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“Alexander,” I beg. The pull in my heart needs to know why he’s helping me. I feel the question begging to be answered, hanging in the air between us. It’s the feeling Gemma loves to bring up so much.
“Don’t.” His choked voice makes me step back. He reaches for me, and I freeze, pausing in a moment where he’s battling with himself over how much to confess. It’s almost as if he wants to hold me, comfort me.
Lowering his hands, he stiffens, his head hanging low. “You shouldn’t trust anyone in here. Not even me. Now change into dry clothes and straighten your arm or we’re all dead already.”
The further we went into the holding cells, the colder and dirtier they became. Maybe Alexander was punishing me for asking too many questions, pushing him too far. This is one of many things I think about while I sit in a cell on dusty concrete, my ass aching on the hard floor.
This place feels empty and abandoned, even though it’s full of people. I saw them in the windows as we passed through the halls. They sit in corners, lifeless and still, and I wondered if some of them were dead, left as a warning to the new prisoners.
That’s what this is — a prison.
I realized it when the metal door slammed in my cell, but there was nothing I could do to argue. Where would I go? Up into the raging storm? Or should I find someone to petition for an audience with the members of the AOE? They’d kill me in an instant without mercy.
This prison is the best place for me, and I stare out at the white hallway in front of my window, waiting for someone to come or something to happen. It’s empty for so long that time becomes a fuzzy notion. The only sign of life down here is a daily delivery of oats and the speaker that blares questions into my cell, questions I will never answer.
I think about my family and everyone on the island, and I wonder about the two hundred. How many are left? Do we call them the twenty-five now?
Closing my eyes, I pick apart every vision I can recall, focusing on the details of the past and present.
I think about the man in the storm.
His outline in the lightning, walking towards me. No matter how hard I focus, how much I meditate in this empty cell with no distractions, the pictures are the same and he never comes into focus.
I don’t know if he’s real.
It’s been days, maybe a week, and I’m running out of ways to occupy my thoughts, desperate to see something new, anything to help us.
My mind wanders until the speaker comes to life again. Every few hours, a voice beams into the room, asking questions I refuse to answer. They repeat, again and again, but I remain silent, rocking myself on the floor.
They could have given me a cushion. A blanket.
How did you get in here?
What’s your given name?
Who do you know in the Assembly of the Eternal?
Other questions are full of acronyms I don’t understand or events I never knew took place. I’m careful with my facial expressions when they mention the riots and takeovers of the other underground facilities, aware that any twinge or look could give away my ignorance. Let them think what they want, but I won’t do anything that might put my family in danger, and I can’t help but feel an allegiance to Alexander.
I won’t tell them he brought me into the underground. He may believe there’s no one you can trust, but I know that’s not true. He put his trust in me when he helped us, and I pull my sleeve down over my knuckles, careful to keep the fresh brand hidden from the person in the camera barking questions.
When the latest interrogation stops, I pace the room like a rat, attempt a few pushups that end in a collapse, and scream into nothing. My voice echoes back at me, and there’s a part of me that knows that this basic room with unfinished floors and cement walls is far from anyone that could or would help me. I’m hidden far away from my family.
They probably think I’m dead.
I wish there was something in here to take out all of my frustrations. Maybe that voice in the speaker will walk in and give me the opportunity. I wouldn’t, knowing they might take it out on my family, but the thought makes me smile.
The lack of visions scares me more than anything. What if there is nothing else? I worry I’ll die in this place, and soon, and that’s why my visions won’t come to me. There’s nothing to see because I’m gone from this world and from my family.
Lights turn off for half the day,I think, which would mean it’s morning on the fifth day…maybe, when someone finally comes inside my little cell, a gun pointed squarely at my head. It doesn’t phase me, and I’m not sure if that’s because of my exhaustion or how many times I’ve faced the barrel of a loaded gun.
They bring a tray of food so large and smelling so fragrant that I fight the urge to sprint toward the open door. Clawing my fingernails against the cement floor, I wait for them to lower the tray and back out before I scramble over to its contents.
Oats have been the meal of choice since I’ve been down here. Dry and tasteless, I would eat them without complaint, but this is actual food, hot and flavorful. Halfway through my meal, when my body relaxes in an unnatural way, I drop a cup of mashed potatoes onto the tray, and back into the corner, fearful of the mistake I’ve made.
“What are your ties to the Assembly of the Eternal?” the speaker asks. My mind scrambles to fight the words that threaten to escape. The simple answer is, “Everything,” but I struggle to stop myself. I cover my mouth with my hands, curling myself into a ball. Whatever they put into the food urges me to answer and hot tears fall down my cheeks. I won’t eat again. Not one more bite. I’ll waste away down here into nothing.
“What is your given name?” the speaker blares.
