by Amy Solus
Chapter 5
Here I am-- in the den of all evil. I have always hoped and prayed that I would never have to be so close to the pawns that may have killed everyone I knew, but unfortunately praying can’t give sure outcomes. I still do pray-- I pray for guidance and pray for hope. But most of all I pray for strength. I’m not always sure who or what I’m praying to, but that’s beside the point.
When I was still living my old life, I was shy. I hadn’t been an outcast, but nonetheless I didn’t talk all that much. People said I was awkward, but really I just never really had anything to say. I took pride in listening and comprehending those around me and that skill that I had sharpened back when I was young still came in handy now.
The walls that separate the cells seem to be paper thin, which is sometimes a burden and sometimes a gift. I can hear all of the conversation that travels from cellmate to cellmate, but I can also hear a symphony of snoring when night breaks. I’ve learned quite a bit about my neighbors in a week.
The girl to my left is a short, stout, middle-aged woman of color who doesn’t seem to say much at all. She hums and taps her fingers when we have extra time. She seems harmless. She doesn’t eat much; she mostly just mixes her food and creates little mountains that little carrot people stand atop of. Maybe she was an art teacher or a potter.
The girl to my right is a small blonde-haired blue-eyed girl who seems to simply cower in her cell. When we’re grouped together for dinner, she never speaks. She mumbles and shakes.
She interests me more than my neighbor to the west. This girl must’ve gone through hell to come out the way she has. I pity her, but then again I hardly have enough pity for myself, so it’s a minute amount.
Whispers travel from cell to cell, and I can tell that the sassy-mouthed girl that had challenged me when we were on the grounds was maybe two or three cells away. I’m just glad that she isn’t next to me. I don’t like creating confrontations, but one thing’s for sure-- I don’t back down when someone takes an argument too far.
The cells are only on one side and the building is on ground level so we have no scenery to keep us occupied. We have four cement walls and one barred cell door to look at. I’ve given up on looking. I’ve escaped to the chasms of my mind.
Days go by slowly and I feel empty. I feel no self-worth being locked in here. Existing here has wrought much havoc on my already dwindling faith. I feel alone and I feel the shadow of death creeping over me, like it did when the end began. When we’re fed as a group I sit alone and avert my eyes from the others at my table. I just don’t feel like I have the strength to risk my safety anymore. I’m a scuttling bug racing to get to the nearest shelter. I feel small and weak and all I can think about is my own survival.
But one day, there's a slight change in the scenery at my table. The red-head and the quiet girl come and sit down across from me. They don't speak to me, but nonetheless I am no longer alone. For about a week I say nothing as they come to sit by me during every meal. I don't look up, out of confusion or (maybe) out of fear, but then finally our mutual silence is broken.
The rouge haired girl finally says something.
She speaks softly and deliberately, with her hands folded on her lap. Her eyes study my face and she leans forward slightly, trying not to draw attention to the fact that we're actually communicating.
"Hello again," she said, "I'm sorry we haven't said anything to you until now, but we weren't sure if the guards would find us creating a friendship suspicious." She looked down and back up at me again.
By now, I'm completely taken aback; she probably looked away due to the look of utter astonishment on my face. When you don't speak to anyone for a number of days or weeks you start forgetting what it means to control your facial expressions and things can certainly get weird.
Once I remembered I could move my facial muscles, I finally remembered I was also capable of speaking; that I wasn't just some dumb animal. "It's alright; I can understand the need to be concerned for your self-preservation rather than risking yours and speaking with me. We've all been concerned about our survival for quite awhile now," I say with understanding. The sound of my voice is almost foreign to me now and I wonder if my voice has always sounded like that.
We look at each other with slightly embarrassed looks on our faces. To be honest, I had completely forgotten what it felt like to be in an awkward social situation-- but dang, those memories came flooding back in one great wave. She then smiles and chuckles quietly. Maybe this awkwardness will be turning into humor real soon. I look over to her quiet friend and she smiles at me as well. It feels good to have someone smile at you, like seeing a ray of sunlight for the first time in weeks.
We sit there in companionable silence, feeling content that we all have gained something new into our lives. I’ve gained two new friends; they’ve found another ally. I do start to wonder if her friend ever speaks though. She’s kept silent every instance we’ve had a chance to speak. I think maybe she’s a mute or something and maybe that’s why they allow her to stay with Mara all of the time.
Our dinner comes to an end and we all sit up as we hear the bell ring loudly. We all form into lines to return our trays and head back to our cells. But for once I do not fear being lonely forever more. I have gained an ounce of hope back.
