Seven Levels Below

XIX

Mitch decides the worst part is the waiting. There are no windows in the hallway, no clock hanging anywhere nearby, no one coming to check on him. There must be someone on the other side of the door to his hallway, but he can't tell for sure. He could have been sitting there alone for hours, or maybe just minutes. The only thing telling him it must be closer to hours is the slowly growing ache in his shoulders and legs. The weird, hunched position allowing him to stay curled up on the floor with his back to the wall while still having his wrists locked together behind him was very uncomfortable, but he couldn't make himself move.

He wants to fantasize, to think that maybe the queen will worry when he doesn't show up. Maybe she'll send Scott to his apartment to check on him. Maybe he will go to Kirstie's and when he doesn't find him there, they'll both be worried and maybe they'll go to the police. Maybe they'll hear a rumor, maybe that old guy who wouldn't shut up will tell them while the officer denies everything. Maybe the old guy will tell them they sent him up. Maybe Scott will come barging into the hallway and then he'll be safe and Scott will be here and everything will be okay, but. Mitch won't. He won't let himself think like that. He knows that's just a dumb fantasy and this isn't a Disney movie, and Scott probably won't even find out until it's too late. It'll be better that way. He hopes no one shows Scott the coverage of the execution. He hopes that Scott isn't at the execution.

God, Mitch hopes it's a fast death.

He'll never get to say goodbye to Kirstie. He hopes she knows that she can have all the shirts he stole from her closet back. A giggle tries to force its way out of his throat. It feels like days ago that he was stopped by the police officer, and now he's sitting in a murky old dungeon cell awaiting execution for treason, and he's concerned about the shirts he borrowed from Kirstie that don't matter at all. She knows about them, has taken some of his in turn. The shirts don't matter and he's stuck here with nothing else to think about.

He's been sitting here long enough that he's made a reluctant peace with his fate. Well, less of peace with it and more like he's accepted the hopeless feeling eating away at his chest. He still feels numb, can feel his breathing is heavy, but slow. He feels almost shaky, but he thinks it's more of nervous energy than fear. Waiting to die is awful.

The silence is killing him right now, though. Haha. Should he sleep? He's kinda hysterical at this point. Or sit awake? Sleep would cost him some of his precious few remaining hours, but staying awake only prolongs the torture. How much longer is it till morning?

There's a soft creaking sound, almost a groaning, and Mitch's ears prickle at it. At first, he thought it must have been his empty stomach, protesting at the lack of food that day, but he didn't feel it rumble. He's as hypersensitive to everything touching him right now as he is numb, distantly feeling the cold of the stone wall behind his back seeping into his skin through the thin sweater, the brush of his short hair across his forehead as he shifts, the tremble in his hands clasped behind his back.

It couldn't have been his stomach though, because unless he's going crazy, it didn't rumble. So what was it? He lifted his head off his knees and peered into the darkness.

There was a light tapping, and Mitch sat up straight with a start when he realized they were footsteps. So much for the heavy calm he'd managed to establish, because now his heart was pounding and he could feel his shoulders start to shake.

The footsteps were gentle and slowly approaching the cell, and Mitch was tense with anticipation. It was unlikely that the person was the king or someone coming to deliver him for execution considering the stealthy nature of the faint thuds. Mitch wished the gag wasn't preventing him from talking, because the anticipation was terrible.