Desperate

I

I watched my mother die. She told me to stay upstairs, to protect my sister as four men broke through the door, gun muzzles trained on her. They didn't say a word. I saw her last hitch of breath, a spray of bullets piercings through her chest and stomach, ripping through her clothes into the sofa, the desk, the wall. It's weird, to think of how much blood is in the human body; I don't think you truly understand just how much someone can bleed until it all comes pouring out.

Everything after is fuzzy. They stormed the staircase, hands grabbing at my arms and shirt and legs, pulling me down. Something struck me, and everything after is sort of scattered memory. I remember feeling how hot my breath was in my mouth, hearing my chest take in and let out air. I tried to pace it, to hold on and look back, but I can't remember what I saw. It was a flurry of colors and shapes, distant shouting. A part of me doesn't want to remember, and all of me is terrified.

And then I ended up here, in this block of cement misery. From a crack in the wall comes a draft of dry, icy air that glances across my skin like the rags and tatters of what was once my shirt aren't even there. I think there might be some sort of engine or boiler above me, our only division a slab of rock where condensation seeps through and drips to the floor. When the machine wheezes to life overhead, its runoff collects in a pool of muddled brown toxins that I've found myself more and more tempted to drink with each passing minute, to soothe the burning itch in my throat, like thousands of papercuts lining the walls of my mouth, trailing down to my stomach. Everything is dry, I can't even muster the spit or strength to swallow.

Trying to speak seems like a painful and fruitless endeavor, so I haven't. Though, someone beckons me to. I've never met him before in my life; he's nothing more than skin and bones, with sunken in grey eyes and sickly white flesh draped in a cloth grey shirt. His hair is blonde and wispy--it almost glistens under the dull fluorescent fixture that illuminates our shared cell just barely. Everything here is devoid of color, which will probably include me in due time.

When I don't talk, he gives a crooked smile. He says his name is Jack, and that I'll get used to the cold quickly. He says that the shaking will stop, that the scrapes in my throat will numb. And, eventually, he says I'll forget about the others, my family. He says I have to, because that's the only way I'll survive.

II

I think I've got the pattern down. Once a day, sometimes between the third and fourth raspy sigh of the machine on the next floor, a soldier clad in red slides two trays in the slot between the rusted metal door and ground. Both contain identical contents: a slop of pasty white, which I've come to believe is some sort of half cooked rice, a piece of meat I'm not sure I want to identify, and, my favorite part, a single slice of fruit. The fruit varies, but most of the time it's a slice of apple or orange. Peach, if it's a good day.

I've never been so hungry in my life, all the time. I go to bed on an empty stomach, I get up on an empty stomach. Jack and I eat, if you can call it that--more like inhale with the intent of savages--sometime midday, but it's never enough to satisfy. My stomach bangs against my ribs and cries out in the middle of the night for more.

At least I have company, though. I don't think I could bear being here alone. And Jack's not a bad guy, either. Somehow, he manages to make jokes, and he loves to tell stories. On nights when the draft is bad, or our meal has been forgotten or ignored, he tells tales of wondrous places. A train without a track, miles long that chugs through the air in a stream of colors, curving down to make stops and pick up more passengers who see more than just a rainbow. Tiny glass castles occupied by magicians and nobles that take the form of mice in the walls, or a desert oasis that reflects your dreams, and when you dive in, you create your own imaginary world. I think Jack has had a lot of time to think up imaginary worlds like the ones he talks about; just once, he spoke about himself, when the soldiers dragged him back into the cell in a crumpled, bleeding pile. I don't know what happened to him, but between his groans, as he clung to breath, he told me, his voice broken, that he'd been locked up for almost four years.

I can't imagine living this way for so long. I won't. Someone will get us out; they just have to.

IV

Sleeping is the only thing that really makes time move. That and the occasional exercise I'm required to partake in, which usually involves running on a treadmill until I collapse, or swimming until I drown. During these activities the soldiers sticky censors, on my head, my chest, my back and wrists. What occurs beyond the glass is beyond me, but I have the distinct feeling I'm being watched.

Occasionally they take blood, or give a vial of something or another. There's a constant pulsating ache in my shoulders where I'm stuck, and a stiffness in my elbows. Sometimes the skin turns red and itchy. Jack rubs his raw, clawing away where they poke him. I've offered to try to help some how, but he's very uncomfortable with touch. Considering this place, what they do to us, I'm not surprised.

We're not the only ones here, in this hell. They didn't start taking me out of the cell until recently, but when they do, I'm chained and escorted down a block of cells, all with identical, impenetrable doors. Occasionally, I hear a voice or thud behind one. Is it selfish of me to be a little relieved that there are more of us?

V

Peaches have come twelve days this month. Once, we even got some grapes. I've gotten into the habit of trading Jack for his fruit slices. In exchange for half of my rice, he gives me any slice of fruit he gets that day and the next--barring apples, which are his favorite.

We've also begun to play games to pass the time. For instance, one of us closes our eyes and counts to fifteen. The other has that time to sneak as quietly as they can to one of the corners of the room. The person with their eyes closed wins if they can properly guess which corner their cellmate is in, and then we swap roles. We've also started making stories together. Jack will start, and I get to add a character or a place or a thing that happens, and he works off of it. And sometimes, we even trade knowledge. It turns out we both came from very different places. I came from a private academy, top tier, and I had some of the highest marks of my peers. Jack was a sports star, and while he loved learning, he was never very good in school. He's from a few towns over, where the people generally don't have as much money. Everyone loved him, though, for his sense of humor and how great he was at passing and shooting. His friends used to call him "Kicks." In exchange for the names and plots of movies and books that I've watched, he explains to me sports terms and strategies.

In all honestly, I really enjoy his company. Outside of this cell, I don't think either of us would have ever had the chance to meet. That's at least one good thing that's come from this place... even if it's the only good.

VIII

Something different happened today. There was an explosion, somewhere far away. I could hear it faintly, and it sent a tremor through the rock tomb Jack and I sit in, I could feel it under my toes and palms. Soon after, an alarm sounded. It reminded me vaguely of the obnoxious green clock in my room--belonging to my sister, who used it to rise herself from the slumbering dead every morning for school. She'd always smack it and go turn over, until Mom would beckon her down stairs for breakfast: a side of eggs, a side of bacon, and some toast, or perhaps cereal on a lazy day. It occurred to me that this is one of the first clear memories I've had in a few weeks.

The alarm here is bolder, more ominous. And it has Jack excited. With more energy than I've ever seen in him, he bolted to the door and begun pounding his fist against it, screaming with as much strength as he could muster to be released.

Eventually, he loses his voice.

The alarm subsides, and he slinks back, exhausted. A little later I asked him what he was trying to do. He replied, "Nothing." I didn't want to press him, so we spent the next few hours in silence until sleep.

XI

Jack is dead.

I woke to a putrid smell coming from the opposite wall, where he lay motionless. When the soldiers came for his routine activities, they checked inside, studied his body, and disappeared. Later they returned with a bag and dragged him out. Crying is lost to me; I can't manage a single tear. What's the point? He's gone, and being upset will do nothing. I only hope he gets a proper burial, though my instincts say that he will not.

XIV
I miss his stories. I miss his jokes, and his reassurance that one day things might be alright again. The only comfort I have now is counting. 784 is the number I've recorded in my head for the amount of times the machine upstairs has moaned.

784. Is it night or day? I don't know what time it is. Has my birthday gone by?

784. It's so lonely here; I wish I had some news about how the world is, if it still even exists. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe this is a dark void I've been stuck in. Am I in a coma? Somewhere in a hospital, with mom and Claire seated by my side, stroking my hand. And Jack is back in his home town, running across a lush, green field as the crowd cheers him on. With all his strength he'll shoot the ball, and it'll buzz right past the goalie's gloved fingers, into the back of the net. His team will yell his name as they win, lifting him onto their shoulders as he wields a beautiful gold trophy. He'll smile from ear to ear, raising it into the air for all the world to see his victory. He won't be dead.

784. This number is important to me. Why?