These soundproofed walls hold screams and secrets; to think of the tales they could tell of its inhabitants, both those trapped and freed by its confines.
----------------------------------------
Two storeys below ground lies this room in which many have shuddered their last breaths. Within are two women on opposing sides of bars, though both are trapped inside this place. One lies, seemingly unconscious, on a thin blue camping mat in a bare-brick-and-concrete cell. High above and out of reach, a sole light bulb hangs from a short chain. The light it emits is weak and diffused by an old paper lantern, leaving shadows to pool at the corners of the cell; its light barely reaches beyond the bars to where the other woman waits, the key to the cell's door hanging from a strip of worn velvet tied about her neck.
This other woman sits on the bare concrete floor, her back against the leg of the lone chair that faces the cell, fixed in place and bolted to the ground so it can't be used as a weapon. She prefers the floor to the unyielding plastic of its seat, its back bowed to prevent slouching. The woman's focus is on her unconscious companion, an inscrutable expression on her face. Her frayed clothes contrast starkly with this new one's crisp attire; the new one wears a pantsuit sans-jacket, all crisp white blouse with sleeves turned up to the elbows and black trousers with a traveler's crease. Fresh from a meeting maybe? The woman doesn't know. He tells her nothing but their first names, and she'd rather not know them — better to not name the spring lambs, she finds. Regardless, her own clothes are ratty and worn compared to this new one's, all threadbare and faded tartan paired with discoloured denim. Neither of them wear shoes. He takes those, not only because laces (or high-heels) can be dangerous, but so the jagged edges of the crushed stones surrounding the house cut the soles of their feet if they try to escape. Though them getting that far is unlikely — he's nothing if not cautious.
Especially when it comes to her. He's learned not to underestimate what she is capable of.
He's down here now. Descended the wooden open-riser staircase silently some time ago. There's a light he could have turned on, the switch for which is beside the door at the top of those stairs. No surprise he didn't, though: he's eerily good at navigating in darkness. Still and silent as his descent always is, it's a surprise she noticed it at all; then again, it's rare he can surprise her. Accustomed to his presence, she almost always senses when he's close by. Survival instinct kicking in, maybe. Like the deer that senses when the hunter hides within the tree line. Problem is, she didn't run before the shot was fired.
His footsteps are light when he finally approaches. Would've taken his shoes off before descending. The first intentional sound he makes down here is a slight sigh of displeasure as, without preamble, his hand comes to rest atop her head.
"Your hair needs trimming."
His fingers run from roots through to ends, combing auburn curls that, until this morning, hadn't seen water or a comb in near three weeks. He lifts a lock, thumb brushing lightly back and forth over the uneven ends frayed by time and from her own habitual toying with it. He's told her to stop that before, pleasant timbre of his voice edged with something she dislikes directed at her. Though his tone is gentler now than it had been then, the undertone of disappointment it holds is just as irking. All the same, she leans into his touch. Calms at it, even.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"I'll schedule an appointment for next week."
Her calm dissipates, storm building in its place. Shaking her head vehemently, she bats him away.
"Lilah—"
"No." Defiant. Definitive. She refuses to leave room for argument. "I want longer."
"I say how long."
"I—"
"I say."
She bites the inside of her lip, hard enough to bring copper to her mouth and tears to her eyes. Looks up from the grey socks, past the dark chinos to the pair of undone buttons at the neck of his burgundy dress shirt. In doing so, she raises her face high enough to ensure the droplets falling down her cheeks are unmissable.
A pause, then a hand beneath her chin brings her eyes up to his. They are dark in the dimness, hazel turned almost black, as though their depths are consuming the shadows shrouding him. He has enough darkness of his own without that, though. Marring his face and neck are scratches, the bulk of which are around those eyes which do not soften at the sight of her tears. Quid-pro-quo, she supposes; she wouldn't look at him when he brought the new one in, so now he refuses to acknowledge her tears.
She presses her teeth harder into the indent they've already made, bringing more copper and more tears. Her small whimper of pain adds to the show. Finally, the ice of his expression cracks. His eyes soften slightly, flickering between hers and her lower lip that trembles now it's free from her teeth. She has to restrain a small, triumphant smile at the way his breath hitches.
Hand still under her chin, his thumb reaches up to sweep over her lips, his own pressed thin.
The momentary softness to his features fades fast; she knows what he's going to do before he does it, but he holds her chin firmly to stop her jerking away as he pulls down her lower lip, revealing bloodstained teeth.
"Damn it, Lilah."
He lets her go abruptly, wipes saliva tainted red on his black chinos. A glob of that blood-streaked spit makes its way from her puckered lips to his polished shoe, a string of it swinging back to cling to her chin.
Two more tears slide down her cheeks, this time unaided. Damn it. Damn him.
From a front pocket of his trousers he pulls a folded black handkerchief. She turns away when he brings it close to her face, makes a point of looking off into the shadows instead of meeting his gaze. Wordlessly he withdraws, uses the handkerchief to wipe his shoe, bending close enough his head invades her personal space. For a second, she considers the damage her teeth could do to him.
He doesn't stand. Instead, he leans closer, lips near enough to her ear each word sends a puff of air to disturb the curls he combed through earlier. "Enough, Lilah. Enough. Keep her a little while longer if it'll please you. Just stop this."
At that, she offers a smile. They're a useful commodity, rarer these days than ever before, but this concession more than warrants one. He doesn't return it. Hers only grows, gloating triumph matched by his exasperation, her lips pulling back to show off her bloodstained teeth.
Dark eyes close. He takes some steadying breaths. Without opening them, he presses his lips to the corner of her mouth before straightening and returning the soiled square of fabric to his pocket.
As he ascends the stairs to lock up, she wipes the spit from her chin. The door to the above slams shut and her smile fades as her gaze returns to the new one, still in the same position on the mat. This small victory is a victory nonetheless, but in the end it feels hollow. Unconsciously, she reaches for the key about her neck, considers how little that small piece of metal means when it boils down to it; his word means nothing when he can break it at any moment, and break it he always will.