Chapter Eight
Jackson
Finally. I’ve been waiting for this.
There’s no way to know for sure because I really can’t see shit through this fucking blindfold, but it certainly sounds like something’s going on over by Phoenix’s cage.
It’s been five—maybe, six—days since I was treated to the sounds of Phoenix getting shuffled into and locked into the cage next to my wooden crate thingy and I was starting to think that this whole kidnapping for ransom scheme wasn’t actually real. Why the hell they would’ve had me locked up if it wasn’t part of a kidnapping situation, well… That was one of many things I really preferred not to think about overly much.
I listen to Silva telling Phoenix something in Portuguese and roll my eyes. I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure Phoenix knows about as much of that language as I did. Namely, zilch.
But, oh…oh… I strain my ears to make out the rough and stilted English that Silva is now throwing out there and… Okay. It sounds like Phoenix is the proud new owner of a blindfold and some restraints.
Until this moment, I wasn’t aware that Mr. Phoenix Wilding had fucking lied to me about being blindfolded. The fabric covering my own eyes has been driving me nuts ever since I let them put it on me, but now it is really, really chafing and irritating. Why the fuck do I have to be stuck in unending darkness and sightlessness when he isn’t? Doesn’t really seem fair.
Not that having to have this stupid blindfold on isn’t my own fucking fault.
The rattle and clunk of Phoenix’s cage being opened, followed by the sounds of the two men moving around, give me a pretty decent clue that Silva is letting Phoenix out of his cage. Yep, there’s the sound of their feet scraping against the rough concrete floor. I might not have seen it for about a week, but I remember what it looked like and how it sounded as my own feet had easily stepped across it.
But now, shit, I’m not even sure my legs would remember how to walk. I’ve been stuck in this fucking wooden shipping crate for a week. No chances to stroll along and stretch my legs. No offers of ‘Hey, I bet your feet feel like they’re blobs of clay, stuck right on there at the end of your legs, and your legs have gone right on past the point of hurting to feeling all weird and numb, so why don’t we let you out for a little while so you can stretch ’em out and work some feeling back into your limbs.’ Nothing.
I’ve done what I can. Moving them around as much as the small confines of my box will let me. Massaging my poor, unused muscles and trying to rub sensation back into them. Bending them, bringing my knees, one at a time, up to my chest and then carefully extending them back out as straight as I can. Which isn’t all that straight. Even if I sit up, with my body crammed as far into a corner of the crate as I can get it, I can’t stretch my legs out all the way flat. I can get them close but, until I’m let out of this godforsaken box, I’ve just got to deal with my legs being at least slightly bent at all times.
Ugh. I’d also love to get the rope unwrapped from around my wrists. Pretty sure my arms and hands aren’t doing much better than my legs and feet at this point. And then, of course, the damned blindfold could go too, while we’re at it.
Yeah. Needless to say, I’m more than ready to get the fuck out of this box.
Now that Silva has taken Phoenix off to wherever, quiet, suffocating aloneness settles like an unwelcome blanket around me.
There aren’t a whole lot of possibilities as to where they’ve gone off to, assuming they’re not going outside to some other location, since the whole building is a giant dump, with parts of it falling in on itself and only a handful of rooms left that looked to be close to structurally sound.
But wherever they’ve gone to, Phoenix’s absence leaves me by myself. Trapped inside a box, inside a dirty, mostly empty room deep in the bowels of a shithole. The only sounds to be heard are the thumping of my heart inside my chest and the raspy, whoosh of breath going in and out of my lungs.
It’s not like Phoenix and I spend all day talking to each other. But we do fill some of our waking hours conversing back and forth; the topics swinging from one thing to the next, whatever pops into our minds and then comes tumbling out of our mouths. Talking does help pass the time. Even just the possibility of exchanging words...the reality that there’s somebody nearby, ears at the ready to listen to whatever...it gives the room a certain feeling that’s now missing now that Phoenix is gone and I’m the only one left in here.
Ugh. No. The last thing I need to do is start throwing myself a pity-party for one. Things are what they are and I just have to suck it up and keep on keeping on the way I’ve had to do all my life.
Having my wrists bound in front of me gives me an okay range of motion. It certainly makes it easier to grab hold of the twice-daily rations of swill I’m fed. And I, luckily, don’t need to beg for anyone’s assistance to help me piss or scratch my nuts. But, for some reason, my body persists in developing an itch right on the back of my head, right where it’s hard for me to contort my arms enough to properly scratch at it. So, I press back against a wall of my current abode and rub my head back and forth against the rough wooden boards.
I’m not sure what this box started out its life as–some sort of shipping container is my best guess. All I know is, chasing after that persistent itch, my nose is tickled with the faintest aroma of bananas wafting out of the boards. The association of that fruit with my current captivity will, more than likely, make me never want to go anywhere near one ever again once I get the fuck out of here. Assuming I actually manage to get out of here. But for now, it is a bit of a pleasant reprieve from the otherwise all-powerful stench of unwashed dude meets lack of indoor plumbing.
Deciding to give a bit of optimism a go, I scooch on my butt until my drawn-up knees bump into the other side of the box, then I slowly lean back, careful not to thwack my head against anything, as I settle with my back against the bottom of the box. I gently twist my bent legs side-to-side and enjoy the feel of the subtle tug in my muscles as I stretch my hips. It’s not much, but if Phoenix’s absence means that the next phase is underway, I want to be as ready and able as I can be to stand up and walk when it’s my own turn to be released.
It feels dumb, but also strangely like I’m taking back some control, as I work out my ankle joints–pointing my toes, flexing them back toward my shins, rolling my foot around. The simple exercises feel good, as does the small tendril of hope I allow to unfurl inside my chest. Things are happening. It’s possible there’s an end in sight. A good end, even.
But in the next second, that hope is shredded, dashed away. Left torn and discarded like unwanted bits of tissue confetti.
Because someone is screaming.
Someone...someone...
Oh fuck. It’s Phoenix, isn’t it?
There’s nothing to base it on, not like I’ve heard him or any of the others scream before for me to recognize who was making that horrifying sound. But my stomach, my heart, my brain tells me it’s him.
Jesus, what did they do to him? What are they doing to him?
But then...the silence.
Silence. Nothing. After the loud, violent shrieks of pain.
Silence.
Oh God.
“Phoenix! Phoenix!”
I don’t even care that I scrape up my hands and arms as I quickly scramble up off my back. I don’t even care that I’ll undoubtedly have bruises from how hard my body bounces off the wall of the box as I fling myself, pointlessly, in the direction the screams had come from.
“Phoenix!”
Panting, panting, gasping breaths. Pausing just long enough to gulp in enough air to fuel loud bellows of his name.
“Phoenix! Hold on!”
I thump my head against the fucking wood surrounding me, keeping me from getting to him. Hard. Repeatedly. My eyes squinch shut behind the rough fabric barrier of my blindfold.
“Come back.”
The quiet after is just as bad as the loud screams had been. What does it mean? For Phoenix. ...For me?
“Come back to me, Phoenix.” The words are like a mumbled prayer that I’ve no real hope of anyone hearing. The rough, chapped skin on my lips brush against the equally coarse and scratchy surface of the wooden walls of my box prison. “Don’t leave me. I don’t want to be alone.”