Sentenced to Life

1

Emory enjoyed digging. She'd never do it for money, it took the joy out of it, tying the one thing that brought her happiness to monetary gain was almost a twisted sort of blasphemy, spoiling the simple joy of it with the pressures of affording to eat. She'd settled young and hard, so joy was hard to come by. Her husband was a silly man, as he'd been a silly boy, stunted in complacency. He'd bagged his prize, a younger mother, someone to care for him, so there was no need to grow. They'd separated unofficially, but Emory didn't mind. She had too gentle a touch with him, to consider him a man anymore.

To touch him, would be like touching a child, the boy she did everything for, that she raised and cared for. So she took her pleasure in unearthing treasures as she considered herself. An unearthed treasure waiting to be set free and observed by an adoring audience. 

She looked over the plains inhaling deeply. She wasn't far from home, only an hour or so away from the city. There had been rumors of ruins up this way, and she was determined to find them. It was an old prison, barely anything left of it now, but she was eager to see if anything was left behind. A uniform, maybe some shackles, or even better, some paperwork. The old prison sat on top of a large hill, isolated and desolate. The dilapidated form seemed to sway under the slight pressure of the breeze. Emory smiled, shielding her eyes with her hands, before nodding and adjusting her fanny pack. There was more there than she'd imagined. The foundation remained and what seemed like just one cell block. The walk up the hill was laborious, her lungs seizing as she finally approached the decrepit, rusty gates. 

She panted, resting her hands on her knees, a sheen of sweat forming along her brow. 

"Fucks sake," She muttered, distressed at the trip down. She cast a worried backward glance.

Maybe she could roll down. 

Shaking her head, she edged forward. The gate creaked open, blown by nothing but the wind, and perhaps her inquisitive nature. It seemed...eerie. Like a setup for a low-budget horror film. Emory swallowed roughly, edging closer to the one remaining structure. As she approached she noted the cell bars still stood, though they had completely rusted over. 

She touched it in awe. How had this singular cell survived so long? It was probably hundreds of years old.

"I...hope you brought a key."

Emory felt her skin separate from her bones. She jumped back, ripping the bar with her, her grip vice on it. A filthy man with long black hair, his face to the ground sat in the darkness of that cell. He winced as the light beamed in.

"Or that would work," He mused. He wriggled up to a standing position, shuffling toward the bars.

"Would you mind so terribly, pulling this door open," he murmured.

The stench...how hadn't she noticed it?

And his accent. 

"Perhaps the people of this region no longer speak English? And you...you're..." he peered at her, and stopped suddenly. He cleared his throat and went silent.

"...How long have you been in there?" She whispers.

"Quite a long time it would seem, given the look of you." He responded vaguely. 

"M-medics...you probably need medical attention--"

"I need to be released from these shackles. Be a dear, will you? Open this door. I can do the rest."

Emory swallowed and nodded. There was no way he could be a real prisoner of this establishment. He would have starved to death, he'd have to be...

"Did you get lost?" She asked, hesitantly putting her hands on the rusted bars.

"Hm. Something like that," He quipped tiredly.

"Your family must be worried sick. How long have you been here? We should call someone--"

"I...have no family. All I want--all I need is to be free of this wretched box that has kept me prisoner." He wrung his hands. Clamped around his ankles and wrists were shackles old, and rusted over too, but there wasn't enough space in the cramped cell to break free, that much was clear. Her heart ached. She'd been in plenty of binds like this.

"You're never supposed to get into structures like this," She chided. "The stuff is ancient. Sometimes you can't get out of it, sometimes it's broken y'know?" She sighed, pulling on the bars with all her might, lamenting the loss.

"Yes...I made many mistakes. But tell me, what year is it?"

Emory panted as he emerged, large and thin. Lanky, like a snake. He cracked his neck and forced his hands apart until the chains caved. Then he pulled at the ones binding his ankles. She narrowed her eyes. The ring around his wrists. This couldn't have been a few days or even weeks. His condition, coupled with the markings on his wrists and ankles suggested he'd been there far longer than should've been possible.

"It's...2022," She murmured. "How did you survive? There's no food, no water, no sunlight. You look like you've been there for years."

The man turned his face toward the sun, closing his eyes. "Do I? I must look like a pitiful sight to you, don't I?" His lips turned up.

Emory swallowed and backed away. This was getting too creepy. She should've left when she heard him speak. But it was definitely time to go now. He was being way too ominous. 

"You must be thinking of running." he mused quietly. "I'm sure I'm a frightful sight. But I don't look very strong to you, do I?"

Emory didn't answer, edging further and further away. She'd call the police when she got home, tell them everything. She doubted anyone would believe her, but that was her due diligence. 

"Looks can be deceiving," he said, opening his eyes, and walking toward her. "I need assistance."

"I'll send help to you--"

He chuckled deeply. "Police? Oh no, dear. I require a softer touch than something like that."

She shuddered backing away. "Well, I'm not the soft touch you're looking for."

He grinned. "You look plenty soft to me. How about this...you came here for a reason didn't you? To learn of the past, yes?"

She nodded gently, still removing herself, ever so slowly.

"Well...I am the past. My name is Count Silas Christopher Maxwell. In 1861, I was arrested for crimes against the crown and sentenced to three consecutive life sentences. And I have good reason to believe I'm on my second. I will tell you all you want to know. About me, about the time I lived in. And all I need from you...is a little...assistance."

He grinned. "Yes?"