Second Prize Story Winner
2025 Short Story Competition 

CONCRETE PROOF
By Julie Taylor

Trigger warning: Domestic violence.

It’s cold here. On the concrete floor.

I’m not sure how much time has passed. More than 24 hours, I think. It feels like an age. But I can’t be accurate. The darkness is a concealing cape. Interminable. Unending. Perhaps the warehouse doesn’t have windows. Or maybe they’ve been boarded up. I’m not wearing a watch, so I can’t be precise.

In fact, I’m not wearing anything.  Naked. Au naturel, as they say. In my birthday suit, the buff, the raw. Without a stitch.

I’m not sure where my clothes are. Maybe nearby. Barry ripped them off. Stripped me bare. He probably saw it as foreplay.

I’m not meaning to be sarcastic. Or flippant. Because I don’t think Barry knows the difference. Whether it’s sensuous foreplay or enforced coercion. Either way the result is the same. Sex. His conjugal right.

Except we’re not actually married. Not anymore. Not divorced either. Yet. So maybe we are married? A technicality.

Legally separated. With a protection order in place. I don’t believe the police will find it confusing. They won’t have to look too far to find the culprit.

There’s an odd smell. I can’t quite put my finger on it. A rather pointless idiom in this instance. My hands are bound.

But it’s an odd aroma. Musty sweat and old engine oil. A lingering, dank maleness. Not unpleasant. But not comforting either.

I hope someone will find me soon.

The warehouse has an abandoned feel to it. I’m guessing it’s been empty for months. For lease. Or even For Sale. Another business that hasn’t survived the economic crisis. A victim of Covid. Or business downturn. Why would anyone look here? For me?

I’m pinning my hopes on the nosy neighbours. They must have seen something. Barry dragging me from my home.  My shouts, screams. For some, I am a recluse. A quiet, unassuming ‘girl next door’. But others know me better. I have shared a little of my story. They keep an eye on me. A single woman. Under siege. A stalker ex. Surely, they have phoned the police. Or my family. I will be a missing person by now.  

They won’t have viewed my abduction as an April Fool’s Day stunt.

But will they connect the dots? Barry is a realtor. He knows this building is unoccupied. He may even have a key.

I hope he doesn’t return. To gloat. To glory in my involuntary submission.

But perhaps even his company would be better than nothing.

Silence.

I can’t shout. Or make a decent noise. In the unlikely event that someone is passing by. Barry has made sure that I can’t call for help.

I pray for divine intervention.

I am struggling to hold onto hope.

I am completely alone.

Internally, I am shrieking. HELP! PLEASE, SOMEONE FIND ME! SAVE ME!

Nothingness. Is that even a word? I don’t care. It’s how I feel.

Numb.

I can’t feel all my extremities. Fingers. Toes.

I know they exist. But there’s an absence of sensation. No concrete proof.

I rely on thought memories.

I remember therefore I am.

A simple equation.

The absence of sound seems other worldly. Without the usual urban soundscape, traffic, the neighbour’s television, music, birds, even kitchen or laundry appliances, the stillness creates an odd atmosphere. A feeling of remoteness.

I focus on small things. The seeping sensation of frigidity, as the coolness of the floor invades my body. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth.  The layers of shadow within the darkness. The lingering aroma of former machines, vehicles or tools. Perhaps this has been a workshop?

Then a rattle. Inexplicably. Out of nowhere. Someone testing the doors. Voices. Barking. A dog. There’s a dog. Maybe it’s picked up my scent.

A momentary surge of excitement. Which I try to suppress. It might be nothing. A random passerby.  I don’t want to fall victim to false hope.

There’s a brief hiatus. A momentary pause. Then a continuation of action. Different tapping and banging noises, as alternate entry points are assessed. Someone is definitely trying to get in.

I want to shout encouragement. To scream. To make a noise.

PLEASE DON’T GIVE UP! I AM HERE!

I am willing the person to continue their search. Or the dog. Even if the thing they’re looking for isn’t me, and my discovery is accidental. It’s the best chance I have.

I hear something else. A motor vehicle of some sort. More voices. Even shouting. There’s a weird graunching noise, then a loud clanking. Bolt cutters?

A rush of fresh air as a door opens.

OVER HERE! I’M OVER HERE!

I can see torchlight. Movement. Chaos. Yelping. I hope the dog can find me in the inky blackness.

Someone finds a light switch. The brightness is almost overwhelming. My surroundings become suddenly sharp. In focus.

“Oh my God!” The voice is shocked. I’m struggling to see who it is. A female, based on the pitch and tone. “She’s here! We’ve found her!”

I bless my neighbours. They must have alerted the authorities. Some great detective work has put them in the right location.

“Oh Christ!” a second voice. “We need an ambo. Medics. Forensics. Don’t touch anything without gloves. This is a crime scene.”

A flurry of calls.

There is a warm hand on my neck, testing my pulse.

“Don’t worry, Amy. We’re here now. Help is on the way.”

An officer is already pulling a camera out of a bag.

I know they need to take photos. I feel vulnerable. Exposed

“Can we get more light?’  The police photographer wants a clearer shot.

I understand the need for evidence. I applaud it. But I am so cold. The chill of the concrete is relentless. All encompassing. I crave a blanket.

There is a sudden flash. Quickly followed by several more. Once they have completed the photographs, perhaps they will untie me. Release me from this bondage.

More people are arriving. I can’t see them, but I’m aware of increased activity. Noise. Conversations. Movement.

Small bangs and thuds. Equipment is being carried in. Or that’s what I assume. The sound of zippers being opened. The clank of metal. There is a sense of urgency.

Lamps must have been erected. Because suddenly the glow of the florescent bulbs is eclipsed by something much more powerful. The light is intense. There’s nowhere to hide.

Another female voice. Authoritative.

“Please ensure you are following protocol at all times. An ambulance will be here in approximately fifteen minutes. We will transfer Amy as soon as practicable.”

Additional flashes. I feel over exposed.

A uniformed male crouches in front of me. His touch on my hands is gentle. Delicate. I see a gleam of metal in the overwhelming brightness of the warehouse. Then an unexpected tug on the rope that connects my wrists to my ankles. The binding is cut. Quickly. Expertly. He is wearing gloves. I imagine he is hoping to preserve any fingerprints. The officer is careful and methodical as he unwinds the rope and frees my limbs.

“There. That’s better.” His tone is respectful.

I am unable to move. To stretch out. I feel stiff. I have been left in this position for too long.

I hear snatches of conversation. Someone is talking about blood spatters. Perhaps they are trying to track my movement across the floor.

Barry dragged me here. Every movement painful as he hauled me across the concrete.

There is a sudden flurry of activity. It seems they have found my clothing. Or the remnants of what I was wearing.   

The garments are no use to me now.  But they may provide evidence.

I picture Barry in a prison cell. It is a pleasing image. I feel an inexplicable surge of hope.

“We’ll be moving you soon, Amy”. A female voice. There is a slight, reassuring pressure on my shoulder. She moves the strands of hair that cover my face aside. A tender, caring gesture.

“Oh, you poor bitch.” It isn’t an insult. She cares. I can hear the break in her voice.

My jaw is either broken or dislocated. There are abrasions along the side of my face. I look a mess.

Her fingers tremble as they trace my hair line.

I know she will be relentless in her quest for justice. Barry doesn’t stand a chance.

A gurney is being wheeled towards me.

“We need to be particularly careful as we move Amy.” Her professional voice is back in place. “She has multiple injuries. Externally and possibly internally.”

“I’ll need a complete forensic examination.” Her fingers gently sweep my hair back across my face, disguising my disfiguration. “And a time of death.”