A Pirate's Life For Me

Here

The room is dark.

I'm kneeling on the ground, arms held up above my head, chained together and strung taught from the ceiling. My shoulder throbs, but the pain has dimmed slightly, so I've been drugged, and probably heavily, as well. The room itself looks cement, blocked off, bricked up and down with a heavy iron wrapped oak door the only exit. I'm not facing the door, however. I can only see the archwork in the brick and the very edge of the hinges and iron. I could simply twist and see, but twisting puts extra strain on my shoulder, which is a fairly effective way to keep me facing the corner. But the corner isn't exactly wonderful to look at; blood stains decorate the stone, as well as two seperate sets of manacles bolted into the wall.

I swallow hard.

This is seeming very much like a torture chamber.

The last thing I remember was distracting everyone so the girl from the dock could get away, and Shorty getting all touchy-feely with my head. Maybe he knocked me out?

"I suppose you're wondering how you've gotten here," a voice announces from somewhere behind me.

I jump out of my skin and twist around without thinking.

Laughter echoes over my cry of pain. "Stupid boy, have you learned nothing?"

Gritting my teeth, I tip my head back, shaking my hair from my eyes and scanning what part of the room I can see. There is someone, yes, but they're standing cleverly in my blind spot, hovering somewhere over my left shoulder. My injured shoulder.

Fine. I focus on their voice instead. Lucky for me, I've been known to get people to talk. "Actually, if you could tell me where I am, that would be great."

"You're not anywhere you'd recognize, if that's what you're looking for."

No good. The room echoes, just slightly enough to distort the voice, and the words themselves are slightly slurred together? Try again. "Oh, well, thank god. That's a relief."

That laughter again. "Oh, my dear boy, God has nothing to do with it."

Another swallow. The voice sounds mechanical, almost. "S-So, no clues at all? Damn. I was hoping to at least have a clue. Then I can pretend to be a detective."

There's a soft pause before the person sighs heavily, nasal, through the nose.

Fingers clamp down on my engaged and torn shoulder muscle.

When the room stops spinning I close my mouth, listening to my screams echo from the stone walls. The person steps slowly around into my field of blurry vision. "Do take care to watch your language, Mr. Jewell."

It's Shorty. He's back, dressed in all black with a trench-coat to match his gloves. He's wearing a hat, wide-brimmed, all black but splotched, as if stained by something. Around his face is a mask, you guessed it, black leather. Over the mouth is a voice box. He's speaking through the machine to distort his voice. But if he didn't want me to recognize him, why step in front for me to see him?

He stares at me.

"D-Duly noted," I say shakily, my words coming out more like a whisper than a snarky comment.

What I can see of his mouth smiles.

"As I'm sure you've already figured out, Mr. Jewell, you've been brought here for a specific reason. Do you know what that reason is?"

"No fucking clue," I remark, for once telling the truth.

Pain ignites again in my shoulder, but as it begins to die down and I take a breath it flashes again, hotter, brighter than before.

"Ow! What was that for?" As if he'll actually respond. But the more he talks, the more chances I get to get myself out.

"Lying is not appreciated here, Mr. Jewell." He begins to pace again. "When I ask you a question, I expect that question to be answered to your utmost ability, with full compliance. Not a blanket lie to throw me off track. When I ask you a question, feel free to assume that I already know most of the answer. You will have no opportunity to lie to me without my noticing. It would do you well to remember that."

He gives me a sidelong glance, watches me pant. "The other one was for the language."

Laughing at his own joke, he stands and stalks behind me again. I listen to the door creak open and slam shut.

I flinch in the darkness; he must've taken the light with him.

Everything is coated in darkness, thick, drowning my senses with nothingness as I try any way at all to escape.

Wiggling out of these chains is useless with my arm the way it is. I can't stand; my ribs are probably bruised, and even if I could I won't have enough give to make it to the door. There's no window, no way out except the door, and the only thing through that door is imminent capture.

For once, I'm well and truly stuck.