Chapter 44 A Weapon Honed
A WEAPON HONED
As I count through this set of push-ups, I wonder numbly how many I’ve done in this room.
The space I’m being held in is small, with a single foam pad on the floor, one blanket, and a toilet. Food is delivered through a slit in the door on a completely random pattern. Nothing like being kept guessing when your next meal will be delivered for some much-needed variety.
There’s not much room, but along with push-ups, jumping jacks, and sit-ups, I’ve been able to practice some of the sword-fighting footwork.
It’s all probably an exercise in futility since, at this rate, I’ll never get out of here.
At least it gives me something useful to do.
I could probably also do burpees, but I’d frankly rather die.
Especially with the pain I’m in right now.
Earlier today, I made it through the worst session of torture yet.
In addition to the standard, freshly stitched knife wounds on my torso, upper legs, and upper arms, I have two black eyes from a broken nose, and two broken fingers.
I thought this angel, who was different than my normal torturer, was going to break my arm, but someone stopped her before she could go that far.
When I was initially incarcerated and the angels first began to torture me they asked questions about the demons.
Questions I knew better than to answer. That strange intelligence told me they already knew the answers to the questions they were asking.
I suspect they were trying to see if I did too.
Then they began to ask questions about the Piquory Center and how I got out. Questions that made my gut churn as I remembered Malam’s plea in the carriage to not say anything about Lily.
More recently, they have been asking questions about the boys. How I ended up living with them and why. They are clearly also trying to gather more information about each of them.
At the beginning of my time here, I remained quiet and didn’t respond to their questions. After a while, I began to make up seemingly valid, but fake, answers. Now I just give the most random answers I can think of, and it is clearly beginning to get to them.
They’re quick to remind me that this will stop as soon as I promise to join their “side.” They also like to remind me I’m lucky they’re providing me with “top of the line medical care,” and breaks between “sessions.”
Today, their questions centered around the boys, and when they asked about Dio, I felt rage surging through me.
I struggled to maintain my usual impassivity, and when I had an opportunity, I reminded them that “top of the line care includes pain management.” They really didn’t like that response, and it earned me the broken nose.
Seeing the anger on their angelic faces almost makes the pain worth it. Almost.
I only make it through the first half of my second set of pushups before I need to lie down. I can tell if I don’t, I will pass out, and I would rather not wake in a pool of my own vomit again.
Twice was enough, thank you very much.
As I attempt to reduce the pain and get the room to stop spinning, I close my eyes and lie on my back on the foam pad, trying to take steady breaths through my mouth.
The healers set and taped my nose, but I can’t breathe through it yet, and bigger breaths pull at the freshly stitched knife wounds across my ribs.
My whole body is covered in scars and knife wounds at various stages of healing at this point.
However, until now, they have avoided marking areas that aren’t typically covered by clothing.
Honestly, if it weren’t for the “top of the line medical care,” I would probably have died from infection multiple times over at this point.
I am just beginning to fade into sweet, blessed unconsciousness with a memory playing behind my eyelids. A memory that, for some reason, I’ve been focusing on to keep myself sane. Behind my eyelids, I replay the images of Dio rescuing me at the concert.
I’m once again questioning why this memory, when there’s a knock on my door. Now that is unusual.
“Come to apologize?” I yell through the closed door.
I hear it open and roll myself up as quickly as my damaged body will allow, as I catch sight of a guard rushing at me. Before I can do anything to defend myself, someone behind him reaches out, catching the front of his throat and effectively clotheslining him.
The guard falls, choking to the ground, clutching his neck.
As I look up at my would-be savior, I’m irritated to see Bonum standing in the door.
They are staring through me, their head tilted slightly. “It’s your lucky day, little bird,” they rasp. “You get to spread your wings again.” They seem to either not notice or not care about the guard, coughing and choking on the ground.
I push myself up against the wall to stand, wobbling on my feet.
Without another word, a second guard emerges from behind Bonum, pulls the guard on the floor back into the hallway by the arm, and then enters the room again, walking towards me. I prepare to defend myself, which is laughable in my current state, even to me.
Before I can do anything, I hear Bonum rasp almost joyfully, “Oh, by all means, give us a reason to keep you here.”
I look up and see them standing unmoving in the doorway, still staring through me with a blank grin on their face.
I feel myself shudder slightly, and it’s just enough to push the instincts down. I submit to having my hands bound and allow the guard to direct me toward the door.
“Good choice,” Bonum rasps as we move past, and I hear them turn and move after us. The coughing and whimpering guard on the floor clearly still doesn’t draw their attention.
The hair pricks along the back of my neck with them behind me, and my heart pounds. Every instinct pushes me to try to fight and break loose before we arrive at whatever fate I’m due.
My mind, however, is as clear as it’s been.
With the intelligence given to me by the little boy, I run probabilities on my ability to escape and don’t like my odds.
Instead, I stay quiet to wait and watch.
If they mean to break me, they have not yet accomplished that goal.
What they have, so far, failed to realize is that the actions they’re taking are simply honing a blade, and at this point, it is sharp as hell.