The Hunter's Wolf

Prisoner

Prisoner

It has been raining cats and dogs for the plenary consecutive nights, and in this weather, the hours of endeavour is unforgiving.

Outside, I can hear the rain rat-a-tat-tatting down from the sky onto the concrete roofs of our underground prison. It turns to a duet with the drumming drops of rain water trickling in from the ventilation into the cellars, forming a two-inch deep of brown water, the surface rippling with each fallen bead.

I listen to the call-and-response rhythm as my body shivers from the cold. The tip of my nose has froze, with each inhaled breath like a hundred of icy needles prickling into my lungs. Teeth chatter and my fingers numbed until they cease to bend properly. Blowing out a shaky breath, I rub my arms to build up the warmth, but it only seems that the more I exert the movements, the more the heat seeps away.

A thin layer of mist has formed a damp chill weighing the moisture hanging in the air. The excess humidity floats, every surface a wick for a moisture. The walls has become a habitat for mold to grow on, and the pungent stink of mildew pinches my nose.

A flash of light flickers through the tiny ventilation; crackling, buzzing, and hissing as the lightning splits the skies open. They dither with anger, branches that kindle the Stygian sky. Then a booming sound is heard, the preceded thunder rumbles the whole prison. Almost as if a huge anvil is being dragged across the vault of heaven against its will, the depth of its grumbles resound into the core of my thumping heart.

My wrists have thinned down to their skin and bones, as a cause from my own suspicion against every little meal that they served. The shackles around my wrists and ankles have developed blisters, the surface scalding red and raw, and they look angry. Some visible spots are covered with dried blood, and tiny wounds that seem to itch with this poor hygiene.

Moreover, with the ceaseless hunger, the wails of my malnourished belly have far distracted me from my attempts of escape, which are a complete failure. Over a hundred of shots, yet none has brought me the result that I seek.

These cages are not only fabricated for prison, it is a confinement.

A piercing creak evades the dungeon and every of its corners, silencing the rickety prisoners as their ears perk up to the incoming guest.

A man's footsteps, heavy and strong, echo across the dungeon, each step growing louder, closer as he approches the direction of my cell. I drop my head onto my knees, my face hidden behind my hair as my body congeals, just in time when the footsteps vanishes, the remnants bouncing off and dissipating deliberately.

"Secure the cells," the man barks, and the guards shuffles onto their feet, proceeding towards the other prisoners. I can feel his eyes drilling holes on my head, but I simply don't give a shit about whatever it is he has to say.

Stephen has been stationed as my personal guard. He brings me food and the weekly water supply, and he never complains when I hardly touch the food at all.

"Rose, you need to eat," he starts, "You can't starve yourself to death."

"Watch me," my voice rasps, and I wince slightly from the pain that I feel in my voicebox.

He sighs tiredly, and I am beginning to be fascinated toward his foremost patience. "Oh, I am watching you, alright," he chirps with a bit of humor, which I ignore subtly, "Eat."

The vomit-like food smacks with heavy weight, and he slides the cheap tray to my feet, where it lays untouched, and he probably knows it too. With one last look, his footsteps fade away, and only then I raise my head and take a peak at the meal.