CELL

/ SEVEN /

The cage.

To be back there, in the welcoming embrace of thick, suffocating darkness. Why would someone wish for that?

When the alternative was psychological gaming, needles and tasers shoved between the legs, the world ceasing to exist for a time was preferred. It gave him the chance to contemplate on the doctor's words, and her actions.

Dr Fio... Bradley could well have been honest with him. She was, possibly, a decent human being, torn between her nature and her duty. She flicked between good doc. and bad doc. like a freshly caught fish wondering had just happened. They were going to the park with the kids. They'd packed a picnic and their children were so excited about the fun filled day ahead. Then Daddy Fish was caught and thrown into the basket. They hadn't even been given the chance to say goodbye, so flipped and flapped in protest and shock.

Perhaps he was closer to Daddy Fish than she?

No. He wasn't fooled. Dr Bradley's inability to settle on one side of the temperament coin was pure theatrics. There had been a steel edge cutting across her eyes that she couldn't mask. She might have tried to hide it with her flippancy, but he saw it anyway.

So. Ryan. That was his name, or that's what she'd told him. She might have been, as she said, bullshitting him. He spoke the word softly, with hardly any sound leaving his lips. He wanted to try the shape. The feel. The sound of it in his head.

Ryan.

There was nothing familiar about it, he thought, sighing. Surely, if it was his name, it would taste like it. The flavour of the letters on his tongue would tug at his memory, making faint images appear to indicate recognition. It was still blank, however. As empty as the room when he looked around. The room was far from empty, but it seemed to be.

The darkness hid a world of sins.

The doctor had asked him why he didn't want to remember. He didn't understand that because, obviously, he was desperate to! His past could have been filled with a spiritual darkness as complete as that facing him. He could have been a murderer. A swindler. A nasty, wily individual whom people crossed the street to avoid. He didn't believe that to be the case, and there was no way to prove otherwise. If it were the truth, he still wanted to know.

He would hate himself, if so, but at least he'd know. He could change. His experience could be learned from, and he could improve!

He would try to convince Bradley the next time they met. He'd play along in the hope she'd give him information in return.

In the meantime, he would wait. He'd examine himself. He'd explore his surroundings and the limits of the cage.

He'd been thirsty before, but was no longer. Saliva flowed freely in his mouth, and his throat felt as if had been lubricated recently. He was also not hungry. When was the last time he'd had anything to eat? Nothing had been given to him since his capture, and Bradley had spoken of the week since their last meeting. They must have been feeding him while he was sleeping, somehow. No, while they had him under sedation on their table in the laboratory! That must mean Bradley had lied. He recalled – ah, a memory, almost! – that the body could survive around 3 weeks without they had water. Or was it two months? Whatever. He could potentially have been fed the previous he'd been in the presence of the doctor. That would mean he'd be starving, though. His stomach would be cramping. He'd be weak. He'd be a fortnight, too weak to move. He wasn't.

Ryan felt adequately healthy.

When, then?

If they'd given him sustenance whilst he slept, it would have woken him. Water being poured into his mouth would have disturbed any dreams he could have been enjoying. A bacon butty with lashings of melting butter and a splash of black pepper (why was his imagined foodstuff so specific?) would have been the stuff those dreams had been made of. He was aware of neither being given to him.