The Sprinter

Chapter 5

Eloise opened her eyes, squinting through half-closed lids at the harsh, white light. She groaned, and pushed herself up into a sitting position, her head throbbing painfully.

She was in a small, white room, alone. It was made of polished stone, and had no windows.

Not a room, she realised, as she saw the iron bars in place of the opposite wall.

A holding cell.

Upon closer inspection, she realised she wasn't alone either. Huddled in the corner across the room from her, was a frail, old man, swaddled in blankets. He had dark, leathery skin that hung off his too prominent bones; a testament to his age. His eyes were set deep into his face, and they stared out at her, scrutinising her. She quickly looked away.

Outside the cell, to the right of the door stood a tall man in a green uniform, who she supposed was her guard. He stood to attention; straight and unmoving, to the point where Eloise wondered if he was actually real, or just a statue.

She looked past him, through the bars and into the main area of the prison. It was a large, circular building with two levels. A sunken middle part, where prisoners ate and guards talked, and then an upper floor, where she was. The upper level was nothing more than a ring around the edge of the wall - a circle of holding cells. The rooms were cut into the wall, with only enough overhang for a path, used by guards to patrol the cells. To her left, she could see the second level dip in a set of stairs to meet the bottom, tapering off the circle of cells, then rising again on the other side. Between the two sets of stairs, there were a large pair of metal doors, firmly bolted.

She shifted across, the wall jutting into her back. She could feel the cramps from where she had slept awkwardly - they complimented the pain in her head perfectly. Eloise glowered at the guard from under furrowed brows, then lowered her head, her hair concealing her face.

She knew that the guard wasn't one of them. Despite his statue-like posture, he had a certain feeling of life that her stalkers lacked. However, she was here, so that meant whoever ran this place must be working with them. That meant that - if she wanted to escape - she couldn't trust anyone to help. On the other hand, getting out without aid would be impossible. She couldn't fight, she couldn't pick a lock, she was useless really. Her only skill was running - but she'd had a long time to perfect that.

"Are you cold?"

Her head shot up and she stared at the other occupant of her cell. He was looking at her, smiling kindly, if a little nervously.

"It's just that, well, you're shivering."

Eloise looked down. Goose pimples had risen on her arms, and her hairs stood up on end. She was, indeed, shivering. She met the old man's eyes.

"If you want, I can give you one of these blankets," he said. When she didn't reply, he stood up, and made his way shakily over to her, the last, white wisps of hair swaying around pathetically on the top of his head.

"Here," he said, and offered it to her. She took it, and spread it over her legs. It was wafer thin, and fraying at the edges, but she was still warmed by his kind gesture. He put his hand on the wall to steady himself, then sank down next to her.

"How did you get in here?"

He didn't seem particularly curious - just eager for conversation. He was probably incredibly lonely if he'd been here long. Eloise continued to stare at him, but didn't answer. The old man turned to look forward.

"That's ok. I understand if you don't wanna talk about it. I'm not saying you did anything bad, no, no, Eternals no. This here," he leaned in closer, whispering into her ear. His voice sounded like someone was scrunching paper up inside his throat, "this here ain't a good place to be. Few people get in here for what they actually did."