The floor was cold and the room was very
humid. No light entered the tiny space where he was trapped. He had forgotten
his name long ago, maybe because of the many beatings he had received or maybe
because it wasn’t something that was important anymore. A name didn’t help
anyone survive such a horrible thing. Then again, he wasn’t sure he wanted to
survive. He just wanted his awful situation to change, one way or the other, it
didn’t matter at all.
All the days were the same so remembering each
one individually was difficult and also useless. There was no point in having a
good memory when the schedule every day was the same: early in the morning he
would be woken up by a plate of water sliding towards him or by cold water
coming out of a hose. It apparently depended on the humor of his captor. Then,
he was kept there all day unless his captor wanted something else from else,
usually to work for him in the most awful way.
He would knew it was a “work” day when an old
mattress was put inside his cell, alongside the water plate and also some food.
The food was never good, some sticky stuff that looked like mashed potatoes,
but wasn’t exactly that. He ate it anyway but his stomach always complained. Those
days, he would have to wait all day until his captor’s client would come. It
was and excruciating wait that didn’t get better after it all ended. Of course,
he wouldn’t see any of the money the client paid.
Actually, he had never seen the face of the
man that had kidnapped him and kept him there. He always wore a ski mask, so he
had no idea what his face was like. But what he did know was that he was a very
strong individual. After many beatings, using both punches and kicks, the
captured had learned how heavy the captor’s body was. He had an incredible force
in his arms and legs, probably because he exercised a lot. But the man was
losing his eyesight living in the dark, so he could only go by what he felt was
the truth.
The beatings took place randomly. It was the
only thing in his cell life that changed and, of course, it wasn’t something he
would look forward to. When it happened, it almost felt like part of a sick and
awful routine that had survived for far too long. The man in the cell knew he
had been there for a long time but he had no idea how long that was. More than
a year? Probably. Five years? Maybe, he didn’t really know. What was true was
the fact that the violent man would never use him as the clients did, which the
captured always thought was strange.
But that was only when he wondered about his
situation, which was really that often. Instead, he loved to sleep. It was the
only way his body felt actually rested and, when he managed to sleep long
hours, he was able to dream. Even when nightmares slipped in, it was a good
thing for him. After all, he had forgotten what having an imagination was like
and seeing all those images that make no sense inside of his head was a sign
that there was still hope for him, in a very sad way.
In the dreams, he was sometimes free. Not
every time and that was very strange. One would think that his obsession was to
be free in the world. But a recurring dream happened to be a redecoration of
his cell, with more light and nice furniture, as if he was restoring his
childhood bedroom, which he didn’t really remember anymore. When he dreamt of
freedom, it always ended on a stark note, like a remainder that he wasn’t
really free and that he might never be free again.
What he did want, at least judging by his
dreams, was to be able to talk to someone. Once, he did have the chance to do
so, when another person was locked in a cell beside him. He had thought for
long that he was alone wherever he was and that discovery was the best for him.
Except the other person was not very interested in talking, instead crying and
demanding an explanation to why they were there. Soon enough, their captor
moved that other person somewhere or who knows.
Voices were rarely heard. In their daily
routine, not the captor or the captured would talk, even when one would pull
the other by the hair or when the beating was especially brutal. No words were
heard, as it was an unspoken rule to actually say something. It was better not
to taunt danger, not more that was usual. So words were something inside their
brains, wondering around and trying to get out in any way possible. He was
afraid he would forget how to talk and behave.
Many of his dreams and nightmares were an
exercise on precisely that, trying not to forget every single thing about
himself. He would sometimes remember, for example, the faces of his family. He
knew who they were but not their names. It didn’t matter because “mother” was
“mother” not matter what. So were “father” and “sister” and “brother”. He would
normally wake up soaked in tears when he dreamt about all of them but, in a
certain way, it was worth it. Because he still remembered, which meant he
hadn’t been completely broken down.
A day came in which his captor did not come.
For an entire day, the poor man was locked in that cell with no water or
anything that would indicate the presence of another human being. It felt
pathetic and sick but he wanted the man to come and, at least, smack hard. At
least that felt real, it felt as if it was happening. But having no one, deep
in the dark, was very cruel, even more than the usual. That happened for what
seemed like an eternity, but were actually five days.
Then, someone did open the door. He would
normally raise his head and wait for the captor to get close but he couldn’t do
that anymore. He was too weak, feeling sick and preferring to sleep and dream
about something less depressing. With his eyes tightly closed, he dreamt about
an enormous bird carrying him to a magical land that was made of many colors
and shapes. He hadn’t dreamt hat before and it was the happiest moment for him
in a long time, as he felt loved, in way.
He woke up several more days later. When he
did, it was very dark, like in his room, but he realized he wasn’t there
anymore. There was a machine besides him making a sound and he was lying on nice
mattress, with clean covers and sheets. He saw the light from a corridor near
him but, as his head felt too heavy to bear, he fell asleep again. The last
thing he would hear were the steps of several people passing by his room. Or
that was what he thought it was, he wasn’t sure.
When he woke up again, it was day. A thick
curtain diminished the light, which was a good thing because the sunlight felt
like acid on his skin. He felt very tired but also dry and clumsy. A nurse came
in and brought a drink in a bag with a straw. By the flavor, it was obvious it
wasn’t water but it didn’t taste bad at all, so the formerly captured man drank
it all. The nurse didn’t say a word the time she was there. And he wanted her
to tell him something, anything at all.
However, he would have words to share the
following days as doctors and policemen visited him. The first group told him
what his physical state was. To sum it up, it wasn’t good but he would be able
to recuperate in the future, he just needed to be patient. Go figure.
The second group, the enforcers of the law,
explained to him his captor had been killed by one of his clients and that
crime had led them to the cell. Apparently the client was mad because the
captor hadn’t let him stay with the man in the cell when he wanted. He never
understood that part.
