I Did Not Give The Last One A Title, And I'm Sticking To The Motif Damn It

Chapter 1

Dying is sounding pretty good right about now.

The chain is too short to wrap your neck around, but if you slam your head against the wall enough, you might manage to break it open. Nobody would hear you scream if you do; screams and cries have gone unheeded before. It would be easy, had you the strength to lift yourself from the floor, to drop yourself far enough. You wish you did. This desire— which you do not indulge more from lack of ability than lack of will— is fueled by hallucination. Voices, mostly, your mind's desperate attempt to fill the silence that goes on and on forever. Occasionally, too, you feel a tingle of warmth along your body, like a hand trailing your side, the ghost of a caress, or the cracking of dried blood on skin. Never enough to satisfy a hunger deeper than the one that makes your muscles spasm and cries less enthused, but enough to tease the idea of contact. It is impossible, in a room this dark, with no meals or bells or people, to tell how much time has passed, though you have to assume less than a week, seeing as you are, unfortunately, still capable of feeling the chains dig into you. The first time you had fallen asleep— because, no matter how long you do, it does nothing to cure your fatigue— you had noted how tight the chains were, unnecessarily so. You realize, now, that this is to keep you from slipping out of the cuffs as if you have the ability to run away.

The first time you slept was not bad. Cold, uncomfortable, bare skin against concrete, but fine. You slept hungry, but it was hardly unbearable. The room did not get any warmer, but you have taken to this; you cannot sweat anyways. Your lips would occasionally bleed, and you would swipe your tongue along them to taste something other than your own rotting tongue. You were pathetic, you muse those first couple sleep cycles, fumbling with your fingernails to get the locks off— which did not work— and crying your eyes out and screaming until your voice was hoarse just to fill the emptiness.

You are on your side again, now. The floor, at least, is the same temperature as your wrinkling skin, having stayed in place so long. You wish a rat would scurry by, make your skin crawl. At least, then, you might have something else to think about. At least the smell is something.

You have not said anything you remember, though you know that if they had come to talk to you, you

You do not register the door opening. You hear it, the odd grinding of stone on stone, but you do not understand what it entails. The padding of footsteps, the thump of knees on the floor, while loud in your ears, is not intelligible sounds. You do not understand what they mean, only quietly acknowledge their existence next to the pounding of your head. There is a voice, you notice, but you are prone to hearing those once and a while, now, prone to stretching your hand out with great difficulty as to feel for an absent form lying next to you, and it, too, is unintelligible. What gets you to open your eyes against inky blackness is the clinking of ceramic, the swish of warm water, the heat you sense in front of you— this room is so cold. Butter is the smell you most clearly identify. It is not a strong smell, but you do recognize it, and that is enough to get you to raise your head a bit off the floor.

There is another grinding sound as the ceramic whatever it is gets pushed towards you. "Eat."

The voice is one you recognize too, and that fact alone makes your lips crack into a ghost of a smile. Unless you are about to die— which you would not be surprised by— it is confirmation that you are not hallucinating, the sensation matched with it. You breathe out a laugh despite your throat's protests. "Hi," you form the words on your lips, bleeding, now. "Hi."

"Eat," the voice repeats. You feel hands grasp your bare arms, pushing your back against the wall.

You exhale another laugh. "Hands."

"What? Oh." You feel something press against your lips, a hand tilting your head back. "Drink."

It tastes bitter, but the sensation of something sliding down your throat is heaven. You lean into the sensation, let it hold you. When the cup runs empty, you tug gently at your restraints, trying to get closer before it's tugged away from you, and like a child separated from a favorite toy, your eyes itch in frustration. Something else is stuck in your mouth.
"Apparently you need fat to properly digest food," she says, ignoring your near inhalation of the rice. "I put fat on the rice. It does not taste particularly good, but you're hardly in a position to complain." You focus on swallowing, inhaling the first human contact you have had in what feels like forever. So what if it was someone who means you harm? It's a voice, a real one. You are not alone here, and that is all you have ever wanted.