Yang awoke feeling cold.

He groaned and twisted – but he could not. He tugged on his arm. His eyes blinked open. Darkness. A few more blinks and he adjusted. He squirmed. His hands were strapped down. He pulled against his restraints.

He was upright, dressed in nothing but his breeches, and strapped to a table in a coldly familiar room. Fear and the stink of faeces choked him.

Yang was in the cellar.

Isaiah began to light candles; his long, spindly fingers playing with each flame before moving on. The underground room flickered to life. Yang stared straight ahead into the opposite cell with horror. Maya was inside, naked, huddled in a corner, sobbing. The detaining metal bars were stained with rust and blood.

“So nice of you to join us, Yang,” said Isaiah with a smile. A sour taste spread across Yang’s tongue. Isaiah pronounced his name the same way Carlisle did all that time ago; it felt over an eternity ago. Ya-eng.

“You two,” Isaiah said pointing at Yang, then swivelling to face Maya, and laughed, “thought you could run away? From me?”

Maya raised her head, and her eyes met Yang’s. She was terrified and so was he; her skin muddy and her cheekbones bruised and scabbing. He clenched his hands into fists.

Isaiah wandered closer to Yang. He paused, shook his head and laughed to himself. Isaiah opened his mouth to say something – Yang could see the remnants of yellow plaque still clinging to the man’s incisors. Lifting a thin scalpel from his tray of knives: “Do you know what happens to people who disobey me?” asked Isaiah.

Yang blinked. I didn’t disobey you, he wanted to say, you don’t even give me orders. But Yang was probably going to find out anyway, wasn’t he? He kept his silence – his only saviour throughout his time in England. Yang felt the cold blade being pressed to his skin. “You know,” Isaiah said, and Yang wanted to shout that he really didn’t want to know but bit his tongue instead. “I’ve always wanted to cut into an Orient. See if they bleed different. I suppose they don’t – not scientifically – but who knows all the wonderful healing capabilities his blood could have?”

Healing…capabilities.

Isaiah pressed the blade in deeper. Yang winced. A thin line of warm blood dripped down his abdomen. Glaring up at the black ceiling, Yang willed the pain away. It’s no different from the words and laughs, he told himself. But it was. One could only hurt, the other could kill. And eat.

“Stop,” Maya whispered from the shadows, her voice barely making a dent in the silence. Yang shut his eyes. The man was mad. There was no reasoning with him. He wouldn’t try. The blade pressed even deeper. Yang stifled a scream. “STOP!” shouted Maya and Yang regretted it for her. Her hands tightened around the bars like hundreds of others probably did. Yang wondered briefly what happened to the man that was there before Maya; he realised he didn’t want to know and stopped wondering.

Isaiah turned around to face the cage behind him. “You,” he spat at his sister. “After all this, still dare to speak to me? I will punish you for your insolence,” he promised, then a sinister smile spread across his haunting face and he looked back at Yang. “You and your Orient.”

Yang closed his eyes, trying not to listen to Isaiah’s footfalls echoing closer and closer. The scalpel pressed down once more and traced a practised pattern. Yang choked on his spit. Pain radiated throughout his body. He stared forward at Maya, at his strength, his hope, and when she looked away – he knew he was gone. He looked down at the blood coating his stomach, the blade carving into his skin. Tears pricked beneath his eyes, his breathing became heavy. When the scalpel disappeared between the shredded pieces of skin, into his body – Yang surrendered to the darkness, the pain, not willing to be conscious anymore.

When he came to, his neck ached, and woke up with a full view of the thick stitches across the right part of his stomach. Yang shuddered and tasted bile. The pain was numb though – perhaps his only blessing. Maya, he remembered, and craned his neck to look into the cell. She sat there, as far away from the bars as possible, pressed against the back. Isaiah – the bastard – sat near the bars, teasing her with something flabby and red. If it were possible, the cellar smelled worse – like death.

If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

“Eat it,” he commanded, and tossed at Maya.

A cold feeling passed through Yang’s being. Maya’s eyes met his. What was that? Isaiah noticed her gaze. “Ah, Yang,” he said. “You’re awake – excellent. Just in time for the spectacle. You know, you fell asleep during my experimentation – I’m truly not pleased about that. Not pleased at all. You’ll be adequately punished.”

Isaiah turned his attention back to Maya. “Eat it,” he commanded again. Was that…was…? A wave of nausea assaulted Yang. “Yes!” Isaiah exclaimed gleefully at Yang’s expression. “It’s your gall bladder. I must admit, I never expected you to have one but then again that is a very narrowminded belief and I’m so glad to have been corrected.”

Yang stared at Isaiah. The man spoke as though the conversation were about spices or the harvest of a crop. No, it was about the harvest of his organs instead. Yang wasn’t sure what a gall bladder was, but he was sure it was his. The sharp sting in his belly confirmed it.

“Eat it!” Isaiah yelled, getting angry. “Speak to her, Yang,” he turned to Yang. “Or I’ll make it worse on both of you!”

What could be worse than this? Yang wondered miserably. But he complied: “Maya,” he croaked, his voice broken and cracked.

She watched him with knowing eyes, a mutual understanding between them. Tears welled in her eyes. She stared helplessly at Isaiah, and placed the raw meat on her tongue and chewed.

Yang swallowed vomit.

“Don’t swallow it yet!” Isaiah shouted. “Chew it some more!”

The mad man rushed off to a desk and scribbled enthusiastically on some paper. Maya chewed more, Yang’s blood stained across her mouth.

“Chew more!” Isaiah commanded.

Maya chewed.

She began to heave.

“Swallow it,” Isaiah said quickly, rather disappointed.

Maya swallowed. She clasped her hand to her mouth to keep from throwing up, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. But she never uttered a word of protest. Yang choked back his own grief. What had just happened? He wanted to vomit.

“Now you,” Isaiah said, unclasping Yang’s restraints. “Get a reward – you’re a good boy. I should get more Orients in here.”

Yang held back puke.

Isaiah disappeared. Yang tried to make for Maya, but the pain reappeared and he could not make it more than a step before collapsing onto the icy stone floor. He sobbed – ugly, violent sobs of fear and disgust and desperation – and she sobbed with him. Would this end?

Isaiah returned with a plate of steaming meat. “Here you are,” he said, placing it in front of Yang. “Prepared like they would in Shanghai.”

Yang wasn’t from Shanghai neither did he know how they prepared food there, but his stomach lurched in hunger. His brain fell back, remembering how the girl he loved had just ate him. A part of him. His heart felt broken and heavy as he watched her continue to cry.

“Here, eat,” Isaiah said, pushing the succulent, sweet smelling meat closer to Yang. “I won’t be this kind next time. Might as well take advantage of it.”

It might be the last meal of his life, Yang realised. He wasn’t sure whether to touch it. He doubted Isaiah would give it to Maya if he refused. “Eat,” Isaiah said again, so Yang did, the desperation in his belly allowing him no other option.

When he had finished, the thick, warm, familiar spices lingered on his tongue, and Isaiah turned away, satisfied with his work, searching through his notes.

“We’ll be able to observe the effects of the consumption of gall bladder,” Isaiah said, excited. He shuffled through his notes. Yang’s gaze fell on the tray of knives. His stomach full, he managed to push himself, as silently and slowly as possible toward the tray.

“Although we won’t be able to conclusively say whether it’s the effects of normal gall bladder or Oriental.”

Almost there.

“I’ll need more test subjects. It won’t be a problem to get a hand on Chinese with the Opium War.”

One more step…crawl?

“Opium is also a good area of study – we could research the effects of combined treatment.”

Yang grabbed the first knife as softly as possible. The steel of the others clanked together, but Isaiah didn’t appear to have heard.

Yang struggled to his feet.

“Tongue didn’t work last night – but this time on an Orient…”

Tongue? Yang froze.

This was no time to doubt, he chastised himself. His tongue was still heavy and dry in his mouth, he could feel that. He forced himself forward.

“We’ll have so much fun together!” said Isaiah, and turned around to see his new friends – Yang plunged the knife into his chest.

He yanked it out.

And shoved it back in.

Isaiah’s blood spluttered onto Yang’s face.

Again.

Pull.

Push.

Isaiah choked in surprise and horror.

The irony, Yang thought,

Pull.

Push.

AGAIN.

AGAIN.

AGAIN.

Dead. He was dead. Yang dropped the knife but didn’t let himself waver. He grasped the keys that hung above the inkwell, and the spare lab coat. This was his laboratory, Yang realised, placing the words with the ones Maya had said so long ago.

Yang rushed over to her cell and unlocked it, covering her in the coat. “Come on,” he said, his throat screaming in pain. “Let’s go.”

Maya nodded.

They ran, the night air cool against their skin, their legs weak with exhaustion and malnourishment. How many days had passed?

Maya clutched onto Yang’s hand. She stumbled.

“Maya? Maya! What’s wrong?” Yang collapsed beside her. Maya heaved and coughed, spitting blood.

“Maya, talk to me,” Yang begged.

She shook her head.

“Maya, please,” he said.

She tried to twist away from him but he held her frim in his grasp. She pulled away and began to run into a cleft of woods. He rushed after her. “Maya!”

He found her quickly – she was too tired to run far. “What did he do, Maya?” Yang demanded. “Tell me what happened.”

Maya pressed both her hands to the sides of his hand and kissed him. He kissed her back, slowly, but she would not part her lips. He pulled back, the taste of blood lingering on his lips, and said her name, over and over and over – a name, a prayer, a mantra. She stared at her with tears glistening in her eyes, moonlight shining down on them.

“Maya, what’s wrong?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to speak.

She had no tongue.

A stub glared back at him

He vomited