brutal

Chapter 20

He was dreaming tonight.

He dreamt of an open field with wildflowers in it, a forest around the sprawl of grass that terrified and excited him all at once— the latter because of his curiosity, the former because of his fear of getting lost.

Everyone he knew knew of this, his fear. Even as a kid, he was the type to enter a room only to scout for the exit without hesitation. He was the type to think the worst, only to find reason for an escape. He was always the kid who overthought, over-prepared, overreacted to things others wouldn't even care about.

However, his fear, unlike most, hadn't gotten to him. In fact, it had led him to become more careful and vigilant. It helped him protect himself and his family from the threats he was born into. Ironically, his fear of getting lost was the very reason why his fears never became true.

But now that he was locked in a cell without any memory as to how he'd ended up in it, he couldn't help but snicker at the thought.

It had been a year since he'd first woken up in the same place. He'd wept and screamed and called for his mother, his father, anyone that could help him. He even resorted to asking the guards who dragged him in and out of the cell for help, and in turn promised them immunity (he learned this from the books he'd taken from his father's library) and protection should they help him escape.

They'd barely bat an eye at him when he did and proceeded like usual. No one talked to him except for the Professor; not even the girl next to him who he knew for a fact could hear him but was too stubborn (or too shy) to pay him any attention.

"When will I get to leave?" he'd asked the Professor then in their first meeting. He'd been dragged to a room with nothing but a metal table with two metal chairs across from each other. He sat on the right and Professor had taken the other.

The Professor seemed taken aback that he'd actually spoken first— in a hard, cold tone as well— but he replied, "Soon." And that was that.

He knew soon was vague, but an idealistic part of him felt it coming to a close. He was aware of the other children that were in the same position as him, but he wondered why he never got to see them. He wondered why he was stuck with the girl, or why he wasn't allowed to see other people.

Unlike him, he knew the girl had seen them, only because an army of guards had thrown her into her cell a week ago after she'd thrown a violent tantrum. She'd killed one of the men during her fit; she'd gotten a hold of one of the guard's daggers (a tremendous mistake on their end) and he'd watched as she slit him in the throat right in front of his cell.

There was so much blood— more than he'd seen in his entire life. It had splattered all over his face, his body, his fingers. Most of it was gone now, but there was a splotch of dried scarlet in the cement near the metal gates keeping him hostage, and he couldn't help but look at the girl every time he saw it.

He felt fear whenever he looked at her. Her eyes were brown, nearly black, and he couldn't help but picture a void within her that, if he got close enough, would pull him in and erase him from existence. Still, he couldn't deny the pull he felt towards her; loneliness or desperation or boredom, he didn't know the difference.

"Are you okay?" he'd ask her the day after the death of the guard. She was pulled out an hour prior without reason, and just when he thought it was for their usual routine, she came back with a plethora of scars all over her legs and arms. Her face, however, had remained untouched.

The girl didn't reply. Didn't even look at him. Usually, he asked more and more questions just to get a reaction out of her (only twice had she actually shown any: a deep sigh and an indistinguishable murmur) but he didn't want to go through the silent rejection again. So, he chose not to ask anymore.