I’ll never be able to repay him. I also don’t think I’ll get the chance. We’re not getting out of this place alive. That much we both know. I don’t know why he continues to step in for me or why they don’t grab me themselves. I’m hungry and weak; my muscles atrophy more every day. The chains around my wrists limit my movement, and I’m unable able to stand.
Someone with a mask and bad taste in shoes tosses metal dog dishes with foul-smelling meat of some sort to the concrete floor and toes it over until we can reach. Another meal served on a silver platter. I laugh, delirium setting in. “I’m not eating anymore of that shit.”
“Eat,” Cruise says. “Keep what energy we have.”
“How do we know they aren’t poisoning us?”
He swallows a mouthful, holds up his chained wrists, then replies, “Because that would be painless, and it’s obvious they want us to suffer.”
“Sara Jane once made this casserole dish. It had ground beef on the bottom—”
“Shut up, King. Eat.”
Bending down like a dog, I take a bite.
*
Morning comes and we see the light as it drifts across the wall, the sun rising. I look over at Cruise—new bruises mar his pretty-boy face. “The girls are going to love you. You already had the bad-boy act down. Now you look like you can actually hold your own.” I tease to lighten the doom, but I feel like shit, seeing him busted up.
“The girls already love me.” He smiles as he winces in pain.
“How’s the other guy look?”
A chuckle sticks heavy in his chest and ends in coughing.
I force myself to chuckle to keep his spirits up. This is how we operate—give and take. Take and give. Staring at the cracks near the ceiling where the light shines bright, I whisper, “Hey Cruise?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for being my friend, for having my back, for—”
“Fuck that, King. Those are dying words. I’m not ready to die, are you?”
“No.” Turning toward him, I exhale. “But we don’t know what they want.”
“You,” he answers without hesitating. “They want you.”
“But they don’t take me. They take you.”
“They’re just going to take everyone else around you and make you watch.” There are only two people I care about. Cruise knows this already.
Him.
Sara Jane.
They know about Cruise, whoever they are. But do they know about Sara Jane? Do they have her already? My hands fist, and I hit the cinder blocks that surround me. I hadn’t even thought about them having Sara Jane. If they hurt her . . . touch one hair on her head—I look at the chains and throw my arms out in anger, the dirty metal slicing into my skin. She’s alive. I know she is. I would feel it if she wasn’t. I have to hold on to that, to her, in any way I can because she keeps me going.
Whoever is in that heaven above we so desperately want to reach, please, protect my Firefly.
Fuck.
*
Separately, we’re each taken from the room twice a day to use the toilet. Guess that wasn’t a feature they thought of having when they built what we call our cell. Weeks in, whatever it’s been, my body is revolting. Every time I leave, it’s more noticeable, but I refuse to look weak in front of them. I refuse to let them see they’re breaking me.
Led by a guy with a gun held to our heads, we walk down the corridor along the large silver pipes that buzz loudly. This is why screaming never worked. Wherever we are, wherever these pipes lead to, nothing will be heard above them. Once in the filthy bathroom, we’re given a few minutes of privacy. My mind drifts like it does in that casket of a room. I’ll die there. Or in that closet they love to torment me with, but I’ll die with her beauty filling my thoughts . . .
Her hair blows in the wind, her mouth a shade darker than the natural pink of her lips, her eyes watching me. It should have been the best day of her life. All her work has paid off, but my Firefly doesn’t even seem aware of the graduation festivities or the congratulations. Not the presents, or the hugs. Her eyes close with each person she embraces but when they open, they find me immediately, and a small smile appears.
My memories are better to visit than this disgusting toilet. I barely piss anymore much less the other. My body’s shutting down. The ache in my side is growing with each passing day. Walking with my arms at my side, the metal cuffs are still heavy even without the chains attached. I couldn’t successfully fight my way out, if I even had the strength to try. Instead of physical warfare, I go for mental. It’s the only chance I have, though this guy never answers me. “You going to fill me in on why I’m here?”
That question never receives a response, so I move to the next. “How much are you making? I can pay more.”
The offer is never accepted. I usually get a grumble from it though. Today, I’m not even rewarded with that. “Why’d you bring Cruise into this?” I say his name to the guy with the gun as often as I can. It will humanize him in ways I think this guy’s disconnected. If I can’t save myself, I’ll try my damnedest to save my best friend.
Thrown back in the cell with Cruise, I stumble when pushed. Landing on my hands and knees, and staring at the dirty concrete I’ve been forced to endure day in and day out, I vow right then, I will take these motherfuckers down even if it is done with my last breath.
The chains are attached to the shackles, and a gun is still held so close to my head I can feel the cold barrel. I feel the minutest movement. The ski mask is fitted down to the base of his throat, but when he looks up, that divot is exposed. With light from the sun sneaking in, I study the metal around my wrists and watch as he turns the gun on Cruise, tapping his head with that same barrel.
Cruise glances at me, and I nod just enough for him to know—do whatever it takes to protect yourself. I won’t forget him, but he needs to forget me. He needs to save himself. “You fucking fight.”
“I’ll fight till the end, but if I don’t return, I’ll see you in the afterlife.”
“Fuck that. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
He’s shoved to the ground just outside the door, and I hear a faint “Fuck you,” in true Cruise style once it’s shut.
Along with Firefly, he’s the strongest person I know. She’s never far from my mind, but I think about her more frequently, not in the memories, but because I know she’s next. Cruise has been here long enough to know their plan doesn’t work—whatever their plan is. They’ll move to the next tactic, and I don’t think the answers for the questions I ask will matter anymore.
It may be ironic that what got me into this mess was searching for answers. Now I have none where it concerns my mother’s death, and I’m certain I’ll be left with even more for mine.
31
Sara Jane
This office becomes my solace. Who knew I’d find more comfort among the dark walls that belonged to a monster than in the place my Alexander used to call home.
I’m lost without him and becoming angrier each passing day. I want to throw things, hack down the rose bushes, and burn this manor to the ground. I want to be rid of all the reminders this place represents. But Alexander will still be gone.
Without a word.
Without knowing what happened.
He just left.
Left the manor.
Left me behind.