Page 11 of Chaos

Yet.

Three simple letters capable of contorting themselves into nightmares.

When he’s gone, I open my palm.

Ephie gave me a tube of antibiotic ointment—a highly coveted item these days.

I slather it onto the cuts on my elbow and knees, swallow down the sandwiches and water they left, and attack my cell again.

No more cords.

The bricks on the walls refuse to budge.

I waste days pushing on the door at the top of the stairs.

The hinges are on the other side, the wood and frame too solid to break, and there’s no knob inside.

I shift my focus to the stairs.

No railing.

Only a series of stair boards without faces, held to a support frame with screws.

I pick the bottom step, since I can get the best leverage, and I figure if I do get it loose, it will be the least obvious.

My fingers grow bloody, blistered, and bruised from pulling on it.

I sleep in painful fits and bursts.

I try not to let myself think of Auden because when I do, it has my throat closing down, the walls pressing in with terror that I won’t see him again. And I hear Yorke. He’s a constant voice in my brain reminding me to observe, to find patterns, to prepare myself for the fight and what will come after.

Everyday, one of them comes with two sandwiches, water, and an empty bucket. Every day, they take away yesterday’s buckets. They form a rhythm.

Ben.

Meatyneck.

Scraggle.

Ben, Meatyneck, Scraggle, as my fingers bleed and the step never loosens, though a tiny pile of sawdust collects beneath it, promising me something is happening, albeit far too slowly.

Ben tells me on his days that Yorke is dead, and soon we’ll return to Thornewood where he’ll turn his army loose on me. This, I decide, has to be a lie or we wouldn’t be hiding in the woods in a derelict farmhouse.

Meatyneck never speaks.

Scraggle talks the most. He revels in his time with me, telling me all the vile, filthy things he’ll do to me as soon as Ben gives him the greenlight.

I take to turning my back on him so at least I don’t have to see his vile face, but one morning, the sound of a zippercuts through the space, and has me spinning around to face him.

He’s opening the front of his pants. “I’ll bring you soap next time, so you can wash those filthy holes for me.”

I shove myself back against the wall so hard my already hurt elbow slams afresh into the rough bricks.

He pulls the fat pink worm of his penis out, spreads his feet wide and strokes the revolting thing.

I cringe into the wall, my brain setting up a nauseating rhythm of its own, promisingit’ll be okay, we’ve survived worse, we’ll be okay.Even as I shift my angle, prepare myself to strike when he comes closer.

But he doesn’t move.