Hearts of Steel

Hearts of Steel - Chapter 3

Chapter 3

                “Hello?  I can hear you.  Are you alright?”  A voice in the darkness, forcing me awake.  I groan, try to move, find I can’t. 

                “Hey.  Can you hear me?  That voice again.  A man’s voice.

                “Where am I?”  My voice is hoarse from screaming and the drugs.  I tug at my legs; they have been bound together with metal at the ankles, hobbled like a horse.  “What’s going on?” 

                “Cairo.  This is one of their underground holding cells.”  There is a shuffling.  The sound moves closer.  I flinch back and hit a wall, disoriented in the utter blackness.  There is not a shred of light to use as a guide.  My breathing speeds up and I feel my heart galloping in my chest.

                “Who are you?”  I turn my head to try and establish a bearing, but it is no use.  I flutter my hands uselessly at the bindings around my ankles.

                “Alexander.”  His voice is low and deep and soothing.  I relax the slightest bit because if this is hell, and it surely is, then at least I am not alone. 

                A squeaking, presumably rats, comes from my right, away from the man’s voice and I fight the irrational urge to claw at my eyes, the dirt floor, anything just to get out.  The man, Alexander, speaks again, so close I can almost feel his body heat, or maybe it’s just the heat of this hole. 

                “Don’t worry.  You’re not alone.” 

                I wake up on my side crying, fist stuffed into my mouth to try and quiet the sobs.  I have to unclench the fingers of my left hand.  They are wound tight into my hair, pulling it out at the roots like some ravaging beast.  Perhaps it’s not the most dignified position, but I’ve grown accustomed to it.  It’s better than being dead at any rate.  Alive with nightmares trumps being six feet under any day. 

But the nightmares themselves are terrible.  They come almost every night now.  They’re repeats of the most terrible times of my life, flashbacks of torture and pain and helplessness. 

                But I love them.  I love them because they’re all I have left of Alexander.  And if I have to suffer through that pain again just to catch a glimpse of him in my dreams, then I’ll grin and bear it. 

                I slowly sit up and move off the bed, wincing as my feet hit the icy floorboards.  The smoky-cold stagnant air is no better. 

                I shake my head as I move to the kitchen.  I’m still wearing the same clothes, with the slightest splatter of blood visible on my shirt from my scuffle with the men.  How did I get home last night?  Everything after the encounter with the reaper is a blur.  I pat my pockets and find my coin purse gone.  Either I made it to Barney’s Appliances and bought what I needed, or my purse was stolen by some conniving pickpocket.

                Seeing as I am still missing the steel I originally set out to buy, I suspect the latter.

                It’s a wonder I get home at all, instead of ending up in some dark hovel blissed out of my mind on opium.

                It’s happened before.

                Though the apartment my brother and I share is almost completely dark, I make my way around with ease.  The faint light is more than enough to navigate by, even if I hadn’t been living here for the past two years, which is two years too long.