1I never knew what she did to make the guard help us. To sign the pass card that granted us access to the outside. And I never asked. She took me by the hand, her own callused from years of work yet still slim and feminine. The passcard was gripped firmly in the other. Not once did she meet my eyes as she led me off to the East Gate. To freedom for the first time in my life.
That was a few years ago now.
The cell floor greets its new companion with a cold, hard embrace. And through this act, it elicits its residence fee. Jars his weakened bones and with its course texture, takes a layer of skin from his elbows. Though, to what could seem like surprise for some, its companion took little heed of this hostility. He shifts his broken form, arms struggling to support and create leverage for his upper body until he can lay his back against the wall. Even in his dimly lit surroundings he finds it easily. Reaching it is the problem. It feels no different in temperature or solidity to the floor. Yet this simple act left him gasping for breath, his heart thudding painfully against broken ribs. It's strange though, even in his delirium, he knew that this pain was nothing compared to what rumours have said to be in store for him.
It doesn't take him long before he decides to push such thoughts away, perhaps out of an apathy brought on by fatigue or simply because he cannot tolerate the idea of his preposed fate. After all, a drowning person with water in their head will only sink faster. Isn't that what she had said, all those years ago? Whatever the case may be, with eyelids weighed down with exhaustion he begins to fade away. To think back. The darkness is slowly ebbed away, burnt away by a blinding white. When the present seemed far too disconsolate, he could always rely on memories to steal him away. They were now the sole reason he existed.
It had been quite a time since he had last laid eyes on ice. Snow flakes weightless in the winters breeze, balancing gracefully on the branches of surrounding tree that lined the inner courtyard. For years he could tolerate the numbing coldness, in exchange for the beauty of that courtyard. With each nights new coat of snow it would transform into an unmarred snowfield. So vividly he could still remember, watching his companions from the balcony. Heat sticks clutched in frozen fingers, tracing patterns in the snow with machine-like sweeps. These were more likely walkways for the Seditia family spanning both the interior and exterior grounds, than the product of artistic yet exceedingly bored household members. Their uniforms remained clearly visible in the snaking rows of snow, simple black with a silver emblem and strip on the left arm.
Yet it is strange how far more clearly he can remember her. No detail has dulled, faded with the heartache of time. Young, strong bodied and perhaps slightly curvaceous, it was always hard to tell in the uniforms. Face pale against the blinding white. Eyes as watchful and intelligent as ever in their grey depths. Even her scent, especially her scent, was preserved without flaw. However, it was her smiles, rare as they were, that he treasured the most. Despite their scarceness, he himself had had the honour of bringing about a few. Days would pass, their triumph or failure pivoting on whether he would be graced with one of her smiles, whether she would appear disconsolate or indifferent. She was everything-
"They're comin for ya," announces a charred voice from somewhere back in the darkness, tearing him from better times. The white field, and more importantly her amongst it, fades quickly. Sucked into the black oblivion in which memories such as this could never be created. Only a small amount of strength is needed to pry his eyelids open. He thinks perhaps it's the slowly accumulating weight in the pit of his stomach that is releasing the miniscule reserve of energy. His nerves start to tingle. Whether it's because of the startle his black drenched companion's sudden appearance gave him or because of the meaning his words carried, he cannot be sure. All he knows is that the darkness speaks the truth. The crisp click of boots on hard, cold cement confirms that much.
He sees little appeal in twisting to look out of the cell. Even if he wanted to, he doesn't believe he could move his body into the proper position to glimpse them as they come down the hallway. It matters little. Eventually they would reach him. Instead he turns his gaze inward, focusing on the people in the cell with him. No doubt companions of his. "It is true it stays with you forever?" He asks the amorphic black in a voice that rasps with two day thirst. Does he even recognise it as his own?
The footsteps slowly get louder.
A forlorn laugh echoes across the cell, feminine, too soft to determine a location. From the left corner or the right? Or perhaps the centre? He stares harder into the black, trying to separate it into discrete human forms. "As long as the skin is there, it will stay. It will stay." moaned someone, elderly, male. There, slightly left from the right corner. He could see them move as they spoke. He squints harder, trying to visualise a face. And slowly, ever so slowly, one begins to appear. Shades of black discerning the white skin of a house companion, a large nose and matted grey beard.
The foot steps are closer, much closer now.
"And even if you cut off the skin…they will know. They always know. And they will find you. Believe me, they will find you." The old man twists in the dark, struggles. distinguished folds of clothing are pushed up. Moved out of the way to reveal something. The cells newest friend cranes his head forward, gazing at the unusually dark patch against his companions pale skin of the shoulder blade. It seems like a wound of some sort, a hole not deep enough to hit the bone, but definitely not superficial. Spatters of a dull white dapple the black, standing out , probably puss. It has no dressing on it, just a raw wound. For a moment he was wistful. It was times like these that he wished he had been chosen for the role of doctor rather than his chosen profession.
The footsteps are almost deafening now. He can feel his companions, the very air tense.
Yet worse than this is the silence that follows far too quickly.