A Pirate's Life For Me

Down the Drain

Fear crawls down my spine and stays, hovering, against the small of my back, vibrating, keeping my entire body awake and alert as I wait for the door to open again, the chains to draw back, black gloves steepled over a voice box.

I wait.

Every time a person walks down the hall outside the heavy door, something clanks against it, something echoes through the room, setting my teeth on edge and my spine vibrating. But it's not Icas.

I wait.

Slowly, my eyes start to burn from staring at the door, hard enough that I have to start to blink, and once that happens, blinking happens again, and again, and again, until I'm fighting to keep my eyes open and my body alert. It's tiring being tense for so long.

I wait.

Sunlight streams in through the barred window. Birds chirp, so there must be trees outside, right?

I wait.

Anxiety builds like pressure in a can, pressing in on my core until it feels like I'll explode. It's been hours.

Why hasn't he come in?!

Though even as I ask myself, I know why. It's all mental. He's still playing his games, and somehow I'm always on the losing side.

Another hour passes.

Finally, I can hear the harrowing scrape of metal on wood, the clank of chain as they unlock the door, the sound of the wood as it creaks open. A shiver of anticipation combats the fear still coiling against the small of my back, but a twinge of relief sighs through me. Now, things will happen. Anything happening is better than the waiting.

Two guards march in. Neither speak to me.

"Traffic's that bad, huh?" I question, but neither respond. Instead they move dutifully to the chains on the walls and fiddle.

The room echoes with the soft sounds of fingers.

Snap.

"Quit your whining," one soldier growls over my cry of pain, snapping my arm down to my side, forcing my frozen muscles to move in a screaming jerk. Then the other arm, wrist thudding sharply against my hip. From there, the guards wrap their meaty hands around my arms and haul me to my feet, forcing me to stand on my own as they go back down to undo my ankles. I wobble, unsteady, and gaze for a millisecond down at the unprepared, crouched, unbalanced soldiers hovering around my feet. Now is my chance. I might not get another. The minute one foot is free, I rear my leg back and nail the first soldier in the gut. Stumbling over him, off-balance, and more than a little weak, I crash to the ground before he finishes his "ugh."

They don't even bother to restrain me while the second guard works on my other foot.

"Come on, pirate," one growls, hauling me quickly to my feet and dragging me two or three steps before his buddy joins him. The floor swims beneath me, head pounding. Dehydration. I'll get hungry next.

"Moving?" I ask drowsily, syllables slurring together. I focus on remaining upright. "Don't I get a say?"

Obviously, no one responds, but they seem to have no qualms about dragging me out of my cell and into the hallway.

It's bright, busy, surprising amounts of people wandering with purpose through the corridors, doors lining the walls. We pass quite a few before one opens and a different guard shuffles out. I can get a glimpse of a girl shackled to the ground, straining to rise as a man dressed completely in white drips candle wax onto her naked skin. It isn't until we round the corner that I recognize the man as Spindly, the tall, wiry one of the four from the dock.