Spruce trees, I think.Or hemlock.Thick at the base, their trunks partially buried under snowdrift, with dark green needles weighed down by heavy icicles that glistened like frozen dicks in the weak winter sunlight.
Maybe I imagined it.
I lived in the Arctic for twenty-three years.Or am I twenty-four now?Sure.Let’s go with that.In my twenty-four years on this planet, I’ve never seen a tree outside of books and movies.I’ve never stepped beyond the hills of shivers and shadows.
Hoss is the only place I know.
But if I’m right and trees really do exist on the other side of these walls…
Toto, I don’t think we’re in Hoss anymore.
I’m below the tree line.
I escaped the Arctic Circle.
Except I’m not free.
Leaning against the wall, I consider masturbating to pass the time, but even that has lost its appeal.
Talking to Regret is even less stimulating.
Moments drift without count.No clocks.No sunlight.Just the occasional scratch of metal against concrete when the old man remembers to feed me.
The doctor has only visited twice, but the old man comes often.He never speaks.Never makes eye contact.His only job is to shove food and water through the bars and retreat before my eyes adjust to the brief light.
So I wait.
And pace.
Ten steps east to west.Twelve steps north to south.
Like I know which way is up.
I don’t.
This sucks.
When the door opens again, daylight slashes my retinas like hot, serrated razors.I rear back, hissing and squeezing my eyes shut against the assault.The pain is immediate, a deep stab straight through my brain.
Every time with this shit.
Months in the pitch black has turned me into a damn mole person.If I had claws, I’d dig my way to freedom instead of sitting in a cold, damp corner, stinking like a grave.
Footsteps.Slow.Measured.The scuff of polished leather against dirt-covered cement.I don’t need to see to know who it is.He smells like jet fuel and mental hospitals.
Not the old man.
The doctor.
The door swings shut, followed by the soft buzz of an overhead light.
Gods forbid he leaves that on when he’s not here.
“Wolfson.”His voice is silk dragged over steel, delicate with a slur of fang.“How are you feeling?”
“Like a million bucks.It’s amazing what a pitch-black spa retreat can do for the skin.”I crack my eyelids open just enough to see a blurry figure dressed in threads far too impractical for this shithole.“Can we talk about how fabulous the decor is?I especially love the total darkness.Gives it a torture dungeon vibe while conserving electricity.Five stars.”
The doctor smiles like he’s indulging a child.
