Chapter 27
Day Sixty
A thick handstrangles my bicep as I am guided down a long, narrow corridor. The guard should know he doesn’t need to hold me with such a firm grip. He doesn’t need to lead me with such force.
Not anymore.
I no longer have the physical strength to fight. I barely have the strength to walk.
Head hung, I stare down my bony frame and wonder if this really is my body. My gaze roams over my grimy underwear. Before I was taken, my underwear hugged my waist and thighs. I saw the slight definition of my muscles beneath the fabric. Now, they dangle limply and threaten to fall off my prominent hip bones. Now, the cotton barely grazes my legs.
The evidence of my unsanitary condition paints my skin, coats my hair, tarnishes my breath, and embeds itself under my lengthy nails. Without a doubt, I smell putrid. Lucky for me, I became desensitized to foul odors some time ago.
Glowing lights brighten the corridor and I study the floor and lower walls as we walk.
Pristine white tiles with black grout run the length of the corridor floor. Unlike the location of my first cell, this place smells uncontaminated. Sterile. A blend of chemicals and artificial fragrances. A brighter white than the floor, the walls are spotless. Perfect. As though they have never been touched.
Searing pain erupts in the muscles in my legs and my gait stutters. On my next step, my ankle starts to twist as I plant my foot. I hiss as fire shoots up the side of my shin.
Before I twist it fully and fall face-first onto the floor, the guard tightens his hold and yanks me upright.
He clucks his tongue. “Can’t break one of our favorite toys before the big event.”
Big event?
I lean into his hold to take some of the weight off my ankle. As we weave through a maze of hallways, I dig into my memories and search for any details about an event.
My memories are thinning cirrostratus clouds. I see them in my mind’s eye, but most aren’t clear. Many hang on by a thread. The longer I’m isolated and locked away, the quicker I forget things, especially from before.
In the beginning, I recited important facts over and over. Said them with intention. Forced myself to think of something other than my present situation.
But as time moved forward and my future seemed bleaker, I narrowed my focus. I repeated simple things, such as my name and where I’m from. I stowed everything else in the back of my mind and left it for when it was safe to remember.
Now, I need to dig up one of those memories. I need to remember what this big event is and what it means for me.
The guard takes a sharp turn at the next corridor. I stumble and scramble to put one foot in front of the other. Before I get my bearings, he opens a door with a key card and hauls me inside a shiny room.
A man in white scrubs and a dark-blue coat steps into view. His dark eyes scan me head to toe as his lips form a tight line. He shakes his head as his gaze shifts to the guard.
“How many times do I need to speak with Cap about living conditions prior to game day?” The man crosses his arms over his chest and huffs.
Cap?
The guard releases me and throws his hands up next to his face. “Don’t get pissy with me, man.” He mirrors the other man’s posture and cocks a brow. “Cap gives orders and I follow them.”
The room goes quiet. My gaze darts between the two men as they have a verbal standoff.
Dropping his arms, the guard inches closer to the man in the scrubs. “We all know what happens when orders aren’t followed.” The guard lifts his hands and brushes the other man’s shoulders before slapping his back. “Get him ready. I hear several offers are on the table for our pretty little spy.”
Spy?
How am I a spy?
I don’t know if it’s morning or night, let alone the day of the week or year. How the hell am I a spy?
A loud bang echoes off the metal walls and I jump. My gaze races around the room for the source. When I don’t see the guard and notice the door is shut, I assume the noise came from his departure.
“No need for alarm…” The man reaches for my hands and lifts them to read the number on my cuffs. “You’re safe in here, Two Sixty-Three.”
Safe?
No one in this place is safe.
“Come.” He walks toward a large steel tub and gestures to it with his hand. “Let’s get you washed up.”
Glued to the floor, I don’t move. I tremble in place as my mind becomes a blob of mushy confusion.
The man cranks the faucet and water flows freely. He sticks his hand beneath the steady stream and adjusts the knobs. Then he adds clear liquid from a nondescript bottle and bubbles puff up and cover the water’s surface.
The backs of my eyes sting as I stare at the bath. The tremor in my limbs strengthens.
A bath. I’m going to cry over taking a bath.
Such a simple task, yet a luxury I took for granted my entire life.
With slow, composed steps, the man approaches me with his hands held up. “I’m not here to hurt you, Two Sixty-Three.” He reaches for and takes my hand. One foot in front of the other, he walks me to the tub. “The last thing I want to do is cause you pain.”
I flinch at his words. A spark crackles in the center of my chest. While anger creeps into my thoughts, my body tries to remember what rage feels like.
I narrow my gaze at him. “This place is hell,” I choke out, my voice withered and gravelly. “You people are advocates of the devil.”
A solemn look blankets the man’s expression. “Like you, I am not here by choice.” He turns off the faucet. “I may not be in your position, but I am as much a prisoner as you.” Inhaling a deep breath, he gestures to the water. “Now, please, get in the tub. You’ll need more than one bath and your time with me is limited.”
Stepping away, he gives me his back and privacy. The crackle in my chest from a moment ago softens.
I shove my underwear down, grab the edge of the tub, and step into the bubbly water. As the heat hits my skin, I hiss through my teeth and grip the tub lip tighter. After a brief pause, I ease myself into the hot water. The temperature is equal parts heaven and hell.
Closing my eyes, I lean back and rest my head on the edge. I filter through my foggy memories and try to remember the last time I took a bath. Maybe when I was a child?
For the first time in what feels like years, I relax. My body weeps and celebrates as the heat soothes my shriveled muscles and the water washes away the thick layer of muck.
What was I trying to remember before the guard brought me in here?
A faint floral fragrance floats in the air and quiets my mind. Exhaustion creeps to the surface and my body unwinds further. For a moment, I get lost in the only peace I’ve had in who knows how long.
“A washcloth,” the man whispers.
I peel my eyes open to see white fabric draped over the lip of the tub. Again, such a simple thing—a square of cotton to help clean your skin—yet I’ve taken it for granted my entire life.
The man returns to a stool beside a table, opens a file folder, and writes on a paper inside. He pays me no attention as I soak up this temporary bliss and gently wipe the grime from my body.
Once I’ve scrubbed the areas I can reach, he sidles up to the tub and gently washes my arms and back. He reaches into his pocket, retrieves nail clippers, and cuts my lengthy, jagged fingernails. After a quick dunk of my hair, he tells me to remain in the tub as he drains the darkened water. When it empties, he asks me to cover myself while he rinses the residual dirt in the tub down the drain.
The second bath passes by faster and with more focus. He hands me a new washcloth with a bar of soap and instructs me to wash what I’m able to reach. After he washes my arms and back, he swaps the bar of soap for a bottle of shampoo. Like a child, he eases me into the water and cleans my hair.
The action fills me with comfort and unease.
When my hair is done, he fetches a towel from the table and sets it on the floor beside the tub. “Do you need help getting out?”
My brows pinch together as I stare at the thinning layer of bubbles. I shake my head.
Returning to the table, he gives me his back once more and writes more inside the file folder.
My chest constricts.
Once I’m dried off, he sets clothes on an empty stool and turns away. My stomach cramps as I stare at the pile of clothes. Since I was taken, all I’ve worn is the same pair of underwear. Now, I’ve been given an entire outfit, including shoes.
“Can’t break one of our favorite toys before the big event.”
The new, pristine room, the bath, the clothes… they are cleaning me up for all the men who visited my cell. They are making me presentable for the sadistic perverts.
Acid claws its way up my throat. I press a fist to my stomach and bend at the hips. Unsteady on my feet, I teeter forward and start to tip.
The man wraps an arm around my shoulders and holds me upright. “Shh, Two Sixty-Three.”
I wish he’d stop fucking calling me that. My name is…
I close my eyes and pinch them tightly.
What the hell is my name?
Inhaling a shaky breath, I scour my mind.
Levi.
My name is Levi.
The man guides me to a stool and sets me on it. He helps me put on the underwear and pants. Unlocking one of my cuffs, he hands me the shirt and I tug it over my head. When the cuff is locked again, he gives me the socks and sets the lace-free shoes at my feet.
Once I’m dressed, he reaches for something on the table and hands it to me—a toothbrush. “Let’s get you finished up before they return.”
I stare at the narrow piece of blue plastic with a small patch of bristles. My vision blurs as I take in yet another simple part of daily life I’ve forgotten about so easily.
Mint wafts through the air as the man squirts toothpaste on the bristles. As he recaps the tube, I gingerly stick the brush in my mouth.
With gentle strokes, I move it back and forth over my teeth. My gums ache. My teeth wiggle too easily. I pinch my eyes closed as the unbearable pressure of the bristles ripples throughout my jaw. Once I’ve gone over each tooth, I hand him the toothbrush.
He hands me an empty cup to spit in, then one with water to swish.
After I rinse and spit, I drink the rest of the water.
The door flies open and the guard steps inside. “Almost like new again,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Time to go back to your room.”
Shuffling me out, he clutches my biceps and thrusts me down the hallway. As we move through the lifeless corridors, I scan the walls for any distinguishing marks. A chip in the paint. A nick in the plaster. Something identifiable that will remind me where I’ve been inside this endless labyrinth.
Several doors line the next hallway. Roughly six feet apart, each of them is painted with a number. As I read them, my stomach curls in on itself. The numbers in this hallway descend from three hundred.
How many hallways are there?
How many people are shoved in these closet-sized rooms?
How many people have been the same prisoner number as me?
Two hundred seventy-one.
Two hundred seventy.
The sound of countless footsteps steals the quiet.
Two hundred sixty-nine.
Two hundred sixty-eight.
Two hundred sixty-seven.
A deafening bang fills the air. I lift my hands to cover my ears.
The hand around my biceps squeezes hard. In an instant, I am dragged down the hall. The door to my cell is whipped open.
Shouts and gunshots ring through the air. Rather than duck, I turn in the direction of the noise. Several people dressed in black storm the hallway.
The guard shoves me in my cell and I fall to the floor. He lifts his gun and fires it at the people in black.
As the door slams shut, I hear someone yell, “Levi!”