Stuck

The man was held to the wall by iron biting into three of his limbs, in some places to the bone. His head was clamped back, forcing him to stare upward. He shivered in spasms, his flesh exposed to the cold air and the bites of the insects and rats that made small meals of his blood.

His left leg hung without restraints, free but limp. On the floor, a few inches to the side, the man knew there was a rough metal lever. He could not move his head to look at it, nor would he have seen it even if he could, for he was deep within the earth and no light reached him. He knew the lever was there, however, and occasionally he moved his leg to feel the sharp corner of the flat, square pedal made for his foot. If he were to press it, a large, powerful spring would be released, propelling an axe that would swiftly decapitate him. He occasionally thought about pressing it.

Sometimes he talked to himself.

"You will live with it, and be happy," he said, even as he dragged the emaciated flesh of his left calf across the edge of the lever, "It was the right decision. I will be happy."

The man continued to repeat this mantra to himself until he heard a small scraping sound above him, then desperately opened his mouth to catch the sickeningly sweet liquid that poured from a pipe protruding from the ceiling. For a brief moment he could forget about where he was, about the lever, and everything else except the meal.

As the fluid drizzled down his throat, he was convinced.

"Yes, this was the right decision."

This sensation was fleeting. The sweet taste changed to a dense bitterness, and the man soon vomited straight up like a fountain. His throat burned with the acid of the bile. He coughed and sputtered and thought of the lever. He checked with his leg. It was still there, ready for him.

He also thought of her. The idea of calling out to her burned in his brain.

"No," he said aloud, coughing, "I cannot face her."

Call her.

"No!" he croaked, as loud as he could.

She trusted you.

His chest heaved, and he moaned quietly.

She was happy.

"I know," he whispered, his eyes stinging.

She thought you were wonderful.

"I know," he sobbed. His leg flailed clumsily near the lever on the floor.

The scraping sound in the ceiling returned. The man reflexively opened his mouth and greedily swallowed the liquid that followed. His agony subsided for a short time, and he forgot everything once again.

This cycle continued for a time, the passage of which was lost on the man.

He did not notice the light until it was very bright. The clamp holding his head prevented him from looking for its source, but it allowed him, for the first time, to see the rough grey ceiling and the protruding rusty pipe in fine detail.

"Is someone there?!" he called out, his throat squelching.

"It's me," came a small voice.

The man's lungs froze and his heart seized.

"Go away," he said, shaking, "I am perfectly happy here without you."

"No," she said, sounding closer.

Presently the man heard a rapid flapping noise and his eyes widened as the light grew brighter. The fairy fluttered into his vision.

She had been only slightly shorter than himself the last time he had seen her, but now only measured about six inches from head to foot. Light radiated from a set of butterfly wings on her back, illuminating everything around her. She wore a small pink dress of an incredibly thin, translucent material, which fluttered in the wind from her wings. A miniscule rolling backpack dangled from her grip, looking absurdly out of place.