“A chemical attack? Like… what? Why would anyone come after you? Is this about the dead guy?” Colin asked, eating the delicious stew. Taron might’ve been cray-cray, but he sure could cook.
Colin leaned closer and only spoke once he swallowed. “But that’s what the army is for. I’m sure we’re safer cooperating with people than hiding away in the woods.”
Taron shook his head with a frown, and his signing became frantic.
Colin stared at the bowl, which was almost empty at this point. “I mean... I guess it is an interesting hobby. No one’s going to hear any screams so far away from the nearest town, so I guess that’s a plus.”
Taron sat there with a disgruntled expression.
Mine. Colin flushed when he remembered the context in which he’d last seen that sign. He was silent for several seconds, weighing his words, because as much as he wanted to punch Taron—if just verbally—such actions wouldn’t be effective in the long run. “Do you intend to keep me like this forever, then? In a cage where I can’t even stand straight?”
Taron signed abruptly, but then got up.
Colin squeezed on the bars, and as he jolted forward, his plate slid off his lap with a clatter. A drive from deep within fought through the numbness that had overcome him, and as he caught Taron’s gaze again, he spoke. “Why don’t you just kill me? Who would want to live like this? And it’s not like this is convenient for you either! I’ve seen you kill. Just do it already!”
It was a gamble, but Taron’s behavior told him that his captor did not want to harm him, so he decided to stake everything on this lie.
Taron huffed.
Colin reached through the bars but screamed in frustration when he couldn’t reach Taron. Every time he felt he had a grasp on this reality, every time when he felt he could change his inevitable future, Taron would crush his hopes into dust. He didn’t even dare ask about the murder anymore. “Fuck!”
Taron pointed to the new book, but Colin shook his head, and the anger turned into anguish so explosive he’d chew at his flesh to get it out.
He wanted out.
He wanted out.
He needed out!
“Just get me some pills. There will be no mess,” he whispered, shaking his head. He didn’t actually want to kill himself, but given the chance and enough time in this enforced isolation, he just might. And when that happened, he wanted to have the means.
This gave Taron pause. With the backlight, his bearded face was obscured by shadows, and his stoic presence made Colin shiver with helpless anger. The man was built out of brick, and even after a stabbing, there he was—sturdy and alive like a thick tree trunk.
Colin’s head shot up, and the promise of having something to do was like a breath of fresh air. He was not used to inactivity, and any task was preferable to lying in bed all day every day. What would it be? Would Taron lock him up with copper pots to polish? Would the task make sense or be a meaningless way to offer Colin something to do? He almost laughed at the idea that he’d be told to separate wheat from chaff. At this point, he didn’t care much, as long something changed. “Understood.”
Taron walked upstairs but left the trapdoor open as a promise that he was coming back soon.
Colin licked his lips, but when minutes passed, he cleaned up the mess he’d made with the fallen plate, but once this was done, he didn’t want to start anything new, and even Anasstasiya Lucas’s new book wasn’t enough of a temptation to take his mind off the upcoming change. After two weeks—or God knew how long—of incarceration, he would at last have something productive to do other than verbally punching Taron, which wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it sounded.
With a rattle of glass, Taron came down carrying a box of jars. He disappeared once more and this time brought a large bowl of small cucumbers, and lastly, a tray with garlic, salt, dill, and some kind of root vegetable cut into smaller pieces. He sat with all of that next to the cage, but warned Colin not to even think of smashing the jars. It was crystal clear to Colin that the man who kept him here by force was also his sole way to freedom.