I have my own cell. I am grateful that I have my own cell. I hate myself for being grateful. It's like if I was grateful for getting stabbed with a very nice knife. There is a bit of honor in the fact that something cherished and fine is used to harm me, but the fact remains that I have been stabbed or sliced or cut by a knife. The quality off said blade does not matter. Unless it's rusty or something, but that's a problem for after the bandages have been applied. In my case, there is no later. There is no problem after the single cell has been established. It could be the nicest cage in the world, but it is still a cage. So, I'm breaking out.
I rattled the rust and the rivet and a small bolt comes free. It tries to fall. It really does. There is will hanging in the air and the bolt decides that it likes that will. So there, right there, right in front of my face, it hangs. It's not the first to do so. I have my own little asteroid belt hovering around me in a fun ring. I reach out a hand to part them. They stick to me for a moment before sliding over my hand and continuing on with their very important business. I just wish one of them would fall and land on the floor. That would be nice. It would have an echo and that would certainly be better than the silence and the moping.
The sharp has stopped playing with the metal as I dangle my feet through the grate. It knows what the cage does. And it's bored. It does not like to be bored. Most things don't. In short bursts it's fine. But the sharp has been exposed to it for hours and hours and hours. Maybe days. I'm not sure. No more than five of those, by any accounts. It's hard to keep track of time when nothing happens.
There is food and water and the ability to lay down and think about stuff. And I can look at Ike, but he's way over there on the other side of the aviary. That is the word that I have chosen and I have no idea if it fits. I don't even know what it means. It just sounds nice and big and open. So, we sit and stare at each other and wait for nothing at all to happen. Ike may have a plan, but he is over there, so we just have to wait until the next time that we can get together and hash out a detail or two while he's inside me. Not the best time for planning anything intricate, but I don't plan on being intricated. More destructive.
My Soren waves to me from her cage and I wave back. Micaiah took the rope so we can't even get closer to one another. The sharp doesn't like that. There are other bodies to play with, minding the gap. It's just bored looking and mounting frustrations at the whole affair. It wants Ike to play with and it can't have Ike. Terrible, so terrible. The long ways away destruction is too far removed from now. It can wait. It knows patience, and it hates it.
I sigh and try to readjust something in my body. My ass is asleep with the worst tingles. Metal does not make for good chairs or beds or anything designed to be used by human shaped things. Even sand has the tendency to mold and shift to the body, even if it always finds cracks to be in. Another rivet joins the swarm and I make them dance again. I try to make them go the other way, but they don't. They try to turn against the current, but they can't. Not enough energy in them perhaps.
My Soren holds up a balled fist before shaking it down three times. She holds out two fingers and then shakes her fist at me again. I mime the motions again because I have nothing better to do. She gets a fist and I get two fingers. I smile. I like this game, especially when I win.
That was the only time I win. I don't like my Soren anymore. There are flat hands to my fists, fists to my two fingers and two fingers to my flat hands. I think she let me win the first one to lull me into a false sense of security. The sharp finally rouses from its bored stupor and spins around the metal cage. It dances in every action that is countered by that terrible leather mask. I can feel the smirk pouring through the stitches and seams. The needle work actually does form a mouth quirked up and I want to tear out every single stitch and thread and let it burn down to nothing.
I stop playing and she gives me just one finger. I am being a sore loser and I know it, but I am allowed to be one because it's the only thing I can be. The cage does not let me be anything else. The shape and chill dance has its cage to rattle and that's all it does.
It rattles and shakes as the walls close in on me. My hands go out to stop it, but there is no resistance. There is no resistance at all. Like the storm wind, it just is. The wind howls. The cage bars shrink and settle and I can't quite find the room to breathe. Metal on metal shrieks fill my ears and the warden pays me a visit.
"You're getting rowdy," Micaiah says, "You're not supposed to be rowdy. And you, Leatherface, you were helping her get rowdy."
The warden gets a single finger again and my love for my Soren blossoms once more. She is pure and sweet and good. Nothing bad should ever happen to her. Something bad does happen to her. Her cage starts to shrink and crush and the sharp jumps to her protection. The cage holds it back.
"Stop that," she says, "We're not doing that anymore. You're going to be a good girl and come with me. You should be happy. Your favorite's coming too."
To my chagrin, I do feel a bit happier with the simple mention of a name associated with a body and a set of scars. The sharp jumps too. It wants to play. Despite everything, the forced submissive act, there is a joy in it.
My cage follows her as my Soren's lets up a little, allowing her to breath. I sense the finger more than anything else. I know it is there. I do not have to look back. Another cage falls from the hanging rafters of air and space, my wonderful starshower coming down from the heavens. He's started to lose weight again. He never really had a chance to build it back up, but I see the trends in his body. I don't like that. I don't like that at all.
"You both need to be good for me," Micaiah says, "Bryce has decided that he wants to talk to you."
"How's your arm?" Ike asks. The rush of affection towards him stains my cheeks crimson warm. I get the see the remnants of the bruise and the burn from a stray arc two days ago. She rubs it and stops herself once the motion becomes register. She wills the cages forward and I smile at Ike. He smiles back.
Cattle, I am just cattle to be penned and held until slaughter. Or conception, I'm not sure which. I've tried the former and the latter and neither seemed to stick, so I wonder what Bryce has in store for me that will make it all better. I plan to gore some things though.
---
I am shackled and tethered, but I can move my arms. That is nice. I stretch and let the muscles tear. I don't come as tall as I would like to be some days. I wish I didn't have to almost jump to look Ike in the eye. As it stands, it's all rather easy at the moment, because everyone is sitting down at a long table of smooth wood. It looks like wood, but it's too shiny. Wood shouldn't be shiny. It should be rough and dull and matte. This is glossy. I can see myself in the wood. I think I look alright. Nose is a bit odd, but it's probably been broken at some point, and my hair desperately needs to meet a comb. There's also a bruise on my cheek that I simply do not remember getting. Maybe the wind gale that slammed me into a rock, but that should have faded by now. Might even be a birth mark that I never noticed.
Ike is shackled too, sitting on his chair and calmly surveying the room. Two more chairs, one full of a Micaiah and the other empty at the head of the table. There are places set with fork and knife and all the things with plates and napkins. I don't trust any of this. I don't trust the clean porcelain and polished silver. Micaiah watches me try to pull away from the iron and the steel. I am trying, but my strength has limits.
The window behind the chair starts to flicker and vibrate like a rippling pond. The sharp responds in kind within me. I feel the heat metal start to flow back to my clothes, singeing the fibers and letting the smoke curl and flutter and shape into long swirling tendrils up my back. I pull and try to come to some threatening posture. I don't like it. Glass should not move like water. It should shatter and break like hail and snow.
A wind, a hurricane gale, slams the glass open like a door with desert heated grit scouring my soul. I shut my eyes and wish for my goggles again. The grains find gaps to slither into. Scrape and cut and gash, I am bleeding. I have to be bleeding. The sand is daggers and barbs and nothing else.
It clears and I am left staring at Bryce and his gold chains hanging from his neck, his rings glaring in the scattered sunlight. Evening, it is evening, and the glass must be smoked or tinted somehow, cutting the glare. The sharp jumps and bites and it dances from my fingers. The metal keeps heating and glowing as it pulls down and almost pops my shoulders from my sockets. Ike is calmer, keeping his rage focused in his eyes as Bryce settles into his chair. He clatters and jingles like a bell choir and I can't help but believe that the whole thing would sound better with thunderclaps and lighting strikes instead of the howling wind. He smiles and the wind calms down. I do not, even as the bones crack and bend and pop. Micaiah glares at me and I smile back, as sharp and as vicious as I can manage.
"Dear Micaiah," he says with a storm rumble bass, "Please do not be so hard on our guest. Her anger is understandable. Ease up."
The metal does lessen its bite and its pull. Not enough to make something close to comfortable, but it's better.
"Now let me go," I say.
"I'm afraid my trust and goodwill does not extend that far quite yet," says Bryce, "But I think that I have made some miscalculations in my handling of you two. For that, you have my apologies. So, we turn from the stick to the carrot."
"Is the carrot getting me out of these bindings?" Ike asks.
"Again, I am aware enough of what is going on with your thoughts. You have proven your intentions with my associate very thoroughly. And I have reason to believe that those intentions pass on to me as well. For my own safety, you will remain restrained for the time being."
He takes a deep breath and shrugs off the cloak of gold, letting it pool on the floor. A wayward wave of the good hand of Micaiah later and it hangs from the back of the chair at the head of the table. He sits and folds his hands and I have to imagine he thinks he's being charming with that smile. I don't trust anyone with teeth that straight.
"I think I will have to earn your trust on this one," he says with a kind warm grin, "which I know, I know is something that I will have to work on. Jill, that is your name, right? Jill, our first encounter was a misstep on my end and for that, you have my deepest apologies. Had I known of your nature more, then I would have certainly taken greater care. And Ike, I wish I wasn't as forceful as I was with your introduction. I was cross with your staunch refusal and that trick your mother played. My emotions got the better of me. Again, I apologize."
