by M L Sparrow
“What’s takin’ so long?” The door jerks open and I leap away from the window. “I got things to do today beside babysit you.”
“Well, you could always let me go and I would cease to be a problem, wouldn’t I?” I reply sweetly, ignoring my racing heart as I turn to glance at him over my shoulder. He just narrows his eyes and I turn back to the sink. “I just need to wash my hands.”
Holding my hand under the tap, I frown slightly when it doesn’t immediately gush with water, waving my hand back and forth in front of where the sensor should be. Behind me, the man chuckles. Turning fully to face him this time, I quirk a brow questioningly, “Is there something you’d like to say?”
“Yeah,” he snorts, “you’re gonna have to turn the tap.”
“What?” I frown. An irritating smirk etched on his lips, he moves forward, getting so close that I can smell his breath and have to lean away, and reaches around me, twisting one of the knobs on either side of the tap. For a moment nothing happens, but then the tap begins to gurgle and a second later water burst violently from the end of the nozzle, making me jump. At first it comes out a dirty brown, then turns a pale yellow as it continues to run.
“That’s as good as it’s gunna get, love,” I can see the man’s sneer in the mirror as he moves back to the door, “better wash your hands quick, before it stops altogether.”
Hiding my disgust because I don’t want him to mock me, I dip my hands under the cold water, asking, “Soap?”
“This ain’t the Ritz.”
“But it is a human dwelling,” I mutter under my breath, “cleanliness isn’t much to expect.”
“Not everyone can afford to live in the lap o’ luxury, Your Highness.”
Chapter 4
After our visit to the toilet, I get escorted back to my room – strange that I’ve already started to think of it as such – where I am left. For what feels like forever. The indecipherable period of time is only broken by someone bringing food three times a day and coming to take me to the toilet every few hours. The days meld together so that I don’t know when I should be asleep and when I should be awake.
At first I spend my time attempting to escape, but that proves to be impossible; the floor is cold hard stone, the walls hard-packed earth. I attempt to wrench free the floorboards that make up the ceiling, but all I end up doing is filling my hands with splinters. Next I try to break the old fashioned lock on the door; I can’t pick it because I don’t know how and, even if I did I have no instruments, but in pure desperation I attempt to dig my non-existent nails under it and prise it from the wood. Needless to say that doesn’t work either.
Briefly I consider ambushing the next person who comes into the room, but I can already predict how that will end… with me on the floor, probably bleeding. Therefore, out of ideas, I simply recline on the bed, scowling up at the light bulb, and let despair swallow me whole. However, twelve bland, boring meals later I’ve finally had enough. Rage replaces desolation.
Getting up, I slam my palm against the door, again and again until my skin burns, all the while screaming at the top of my lungs, “Let me out of here you ugly, good-for-nothing rat bastards. I want out. Out, out, out!” No response. Nothing but my own voice echoing back at me.
Kicking the door, though useless, is satisfying. Watching it shudder in its frame and hearing the thud prompts me to do it several more times, each with more force than the last. I continue to scream, wordless sounds of anger, until my throat is raw and even then I don’t stop. I can’t; I’ve opened the flood gates and now have no way to close them. It takes all my strength, but I manage to tip over the bed, flinging the sheet and pillow across the room. The pillow hits the light and makes it swing wildly on the wire, knocking into the ceiling.
In the next instant I am plunged into darkness.
Instantly frozen, I blink in surprise, listening to the pounding of my own heartbeat and the tinkling of glass as it falls to the floor. The dark is sobering. It makes me feel lonelier than ever. However, I’m not alone for long; the pounding of footsteps on the stairs precedes my visitor before a key scrapes in the lock and the door is flung open.
“What the…?” the owner of the voice flicks the light switch a couple of times, then retreats when nothing happens, closing the door behind him. Tears fill my eyes; I couldn’t tell who it was from those two hushed words, but I had hoped they would stay. I don’t want to be alone anymore. It’s strange really, I’d been alone most of my life, left to entertain myself from an early age, but I’d never felt loneliness like this before.
Stumbling over to the door, glass crunches beneath my boots and I’m glad I kept them on, I bang against it. “Please,” I croak, “it’s dark in here. Please, I want to come out. I don’t want to be on my own anymore.”
When the person doesn’t return, I drop to the floor, sitting with my knees pulled up to my chest and my arms wrapped around them, head bowed as silent tears pour down my face unchecked, periodically kicking at the door. I’m so absorbed by my sorrow that I don’t hear the footsteps approaching, or even the key turning in the lock. In fact, it is only when the door opens, forcing me to scramble backwards to avoid being squashed, that I realize. Splinters of glass bite my fingertips, just as a blinding light appears.
Ducking my head, I lift an arm to shield my face from the blaze, slowly lowering it as my eyes adjust. Standing in front of me, torch in hand, is none other than the tyrant leader of the band of rebels holding me hostage. Looking up into his face, I realize that this is the first time I have seen it without its mask of shadows: he has aristocratic features, a strong jaw, high cheekbones and those haunting eyes which seem to see straight through me. Though a little too long and uneven, as if he had simply hacked it off with a rusty knife when it became too unmanageable and then never bothered to even it out, his hair is the most beautiful blond, glimmering like sunshine in the torch light. I catch my breath; he could have been stunning under different circumstances, if he had lived somewhere else. As it was his good looks were underscored by the half-starved state of his body and the mercenary gleam in those steel blue eyes. There is something strangely familiar about him, but I immediately dismiss that idea; I would remember if I had met him before and it’s not like we run in the same social circles.
Sin cocks his head slightly to the side. “What are you doin’ on the floor?” Without waiting for an answer, he angles the torch up towards the dangling wire, where the remains of the light bulb hang, swaying gently. Whistling between his teeth, he says casually, “At first I thought we’d had another power cut, but the lights are workin’ upstairs, so I figured there was somethin’ wrong with the bulb. I wasn’t far off.”
Pushing to my feet, I take a hasty step back as he moves further into the room and I notice that in his free hand he holds another, unbroken bulb. Glass crunches beneath my boots, directing both our gazes downwards. Reaching out, he snags my elbow and draws me away from the mess, pushing me towards the corner furthest from the door. “Go stand over there, before you hurt yourself.” Instead of going where he bids, I edge towards the door, but he glances back at me, in the process of righting the bed and dragging it to the centre of the room so that he can use it as a stand to replace the bulb. “I wouldn’t. I’ll catch you before you even reach the hatch and, if I don’t, there are men posted at every exit.”
I’m not certain if I believe him; surely a Ghetto organisation could not be so well organised, but he sounds so certain that it gives me pause and my gaze drops to the floor, catching upon a shard of glass glittering in the pale light that falls down on it from the room above. The bed spring creaks as he climbs upon it, removing the remains of the old bulb, before quickly and proficiently replacing it with the new. While he is distracted I crouch to snatch up the deadly fragment, tucking it away in the pocket of my jacket, which I constantly wear to combat the cold down here; I no longer see the advantage of making a dash for it because he’s right, I will be caught almost instantly, but if I hav
e a weapon maybe, just maybe, I could use it to help me escape. As I straighten, I become aware of his gaze on me and the blood heats in my veins, fear making my heart beat faster. However, he doesn’t say anything, simply jumps down and steps over to the light switch, flicking it on and bathing the room in bright, yellow light.
“Where are you going?” I blurt out as he moves to leave.
“Gunna get a dustpan and brush,” he replies without looking back, once more shutting the door on me.
By the time he returns I have composed myself, wiped the drying tears from my face, retied my hair and worked myself back up to the suitable level of indignation. As soon as he walks into the room, I throw back my shoulders and lift my chin, declaring, “You can’t keep me here.”
“I see you’re feelin’ more yourself,” he comments, kicking the door shut behind him and crouching to sweep the splinters of glass into the pan.
“What are you going to do now?” I ask despite myself, as he pushes the bed back into place and tosses the pillow and sheet carelessly on top of it.
“Now I’m gunna go back to bed, so if you wouldn’t mind saving your tantrum ‘til mornin’…”
“Tantrum?” I repeat, my voice low and dangerous, before rising to an enraged shriek, “Tantrum! Are you serious? You kidnap me, destroy my robot, lock me in a cold, dark room and now you think that my being angry is somehow unreasonable!”
“The room wasn’t dark until you broke the light,” he interrupts, his voice infuriatingly reasonable.
“There are no windows,” I snap, “It’s underground. These conditions are inhumane. You know what else is inhumane? I haven’t had a shower in forever. I stink!”
Considering me, with his head tipped to one side, he finally says, “You’re right, you do stink. Follow me.”
I grit my teeth. I want to hit him again, but even my angry pride won’t get in the way of a nice, cleansing shower and so I follow him as he heads up the stairs, dogging his footsteps down the hall and around the corner, striding past the toilet and up another flight of stairs.
“Here,” Sin opens a door on the second floor, motioning for me to enter, though he doesn’t move out of the way and I have to duck under his arm, pushing at him to get past. As soon as I step inside, he crowds in behind me, shutting the door and sliding the bolt across.
Spinning on him, I scowl, “What do you think you’re doing?”
Snorting, he smirks at me, “Sorry, darlin’, but there’s a window in here and I don’t trust you not to make a run for it. I’ll turn my back, I swear.”
“Like your word means anything to me,” I sneer, curling my lip derisively and setting my hands on my hips.
“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, unbolting the door and reaching for the handle, “let’s go.”
Standing stock still, eyes wide, I gape at him. “Are you serious?”
“Yep,” he makes the word pop, which grates on my already raw nerves, “if you wouldn’t mind hurrying, I want to get back to bed, it’s been a long day.” When I refuse to move, he turns back around and tilts his head questioningly, a habit of his I’m beginning to become accustom to, “Do you want a shower or not?”
Pressing my lips together to prevent any nasty insults slipping out and ruining my chance to finally feel clean again, I nod. He’s silent and for a moment I think he’s going to make me say the words, thereby slaughtering my remaining supply of pride, but he simply nods and secures the door once more, pointing to the shower cubical as he strides over to the window, standing with his back to me.
Staring at those broad shoulders, I wonder if he will actually keep his word, but then I decide I don’t really care and begin stripping out of my clothes, leaving them in an untidy pile on the floor. Stepping into the cubical, I curl my toes against the plastic of the shower tray and reach out to fiddle with the dials. They’re rusted and stiff, but I finally manage to turn the shower on and am immediately assailed by a downpour of freezing cold water. Yelping, I leap backwards, almost slipping in my haste to escape the deluge.
Hearing a chuckle from across the room, I turn to ascertain that he isn’t peeking and find, much to my surprise, that he has so far kept his promise. Fidgeting in the corner, I furtively stick my hand under the spray only to yank it back immediately; the water hasn’t warmed even a single degree. There is nothing I hate worse than a cold shower, however, I realize that Sin won’t be patient forever, so I pluck up my courage and force myself to step beneath the showerhead. The moment the water touches my skin it prickles with goose-bumps and I shiver uncontrollably, but still I remain, grabbing up the slither of white soap that’s sitting in the soap dish and lathering myself up. Dirty water swirls down the plughole as I scrub myself clean. There’s no shampoo or conditioner, so I use the soap for my hair too, though it smells generic and musky, unlike the exotic floral scents I usually prefer.
By the time I’ve finished, I’ve grown accustom to the freezing water and each drop no longer gnaws a hole in my skin, so I stay beneath the spray for a little while later, lifting my face to it and actually enjoying the way it cascades over my face and makes my hair heavy.
All too soon, however, an unwelcome voice intrudes, “Stay in there any longer and you’ll freeze.”
Just for that I take my time giving my hair one last rinse through, even though I can no longer feel my fingertips. Finally, turning off the water, I ring out my hair and then slide open the door a crack, looking around for a towel. Spying one folded neatly atop the closed toilet lid, I move quickly to snag it and wrap it around myself, the scratchy material abrading my sensitive skin as I dry off. Giving him my back provides another level of security as I struggle to pull on my clothes whilst keeping the towel wrapped around me until I’m adequately covered.
“You done?” Sin asks, just as I drop the towel to pull down my shirt.
“Yes…” I hesitate, “Thank you.”
Inclining his head, he replies, “You’re welcome.” Stiffly, I nod in acknowledgment, bending over to grab my jacket. Shrugging it on, I flinch at the sound of something hitting the floor, my gaze instantly darting down to the shard of glass laying innocently at my feet. I had completely forgotten it was hidden in my pocket. Slowly, I lift my eyes to his, expecting to see rage, momentary confusion perhaps, but not amusement. Crouching, he carefully picks up the glass, straightening before holding it out to me. I hesitate to take it, however, wondering what kind of game he’s playing.
As if reading my mind, he says, “Keep it if it makes you feel better. I expected you to have tried to shank me already.”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll hurt one of your men?”
“If any of my men is careless enough to let you get the drop on them, then they deserve to bleed.”
Cautiously, I reach out and take the weapon, slipping it safely back into my pocket, even as I lift my chin stubbornly. “I punched you.” After I’ve said it, I realize that it probably isn’t a very good thing to remind him of.
All he does though is smile, looking oddly proud as he concedes, “You did.”
“But in the end you still won.” I shake my head bitterly, dropping my gaze as I lean down to put on my boots. Despite my clear dismissal, his feet remain in my line of sight for several seconds as I tie my laces, the white, rubber half-circle that covers the toes of his black sneakers dirty and scuffed.
Finally, he moves away, but as he does his voice whispers over me, “That was only round one.” My head snaps up. Was that an encouragement or a threat?
Back in my room the next day, I lay on my back on the bed, holding the piece of glass up to the light whilst turning it over in my fingers and speculating about whether or not I would actually have the guts to use it. I imagine plunging it into someone’s flesh, feeling their blood gush warmly over my hand, seeing the pain in their eyes, and shudder. I know I can force myself to do it if I have to, but I pray it doesn’t come to that. Any day now someone will come for me, my dad will send in the police or the army; they will have
picked up the distress signal Ludo is…was programmed to send out if ever he registered a threat, and I will be rescued, no blood shed necessary, at least not on my part.
Outside, the stairs creak and I sit up, hastily concealing the glass. I have only just been taken to the toilet and, unless I have seriously underestimated the time that has passed since breakfast, it can’t be lunch yet, which leaves me warily watching the door, wondering why someone is coming for me. My level of anxiety drops considerably, however, when the person knocks on the door, because I have come to realize that only one of my caretakers ever has the courtesy to knock before entering: Kit, the teenager who first assisted in bringing me here. The boy looks vaguely guilty and awkward as he appears in the doorway.
“Sin says if you wanna get outa here for a bit I can take you up to the rec room.” That was not what I expected to come out of his mouth.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Kit shakes his head, looking puzzled as he scratches uncomfortably at his chin, “I don’t get it either.”
“Well,” I swing my legs off the mattress and stand, “I’m not going to argue if it means I get out of this hellhole for a few hours. Lead the way.”
The rec room is on the first floor, right next to the canteen I am told, though we don’t actually go into that room. It is large and bare, except for a greyish couch on one side of the room, facing a small TV stood on top of a wooden crate. Sprawled on and around the couch are a group of men, arguing loudly, pushing and shoving each other and jabbing angry fingers at the static TV screen. Feeling anxious all of a sudden, I unconsciously edge closer to Kit, not that I think the gangly teenager will be much protection against a group of thugs.
Reading my mind, he reaches out a hand as if to pat my shoulder, but quickly rethinks and yanks it back without making contact, his cheeks flushing a bright, adorable crimson as he stumbles over his words to say, “Their bark is worse than their bite. Promise.”