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Calax
My muscles were coiled as I pressed my face against the steel bars.
I’ve been waiting, saving my strength, allowing my body to heal. It had been agony, to say the least, but now I was ready. Now, I would fight back.
My mind had been in a hazy sort of numbness since the meeting...weeks ago. My stomach was somersaulting repeatedly, twisting and turning and clenching.
They had intended for me to turn on Addie, to do what was right, but they had severely underestimated my devotion to her. Their words only cemented my resolve to break free of my prison.
So I waited, biding my time. Playing the good prisoner, the good man, the selfless one.
I ate when they said eat, and pissed when they said fucking piss. The darkness encroaching on the edges of my mind was held at bay. The mere thought of Addie propelled me forward, convinced me to fight a little longer, a little harder.
I would live to see my baby again, fuck it.
“You’re thinking too hard,” a voice rasped from down the corridor.
I would be the first to admit I had a soft spot for the little bastard. It was either him or silence, and that silence threatened to lead to insanity. All in all, it wasn’t a very hard decision.
“Shut up,” I griped, hands tightening on the bars. I heard the telltale creak of the door opening followed by the patter of footsteps. In the cell next to me, I heard his sharp intake of breath, the noise he always made whenshecame to feed us.
He told me she had once been his wife. Beautiful and vibrant, grasping the world by its metaphysical balls and squeezing tightly. She had chosen our captors over him and had paid greatly for her decision.
Her face was nearly unrecognizable, riddled with slashes from a knife. Her body was thin, so thin I could see her collarbones and hipbones. The gauzy white dress she wore was sheer and did little to protect her from the harsh chill of the dungeon.
Her eyes remained downcast as she slid a plate of food through the bars. I resisted the urge to grab her pasty white skin and demand she release me. Demand she break me free. The need was almost unbearable, but I wasn’t a monster. I wouldn’t hurt an innocent woman in my quest for escape.
When she reached Doug’s prison, she faltered only barely. Her lip curled into what was probably a sneer but was so disfigured it could’ve been a smile. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the plate through the bars. I heard the thump of food on the cement flooring, and Doug’s signature growl.
“Bitch,” he murmured to his estranged wife. She bared her teeth at him.
Without another word, she turned on her slippers and sashayed out of the prison. The heady scent of piss and vomit and blood was enough to make anyone run.
“She dumped your food again?” I asked Doug. It was our go-to conversation starter. She would come at least once a week, throw his food, and then huff away with an imperious set to her chin. We never talked about consequential stuff like our lives before we were prisoners or our goals for when we escaped.
I didn’t trust him, and he didn’t trust me. Oddly enough, it worked for us. I didn’t need a best friend or a brother, only a companion. Someone to hold the weight of the world when it became too heavy.
“Dumb bitch,” Doug groused, and I heard him shuffling around. Probably picking up his fallen meal.
Glancing down at my plate, I saw that they had made a sandwich with turkey and cheese. An apple, slightly brown, was sitting beside it. The meal didn’t look artistically pleasing, but food was food, and I was starving.
“What do you have?” Doug asked.
“Sandwich. Apple. And...what looks to be a fudge brownie.”
He growled. “Stupid bitch gave me tuna fish and moldy cheese.”
“Still holds a grudge, I’m taking it?” I asked in amusement. Grudge was the understatement of the century. The woman wasmurderous. Their history was full of pain and bloodshed, that much was clear. I would need a large glass of bourbon and a psychology degree to unravel their entire relationship.
“Still planning your escape?” he countered, and this time, it was my turn to growl.
He called it a fantasy, a dream, a wistful thought. More than once, he laughed in my face. He was resigned to his fate. Hell, he expected it. Live and die down here and all that shit.
When I told him why I needed to escape, why I needed to fight, he laughed harder. A full belly laugh that had my hands clenching instinctively.
This man had never been in love before, had never cared for someone so fucking deeply you’d be willing to do anything for them. He saw emotions as a weakness, and I imagined it was because he had been burned one too many times. He had a wife that hated him and kids who loathed him. He didn’t understand my need for light because he had lived too long in the darkness.
