“Morning, sunshine,” a guard’s voice calls through the wall. “Miss us?”
“Like a rash,” comes Kier’s reply. “Did you bring flowers? I feel like this relationship is getting serious.”
I hear the squeal of the old door swinging open followed by a fleshy thud and a grunt of pain.
“Still got that smart mouth, I see,” Bob says.
“It’s one of my best features,” Kier growls. “That and my sparkling personality.”
Another hit. Harder this time. I hear the crunch of bone, wincing in sympathy.
“Tell us who you were working with,” a different voice demands.
“Not sure how many times I need to tell you dumbasses this but no one,” Kier says firmly, though his voice has dropped to barely above a whisper. Each word sounds like itcosts him effort. “I’m nomad. We lone wolves don’t exactly play well with others.”
The beating that follows is methodical, brutal. But through it all, Kier keeps talking smack.
“I have some feedback about your torture technique. Should I file that with you or your supervisor?”
Crack.
“It’s mostly constructive criticism. Well, some constructive. Some just criticism.” I can hear the exhaustion bleeding through now, the way his sentences are getting shorter, his words beginning to slur.
Thud.
“Has anyone ever told you”—he pauses, gasping for breath—”that you hit like my grandmother? And she’s been dead for twenty years.”
I press my hand over my mouth to muffle any sound. Kier is being tortured, and he’s still making jokes. I’m impressed.
The interrogation continues for what feels like hours. Every time they demand information about his accomplices, Kier deflects with sarcasm. Every blow they land, he answers with mockery.
“You know,” he says after a particularly vicious hit, “I’m starting to think you boys have anger management issues. There are therapists for that.”
“Shut up,” Jim snarls.
“Shut up? I thought you wanted me to talk.”
I jump at a loud crash, followed by vicious sounds. It goes on and on until finally they stop, pulling away to allow Prudence to move in.
“Deal with this one,” Bob orders. “And make it bad.”
There’s silence, the kind that makes my skin crawl. It’s unnatural and oppressive, a pause of fear rather than peace.
I strain to listen, hearing only the soft shuffle of movement. Then a sharp intake of breath. Followed by another.
“No,” Kier whispers, his voice barely audible. “That’s not… you’re not real.”
The silence stretches again. I can picture Prudence’s pale hands on his temples, her dark eyes boring into his mind, forcing him to see whatever nightmare she’s crafting.
A whimper escapes him. Low and broken, the sound of someone trying desperately not to break.
“No,” he gasps. “Stop.”
But it doesn’t stop. The whimpers become more frequent, punctuated by sharp breathing and whispered denials.
“They’re not real,” he keeps saying. “You’re not real. None of this is real.”
Then the first scream tears from his throat.
