《Gilded Cage》


 the new one

    These soundproofed walls hold screams and secrets; to think of the tales they could tell of its inhabitants, both those trapped and freed by its confines.


    <hr>


    Two storeys below ground lies this room in which many have shuddered their last breaths. Within are two women on opposing sides of bars, though both are trapped inside this place. One lies, seemingly unconscious, on a thin blue camping mat in a bare-brick-and-concrete cell. High above and out of reach, a sole light bulb hangs from a short chain. The light it emits is weak and diffused by an old paper lantern, leaving shadows to pool at the corners of the cell; its light barely reaches beyond the bars to where the other woman waits, the key to the cell''s door hanging from a strip of worn velvet tied about her neck.


    This other woman sits on the bare concrete floor, her back against the leg of the lone chair that faces the cell, fixed in place and bolted to the ground so it can''t be used as a weapon. She prefers the floor to the unyielding plastic of its seat, its back bowed to prevent slouching. The woman''s focus is on her unconscious companion, an inscrutable expression on her face. Her frayed clothes contrast starkly with this new one''s crisp attire; the new one wears a pantsuit sans-jacket, all crisp white blouse with sleeves turned up to the elbows and black trousers with a traveler''s crease. Fresh from a meeting maybe? The woman doesn''t know. He tells her nothing but their first names, and she''d rather not know them ¡ª better to not name the spring lambs, she finds. Regardless, her own clothes are ratty and worn compared to this new one''s, all threadbare and faded tartan paired with discoloured denim. Neither of them wear shoes. He takes those, not only because laces (or high-heels) can be dangerous, but so the jagged edges of the crushed stones surrounding the house cut the soles of their feet if they try to escape. Though them getting that far is unlikely ¡ª he''s nothing if not cautious.


    Especially when it comes to her. He''s learned not to underestimate what she is capable of.


    He''s down here now. Descended the wooden open-riser staircase silently some time ago. There''s a light he could have turned on, the switch for which is beside the door at the top of those stairs. No surprise he didn''t, though: he''s eerily good at navigating in darkness. Still and silent as his descent always is, it''s a surprise she noticed it at all; then again, it''s rare he can surprise her. Accustomed to his presence, she almost always senses when he''s close by. Survival instinct kicking in, maybe. Like the deer that senses when the hunter hides within the tree line. Problem is, she didn''t run before the shot was fired.


    His footsteps are light when he finally approaches. Would''ve taken his shoes off before descending. The first intentional sound he makes down here is a slight sigh of displeasure as, without preamble, his hand comes to rest atop her head.


    "Your hair needs trimming."


    His fingers run from roots through to ends, combing auburn curls that, until this morning, hadn''t seen water or a comb in near three weeks. He lifts a lock, thumb brushing lightly back and forth over the uneven ends frayed by time and from her own habitual toying with it. He''s told her to stop that before, pleasant timbre of his voice edged with something she dislikes directed at her. Though his tone is gentler now than it had been then, the undertone of disappointment it holds is just as irking. All the same, she leans into his touch. Calms at it, even.


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    "I''ll schedule an appointment for next week."


    Her calm dissipates, storm building in its place. Shaking her head vehemently, she bats him away.


    "Lilah¡ª"


    "No." Defiant. Definitive. She refuses to leave room for argument. "I want longer."


    "I say how long."


    "I¡ª"


    "I say."


    She bites the inside of her lip, hard enough to bring copper to her mouth and tears to her eyes. Looks up from the grey socks, past the dark chinos to the pair of undone buttons at the neck of his burgundy dress shirt. In doing so, she raises her face high enough to ensure the droplets falling down her cheeks are unmissable.


    A pause, then a hand beneath her chin brings her eyes up to his. They are dark in the dimness, hazel turned almost black, as though their depths are consuming the shadows shrouding him. He has enough darkness of his own without that, though. Marring his face and neck are scratches, the bulk of which are around those eyes which do not soften at the sight of her tears. Quid-pro-quo, she supposes; she wouldn''t look at him when he brought the new one in, so now he refuses to acknowledge her tears.


    She presses her teeth harder into the indent they''ve already made, bringing more copper and more tears. Her small whimper of pain adds to the show. Finally, the ice of his expression cracks. His eyes soften slightly, flickering between hers and her lower lip that trembles now it''s free from her teeth. She has to restrain a small, triumphant smile at the way his breath hitches.


    Hand still under her chin, his thumb reaches up to sweep over her lips, his own pressed thin.


    The momentary softness to his features fades fast; she knows what he''s going to do before he does it, but he holds her chin firmly to stop her jerking away as he pulls down her lower lip, revealing bloodstained teeth.


    "Damn it, Lilah."


    He lets her go abruptly, wipes saliva tainted red on his black chinos. A glob of that blood-streaked spit makes its way from her puckered lips to his polished shoe, a string of it swinging back to cling to her chin.


    Two more tears slide down her cheeks, this time unaided. Damn it. Damn him.


    From a front pocket of his trousers he pulls a folded black handkerchief. She turns away when he brings it close to her face, makes a point of looking off into the shadows instead of meeting his gaze. Wordlessly he withdraws, uses the handkerchief to wipe his shoe, bending close enough his head invades her personal space. For a second, she considers the damage her teeth could do to him.


    He doesn''t stand. Instead, he leans closer, lips near enough to her ear each word sends a puff of air to disturb the curls he combed through earlier. "Enough, Lilah. Enough. Keep her a little while longer if it''ll please you. Just stop this."


    At that, she offers a smile. They''re a useful commodity, rarer these days than ever before, but this concession more than warrants one. He doesn''t return it. Hers only grows, gloating triumph matched by his exasperation, her lips pulling back to show off her bloodstained teeth.


    Dark eyes close. He takes some steadying breaths. Without opening them, he presses his lips to the corner of her mouth before straightening and returning the soiled square of fabric to his pocket.


    As he ascends the stairs to lock up, she wipes the spit from her chin. The door to the above slams shut and her smile fades as her gaze returns to the new one, still in the same position on the mat. This small victory is a victory nonetheless, but in the end it feels hollow. Unconsciously, she reaches for the key about her neck, considers how little that small piece of metal means when it boils down to it; his word means nothing when he can break it at any moment, and break it he always will.

 luce

    Luce


    <hr>


    Voices drag me from the darkness. Then the smell of something plastic-y, like shopping bags, hits my nose.


    Where am I?


    My limbs are both heavy yet ache for movement, body both restless and lethargic. Why do I feel so... odd? Mind fogged and thoughts slow to surface, trying to think feels futile. Fragments of memories float like balloons in a lazy wind; they should be easy to reach but they slip through my hand as if they''re just mist.


    Dull light filters through my closed eyelids, and while I could open my eyes and look about, I don''t want to. Not knowing where I am, who I''m with... it''s disconcerting. I want to get my bearings first and foremost.


    Faking sleep is hard. Everyone''s done it at some point ¡ª whether it''s to hide from the palpable presence lurking in the corner of your bedroom when you jolt awake at 3am, or to avoid the awkward pleasantries and goodbyes when waking beside the one-night-stand you don''t exactly regret but have no intention of seeing again. There''s pressure those times as the real or imagined consequences loom over you; this, life quite probably on the line, is worse.


    Breaths are easier to manage than movements. Those small, involuntary shudders that happen as the fear seeps in. Elise taught me some methods to stay calm ¡ª breathing exercises and grounding techniques that, granted, do help a bit now. But those shudders I can''t help are what I fear will give me away.


    People tell you to ''go to your happy place'' when trying to calm down, but I''ve never found mine. So instead I focus on the voices. They''re just noise at first; noise that, having already sharpened into two distinct voices, begins forming words that my mind still struggles to connect to their meanings...


    "Stop this."


    Silence falls, settles thick and heavy over me and whoever else is here.


    The back of my neck prickles, burns as though I''m being watched.


    Do they know?


    People say it''s ''fight or flight'' but there''s a third instinct and it''s freeze, and my default unfortunately seems to be the latter. But I struggle against my useless default, push it aside and just breathe. Carry on exactly as I''ve been doing for however long I''ve been doing it so far. Deep, even breaths. Try and keep still but not stiffly so. Just don''t react. Don''t react.


    Did I move? Breathe too loudly? Make a small sound?


    A long while passes. The tension thickens the air, forms a lump in my throat that seems to grow as I resist the urge to swallow it, afraid it''ll sound as loud to others as it will in my own ears. I need to know more: where I am, why I''m here, who''s here with me...


    "You''re awake."


    Shit.


    With no other options, I open my eyes. Squint a little against the light, though it''s dull. Beneath me is a blue mat. A camping mat? It crinkles a little as I shift on it, trying to organise my uncoordinated and aching limbs so I can pull myself into a sitting position. Room spinning before my eyes, head swirling with it, I have to put an arm out to one side to support my swaying frame. My hand rests palm-down on bare concrete, cold and rough to the touch as fine-grain sandpaper. That might be why I''m on the mat. How considerate.


    There''s bars before me, like those in a prison, and a woman sits beyond them.


    Is she in a cell or am I?


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    A quick flick of my eyes to the left then right gives me the answer which, granted, was obvious anyway.


    I am.


    She sits on the bare concrete, legs crossed and eyes on me. I''d ask if she put me in here were it not for her tatty clothes, tartan and denim that''s all fray and tears and stains. But although her clothes suggest one thing, I can''t help but notice something... off. She''s a little too polished, too clean, too well. There''s a sharpness to her face''s bone-structure ¡ªall high-cheekbones and sharp planes, vulpine almost¡ª that''s a bit too-sharp to be natural, as if she''s underfed but not totally starved. At least, not yet. About her head is an autumnal mane, the colour of fresh felled leaves. Wild but not uncared for. Her eyes, their colour somewhere between blue-grey and green, are bright and alert as they watch me with a curiosity matching my own as I stare back.


    "How long...?" I ask, trailing off as the rasp of my voice burns its way through my throat. A fragment of a memory becomes tangible: me, screaming my throat bloody, the burn of a needle at the side of my neck and something covering my mouth.


    "...did I know you were awake?" She finishes for me, coaxing me back to the present. Her voice has a strong Welsh twang to it, no lilt of the North though ¡ª must be from somewhere down South, like me. Cardiff, maybe? Her eyes meet mine. "Long enough. He didn''t notice, don''t worry."


    Her face is hard to read. Opaque.


    "He?"


    "Christian."


    First name basis. I don''t know if that''s odd, not until I meet him myself. The thought brings a shudder that doesn''t go unnoticed. That opacity to her features lifts just a moment, giving way to a flash of curiosity before shutting me out again.


    "Does he go by anything else? Chris, Ian¡ª"


    "Christian. He doesn''t like diminutives."


    I nod slowly, focus drifting to the room beyond her. What little of it I can see. About a foot or so behind the woman is an uncomfortable looking chair, reminiscent of the ones you''d find in a secondary school or university. It''s bolted to the ground, probably so it can''t be picked up and used as a weapon. There¡¯s an odd shape just behind it, too far into the dark for me to make it out clearly. May be a box with something on top of it? I can¡¯t be sure. Hints of other things lurk beyond that, shadows more like furniture than people ¡ªthankfully¡ª, but I can''t make out exactly what they are, either. There''s a staircase leading to a room above in the far left corner.


    At last, my voice returns to me. Though it still hurts to speak, I croak out, "Where am I?


    "The basement."


    "Of?"


    "The house."


    I have to restrain a glare at her curtness. I don''t know if she''s being evasive or if she just thinks I''m stupid and need to be spoken to in short, direct sentences. "Which is where?"


    "I don''t know." The first time any semblance of emotion has crept into her voice. Something like sadness... or anger. Bitterness. She doesn''t like not knowing.


    Ditto.


    "How long have you been here?"


    She shifts slightly then, leans a fraction closer toward me. "A while. I don''t know exactly."


    "Roughly?"


    "A few years."


    That should be comforting. There''s a chance this won''t be a swift end. Time to think, to plan, to live a little longer... But then comes the question of why?


    Maybe sooner would be better.


    Fuck sake. I shouldn''t be considering this. Not now. It''s like the call of the void, ''L''apelle du vide'': there''s an abyss before me and I''m considering the way in which to throw myself in instead of how to get across to the other side.


    "Why so long?"


    She laughs, the sound sharp yet seemingly borne of honest shock. She quickly sobers up, face once again becoming unreadable. Movement draws my gaze down to her hands, folded right-over-left in her lap. Her left hand shifts slightly as she rubs the frayed fabric of her sleeve''s hem between her forefinger and thumb. "If you''re asking why I''ve stayed, do you think there are many other choices here?"


    I shake my head once. Then again, more decisively. "So you''ve been on this side of the bars?"


    "Many times." I cock my head slightly, asking without words. She responds with a slight sly smile. "He doesn''t like misbehaviour."


    "Then how are you still alive?"


    That seems to leave her short an answer. I''m not sure if it it''s a nervous tendency or a way of self-soothing, but she begins rubbing that worn sleeve again. Almost as soon as it starts, the curious movement stops abruptly; though her face is turned away, I can''t help but think she caught me watching.


    "I suppose he hasn''t found anyone better." She answers at last. Throughout the last few minutes, her voice has been edged with something I can only name as confidence; she knows things, more than me at the very least. But when she says this? She''s uncertain.


    I swallow. There''s a part of me that wants to follow the line of ''better at what'', but there are cracks forming in the mask she wears and I want to know what lies beneath them. So instead, I ask, "What''s your name?"


    She hesitates. Just slightly. "Delilah."


    I nod. Given the circumstances I can''t exactly say ''nice to meet you Delilah'', so a simple acknowledgement will have to do. "Lucille. Luce. That''s mine."


    "Luce." Delilah repeats. "I don''t..."


    I wait for her to finish. When enough time passes that it becomes apparent she won''t, I press for an answer. "Don''t what?"


    "I don''t like to learn people''s names."


    "Why?"


    "It makes it harder."


    Her words hang in the air between us; their meaning takes a shamefully long while for me to understand: it makes it harder to know who is going to die next.


    Maybe I won''t have as long down here as I thought.

 christian

    Luce


    <hr>


    "What does he do to us?"


    Delilah looks at me, bright eyes unblinking. "What do you mean?"


    "What does he want us for? I''m assuming there''s a reason he''s locked us down here and he hasn''t just done this for a laugh." Her eyes widen, stopping me before I continue to take out my growing frustration on her. I pinch the bridge of my nose, inhale deep and slow. "Sorry. I just... want to know. I want to be prepared."


    "That''s why you faked sleep." She says it as a statement, relaying a fact rather than asking a question. I nod. "That''s smart."


    "Thank you."


    She offers a smile, small and brief enough I question if it was really there at all.


    "It was him you were speaking with, then?" I ask. I hadn''t heard the majority of what was said, also couldn''t identify the voices, just that one was deeper than the other; given I''m in a cell and she''s down here with me, she''s a safe bet for one of the voices, and unless anyone else is here he''ll be the other.


    "While you were ''unconscious''?" Another smile is thrown my way, this one more obvious than the last. There''a an edge to her voice, a conspiratorial camaraderie; we share a secret, but I''m not quite sure if I should have trusted her with it. Saying that, friend or foe, she''s down here with me. And I can learn from talking with her.


    "Yes."


    Body language isn''t a reliable lie-detector: people can be frighteningly good actors. Her eyes don''t drift to one direction or another, nor do they blink more or less. Doesn''t fidget either, holds her hands still in her lap.


    At last, she says, "I told him I want you to live longer." She seems to consider her next words ¡ª watches me to see if I can handle the weight of them. "Than usual."


    I doubted I''d be the first, yet what should just be a stutter in the conversation trails off into a silence I can''t find the words to break.


    Than usual.


    It hits me now. A delayed reaction, definitely, but the gravity of what''s happening comes barrelling into me, knocking the air from my lungs. I can almost smell the dirt piling on top of me; see it rain down into my dull, unblinking eyes, open and staring blindly forevermore as the soil comes to cover them and the rest of my rotting body. I''ll probably be buried somewhere obscure, no tombstone to mark where the worms will eat my decaying form. I''m far from religious but god, please no ¡ª that''s even if he buries me whole. What if he cuts me up? Takes trophies? Wants to do as the worms and flies and earth will do and consume me...


    Panic rises and I try my hardest to swallow it, contain it. But she sees. Of course she sees, damned perceptive woman... I''m not hiding it all that well, I''ll admit. But I''ve donned mask after mask over the years, and while my poker face isn''t perfect I hoped I could hide behind it until I gathered my bearings enough to think.


    She shifts slightly, leaning towards me. Her hand extends slightly in my direction, twitches as she seems to reconsider. Then it lowers back into her lap as she settles into the same position as before, back against the chair and her legs crossed before her. Saying nothing, she averts her gaze for a while, seeming to find a dust-mark on her jeans particularly interesting. An attempt at giving me privacy.


    The 3-3-3 rule is one they teach for panic attacks. At least, that''s what Elise taught me. Name three things you see, three you hear, three you feel: see is concrete, curious stranger, bars; hear is heartbeat, my staccato breathing, wood creaking; then feel is the itch of my ¡ªAmelie''s¡ª shirt''s label against the nape of my neck and my heartbeat pounding, violent enough I''m sure it''s rattling my ribs. That''s two feels¡ª


    ¡ªand the third is cold concrete beneath my palms as I double over, retching. Whatever I ate before I was captured comes up, acrid as it and my stomach acid comes burning up my throat and through my nostrils. It lasts a minute or so, wretched taste rising up my throat to flood my mouth time and time again. I let it all out, heave until my stomach has got to be empty, until all each retch brings is a choking, hacking cough and tears burning down my cheeks.


    It takes a further few minutes for me to orient myself, to stop more from coming up at the sight of it, let alone the smell. This cell ¡ªthis room¡ª is far from large; enclosed as it is, I''m surprised Delilah can even stomach staying where she is. Though she lifts her chin away from the mess I''ve made, keeps her eyes averted from it, she doesn''t seem too disgusted. Or, at least not too disturbed.


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    How many others has she watched the realisation of their impending death hit? How many of them were sick? Cried, screamed, pleaded for help?


    Could she have helped them?


    3-3-3. I try it again. Fail. Retch but nothing comes up at all this time.


    Shadows form at the edges of my vision; they grow exponentially, encroaching on the light as they threaten to take it altogether.


    Focusing on Delilah is better than my puddle of vomit, so I look to her. She''s rubbing her sleeve between her thumb and forefinger again, the action a little more hurried now than it was before. Has to be a comfort action. I watch the motion for a while, take notice of her blunt nails, trimmed to the beds and looking as though they must be painfully short. I hadn''t realised earlier but my own have been clipped, too; they weren''t long before, but still it seems he''s taken a pair of clippers to them. Probably did it after I scratched him.


    Heart no longer racing as fast, my stomach begins to calm, though the smell of my own sick is unavoidable and nauseating in itself. Breathing through my mouth brings with it the awful taste, and every breath through my nose is ripe with the smell of it. I cover a nostril and snort to try and clear it out, not caring when it drips down my lips. Do it to the other side, too. Without anything else to wipe my mouth and nose on, I ¡ªsomewhat begrudgingly¡ª use the hem of my shirt''s sleeve.


    "Sorry." I look at Delilah, whose eyes are focused on something in the corner of my cell. I follow her line of sight to where the shadows gather. A faint red light flickers and I realise: there''s a camera.


    He''s watching.


    Sadistic bastard.


    "Do you want some water?" She asks, tearing my attention from something that makes this whole situation all the worse. Not only am I a prisoner, but one with no privacy. No dignity. Does he get off on watching the people he cages?


    Water. She offered water. I nod, offer a weak smile of gratitude. I need something to swill my mouth out.


    Getting to her feet, she walks around the chair to the shape I couldn''t identify before. With my eyes adjusting to the dimness, I can see now it''s a small wicker ottoman. There''s a blanket draped over it, causing the oddities with its shape. She takes the blanket and drapes it over the chair, then lifts the lid of the ottoman to retrieve a tumbler from within.


    She wanders further off into the shadows, towards shapes I still can''t quite make out. The possibility of her just disappearing, me being left alone in this place, almost makes me call out. But a tap runs nearby, and soon she returns with the tumbler now filled near the brim with water.


    Sitting back down, closer than she was before, she takes a large gulp of the water before handing it to to me through the bars. I take the tumbler from her, my fingers briefly brushing her own icy ones. Her eyes meet mine. The tumbler is plastic, not glass; no surprise, given he''s bolted the chair down. I wonder if anyone has managed to use anything down here to hurt him before or if he''s just cautious. I fill my mouth with the water. It''s cool but not quite cold. Swishing it around my mouth a few times helps clear the taste out. Swallowing the vomit-filled mouthful seems more polite than adding to the mess on the floor, but quite honestly I don''t care. Delilah was here for the main event, anyway.


    There''s still more than half a tumbler of water left when I''m done, mouth as clean as it''ll get without a toothbrush or mouthwash. I swallow a small sip of the water, hope I''ll keep it down so I can drink more.


    "Thanks." I say at last. The tumbler shakes in my hand, so I wrap both around it to hold it steady. When I can be sure my stomach won''t churn again, I take another sip.


    Silence falls between us. It''s not tense, just... a moment of calm. Likely before a storm, but hopefully not at the centre of one. This pause allows me to think. Not about everything ¡ª I''d need much longer to digest all of this. Instead, I hone in on what she said before: ''I want you to live longer.''


    She wants, so she tells him as much. Fine. But does she really expect him to listen? And if she does ¡ªif he listens to her¡ª why?


    I say nothing until the water in the tumbler is down to dregs. She''s watching me but isn''t, light eyes deftly shifting away when mine try and meet them. When they settle on me briefly once again, I ask, "What do you have over him?"


    She tenses up a little at the question. Likely didn''t expect me to be so direct but I don''t see any reason to tiptoe, not at the moment anyway.


    "He listens to you," I continue, poking just a little harder to see if I''ll get a response other than the cautious stare and resumption of her rubbing at her shirt''s cuff. "Why?"


    She looks in the direction of the camera, but I keep my eyes on her. Watch as the mask she wears cracks a little again, giving view to something a little rueful, a little sad. "I''ve made sure he''s afraid of what''ll happen if he doesn''t."


    "You''re violent towards him?"


    "Not him."


    "Yourself?"


    She dips her head, neither denying or exactly confirming it.


    "Why did you ask for me to live longer?"


    She laughs a little at that. A quick, sharp chuckle. "Would you have preferred I didn''t?"


    "Depends." I cringe at my own candour; hope he isn''t listening, won''t use it as an excuse to hurry this...process along. "I asked earlier what he wants us for. Why he even keeps us alive at all and doesn''t just get it over with."


    Delilah glances at the camera again. "He''s curious. He likes to see how different people react to being locked in here."


    "Nothing more?"


    Her eyes fix on mine, hold them. "Like what?"


    The words refuse to form. Death is something I fear, sure, but there are some things I''d prefer it to. Things I can''t help but think of, knowing he''s kept her for years. Others for a while, too.


    "No. No." She seems to read it on my face. Shakes her head quickly, adamantly. "He''s not like that."


    "He''s not that kind of a monster?"


    She stiffens. Her tone is sharper, defensive as she says, "No. He''s not."


    Why defend him when he''s got you locked up?


    Something shifts in the shadows. From the foot of the staircase, in the far corner of the room, a shape morphs into the outline of a man as it nears the light.


    "Lilah."


    The voice is pleasant. Calming. Distinctive, too. Amelie and her ear for music would probably describe it as ''baritone'' in pitch. No Welsh accent to it, but a twang of something European; French, maybe. It holds no edge; no emotion whatsoever. So far removed from the frustrated hiss it was in my ear as I clawed blindly over my shoulder, aiming for the face of the man ¡ªthis man¡ª who held me fast, hand over my mouth to stop my screams. Stuck a syringe in the side of my neck and pushed the plunger, sending ice through my veins: anaesthetised me. To bring me here, to a cage.


    I¡¯m going to kill him. Before, or when, he kills me.


    I want to live. But damn it, if I have to die, I¡¯ll take this bastard with me.

 lilah

    Lilah knows not to let his calm demeanour lull her. Years ago, she thought nothing could frighten her worse than her mother''s shouts ¡ª sought someone the opposite of her. But his quiet comes at the centre of an even bigger storm than her mother''s rage ever waged.


    His eyes are on Lilah, as hers are on him. Neither pays particular attention to the new one ¡ªLuce¡ª who sits unmoving, just at the edge of their peripheral visions. The fury that writes itself plain across the New One''s features isn''t noteworthy: it''s not an uncommon reaction. It''s why their Captor has Lilah stay outside of the cage, lest they direct it at her. What he ¡ªand she¡ª should take notice of is how it fluidly shifts to fear. Or more accurately, an emulation of it. While this new one is acutely aware of her predicament and not completely without sense or feeling, all her other emotions sharpen, hone themselves into anger as she realises Death itself looms close behind her shoulder, once a constant companion but now a friend of a foe.


    "Lilah." The captor speaks again. The same two syllables, this time dragged out, imperious and impatient. Both women bristle at his tone. While the new one reigns in her reaction, Lilah challenges him, steel eyes locking with his sable ones. Her gaze seems to weigh on him more heavily than his does on her; he shrinks slightly, broad shoulders tensing. When he looks away, his eyes find the puddle of vomit with a barely-perceptible curl his thinly-pressed lips. Then he turns to the New One.


    As does Lilah.


    Something must show on her face. A flicker of an emotion she fights to conceal. She tries to be nonchalant; refocuses on him with a passive impassivity that once would have fooled him, but not anymore. He remains fixed on the one spot in the room Lilah wishes were his blindspot: where the New One cowers. His posture rightens and the words ''got you'' all but write themselves across his hardened features.


    "Now, Lilah." Frozen beneath his gaze, the New One is as fixed on him as he is her. She''s crouched at the back of the cell, at its centre rather than backed into the corner. Smart.


    Lilah does not move. Will not even look at him. Just at the New One, who still stares at Christian wide-eyed like the mouse that ¡ªquite rightly¡ª refuses to turn its back on the cat stalking it.


    "One..."


    This. Lilah despises him doing this. Speaking to her as one would an unruly child or a wilful pet. Condescension isn''t his usual style, it only became part of his arsenal when threats and even harm became ineffectual ¡ª when he realised she would ''give as good as she got'', so to speak. Besides, he promised to treat her as an equal¡ª


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    "...Two..."


    The New One looks between the Captor and Lilah. She''s working to shift position, millimetre by milimetre. Bringing her knees up to her chest, planting her feet firmly on the ground. As if readying herself to bolt if given half the chance. Either that or fight.


    Don''t, Lilah wants to tell her. Stay still. Stay quiet.


    It''s almost laughable, her want to warn her while actively endangering her herself.


    "...Three."


    She expects him to take measured, taunting steps. To play his game ¡ªwhich has become theirs, over the years¡ª and see who is forced to concede first. No, not this time. There¡¯s just the sharp clack of his chestnut wingtips'' heels against the concrete as he strides to the cell, the unwaveringly stiff set of his shoulders and deliberate deafness to Lilah calling out:


    "No."


    Her stomach sinks. He¡¯s not toying now.


    Lilah scrambles to her feet. Haste makes her limbs uncoordinated, fawn finding footing on ice.


    ¡°No.¡±


    He¡¯s at the cell door. He regards the New One calmly, coldly through the bars. Reaches a steady hand into his left trouser pocket, where he keeps the key to the cell.


    "Christian." She¡¯s behind him now. Her own shaking hand grabs a fistful of his sleeve when he moves to unlock the door. He tries to shrug her off but she holds fast, desperately determined to keep the key from the lock it now rattles in¡ª


    "Christian."


    ¡ªtwists in¡ª


    "Please."


    Silence.


    The New One is half-standing, poised against the wall like an athlete with their foot braced on the starting block, hands curled to fists at her sides, nails biting crescents into palms. Her focus is on them both now, Lilah and the Captor. Christian.


    Both stand frozen mid-action, neither having expected the plea to leave Lilah¡¯s lips. Her grip on his sleeve is unrelenting, her own knuckles as white as his are as he grips a bar of the cage''s unlocked door. He could open it now, take a few quick steps and do as he''s done many times before. All her grip on his sleeve would bring would be a scrap of torn fabric in her fist and a mild scold for ruining one of his favourite shirts while the New One''s corpse cools at their feet.


    A corpse she can prevent, at least for a while.


    "Please, Christian."


    It''s the unadulterated crack in her voice that does it ¡ª makes him twist the key once again, turn his back on the now locked cell door and walk with her at his heels to the stairs. The New One watches their procession uncertainly, uneasily, the catch in Lilah''s voice playing over and over in her mind as it sinks in just how close to a visit with her former friend Death she came.


    Two sets of footsteps ascend the stairs, their respective footfalls almost precisely in-time with one another. Christian works to restrains a smile while he and Lilah, still with a fist of fabric, reach the door at the top of the stairs. The unlocked door.

 eat

    The house above the basement is like any other, albeit more grand than most. It''s a house that could be a home. It once was. In a way, it still is.


    In the centre of a spacious dining room sits a long ornate glass-top dining table, its mahogany legs carved into artistically-warped tree trunks wound with roses and vines. Atop the glass sits a plain porcelain vase housing marigolds, laburnum and a couple of de-thorned yellow roses. Near it is a woven fruit basket holding an assortment of apples, peaches, plumbs and red grapes. All the flowers and fruit are fresh, bought shortly before he caught the New One. He often goes shopping before. Not always ¡ª he won''t do anything to create a pattern of behaviour, but he likes to stock up on food before bringing someone new to the basement so he doesn''t have to risk being out of the house while they''re here.


    I trust you, Lilah. Just not them.


    They sit opposite one another, at one end of the table. Atop gold-coloured placemats formed of the outlines of hundreds of small leaves sit fine china plates and the appropriate silverware for the meal ¡ªa basic bolognaise. It''s one of the tens of portions of homemade dishes batch-cooked and stored in Tupperware containers within the chest freezer in the pantry. One of the plates is near cleared, it''s pastel-floral print streaked with leftover sauce, used knife and fork placed together at the centre of the plate. The other meal is untouched.


    "Eat, Lilah."


    She doesn''t respond. Refuses to even look at him or the plate she is yet to acknowledge. Near their respective plates, he and she have plastic tumblers ¡ª the kind meant for family picnics or garden parties, their bright yellow colour meant to be reminiscent of the sunlight but all she sees is the bulb in the basement. At the start of the meal both were filled half-way. She''s drank about a third of hers, swills the remainder around in the tumbler for something to do.


    "Lilah, you can''t starve yourself."


    "Can''t I?"


    He sighs, short and sharp, exasperation palpable as his patience wears thin. "You can. But for my sake, please don''t."


    "And what about doing something ''for my sake''?"


    "For yours, too."


    "You know I''m not talking about the food."


    He watches her fork, unmoved from where he laid it on the placemat prior to bringing her upstairs and dishing up their dinner. She sets her tumbler down. Inches her hand closer towards the utensil he so desperately wants her to pick up, that she comes so close to lifting...


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    But doesn''t.


    Won''t.


    Her hands drop to her lap. Though she raises her chin, imperious and just a little gloating at her own pettiness, her stomach rumbles, its growl violent enough to be audible from afar let alone the other side of the table. She rubs her sleeve.


    "Eat."


    She picks up the fork. Looks him directly in the eye; it''s as though they''re big cats, eye contact constituting a challenge. She can''t just fake it and focus on a nearby spot of his face, a trick she''s employed often to avoid true eye contact with others but not him. He''s been wise to it for a while and besides, she can''t help but look at the marred mess the New One made of him, ripe purple and black bruises circling his eyes and dotting his cheeks and chin, the scratches having crusted over and darkened.


    Part of her wants ¡ªneeds¡ª to ask if he cleaned the wounds. Worries about infection. Wants to tend¡ª


    No.


    The New One down below surfaces in her mind.


    He promised longer. His word is his vow, yet he always finds a loophole in the wording.


    Then I''ll give him no choice.


    "She''ll need food soon." Lilah says, voice flat.


    "Who?"


    Luce.


    The New One.


    "Lucille." The name he gave her, the one he wants her to use. Not too personal ¡ªnot a ''pet name'' like Lilah¡ª yet not too distant. He always has her acknowledge who they are before they meet their ends, ensures she knows their names as well as their faces.


    He sits back in his seat, folded hands coming to rest before him in the space between his place setting and the edge of the table. These dining chairs are not the most comfortable; their cream cushioned seats and backs go so well with the off-white wainscot walls and polished hardwood floors, yet their lovely appearance doesn''t off-set the ache that forms in her back whenever she''s made to use them. She won''t mention it ¨C he will just blame it on her time downstairs, use it as a reason she should spend more time up here.


    She twirls her fork, keeps its spotless tines hovering above the chilled spaghetti.


    His lip curls. "She''s been sick."


    "Then she''ll have toast."


    "No."


    Lilah throws her fork. Not at him, but not exactly avoiding his general direction. It careens past his shoulder to clatter across the floor behind him, skidding to a stop a few inches from the wall.


    He doesn''t blink, only reaction a slight twitch of his left eye.


    Chair legs scrape over hardwood as he pushes his chair back from the table. Stands.


    Lilah looks up at him, then at the fork, mouth pressed in a stubborn line. She says nothing as he walks around the end of the table. Gives him no reaction whatsoever when he lays a hand on her shoulder as he passes behind her, taking a long route round the entire length of the dining table to retrieve her discarded fork. He leaves the room.


    His footfalls fade away. For a heart-stuttering moment, she thinks he''s heading downstairs. But the sound of a running tap carries through the archway that leads to the kitchen, quelling her fear and allowing her to retain her impassive fa?ade.


    He sets down her fork, freshly cleaned, beside her plate before sitting opposite her once more.


    Her fingers tingle, whole being just itching to throw it again to see him stoop to pick it up once more.


    "Don''t."


    A laugh bubbles up her throat. She doesn''t restrain it. "Why not?"


    "Eat."


    "Only if¨C"


    "She can have food when the floor has been cleaned. After you eat."


    Another situation fit for a smile; she makes sure to show her teeth this time. It remains, tugging at the corners of her lips long after she takes the first bite of her cold meal.