Luce

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"What does he do to us?"

Delilah looks at me, bright eyes unblinking. "What do you mean?"

"What does he want us for? I'm assuming there's a reason he's locked us down here and he hasn't just done this for a laugh." Her eyes widen, stopping me before I continue to take out my growing frustration on her. I pinch the bridge of my nose, inhale deep and slow. "Sorry. I just... want to know. I want to be prepared."

"That's why you faked sleep." She says it as a statement, relaying a fact rather than asking a question. I nod. "That's smart."

"Thank you."

She offers a smile, small and brief enough I question if it was really there at all.

"It was him you were speaking with, then?" I ask. I hadn't heard the majority of what was said, also couldn't identify the voices, just that one was deeper than the other; given I'm in a cell and she's down here with me, she's a safe bet for one of the voices, and unless anyone else is here he'll be the other.

"While you were 'unconscious'?" Another smile is thrown my way, this one more obvious than the last. There'a an edge to her voice, a conspiratorial camaraderie; we share a secret, but I'm not quite sure if I should have trusted her with it. Saying that, friend or foe, she's down here with me. And I can learn from talking with her.

"Yes."

Body language isn't a reliable lie-detector: people can be frighteningly good actors. Her eyes don't drift to one direction or another, nor do they blink more or less. Doesn't fidget either, holds her hands still in her lap.

At last, she says, "I told him I want you to live longer." She seems to consider her next words — watches me to see if I can handle the weight of them. "Than usual."

I doubted I'd be the first, yet what should just be a stutter in the conversation trails off into a silence I can't find the words to break.

Than usual.

It hits me now. A delayed reaction, definitely, but the gravity of what's happening comes barrelling into me, knocking the air from my lungs. I can almost smell the dirt piling on top of me; see it rain down into my dull, unblinking eyes, open and staring blindly forevermore as the soil comes to cover them and the rest of my rotting body. I'll probably be buried somewhere obscure, no tombstone to mark where the worms will eat my decaying form. I'm far from religious but god, please no — that's even if he buries me whole. What if he cuts me up? Takes trophies? Wants to do as the worms and flies and earth will do and consume me...

Panic rises and I try my hardest to swallow it, contain it. But she sees. Of course she sees, damned perceptive woman... I'm not hiding it all that well, I'll admit. But I've donned mask after mask over the years, and while my poker face isn't perfect I hoped I could hide behind it until I gathered my bearings enough to think.

She shifts slightly, leaning towards me. Her hand extends slightly in my direction, twitches as she seems to reconsider. Then it lowers back into her lap as she settles into the same position as before, back against the chair and her legs crossed before her. Saying nothing, she averts her gaze for a while, seeming to find a dust-mark on her jeans particularly interesting. An attempt at giving me privacy.

The 3-3-3 rule is one they teach for panic attacks. At least, that's what Elise taught me. Name three things you see, three you hear, three you feel: see is concrete, curious stranger, bars; hear is heartbeat, my staccato breathing, wood creaking; then feel is the itch of my —Amelie's— shirt's label against the nape of my neck and my heartbeat pounding, violent enough I'm sure it's rattling my ribs. That's two feels—

—and the third is cold concrete beneath my palms as I double over, retching. Whatever I ate before I was captured comes up, acrid as it and my stomach acid comes burning up my throat and through my nostrils. It lasts a minute or so, wretched taste rising up my throat to flood my mouth time and time again. I let it all out, heave until my stomach has got to be empty, until all each retch brings is a choking, hacking cough and tears burning down my cheeks.

It takes a further few minutes for me to orient myself, to stop more from coming up at the sight of it, let alone the smell. This cell —this room— is far from large; enclosed as it is, I'm surprised Delilah can even stomach staying where she is. Though she lifts her chin away from the mess I've made, keeps her eyes averted from it, she doesn't seem too disgusted. Or, at least not too disturbed.

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How many others has she watched the realisation of their impending death hit? How many of them were sick? Cried, screamed, pleaded for help?

Could she have helped them?

3-3-3. I try it again. Fail. Retch but nothing comes up at all this time.

Shadows form at the edges of my vision; they grow exponentially, encroaching on the light as they threaten to take it altogether.

Focusing on Delilah is better than my puddle of vomit, so I look to her. She's rubbing her sleeve between her thumb and forefinger again, the action a little more hurried now than it was before. Has to be a comfort action. I watch the motion for a while, take notice of her blunt nails, trimmed to the beds and looking as though they must be painfully short. I hadn't realised earlier but my own have been clipped, too; they weren't long before, but still it seems he's taken a pair of clippers to them. Probably did it after I scratched him.

Heart no longer racing as fast, my stomach begins to calm, though the smell of my own sick is unavoidable and nauseating in itself. Breathing through my mouth brings with it the awful taste, and every breath through my nose is ripe with the smell of it. I cover a nostril and snort to try and clear it out, not caring when it drips down my lips. Do it to the other side, too. Without anything else to wipe my mouth and nose on, I —somewhat begrudgingly— use the hem of my shirt's sleeve.

"Sorry." I look at Delilah, whose eyes are focused on something in the corner of my cell. I follow her line of sight to where the shadows gather. A faint red light flickers and I realise: there's a camera.

He's watching.

Sadistic bastard.

"Do you want some water?" She asks, tearing my attention from something that makes this whole situation all the worse. Not only am I a prisoner, but one with no privacy. No dignity. Does he get off on watching the people he cages?

Water. She offered water. I nod, offer a weak smile of gratitude. I need something to swill my mouth out.

Getting to her feet, she walks around the chair to the shape I couldn't identify before. With my eyes adjusting to the dimness, I can see now it's a small wicker ottoman. There's a blanket draped over it, causing the oddities with its shape. She takes the blanket and drapes it over the chair, then lifts the lid of the ottoman to retrieve a tumbler from within.

She wanders further off into the shadows, towards shapes I still can't quite make out. The possibility of her just disappearing, me being left alone in this place, almost makes me call out. But a tap runs nearby, and soon she returns with the tumbler now filled near the brim with water.

Sitting back down, closer than she was before, she takes a large gulp of the water before handing it to to me through the bars. I take the tumbler from her, my fingers briefly brushing her own icy ones. Her eyes meet mine. The tumbler is plastic, not glass; no surprise, given he's bolted the chair down. I wonder if anyone has managed to use anything down here to hurt him before or if he's just cautious. I fill my mouth with the water. It's cool but not quite cold. Swishing it around my mouth a few times helps clear the taste out. Swallowing the vomit-filled mouthful seems more polite than adding to the mess on the floor, but quite honestly I don't care. Delilah was here for the main event, anyway.

There's still more than half a tumbler of water left when I'm done, mouth as clean as it'll get without a toothbrush or mouthwash. I swallow a small sip of the water, hope I'll keep it down so I can drink more.

"Thanks." I say at last. The tumbler shakes in my hand, so I wrap both around it to hold it steady. When I can be sure my stomach won't churn again, I take another sip.

Silence falls between us. It's not tense, just... a moment of calm. Likely before a storm, but hopefully not at the centre of one. This pause allows me to think. Not about everything — I'd need much longer to digest all of this. Instead, I hone in on what she said before: 'I want you to live longer.'

She wants, so she tells him as much. Fine. But does she really expect him to listen? And if she does —if he listens to her— why?

I say nothing until the water in the tumbler is down to dregs. She's watching me but isn't, light eyes deftly shifting away when mine try and meet them. When they settle on me briefly once again, I ask, "What do you have over him?"

She tenses up a little at the question. Likely didn't expect me to be so direct but I don't see any reason to tiptoe, not at the moment anyway.

"He listens to you," I continue, poking just a little harder to see if I'll get a response other than the cautious stare and resumption of her rubbing at her shirt's cuff. "Why?"

She looks in the direction of the camera, but I keep my eyes on her. Watch as the mask she wears cracks a little again, giving view to something a little rueful, a little sad. "I've made sure he's afraid of what'll happen if he doesn't."

"You're violent towards him?"

"Not him."

"Yourself?"

She dips her head, neither denying or exactly confirming it.

"Why did you ask for me to live longer?"

She laughs a little at that. A quick, sharp chuckle. "Would you have preferred I didn't?"

"Depends." I cringe at my own candour; hope he isn't listening, won't use it as an excuse to hurry this...process along. "I asked earlier what he wants us for. Why he even keeps us alive at all and doesn't just get it over with."

Delilah glances at the camera again. "He's curious. He likes to see how different people react to being locked in here."

"Nothing more?"

Her eyes fix on mine, hold them. "Like what?"

The words refuse to form. Death is something I fear, sure, but there are some things I'd prefer it to. Things I can't help but think of, knowing he's kept her for years. Others for a while, too.

"No. No." She seems to read it on my face. Shakes her head quickly, adamantly. "He's not like that."

"He's not that kind of a monster?"

She stiffens. Her tone is sharper, defensive as she says, "No. He's not."

Why defend him when he's got you locked up?

Something shifts in the shadows. From the foot of the staircase, in the far corner of the room, a shape morphs into the outline of a man as it nears the light.

"Lilah."

The voice is pleasant. Calming. Distinctive, too. Amelie and her ear for music would probably describe it as 'baritone' in pitch. No Welsh accent to it, but a twang of something European; French, maybe. It holds no edge; no emotion whatsoever. So far removed from the frustrated hiss it was in my ear as I clawed blindly over my shoulder, aiming for the face of the man —this man— who held me fast, hand over my mouth to stop my screams. Stuck a syringe in the side of my neck and pushed the plunger, sending ice through my veins: anaesthetised me. To bring me here, to a cage.

I’m going to kill him. Before, or when, he kills me.

I want to live. But damn it, if I have to die, I’ll take this bastard with me.