The metal door next to mine clangs open with a sound like a gunshot. I hear the scrape of boots on stone, then a familiar voice. It’s the interrogator.
“Morning, smart-ass. Ready to tell us what we want to know?”
My neighbor seems to be ready for a fight. “Is this about my dress for the ball? Cause I really feel that taffeta and lace would be perfect.”
“Still think you’re funny.” A meaty thwack is followed by a grunt of pain.
“Did you learn that technique at asshole school, or are you self-taught?” the wolf asks.
Another impact, harder this time. I find myself pressing against the wall that separates us.
“Keep running that mouth, dog. See where it gets you.”
“Same place it’s gotten me for three years. At least I’m entertaining myself.”
The interrogation continues for what feels like hours. Every time they hit him, every time they demand answers, he has some smart remark ready. His voice gets rougher, more strained, but the attitude never wavers. His defiance never breaks.
By the time they finally leave, I’m equal parts impressed and horrified.
The guards shut the door to the corridor of cells and silence returns.
I wait, counting my heartbeats until I’m sure we’re alone again. Then I crawl back to the hole.
“Still alive over there?”
A pained chuckle. “Unfortunately for them, yes. Though I think they’re getting tired of my pretty face.”
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Survive this. How are you not broken?”
There’s a long pause. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, more serious than before.
“Who says I’m not broken?” He shifts, and I hear the clink of chains. “You think surviving this makes me strong? I talk to myself for hours at a time. I have conversations with dead people.” Another pause. “Hell, I’m not even sure you’re real right now. Could just be another voice I’ve invented to keep myself company.”
The raw admission catches me off guard. “I’m real,” I say firmly.
“That’s exactly what a hallucination would say.”
“I can prove it,” I challenge, though I’m not sure how.
He calls me on my offer. “How? By telling me something I couldn’t possibly know?” A bitter laugh. “Problem is, my imagination’s gotten pretty good over the years.”
“But you’re still here.”
“Because the alternative is giving them what they want.And what they want…” His voice hardens. “What they want would hurt a lot of innocent people.”
“So you endure.”
“So I endure,” he agrees.
Damn. That hit somewhere deep. Respect, grudging but real, stirs in my chest.
“What about you? You planning to endure, or are you going to give up the first time they make you bleed?”
I glance down at my hands which I can barely make out in the dark. “They’ve already made me bleed.”
