “Indeed.”, the mysterious voice replied. The door then opened fully and Verne came face to face with a man approximately the same size as him, but of twice the build. He was wearing combat trousers and a tight tank top, both black. He was virtually a silhouette, with the little light behind him, as very little of his facial features could be seen at all. He had his left ear pierced, with a small eagle shaped stud in it and a distinctive scar across his left cheek. Verne had literally frozen in his spot and after patiently waiting for a few minutes, the man decided to break the silence. “Follow me and don’t wander off.”, he told Verne, who immediately came back to his senses and nodded nervously.
The man turned around and trudged along, dragging his heavy feet across the wooden floor. Verne followed closely, all the while quietly muttering to himself prayers, in hope that the Lord would protect him, if anything did happen to go wrong. As he followed the man, who he assumed was a guard, he observed the interior of the building, trying to see how the clan lived and seeing if he could identify any thing, which might tell him more about the way they operated. As they climbed a flight of stairs, Verne observed that several of the doors to rooms, were chained shut, with clear signs on them, telling anyone that approached, not to go in there. His eyes darted to and fro, trying to search for more objects, which would provide him with a good background of the clan and their methods of action. Verne, in his struggle to find objects of meaning, failed to see that the man leading him, just a few metres in front of him, had come to a halt and was now staring directly at him. “What do you think you are doing?” the man bellowed. Verne froze, his eyes quickly darted to the man, who was now frowning. “Erm...I’m just admiring the wonderful place you’ve got here.” The words disgusted Verne as he spat them out. He knew that the man would not believe that pathetic excuse; he knew what Verne was up to. However the man decided to play innocent and flashed Verne a broad smile, revealing badly treated teeth, then turned around and continued walking. They soon reached a hallway, which had several doors on either side. The man walked up to a door, which had three scrapings, etched into it, forming into an almost a paw-like print in the middle of the door. The paw print had above it a plague, which read ‘The Hunters will soon become the hunted’. Before Verne had time to even process what this phrase might mean, the man knocked on the door, and then took a step back, awaiting an answer. Verne was getting very nervous at this point and began to impatiently twiddle his thumbs, thinking of no other way to vent his frustration at what a fool he had been to try to lie to the guard. The door opened and a grim faced man grunted, “Come on”, then returned back inside the room, pausing only to briefly glare at Verne. The guard lead the way, strolling through the doorway, but then he paused, and then turned to face Verne. “Actually wait for a second; I need to tell the leader something in private. I will call you when I am finished. Understand?” Verne nodded in acknowledgement. The guard walked hurriedly into the room, closing the door behind him.
Verne was nervous, as this was a milestone in his career and would earn him great respect back in his home country. In his mind, Verne ran through all the questions he had been preparing for this interview and ran his hands through his scruffy hair, in a feeble attempt to make it sleek and make his appearance somewhat presentable. He opened his shoulder bag and pulled out the notepad and pen. He turned the notepad to a fresh page and wrote the title ‘Interview with Leader of Zeki Clan’. Immediately after doing this, Verne heard a hoarse voice from behind the door, telling him to come in. As he moved his hand towards the doorknob, he realised that his hands ware clammy, from being so anxious, so he quickly rubbed them on his dirty trousers, before firmly gripping the doorknob with his right hand, turning it and opening the door.
Upon entering the room, the first thing that struck him, was the leader himself. He was a stout man, sitting in a wooden chair, holding a rifle in his hands, cradling it as if it was his first born child. With his eyes, he motioned to Verne to sit in the chair opposite him, so Verne warmly took his invite and quickly sat down. The leader spoke softly and gruffly, appearing to have a frog in his throat, “Thank you for your presence Mr. Verne. I trust that you came alone”. “Of course”, Verne replied, “I’m a professional and I work alone”. “Good, then proceed with your interview, I am happy to answer any questions you have”. “Very well”, Verne responded
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