Prisoner Ch. 05

The voice was female, sharp and piercing. It could be Licia's, but then again it was so tainted with primal fear that it could be any woman's. When he listened closer he heard all kinds of sounds surrounding the voice's outcries -- noises like metal scraping or rattling, clanging sounds and maybe the muffled version of a second voice. His imagination raced. Someone was being punished in there; tortured, maybe killed. Licia? What should he do? Could he do anything?

The screaming turned into bouts of crying -- a wailing, lamenting sound. It had such a forlorn quality that it made a chill crawl all over him. Then it stopped completely. He pressed harder into the concrete wall, closing his other ear, but all sounds seemed to have gone. He wondered why. He also wondered if the silence might be worse than the screaming. What had happened to the girl? Was she alive?

He walked the length and breadth of his cell, muttering under his breath. Then he lay down on his bed, stretching out on the hard surface. At first he stared at the light bulb as he had done so often before -- he didn't even see it anymore. Then his eyes wandered to the peg in the wall, just beyond the bars. The key was large and old-fashioned. He'd never wondered if he might be able to reach it. Now he did, although he asked himself why. What would be the point of leaving? Where would he go? Being here had been his own choice, hadn't it? Why would he wish to leave now and break another promise to Miss A and himself?

Of course he didn't want to escape; he just wanted to know what had happened behind his wall and maybe help -- or did he? He tried to convince himself it was probably nothing anyway. He also told himself it was none of his business -- he was a prisoner, cut off from the world. It wasn't his responsibility; he was just another powerless victim. But the voice still echoed in his skull -- repeating its panic, and its despair.

He started walking again, skirting the rusty bars. It brought images to mind of big sullen beasts in a zoo, a tiger moving back and forth. He looked up at the key, judging the distance. Then he picked up the stool, putting it as close to the bars as possible. He climbed on it, grabbing a bar for balance. His long, unclipped nails scratched the wall about an inch shy of the peg. He tried his other arm and a different angle, now grazing the peg. He had to be careful not to cause the key to fall; it might drop entirely out of reach.

Thinking of other ways to get closer, he got rid of his shirt. Now he was able to press his shoulder farther between the bar and the wall, taking advantage of his weight loss. He felt the key and was able to get a finger around it. He lifted it off the peg and felt it slip from his tentative grasp, clanging loudly when it hit the floor. It rolled at least two feet further away from the bars. He cursed.

***

The girl looked boyish. Her breasts were tiny, her hips slender. She might even be shorter than Licia, wearing her ash white hair in a short, bristling crown of waxed peaks. She was petite, but well toned, moving like an athlete. Like Licia she didn't wear a stitch as she danced down the stairs, carrying a jug of water and a loaf of bread.

"Hi," she said, her ice-blue eyes sparkling. "I'm Bobbi. Miss A sends me with your...." She lifted the bread and the water as an illustration of her mission.

He rose from his bed and walked to the bars. His head buzzed form lack of sleep.

"Where is Licia?" he asked. "Is she all right?" The girl's smile vanished. She shrugged.

"Don't know," she said. "You mean the Lebanese slut?" He nodded, wondering at her choice of words.

"Was she tortured, ehm, yesterday?" he asked, not sure about the exact time. The tiny blonde seemed puzzled.

"We are all tortured," she then said. She turned, showing faint bruises on her back.

"Are you a slave of Miss A's too?" he asked. She turned back.

"I wish," she answered, pouting. "She only asks for me when the slut runs off, and then uses me to get rid of her frustrations. I know she'll never accept me for real, but I can't refuse her. I love her, you see?" She once more pulled up her shoulders, smiling apologetically.

"Who are you?" she went on. He ignored her question.

"I could hear her right here, next to my, eh, cell," he said. "I suppose it was her. She screamed terribly; then she stopped."

"I have water and bread for you," the girl said, ignoring him as he'd done her. She offered him the bottle through the bars, but he didn't take it.

"Have you ever been down there?" he asked, pointing to the wall where he'd heard the screaming. She didn't answer, going down on her haunches to push both bread and water across the floor into his cell.

He picked up the bottle, taking a swig. The freshness made him sigh, remembering the last of the tepid dribble he'd drunk hours ago.

"Will you do me a favor, girl?" he asked. She looked up before rising to her feet and standing with her hands folded on her back.

"Depends," she said. "Miss A told me not to talk to you at all. I guess she'd be furious hearing me. I am a blabbermouth." She smiled nervously.

"Will you get that key for me and open the door?" He pointed at the spot where the key had fallen. She turned to look at it.

"Oh, but I can't," she said, looking sorry. "I bet Miss A locked you in for a reason. She surely wouldn't want me to open it and set you free."

"No, no, not free," he hastened. "I don't want to escape. I just want to see if Licia is all right. I need to go to the other room, the one where I heard the screaming."

The girl was obviously torn by her dilemma. She walked to the key, picking it up. It looked huge in her tiny hands. She turned it around and around.

"I won't tell," he offered. She looked up, catching his eyes.

"But I'll have to," she answered.

"I promise to return," he said, knowing how empty he must sound. "I won't run."

"I don't know," she said. "I'll go and ask Miss A."

"No!" he cried out and plunged both hands through the bars to grab the key. He succeeded, but the girl was much stronger than he'd thought -- or he was much weaker. She held on to the thing, but even as strong as she was, she was light as a feather. So he could pull her closer, even if she didn't let go. He jerked one more time, making her jam into the iron bars. She cried out and the key slipped from her fingers. He held it up and turned to the door, only to freeze in surprise.

The door had slid open from the girl's impact; it hadn't been closed at all.

"It's open," she gasped, following his gaze. "It wasn't locked."

He stepped back, dropping the key. The shock of reality purged him of any urge to open the door wider and step out. His thoughts shut down. He'd been here for months, maybe, and never doubted that the door was locked. He was a prisoner, wasn't he? This was his prison, and prisons are locked. He remembered Miss A turning the key. He remembered hearing the telltale click, or did he? Did he? He picked up the key and walked to the door. He pulled it open wider; then he inserted the key, turning it. There was no resistance at all. The key's bit swam freely in the opening; the lock didn't even have a lip to slide in or out. It was a fake; he'd never been locked up.

In a daze he walked over to his bed, sitting down.

"You... you are free," the girl said. She'd followed him into his cell. "You've always been free."

He didn't look up, just shook his head left and right.

"No," he muttered. "I'm not. I'm her prisoner. I can't be free. It's impossible." The girl went down on her knees in front of him. Her fingers pushed back the strands of long hair from his dirty, bearded face. Her ice-blue eyes searched for his.

"You, eh," she said. "You are disappointed, aren't you? You don't want to be free?" He jerked his head away as if annoyed by her hand.

"Get out," he said. "Get out of my cell and lock the door."

She recoiled from his violence, scrambling to her feet. She looked hurt. He raised his hands.

"I'm sorry," he said, his throat thick with emotion. "But you must leave my cell. It is mine; it is all I have. It is my prison and it is locked."

"But... ," the girl tried, looking from him to the wide open door and back.

"It is locked," he repeated. "You can't be in here. Please leave and take the key."

Obviously convinced now that he was insane, she turned and walked outside, closing the door behind her.

"Lock it," he insisted. Fear made her move quicker, less accurate. The key rattled uselessly in the empty space of the lock while she turned it. She hesitated about what to do with the thing.

"Hang it on the peg," he said. She rose to tiptoes to reach it. Then she turned to leave.

"Stop!" he hissed after her. She froze.

"Turn around." She did.

He pushed the stale bread with his foot through the bars.

"You forgot to piss on it," he said.

***

He had no idea how much time had passed since the incident with the key. Several weeks, he supposed, making the sum that there would be about two or three days between every visit of a naked girl and her meager supplies. Licia hadn't shown up again; most of the time there had been the petite white-haired girl, who delivered her goods hastily, obviously eager to get away from the madman. Twice a blonde with an easy smile and ample curves had seen to the task. She'd taken her time, asking for his health in an English touched by a French accent. Even her piss had tasted sweeter.

Miss A visited him once in that period, right after the incident with the key. He'd been asleep when she arrived. Later he'd cursed himself for that, having no idea how much of her precious visit he'd missed. He woke up from the sound of her hands' clapping and fell off his bed. Without looking, he scurried to the bars, kneeling and pushing his face into the dusty floor. Her laughter washed over him.

"Sleepy head," she said. "I bet that is about all you do nowadays, sleeping. Aren't you quite the lazy bum?" She came closer, sniffing.

"My God, you do stink, though, honey," she said, waving her hand before her nose. "You're getting worse, if that is at all possible. Do you ever wash?" He didn't look up, knowing better than to point out the obvious irrelevance of her question.

"I'm sorry," was all he mumbled.

"I'm sorry," she imitated, adding a whine. She stepped closer to the bars. "Look at me, boy!"

He looked up from the floor, noticing she was dressed in a dark fur cape; it hung ankle-long over a short lace negligee. She'd slicked her oiled hair back from her forehead. Her eyes were dark pools in the spooky light of the overhead bulb.

"Bobbi told me you are crazy," she went on. "The girl has a knack for stating the obvious." She chuckled. He just looked at her, accepting the insult -- waiting.

"I hear you insisted this door is locked," she said, pushing it open, and closing it again. "It obviously isn't." He waited in case she might want to add something.

"You locked it," he then said. "So it's locked."

She gasped. He saw the shadows of her nipples push against the lace of her negligee.

"You are amazing," she said, almost whispering.

"I am your prisoner," he said.

She turned and left.

Three more weeks, maybe a month passed. He'd become an expert in sensing the Signs of her sporadic Arrivals even before he heard them. It was a subtle shift of air -- an ever so tiny stir of the dank syrup surrounding him. Whenever it caressed the hair on his cheeks his ears would start probing the silence. They sifted out the small everyday creaks and grunts and sighs of the ancient building to find the one exhilarating Scrape of heavy metal on concrete. It announced the opening of the Door that separated her Upstairs from his downstairs. And he knew his endless waiting might be rewarded, if only for a precious handful of minutes. He also knew from experience that he should wait for the telltale Taps of her Heels before allowing his heart to race. For more often than not the Scraping would be followed by the faint plodding of naked feet -- the feet of one of her minions, completing their chore of feeding him.

Of late Licia was the one again to bring him his meager supplies. He'd asked her at once if she was all right, and if it might have been her he'd heard screaming. As usual she ignored him. When she squatted to piss on his bread, he noticed the still fresh brand high on the back of her right hip. It was an elegant French lily, corresponding with the jewel dangling from her nipple. He tried to imagine the pain and cruelty involved. He also tried to suppress his envy. As he reached out to touch the emblem through the bars, she swatted his hand away.

"Fuck off, moron," she hissed, lowering herself to rub the final drops off her shaven vagina into the bread. Welcome, little bitch, he thought. What happened to the sweet girl that nursed me back to health, eons ago? He guessed she'd learned to echo her mistress's disdain.

Sitting on his hard wooden bed, bony hands hugging his bonier shoulders, he wondered at the perfectly trained antenna he'd become. He remembered how in the early days he'd often mistakenly looked up the dusty stairs. He knew that back then his yearning must have outvoted his senses. He'd heard things that weren't there, just because he needed to hear them.

There were all kinds of sounds. Most of them he should ignore, like overhead footsteps, muted voices, sudden thumps, music and far away laughter. They were the Sounds of the Upperworld: her world, not his. At times his conceited mind wanted him to believe that she caused those Sounds on purpose, just to make him feel excluded. By now he knew that was ridiculous -- he'd never be important enough for her to even think of that.

Then there were the underworld sounds: the scurrying of creatures -- rats, mice, and all kinds of invisible insects. They were totally irrelevant, distracting him from what really mattered. His ears shut them out by now, like the ticking of a clock in the house you grew up in. His ears were always straining to hear past the irrelevant to hear the important -- the sounds that mattered, the Sounds of her Arrival.

They always happened in the same order, starting with the Sigh -- how appropriate -- and followed up by the Scraping. He imagined her pale Hand pushing the Door aside, her purple, black or blood red Nails scratching its surface.

After the Sigh and the Scraping there was the holding of breath; the fractions of seconds needed to probe for the one Sound his ears thirsted for -- the Tapping of her Heels to herald it was really she. The heavenly tick-tock would be accompanied by a whiff of her Scent -- oh God, her Scent. Of late his nostrils already started flaring the moment he heard the Scraping, not because he could already smell her, but because he knew he soon might. Pavlov, he mused, and he wondered if one day he would be able to smell her with his ears.

He remembered how -- long ago, when everything was still clumsy and new -- his damn cock would stir the moment he saw her Foot touch the upper step, balancing on the Heel of her Sandal. Even in the half-darkness of his prison his hungry eyes would see the fragile Bones move in her Instep. Left Foot, right Foot, left...with every step down the stairs his unruly cock twitched, making his face burn with shame. Groaning while he shook the feeling off, his gaze would climb the infinite length of her Leg. One special time he remembered a flash of Skin peeping from the slit in her dark silk evening Dress. It was a Dress he could still describe in detail -- how it clung and flowed, alive with slithering highlights. The liquid fabric touched and swayed in a million places -- caressing a Hip, hugging a Curve, kissing a Nipple.

One Hand held up the silk with the gracious tips of her burgundy-lacquered Fingers; the other Hand clung to her pale Throat, playing with a strand of pearls. How he envied those pearls as they bounced softly on the ivory expanse of her Chest.

He remembered raising his gaze to her Face and Eyes, recollecting the generous Lips, painted in the burgundy of her Fingernails. And most of all he was struck by the incredible emerald of her Irises, sparkling with the light of the one bulb that hung from the ceiling. As her Eyes caught his, they as always seemed to suck the power from his knees and legs, the energy from his heart -- and the life from his genitals. He'd sighed when the sinful swelling subsided.

Watching her at last reach his prison, he felt totally vulnerable. His hands dangled beside him, his big, male hands felt just as clumsy as the shapeless sack of bones and junctures his body had become. It seemed he only was held up by the piercing intensity of her Eyes.

One time -- later -- she'd entered through the iron-barred door. She'd just stood silently in front of him -- her Breath touching his face. He'd known his eyes shouldn't be where they were looking, but he was unable to turn them away until her Hand slapped him with amazing force. His cheek burned. He lowered his eyes, his gaze blurring from a sudden gush of tears. She said nothing for a while.

Then he felt her Hand on his cock. Her Fingers curled around its covered stem, making him startle. He felt the tugging and heard the sound of a metal zipper opening. The soft, spongy penis fell out, caught in the cage of her Fingers. He looked and saw how she squeezed the dirty, dough-like flesh. Her polished Nails dug into it, causing pain. He remembered the wave of satisfaction it caused -- and the consequent embarrassment.

"You stink, you know?"

Her Voice wasn't harsh at all, even if her Words might be. They flowed like sweet honey, ending in a silvery Chuckle. He closed his eyes, feeling her Fingers rub over the coarse hair on his chest, no doubt to get rid of his penis's greasy dirt. He wasn't at all prepared for he sudden blast of blinding pain that hit his cock.

In a reflex he grabbed his crotch. He crumbled to his knees -- bellowing without control. Through his tears he saw the tip of a leather riding crop; it dangled in front of him. Her Voice came from the hazy world beyond.

"Just so you remember, honey," she said. There was no anger, no glee -- just her Voice, uttering friendly advice.

***

He coughed. He did that, lately. It was a nervous, shallow cough that crept into his steadily increasing array of tics and gestures. It was as mindless as the way he blinked his eyes or plucked his bushy eyebrows. Looking back he had to agree that by then many idiosyncrasies had entered his dull, monotonous life. Sometimes he found his bony fingers run along the iron bars while his lips moved to count them -- not knowing how long he'd been doing it.

He also realized he had to strain his mind to remember times and places other than the ones he was in -- there was no past or future. He knew every crack and irregularity in the three walls of his cell, not just from seeing them, but also from running his fingertips over them. He knew where he was and what he was, but he had trouble, for instance, to remember where he'd met this naked, black haired girl that pissed on his bread.

He coughed, not realizing he did it more often than he used to. He also didn't notice that it had become more than just a ripple of his lungs against the cage of his ribs. He coughed, and it started hurting and disturbing his sleep. He slept a lot, he guessed, involuntarily tossing on the hard wooden planks of his bed to avoid the soreness of his bony hips and shoulders.

One morning he rose and fell when his legs refused to support him. He hadn't eaten for two days. That wasn't extraordinary, but this time it left him weak and dizzy. He crawled to his bottle, finishing its last tepid drops. Maybe he passed out after that, maybe he slept again, stretched out on the cold concrete floor. When he woke, it was from a sharp pain in his side.