This time, the bars open three minutes prior.

The screech runs blood down to my ears as the sharp smell fills my lungs: lemon polish, stale air and sawdust. I haven’t seen sunrises for a long time. Maybe it’s raining. Maybe there is a rainbow. I bite the inside of my mouth till the taste of blood coats my tongue. I drag the steely blanket higher over my chest. The crackless stone chamber never felt colder.

He places the plate full of chartreuse goop in front of me. As always.
The porcelain hits the silence hard. As always.
“This time, eat it.” His voice was raspy and thick. As always.

A shiver runs down my spine. I know… I know it is time. Fear grips my heart hard in the cage of my ribs. The cold water wets the ends of my feet; maybe a few licks from the mice. My breath hitches in my throat. This time… this time, he’s going to kill me. Kill me… to skin my flesh to pick every bone one by one from my joints till the floor is painted in my blood. A rattling sound buzzes through my skeleton. I shout. As loud as I can, I shout. Until my throat dries up to raw and crusty… I shout - 

He turns. And that monstrous giant vanishes through my only chance of running away. With weak limbs, I gather myself from the steel bed and run. I run… as fast as I can. I run against time. The darkness of the night intensifies around me. The wolves howl. But I run. Fast -

In my mind.

All in my crusty, rusty, old, crowded and clouded mind.

As I let the coldness of the dead steel cut through my bare skin, I see the bars swinging close behind him with a low groan.

Except

They are not actual bars.

It is a door. With brass knobs. A dark brown hardwood door. My guess is oak.

And my seat… is not a steel throne, it is soft, plush and cloud-like. If I am allowed to fabricate a little, it does not engulf my whole body in a warm cradling hug, and the comforter is not of soft wool.

The room is not cold, but warm with clean beige linen table cloths, long floral violet curtains and a wooden dresser. Mahogany, maybe.

And the food in my plate, a silver cloche to be exact, does not look like green muck; it is a golden-brown porridge with crispy croutons and freshly brewed coffee by the side. And it smells warm and delicious.

There is a crystal vase on the table with a white lily in it. Every day he changes it. Refreshes it with a fresh flower, at dawn, when I pretend to be asleep. He claims his authority with his distinct scent, swaps the flowers, collects my half-eaten plates, puts fresh clothes in the top drawer of the dresser and pulls the duvet up, properly tucking me in the soft bed.

But he is a giant. A monster. So what that I have not seen his claws and fangs; so what, I have never seen him killing innocent animals ruthlessly for fun. So what that his blue grey eyes are like dew drops on his sun-kissed skin. HE IS A MONSTER. And I am his captive, in his crafted prison.

Why does he never lay his hands on me? Or torture me to the verge of actual death? It’s been 21 days! 21 days of him killing me slowly with the anticipation of my upcoming death. 21 days of me failing to muster the courage to ask him why. 21 days since I heard my own voice. Loneliness was not something I had to summon; it was already here.

I don’t remember my name.

I don’t remember if my family ever tried to find me. If I have a family?

I don’t remember anything except for the dull aches all over my body and dark bruises on my skin.

I don’t remember anything except that these marks are gradually fading.

I don’t remember anything except how they still hammer my flesh, trying to voice out for one sound, some sound, any sound.

I am forced to remember the smell of hot meals three times a day.

I am forced to remember the figure who always stands there behind this door whenever I throw a fit. I am forced to remember the light stubble along his jawline on every third day. The long brown scar on his right cheek. The meticulous pattern of his attire: white shirt, black t-shirt, khaki button-up. On repeat for every three days. I am forced to remember the subtle citrusy scent. And the light blue gleam of his eyes. If I did not know better, I would say he has very beautiful eyes.

I have contemplated the part of my mind that tells me that if I ask him, he would allow me to go out. But I have never complied with that utter madness. What for? To meet other fellow prisoners? To see how he kills birds and carves their hearts?

Thud. Thud. Thud.

They are running those machines in that building again.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I squint my eyes to look past the moonlit darkness to the neon street lights.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I pour the porridge down my throat; a savoury comfort burns my inside. Throwing myself on the soft mattress, I count the things he has snatched from me. And the only thing I want back. My voice.

Thud. Thud-

The neon lights- thud- thud- Sleep grapples my eyes. Letting out one breath, I hope that this night, in my dreams, I can hear what I sound like. Thud. Thud. Thud-

Thud. Thud. Thud.
A series of slow water drops near my feet.
The moon didn’t bother to show up today. The alley is dark. Pitch dark.
The blurred neon lights from the faraway street break into hazy abstract patterns. A sting pierces my fog. The sharp ache at the back of my head is intense.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Where am I?
My hands reach for something. Anything.
The smell of burnt cigar is metallic. I narrow my eyes. One black, imposing silhouette is pressing his terrifying weight on me. I shriek. Shriek… but there is no sound. No sound- Thud. Thud. Thud.
My nails scrape against the rough fabric of his jacket. His grip on my throat stiffens, and the coldness of the dagger pressing into my stomach, through my dress, pierces into my bloodstream.
Nausea boils up at the pit of my stomach. I try to grab some oxygen, if there is any.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A brief flicker of his eyes shines against a dim torchlight. A torchlight, it is. His crooked smile disappears in a cowl.
“Who is there?” A voice, rich and raspy enough to cut through the glasses, penetrates the darkness. Like a sharp visceral crack. I know… I know this voice. Thud. Thud. Thud. Somewhere…
The assailant growls, and he gestures his fingers to my lips. I follow the order and keep my lost voice shut. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Tears run down my cheeks.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
This is it. I am going to die today. I stuff my fist in my mouth to muffle the silent cry.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Footsteps come closer.
One. Thud.
Two. Thud.
The weight is suddenly gone.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The first thing I notice is a long brown scar on his right cheek. And greyish blue eyes. Monstrous.
He moves with a quick, efficient grace, and the sharp howl of a rough voice forces me to notice the man on my feet; wide eyes, bleeding from his nose. The attacker groans in pain, staggering back into a stack of garbage bins. My vision blurs. I fix them on the broad shoulders. And the long scar. Monstrous. His hands casually rest on his sides while I fall apart.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I stare.
And I stare.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
He is beautiful. The eyes are beautiful. The scar is beautiful.
Monstrous.
A strange, unsettling and distorted kind of safety clasps my collar.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I see those greyish-blue eyes when I faint in his arms.

My eyes flutter open in a pool of my own tears. A forgotten part of my ragged memories. I grab the blanket close to my heart.

Thud. Thud. Thud.
I am warm. I am fed. I am safe.
I inhale lungs full of that lingering citrusy smell. Then, I breathe out loud.
And I hear a sound.
My voice.
I smile, and I laugh.
Loudly.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I cry, and I bellow.
Loudly.
My voice. So foreign. So forgotten. So missed.
Thud. Thud. Thud.

A splash of vertigo hit my nerves. An unblinking, confused pair of greyish blue eyes bore holes into me from the flung open door. But first, I saw the long brown scar on his right cheek.

Thud. Thud. Thud.
I laugh.
Thud. Thud. Thud.

And I realise, it’s been 21 days and I have not seen him smile since then.

.    .    .