The boy sulked in his cell, gaunt and agitated from the days of waiting. After his
attempted escape, the guards had been on watch at his prison for 24 hours a day. He had
not heard another human voice, save the guard perhaps coughing.
Sometimes, he practised his kicks
with a pretend punching bag.
Sometimes, he sat and pondered
what would happen to him next.
And, more than often, he did
nothing at all.
He sucked in a breath of air and
sighed, surprised at the length of time the interrogator and his ‘keeper’ had
been absent. He could not remember the last time he had seen daylight. The place he was
kept in held one small window, but it was closed off when he ‘misbehaved.’ The
dingy room did hold one yellow light, but other than that the room’s contents
consisted humbly of one cot, and the rest, a cold rectangle of concrete.
He reached a hand to his face to,
for the thousandth time, examine his wound. The two slashes in either cheek were just
beginning to heal, and he could tell the first one had already begun to somewhat scar
over.
But they would never *really* heal.
However, he couldn’t
remember what exactly had happened after he’d been knocked out. He knew, at least,
that he hadn’t been placed directly in his cell.
The interrogator, whom he’d
only met once, had disposed of him into his keeper’s care. Or so he called him.
The ‘keeper,’ or as
everyone respectfully addressed him as ‘Professor,’ was a man the boy associated
with one thing, perhaps the only clear, concise emotion he’d experienced – pain.
Something, (the ‘something’
was an element that he could not quite place), jabbed him everywhere on his body. Then,
his veins felt as if they were burning, and he would pass out.
He spent unknown times in these
black out periods, and he’d always wake up in his cell – cold, sore, tired
– crumple up into a little ball, and sleep; a dreamless sleep. For when you haven’t
any memories, dreams are trivial things.
On this particular day however…the
boy did dream.
Running, raining – pounding
in my ears.
The droplets sang their misery as
the frightened child rushed away…
Running.
He ran.
Raining.
It rained.
-Pounding in my ears.
Pounding, was the sound of heavy
tread against slick pavement.
No one took notice as the child
ran like a banshee. His pursuers gained speed as he slowed, winded and breathless, as rain
beat mercilessly at his frightened face.
He neither saw where he was
going, nor did he care.
‘Escape…you must
escape.’
Suddenly, he ran straight into a
passer-by who glared down to find a shivering child at her feet. Her features softened.
She was old, and her face
chiseled with wrinkles and cracked lips. But, she smiled and eyes, angry just moments ago,
sparkled.
The moment of mercy vanished as
the boy realised his mistake, at a point which terror gripped him, and he stood, unable to
move, sessile in his terrible epiphany.
He was hauled up by strong arms
of a man that looked too young to be who he was. The old woman began a scream but ended it
before the sound could reach its destination. A gun, aimed malevolently at her face,
caused her to choke in utter shock.
Without further ado, the child
was ushered away, but not before being blind folded and gagged.
‘I didn’t think this
job would include babysitting,’ a gruff voice arose in its anger.
The child could guess the man
that held him tightly rolled his eyes when he did not respond.
‘Well, what should I do with
the old broad?’ the first continued in a more amicable fashion.
‘Nothing,’ the second
said impatiently.
With that, the captor turned to
leave.
As he walked in the opposite
direction, the child could hear the old woman whimper. That was the last sound he heard
before a resounding ‘BANG!’ that echoed in the alley, echoed in his mind…and
every fiber of his body. With such rigidity, he felt an almost acidic burn of furore that
bore down on him like a falling star, white in its heat.
‘Rookies,’ the captor
said frigidly, not bothering to turn, and the child could tell he was rolling his eyes
again, from the way his grip slackened ever so slightly.
Taking advantage, the boy
suddenly twisted violently enough to turn fully around, and pulled off his blindfold.
Blood.
Everywhere. And his only friend,
be it temporary, the only kind look he’d ever encountered, lay face down on the
pavement, a dark pool of red flowering around her. Faceless, for the eyes were gone, blown
away with her life energy.
And the child screamed…
Screaming…
‘Screaming is prohibited,’
a regimented voice said.
The boy jumped.
It was late. His eyes began to
re-focus, and he could see the lights of the city glaring luminously out of the window.
Window? Lights?? City?!
He suddenly realised he was in
his ‘keeper’s’ domain, or rather, his laboratory. Lying on a hard cot, he
also realised his legs and arms were strapped down.
‘Ah, you’re awake,’
a voice whined like insect wings, ‘good, we can begin.’
The boy lay still. He knew what
was to come. He closed his eyes and waited.
And he was rewarded by the
sudden, sharp sensation of gut wrenching pain. Fire, poured through like a ravenous hunger
for his blood.
‘First mako treatment,
complete,’ a mechanised voice stated.
The boy opened his eyes. The
keeper glanced nonchalantly at him, making notes.
‘Sixth mako treatment,
complete.’
The boy could barely open his
eyes now, and his keeper still only took notes. Nothing had changed in his demeanor as the
boy cried out in pain. Finally, he said the long awaited word, ’finished.’
The straps, those cursed
restraints, however, stayed firmly in place, stealing his sacred ability to move of his
own free will.
‘Oh, I’m not finished
yet,’ the keeper said, almost . . . gleefully?
‘Oh no, I’ve just begun…’
The boy, weary of the fire,
passed out before he could hear anymore.
The professor stared at his
specimen, lying still, out, on the dissecting table.
He was a pretty faced boy, (one
of the main reasons he had picked him) maybe 17 or 18 in his years.
‘What an efficient company,’
the Professor had commented with slight admiration to the president.
The large, bulbous man had merely
smirked and nodded.
The Professor needed a specimen.
A hand selected specimen of his own choice.
The Professor had received his
specimen.
He closed his eyes, smiled
dangerously, and thought, ‘God bless the Shin-Ra Company.’ With that, he moved
towards the boy…
The boy awoke, sore as ever.
Looking, he realised he was back
in his cell. The window was still closed, and he lay still for a matter of minutes. He
felt strangely boneless, and he stared at the ceiling, thinking about the keeper.
The silence of boredom, of pain
and terror, weighed down like a disease. At times, if the boy stared hard enough at the
ceiling, he could make out beautiful scenes of nature. He had stared so long though, his
eyes had become as hard as the concrete that they were fixated on. He smiled, regardless,
as he imagined a beautiful sphere of sun, glowering down at him. He smiled cracked, dry
lips, as his mind escaped for those few blessed moments, before plunging back into the
depths of hell.
Suddenly, he heard a sort of
scuffle in the hall, breaking his concentration. Not a fight, but a verbal argument.
‘…asking, the last
time.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
A moment of silence was heard,
tension so thick it could have built a sky scraper, and finally the guard backed down.
‘Alright…’
The boy didn’t hear anymore,
for the sound of a keycard being entered and the lock clicking out of position took its
place.
It was the interrogator.
The boy backed slowly into the
corner when he entered, and hid behind the cot. Obviously, the man, whoever he was, hadn’t
seen him yet.
‘Close the door,’ the
order was snapped. The agitated guard obeyed, and they were alone in the room.
The boy, not knowing what else to
do, curled up as tightly as possible, and prayed the man would mistake him for dust.
There was silence. The boy sat
like that for many minutes, wondering if the man was blind, or just stupid.
Apparently neither, for as he
risked a peek around, the interrogator sat calmly on the bed, his back to him.
A voice cut through the room,
‘I know you’re there.’
Finally, the boy decided to
stand. His best position of defense now, was to try not to draw attention to himself.
He stood up, braving the man’s
wrath before him.
‘You?’ he asked.
The boy dropped his gaze to stare
at the floor. He didn’t speak.
‘Answer,’ the word was
rumbled rather than spoken.
‘Yes,’ the boy replied,
his voice small.
‘And who are you?’
The boy shrugged.
The man was up in a flash, and
kicked him in the stomach, vehemently reveling in the pain he had inflicted, and
triumphant as the boy’s will was subdued. The kicked, doubled over and collapsed.
‘No one,’ he husked
out, curling up into a tight ball on the cold floor.
There was another sharp blow to
the boy’s head.
‘And, do you have a name?’
He didn’t answer.
Another hard slap.
No answer.
A knife, once again, flew to his
face, reopening a wound.
Still no answer.
Finally, the interrogator abated.
‘A name,’ he spat
scornfully, ‘I’ll give you a damn name.’
The boy blacked out.
Thin, curvy voices, arose.
‘I didn’t tell you to
knock him unconscious!’ a whiney voice scratched out angrily.
‘Protocol, sir.’
‘Hmph. Protocol – an
excuse for the weak to hide behind.’
No reply.
‘Well,’ the scratchy
voice continued, ‘you’d better just hope he wakes up.’
‘Yes…sir.’
The voices sounded muffled, as if
coming from another room.
The boy, dimly aware he was in
his cell, also noticed he was lying down.
‘I must have fallen asleep,’
he thought.
No, wait . . . someone had come.
Hadn’t they?
‘Where did I go?’ he
whispered. It was pitch black.
‘It’s easier if you don’t
speak,’ a soft voice replied.
The boy whipped his head to the
side in surprise, only to cry out in sharp pain.
Two firm hands caught his head,
and slowly helped the boy back down.
‘You have a fractured collar
bone,’ the voice continued, ‘so it’s best if you don’t move.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I am an expert on first
aid.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘You should really get some
sleep,’ the voice replied out of the blackness of the room.
There was a moment of silence.
‘What’s yours?’
‘What?’
‘Your name.’
The boy thought a moment, the
voice obviously waiting for his response, until he settled on a suitable choice.
‘I don’t have one.’
There was a prick, (an
injection?) and the boy fell into a deep sleep.
