It Never Stops; We Never Learn

[Mordecai]

We are all prisoners but some of us are in cells with windows and some without. Kahlil Gibran

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@Elle Joyner
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[Mordecai]

A bleak, thin wind it was, like a fine sour wine, that brought a chill, but did not bruise the skin and in that breeze, the broad leaved shrubbery gossiped softly. There was something oddly beautiful about the forests of Colombia. How many forests had he seen in his time, yet there was something innately magical about the woods that wrapped themselves around the increasingly small village of San Gil. Mists were crowding in the valleys, while the mountains were covered in a rug of trees—greens, yellows, scarlets, and oranges, but their bare tops were scarfed with a ribbon of snow. From carved rocky outcrops, waterfalls drifted down into rivers that wrapped around the small village and fleshed into pools of lakes and ponds, often the only source of fresh water for most, as the village had no running water.


The last light of the evening passed the greengrocer with his window filled with oranges and melons, and the butcher’s, with his bloody lumps of meat on display next to the hanging chickens, naked. There was a small bank on the main street, a single pharmacy, and a convenience store, but little else. At this hour, there were no people on the dirt road and very few motorcars. After sunset, the sleepy little village of San Gil just sort of died—people retreated to their homes, leaving the dirt streets barren and deserted. For the American mission camp, evening was always when things began to finally heat up. The fifty-seven Americans on the mission trip, organized to help build and stock schools for the neediest children in Colombia, spent all day working and enjoying their new home, but at night when they came back to the dormitories, they dragged in cheap liquor and good times with them.


That particular evening was no exception. Bad pop music droned on through someone’s iphone. The beat was so loud that it made his skin tingle and his lungs feel like mush. After a long day putting a roof on a school under the hot Colombian sun, Osiel’s skin was hot and red, burnt within an inch of its life, and all he wanted to do was sleep. The music and the Americans just kept getting louder and wouldn’t let him go. Eventually, knowing he’d never be able to settle down in his bunk and catch some sleep, he had no choice but to join the crowd, jumping in a huddled group like Tic-Tacs being shaken in the box.


That’s when he heard it. A gunshot?


He didn’t even know what a real gunshot sounded like. He had only ever heard them in his little brother’s games, he had even fired them, but that was in games. This sounded like the ones in the games… yes, those were gunshots. Osiel became sure of it when the people around him began to scream and duck for the floor, a few fleeing for the one of two exits in the American Peace Corps dormitory building, but one exit was blocked off with industrial chains and a lockpad, and the other was blocked off by a swarm of men… four, to be exact, dressed in black and operating like they were predators closing in on a stall full of sheep. And that’s what the Americans were… confused, defenceless sheep.


The adrenaline flooded his system like it was on an intravenous drip—right into his blood at full pelt. He began to think his heart would explode and his eyes were wide, letting in every ounce of light inside the single story, two room dormitory building. His body wanted to either run fast or work to find weaponry, but instead he stood right where he was. In only seconds, the four… now five… men with hoods over their faces so only the darkness of their eyes peered out, had the room under control and were beginning to shout orders in Spanish.


Get down on the ground… put your hands flat against the floor… put your face down. They screamed and every single one of the fifty-seven American Peace Corp volunteers shakily obliged. A few echoed sobs could be heard through the room, but it was mostly just deathly silent. One by one, the men frisked them all. Osiel tensed as the hands of a man patted down his sides, pulling his wallet, his cellphone, and keys from his pockets and tossing them on to the floor after pulling out what cash he could from his wallet. Osiel began to wonder what they planned on doing here, but he didn’t have to wait long.


In groups of five, their attackers, now captors, walked them out of the building. Two of the assailants accompanied with each group of five, three remained in the dormitory to keep an eye. How many of them were there? Where were the others being taken.


Remain quiet and obedient. Anyone who disobeys will die, one of the captors said in a harsh Spanish and to make his point, he picked up one of the volunteers off the floor and shot him in the head… just like that. Splat… his brains were paint. They shot Jim—just shot him. Like that. Boom. Pop. Splat. Osiel’s chest shuddered as he buried his nose deeper into the wood floor. He didn’t know where they were going, but he didn’t want to be Jim. He didn’t want his brains to be the next dormitory wall decoration.


It was his turn. One of the men dragged him up by his feet and in his little pod of four others, he anxiously exchanged glances as they were walked out of the dormitory. There, parked right out front, was a bus. It wasn’t bright and cheery, like a school bus, but a bus all the same—an old thing with all the chairs ripped out, leaving only standing room as all the Americans were loaded on and smooshed on like cattle to the slaughter. Even more of the assailants were stationed throughout the bus, their guns gleaming and hung against their chest proudly. Another body, Deborah, was a few feet away from the steps leading on to the bus. Poor thing, Osiel thought as he adverted his eyes and tried to squish the bubbling feeling of vomit at the back of his throat, she must have tried to run.


Like a well oiled machine, all the Americans were loaded on to a bus and they were driven off… and driven off… and farther still. For hours, they were on that damn bus. Early evening transitioned into late night as from the windows he watched their surroundings become more and more rural. The bus was quiet… even quieter than the dormitory had been. They were told to remain silent and everyone did, probably too in shock to even manage out a cry, though he could see the whites of peoples’ eyes as they labored in their heads to grasp what was understanding. Reaching their destination, the same thing happened—pods of five were led into an old mill. It was dark, Osiel was tired and everything ached.


He had convinced himself this was a bad dream and he’d wake up soon. It made it easier. It prevented him from just sobbing openly in fear.


Inside the warehouse, stalls were built. Prison cells and every person was locked up in their own cell, which made American prisons look cozy. They were no bigger than five feet by five feet, build on cement ground with sturdy, iron bars. There was a blanket and a bucket… no food, no pillow, no water, not even a mattress. Curling up on the edge of the little metal box, he wound his arms around his legs and balled himself up impossibly small as the weight of reality drifted away… too much in shock to do much of anything but stare off into space and wait for an announcement once everyone was in their cell.

 

[Elle Joyner]

His name was Phillip, and he was the most beautiful boy Marisol had ever seen. Sandy blonde, with brilliant blue eyes, and a smile that could turn stones to a brook with a glance. He was the type of boy that made a girl glad to be alive, and watching him across the promenade was the highlight of her afternoon. His skin was a ruddy brown. Catching the sunlight, beads of sweat rolling down his spine, shoulders flexing powerfully, lifting each grain sack and tossing it into the back of the truck bed.


He'd come to work for her father's compound six weeks prior, and every day, like clockwork, Marisol had watched him work, loading and unloading. Papa wouldn't approve, of course, but she was careful to bring a book with her, to disguise her true motivation. As well, she was cautious and mindful of her thoughts - for Padre was a good and honest priest, but Papa’s reach went far and wide.


She only liked to look. Reverently as she could. Phillip never noticed her, or at least he made a point not to say anything, and she was grateful. Words could break the loveliest of spells, all too effectively. She was content, watching from afar, like one appreciated fine art, or a glorious sunset. Maybe someday she would say hello, but it wasn't likely.


That day, however, was not the day. For as she sat, watching over the edge of her book, the sound of footsteps behind her drew her attention from the fine creature before her, to her father's dark, stony gaze.


”There you are…”, his guttural voice held a drained quality, the way it often sounded when he was working too hard, ”I have work for you. Come along.”


“Work, Papa? But I thought--”


”Chah!” He interjected, and Marisol frowned, correcting herself. Her father, a man of tradition, could not abide by English.


”I thought your work in the field was finished for summer?”


”This isn't field work. Come.”


Rising, Marisol followed her father, but not far. It was a short trip, from the courtyard, into the kitchen. Here, her father gestured to a bucket and ladle, sitting on the terra cotta tile, ”You will take this downstairs… Distribute only one ladle each. Be quick about it, and speak to no one.”


“Papa?”


”They are very bad people, Little Angel. I would do it myself, or sena man, but times are trying, and I need you to do this for me. Now… off you go.”


With a nod, she plucked up the bucket and made her way through the cellar door, down into the dark, musty subfloor. The hallway led a long way, underneath the compound and eventually came up underneath the old mill and warehouse. She had discovered the cells entirely by accident, many years ago, and since then had made no attempts to return. Marisol might’ve been a bit naive, but she was smart enough to know that there were aspects of her father’s job that were a touch on the unsavory side. Sometimes, that required holding a man or two for questioning.


Except it wasn’t a man or two…


Every cell. Every single cell was occupied.


Taking a breath, pushing past that strange sense that something was wrong, she started down the long, narrow corridor, delivering a ladle of water to each waiting prisoner. It took a painfully amount of time and by the last cell, her arms had begun to sting from holding the bucket. Setting it down, she wiped her brow, turning to peek into the cell.


“Water?”

 

[Mordecai]

No announcement came. Nothing came.


The only sounds he could hear were the pained labouring of his own breath, the wailing of people in the cells around him, and the soft drip of water falling. Os didn’t cry or wail or scream or sob, he just didn’t have the ability to do so… he just sat hunkered in the corner, biting down on a hangnail on his left thumb and wondering how he had gotten here. It had been his damn co-worker who signed him up for this. It had been all his fault and desperately Osiel wanted to blame the man as fear stung at the corner of his eyes. Deeper, angered welled in his chest, his heart hammering angrily as his eyes began to sting painfully.


He wondered next why there were here. They were locked up and not yet dead—hostages, maybe? He dragged his hand below his nose and sniffled, feeling the cold seeping through him. God damnit, he was going to die here. The lights had been drained away and there was hardly enough even for shadows. Whether he liked it or not, the darkness comes and under it, everything in their prison was hidden. From each aroma passing through his nose caused his brain to jump to the more fearsome thing that could be around him, his body preparing for flight, fright, or freeze. For the most part, Os just freezes, he had no place to run or escape.


Water?


His eyes snapped up, slicing through the darkness to make out the shape of a small woman. Creeping forward on his hands so he could get a better look at her, Osiel gently tilted his head and hesitated to answer. It could be poison. But then, what difference did it make? Better dead than stuck in the damp hole forever. The woman’s accent sounded native, though she spoke English well enough that he understood what she had said. Shakily, his hands curled around the bars, crouched down against the floor as he looked up to her, “Yes-- please,” he answered, reaching out to take the small dish from her. He could speak Spanish fluent, after all, he was born a Mexican-American, but he couldn’t think in anything but English.


“Thank you,” eagerly, he took the dish and swallowed down a hearty sip, his scorched throat and aching head begging for more, but deciding to save the last sip, as he didn’t know when his next offering would come from. Setting the dish aside, his eyes flicked back up to the woman—she certainly didn’t look like any of the people who had raided the volunteer compound—she was just too small and too skinny to have been manhandling some several dozen American volunteers around.


“Soy Osiel, y usted?”

 

[Elle Joyner]

Don't speak to anyone. Those were her father's instructions. Clear, concise. No possible way to misunderstand, in any language. They were dangerous, these captives. No doubt violent revolutionaries, hell bent on taking her father down a peg or two. He was a powerful man, with a lot of reach, and it reasoned to think he had his share of enemies.


Once, many years ago, she and her father took trip into the village and were set upon by a small group of men. Held at gunpoint, Marisol watched as the men made horrible demands, threatening her life… her father's. One of them had cut her arm with a sharp blade. She still bore the long scar. In the end, her father’s men arrived to save them, but it had been altogether a terrifying experience, one that had been the cause of many sleepless nights and moments of anxiety.


Twice, her father had been shot. Once, by a comrade, trying to take over his plantation operation, another by a lunatic in the village square, who claimed, wildly, that her father murdered his little boy. Both times had survived only by the grace of God and a team of qualified doctors. There were scary people in the world… and dangerous, madmen.


But the man behind those bars didn't seem dangerous or threatening. With pale, speckled skin and a head of dark curls, sleepy eyes like a summer storm… he seemed perfectly ordinary. More than that, he seemed scared, and tired. Perhaps it was a ploy, in hopes she might lower her guard. But ploy or no ploy, she was, in many ways, not her father. She could not deny the man compassion, for his unfortunate predicament. Drawing a full ladle, she reached it through the bars and tipped it into the wooden bowl he held out, managing a small, tender smile.


“Marisol.” She offered, quietly, kindly, but with the barest edge of wariness. Compassion was one thing, but naivety was deadly, “And I speak English…"

 

[Mordecai]

“Marisol-“ he echoed. That was a nice name. There were arguments over what it meant, some would argue that the name was a combination of ‘sun’ and ‘sea’ – mar and sol, while others still argued that it was a combination of María and Soledad—or lonely María. Maybe it was a little bit of both, a little bit of sun, a little bit of loneliness. A little bit personal, a little bit of endless ocean. He hummed dully as his head began to throb, averting his eyes and tracing his fingers around the wooden bowl once before setting it aside once more.


The cell around him was a hollow cube of concrete, one way in, no windows. There was no way to tell how much time had passed or even if it was night or day. He wondered how long he’d be there—he wondered if he’d forget his own name after a while if they let him live long enough. At least Marisol knew his name. At least someone would remember if he forgot, but he doubted she’d care. She’d probably forget, he though dismally. There was no reason for her to remember, after all. She was just some woman serving water—a cog in the machine, a part of the huge system that got him here in the first place.


She was just as evil as the rest, he assumed.


“Do you?” his eyes flicked up to her, “Hm, my family is Hispanic and I grew up hearing Spanish all day, everyday. I used to watch that stupid TV show… what was it… Friends? And god, my mother used to yell at me all day to ‘turn that terrible nonsense off and to put on a Spanish soap.’” He smiled half-heartedly, though even that seemed a little damp. Flicking dirt out from underneath her nail, he shrugged. It was hard to remain optimistic when all he could hear around him was sniveling and sobbing. Some were screaming, others were banging… bloodying their hands in a desperate attempt to get out but it was no use.


In fact, Osiel seemed to be the only person in the entire camp who seemed mostly calm. He wasn’t calm, but he was sitting quietly, his legs bunched up, his fingers tracing the rim of the wooden bowl as he thought back to his childhood. God… his mother… what if he’d never see her again? His sisters? America? His friends? A lump began to form in his throat, tears bashing at his ducts but he refused to let them fall. He was so scared and there was so much life he wanted to live and this was how it got to end.


“Thanks for the water, Marisol.”

 

[Elle Joyner]

Don't talk to them...


Sometimes the simplest instructions were the most difficult to follow. She tried... she really did try. But there was something so tempting about a conversation - a real conversation in a tongue she simply wasn't permitted to speak. Not to anyone - least of all her father, with whom she spoke the most. In truth, she was pretty sure the others... her father's workers were afraid to talk to her. It wasn't that her father was a bad man, but he was certainly strict, and she was his only child and more precious to him than anything. He was, in essence the equivalent of ten thousand fathers on the front porch with shotguns. She understood their hesitancy then, to sit down and chat with her, but it made for a lonely life on the compound.


She might have been able to better resist, with the thought of what her father had told her as to the character of his new prisoners, but the moment that blessed word came out of his mouth all thought to common sense and self preservation faded faster than a red dye-job on a blonde. Staring into the cell, her eyes brightened and her smile spread from ear to ear, her soft nutmeg skin sparked with a bright pink flush of excitement.


"You... you know it? Friends? Oh! There is.. Here, there is no one who watches it! Chandler Bing? He is my favorite. With the girl with the voice... Janice, who is always trying to get back together with him! And also Phoebe... Oh, they are so funny and clever. Not like the shows we have here... which are so much like everything I already know. I have never been out of Columbia, but America, it is all like this? With the coffee shops and beautiful apartments... Someday, I will go, if my father will let me, and I will visit New York City and I will meet them. Chandler and Phoebe and Monica and Joey... Not Rachel and Ross, though. Those two, I don't care for."


Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she studied him for a moment. How strange that someone who belonged in a cell could have so much in common with her - that he could enjoy a television show like Friends, while doing something bad enough to get him thrown into her father's dungeon. Perhaps her father had been wrong about him. She could speak with him - see if he would let him go. Maybe he was just someone caught in the wrong place, at the wrong time...


"You're... you're welcome." She said and her smile softened as she nodded. None of the others had thanked her... A few, they had spit on her, swore at her. Some had begged, pleaded and cried to be released. But not Osiel. He was different... and she would speak to her father, for sure.


"I have to go. I'm not supposed to stay, but... but I'll be back tomorrow. Maybe... maybe you can tell me about it? America?" Plucking up the bucket, she gave a small wave with her free hand, "Nice to meet you, Osiel." and with a nod, she made her way back in the direction she had come.

 

[Mordecai]

Hearing her speak about Friends eased the storm in his heart, if only for a second. It was like the eye of the storm, gently passing through his mind and giving him a few moments of reprieve from the horror raging before his eyes. The snake of fear slithered through him and constricted his heart, but thinking back on such a simple memory… like watching Friends in his parents’ basement with a few of his friends, reminded him of all the good he had had. “Yea,” he answered, “Lots of coffee shops. I go to one every morning called Java Cat,” he explained, not sure why he was saying these things.


It was just that he needed to say them. He needed to talk to another human being because he was scared and humans were social creatures. She was on the outside, she was one of them who had brought them here for whatever reason, but he could resist about as much as a dog could resist a bone. His fingers back against the bars again, feeling the rusty flakes cake against his skin but the metal below hold firm. There was never any way he’d escape on his own and, truthfully, he wasn’t sure he was ever going to escape. He knew the US stance on terrorism: US didn’t negotiate with terrorists, and this is what this was, right? A terrorist attack? A hostage situation? His eyes curled around the bars, looking down at the row of cells. The only real question left remaining was: what were they going to do with them?


A haggard breath sucked up through his nostrils, giving a meek nod. “And I have a nice apartment, too. It doesn’t look like the one in Friends, but it’s really pretty. Has hardwood floors… my mom made the curtains for it.” He had hated them. They had been a gift for Christmas, his curtains, even though he had asked for a new laptop. He had been so angry when she gave him the curtains instead and now he was just sad. A lump swelled back in his throat as he looked away, digging his gaze into his hands. He shouldn’t have ever been angry at her. He should have said thank you. When was the last time he had told his mother he loved her? Realizing he couldn’t even remember the last time, his chin quivered a beat.


Acknowledging her with a nod, he dragged a hand below his nose and sniffed. Osiel was a brave child, always had been. Even as a kid, he was always the first to try something stupid like jumping from the secondary story into the pool or take his bike off the little ledge on Donnie’s farm down the road… he had always been brave, but it was so hard in that moment. “Nice to meet you too, Marisol,” he called after her, though his tone was bland and quivering, like a leaf in a breeze.


Then, it was quiet. Extremely quiet. There was so much noise—the sobs, the wailing, the cussing, the crying, the frantic panicking of trying to figure out what to do or where to go or how to get out, but Osiel remained quiet. Tugging his little bowl of water deeper into his cell, he curled up on the flimsy mattress and forced his eyes to close.


Sleep didn’t come.

 

[Elle Joyner]

A week passed, and still Marisol had failed to talk to her father about the man she'd met in that final cell in the basement lock-up. At first, it was a sense of embarrassment, for having disobeyed her father's wishes, but as time went on, something changed - a lot things, really. Little things. The look in the eyes of the people she served water to ... but mainly in Osiel's gaze. The way they begged for her to help them, begged for her to let them out... and the was Osiel seemed always close to tears. She was naive and a little oblivious at times, but it was impossible to miss that something was wrong.


The missing people. Seven, so far, and all of them there the day prior to disappearing - desperate, wailing for help, right down the line, one after the other. Empty cells and no explanation. She loved her father - she loved him the way any girl might, and with all of her heart she wanted to believe that he was a good man, the hero that she'd always envisioned him to be. But in the back of her mind the truth was a gnawing, painful thing. They weren't monsters, these prisoners... Not any of them. They were scared and helpless and all they wanted was release. And he was keeping them there... until he, what? Until he took them away and they never returned...


By the third day, she knew the truth. The cold, hard truth and it hurt to think about, but she pushed it away, forced it down and she continued to do her duty as a daughter. To respect her father's wishes. But every day she would arrive at Osiel's cell and she would find herself getting lost in their conversations - however brief. About America, his home, his family, and most importantly, about her beloved television shows. He always seemed sad, beneath the surface, but he never turned her away and there was a kindness in his eyes that was refreshing and endearing.


By the forth day she couldn't quite meet his eye... and by the fifth, she could hardly look at him. It was towards the end of the week, however, when the sixth cell lay open and empty that the full recognition struck, and it was that night that she asked her father what was happening. He'd hit her. Hard. A slap across the face that had sent her sprawling, blood pouring from a split lip, and with a promise that she would regret her insubordination if she dared to question his authority again, she shut her mouth and said no more. But that night, she cried until her eyes hurt and she fell into a terribly tumultuous sleep - dreaming of voices crying out to her, begging for her to save them.


The following day, she made her rounds and looked at no one, and when she reached Osiel's cell she bit her pained, swollen lip, dug the ladle into the bucket and silently, held it out to him, her eyes stinging with tears.

 

[Mordecai]

One by one.


One day, one person.


That was the routine. He had been watching it since day one. The next morning after meeting Marisol, they had come. They were men in black uniforms and they pulled open one of the cells on the opposite end of the prison, pulling poor Jim out by the roots of his hair. He was an older man, fifty or so, and he screamed and wailed—he gripped the bars of his cell to prevent being pulled out, but they got him. They took him away and after a loud shot, he never returned. The next morning the same happened, but to Sarah. Then Anne. Then David… one day, one person, every morning, right at the start of dawn. It was the worse alarm clock he had ever known. Growing up, when he was in high school, he used to hate the sound of his alarm clock… he had believed it to be the worst noise in the world, but this?


This was worse.


The crack blew through the silence, his body bristled, everyone fell silent, the world spun madly on.


The only distraction to the monotony was Marisol who, per her promise, never stopped coming. They were brief conversation, mostly him just answering her questions about America and her favorite TV shows. He did his damnest to answer, to get her to laugh and smile, because damnit… it was the only evidence of happiness he had known. The cells were dark and dingy, and already he was growing thin. He hadn’t eaten in that week aside from a chunk of stale bread passed through the bars. He had tried to save it, but his hungry belly didn’t allow him to stop until every last crumb was picked clean from the cement floor and swallowed down.


He had cried a few times, mostly over the grieving loss of his parents and siblings—knowing how much pain he was causing them. They probably knew where he was, he’d imagined the story was national headlines… Volunteer team captured and held hostage. He wondered if they thought he was already dead. He felt dead.


Sometime shortly after the shot rang out, Marisol crept down and crouched by his cell to pass him his daily water and he almost didn’t look up to her because he was losing the esteem to do so, but his eyes just barely flicked in her direction, planning on glancing away right away but when he caught the sight of her, he paused. “You okay?” what a stupid question.


He held out his bowl and let the water drain into it, greedily swallowing down a sip before looking back at her. The human in him felt a pang of sympathy for the girl, but his heart didn’t rustle. Why worry? She would live long after he was dead, even with a swollen lip and a black eye. “Remember that episode where Joey’s sister gives Chandler the black eye? Hmm, what was her name again, the sister? Cookie? Was it Cookie?”

 

[Elle Joyner]

Was she okay. Oh, she certainly wasn't. Of course, she was a good sight better than the people in the cells. Better than Os. A bruise, which would fade in a few days, it was hardly something to complain about when she knew... she knew now without a question, without a doubt what was happening to the men and women disappearing. It was impossible to reconcile that her father was capable of such atrocities, but he hadn't denied it - he had only told her to keep her mouth shut and never speak of it again. And she didn't want to. She wanted to pretend it wasn't happening and never think of it again. But another had gone missing and each cell came closer and closer to his.


Looking up, she frowned and touching her cheek, nodded carefully, slowly, so as not to irritate it, "I'm alright. I... it's nothing." Lowering her hand, she dropped the ladle back into the water and as he spoke about Friends, she mustered up a small, dry smile, "Cookie, yes. Because Chandler could not remember which sister he had kissed." Her smile brightened for a moment, but with a flinch it faded, "I cannot say that was my trouble, though, as I have no sister, and I haven't kissed a boy."


Shifting the bucket with a sigh, she leaned back against the bars, fidgeting for a moment with her hands, "He... he is killing them, isn't he? The ones who are disappearing. Your friends? I... I tried to ask him about it and he did this." She gestured idly to her face, "I... I've never seen him so mad at me, and all I did was... was ask him where they went, so all I can do is think that something bad has happened."


Turning to face him, she blinked, her eyes bright with tears, "I don't know what to do. I... My father, he... he isn't a bad man. I... I don't know why he's doing this." Brushing a tear from her cheek, she lowered her gaze to the floor, "...But I don't believe him, that you are bad people. And... and I want to help. I want to help you, Osiel. I just... I don't know how."

 

[Mordecai]

She was a sweet girl. Naïve as the day was long, but sweet.


He had wanted to hate her since the moment he had met her because she was on the other side of the metal bars, because she was letting all of this happen without saying a word edgewise. He wanted to hate her, but knew he couldn’t. She was just some boss’s daughter who was in the dark to it all, going about ladling water to people she believed were sewn with evil. Maybe Osiel had never been a good person, that much he knew was true, and he certainly would never go to heaven, but this? He didn’t deserve this, he didn’t think. He had never killed anyone, never raped anyone, never stolen. Well, he had stolen once… a pack of gum from a convenience store, but when his mother had found out, the punishment had been so bad he had promised himself he’d never do it again.


He never had.


Sure, he had lied a few times, maybe he had even cheated at a few hand of cards of Friday Poker night, but did that really warrant all this? He didn’t believe it did. Craddling his bowl of water towards his chest, he sighed, and took a sip of the metal tasting water, letting it soothe his burning throat. His mind felt like dice that had just hit the table, scattering all out and he wasn’t quite sure where they were going to land. “Yea,” he finally answered, deciding he wasn’t going to lie to her. Lying would have been easier, but why bother? Her father was killing his friends, and damnit, if he didn’t want to stake just a little bit of revenge against the man.


“Yea, he’s killing us. One by one, one a day. In there—see that room?” he rolled to his side and shoved his hand through the bars, pointing to the metal door at the end of the row. “They take one person a day in there, then they shoot them.” Tiredly, his arm slumped back to the floor, his head slipping against the cement and resting. He was so hungry. How long had it been since he had eaten anything? Once a day, in groups of four, the hostages were taken to a small bathroom by armed gaurds and allowed to use the toilets and spray themselves down in the shower, but that was it. A cup full of water, one bathroom break, and one ten-second shower a day… every day… until the day came that they got exactly one bullet and nothing more.


“You can’t help me, Marisol, look at us. We can barely stand anymore,” he huffed tiredly, his eyes closing. “We’re all going to die here and once we’re gone, you can go back to your life… but uh… hey,” he seemed to perk up marginally, sitting up as best as he could, “I don’t think you can help me get out, but maybe you could make me more comfortable? Could you… would you bring something to eat? If this is how it’s gunna end I just… I just don’t want it to be completely miserable.”

 

[Elle Joyner]

She'd known it was true. She'd known, possibly even before things had gotten really bad that something was happening. But admitting it to herself, hearing it outloud... those were two very different things. It made her heart ache inside her chest to know that not only was her father capable of such atrocities, but she had been somehow roped into making these people's lives worse. She'd come to their cells, staring in at them with a look of derision - as if they were the villains in the piece. All the while, he father was the one...


The tears came more steadily, in streams now, down her cheeks. Everything had seemed so perfect. So ordinary and right. How did she reconcile this? How did she accept it? Not only that her father was capable of such an atrocity, but that she could do nothing to stop it. That she couldn't help these people. That she couldn't even help Os. He'd been so kind to her and he seemed like such a good man... There weren't many cells left, before they'd reach his and that was if they continued to go in the order they appeared to be going... At the same pace...


He'd be dead in a few days...


"...F...food?" Looking down at him as he slumped against the wall, Marisol frowned softly. She hadn't thought much of it - that this was a prison, and therefore, they'd be treated as such. Their conversations had seemed so normal, but certainly those moments when she wasn't there, talking to him, he was undoubtedly miserable. How much did they get fed? Did they get fed? Surely her father wasn't cruel...


But of course, kind men didn't trap people in dungeons and kill them one by one...


A brow quirked rather suddenly, and Marisol straightened, "Os... Do you have any allergies? Food allergies?"

 

[Mordecai]

“Food allergies?” the comment was nearly enough to cause him to laugh a little, “At this point, I'd rather take an allergen and just die in a slightly more peaceful way than whatever waits me behind that door.” He glanced towards the metal door where the gunshot could be heard coming from every morning. A few times, he had tried to wedge his head as far against the bars as he could to see what was happening, but he never saw inside. He just saw the door... and heard the noise. His hands curled around the bars again, his knuckles looking raw and bloodied.


Osiel was getting sick, he knew that much. He could feel it down in his bones: the constant cold, the lack of nutrition, the heavy moisture in the air. His skin had grown sick and sickly, pale and an unnatural yellow hue, the longer he sat in the cage. His hands and knees became battered and bruised, growing knobby as the pounds seemed to melt off his sides. Never once had he considered himself traditionally handsome, but he had once had a good form-- built from the occasional hour or two spent at the gym-- but it was all gone. He looked weathered and tired, his eyes hollowed out by dark circles and his pupils lackluster and grey. A cough claimed his chest and his breathing had become ragged.


At first, he had at least tried to get up and walk around his cell some to stretch his legs, but now he mostly just sat quietly, waking every morning to the sound of a gunshot, and falling asleep every night to the sounds of wailing. It was the same routine, the same sick, sick routine. The only time he got up was when it was his turn to be escorted to the bathroom and showers, where he'd vigorously wash his hands and scrub the dirt and dried blood from his skin. He didn't even really try and stand to talk with Marisol anymore, and instead just usually sat with his head sagged against the metal bars... tired, hungry, thirsty, sick.


Death would have been a much kinder fate than this one. A part of him envied those who were shot within the first few days of arriving at the camp. At least they could find some peace.


“I'll take anything. If I'm going to be shot, I at least want to do it not being starving. If you can't, that's okay... but I figured I'd ask.” After all, what's the worst she could do? Say no? Hate him? … Kill him?

 

[Elle Joyner]

Lowering her voice, Marisol leaned forward a bit, her eyes bright, wide and thoughtful, "That's the idea, Os. If... if we could think of a way to make them think you were already dead, they... they'd have no reason to kill you. You could get out. I... I can't save everyone, but... but maybe I can help you. If you'd let me." Biting her lip, she gripped the bars, "I don't want you to die. Not because of my dad, not... not here, like this."


She didn't want to save him. She needed to save him. Not just for his sake, but her own. She'd been so blind, so stupid... and the only way she could make up for it, the only way she could redeem herself in the slightest was to see to it that she did all she could to get him out. Maybe it wouldn't work. Maybe they would fail, miserably... but if she didn't even try? If all she did was sit around, waiting for her father to strike, waiting for the guards to take him, then she would never be able to live with herself. She couldn't break him out without a plan, and this? This was the best she had.


"I... I'm not very smart, and I don't know anything about... about drugs or medicine, but... but maybe there's something. Some way to do this, to get out. I can follow them tonight... find out where they take the... Where they put the people they... I can find out where the bodies go and I can meet you there, when they try to dispose of you. I know the way out of the compound - and they won't question me. Not knowing who I am. It... it's the only chance we have. It has to work..."

 

[Mordecai]

Osiel had expected a lot of things. He had expected to hear her say that she was sorry, that she wished that she could help, but she could not bring him any food. He wouldn’t have even blamed her for it at all, knowing just how scary her father must have been. If she got caught spending all this extra time with him, hell, if she got caught bringing him food, he’d imagine that the punishment would be severe. She was a nice girl, Marisol, and he wouldn’t have blamed her for being too scared to try. Truthfully, had the roles been reversed, he knew he would have been scared, too.


So, imagine his surprise when he didn’t hear a damn thing about food… instead, she was rattling on about escaping. His eyes widened in response, his entire body jolting upright so he could twist around to face her. He searched her face for a moment, looking for any sign or hint of betrayal, but he found none. He only found a scared young woman whose expression was knitted with pain, guilt, and hurt. “You want to help me… help me escape?” he reiterated, just to be sure he had heard her entirely because it certainly didn’t feel that way. Maybe it was his delirium, maybe he really was beginning to lose his mind.


But he didn’t think so.


Then, he began to wonder if he could leave all the other people behind. How many dozens of captives were left? His eyes tried to explore the cells to either side of his and a frown pressed into his feature. She couldn’t save them all, but maybe if he could get out… maybe… maybe he could find help. He would have to leave them behind, at least for a little while, but he wouldn’t forget them. He wouldn’t leave them behind. In his chest, his heart was beating wildly and the shy, quiet Osiel was replaced with someone more bold and brave, all thanks to the adrenaline thumping in his veins.


“You sure you can do something like this, Marisol? I mean… this is huge. This is like… Vin Diesel action movie huge. If we survived this? We could sell our story Hollywood,” he snorted with a lame smile, or at least an attempt of a smile, but he couldn’t even find the will to lift his lips.

 

[Elle Joyner]

Was she? Sure? Did she really think that it was something she was capable of? Was it something she wanted to be capable of? Lying? Betraying her father? What if what her father said was true and these were bad people and she helped him escape? What if she had simply walked right into a trap, guided there by a handsome, miserable face and a heartfelt story? She was so conflicted, and for a moment it showed across her face, etched into her eyes, dark in the dim lighting of the underground dungeon. Sniffling softly, she studied him for a moment, considered the question... considered it and weighed it.


"I don't know. Honestly, I don't think I'm capable of much at all. But... but it feels wrong, sitting there, doing nothing. Maybe it's a mistake and maybe I'll regret it, but I know for a fact I'd regret letting this happen without trying." Brushing her cheeks dry, she nodded, "No. I am sure. I have to do this, Osiel. I have to... or I won't be able to live with myself, and certainly not with my father."


What he'd done... she'd never be able to forgive him for it - regardless of his motives, which she couldn't imagine were justifiable in any sense. But to sit and do nothing and try to live under the same roof as the man? To pretend like she saw nothing... knew nothing? It would destroy her. All of it. It would crush her, until she couldn't breathe... The guilt would be her undoing.


Managing a small, weak smile of her own, she shrugged, feeling the strain of the tension rolling through her suddenly heavy limbs, "...If we make it out... and they make a movie of us... do you think someone from Friends will play my part? That, I think, would be very nice."


Biting her lip, she stepped away from the cell, "I will find a way. I will get you. But I must go, or my father, he will get suspicious. Later, I will bring you food, when he's gone to bed." Hesitating for a moment, she crouched down and reaching through the bars, gently grasped his arm, "Try... try and hold on. Soon, you will see your family again. I promise, I will do what I can, if only you hold on."

 

[Mordecai]

Trapped with no way out. He had searched for something for the first few days, anything, a crevice, a seal, but the walls were hard cement with no clues on how to get out. The metal bars held firm in their hinges and no amount of shaking and trying to pry them apart caused them to stir. His prison was a perfect cube, the corners of which were just reachable if he extended his arms out like a starfish. The claustrophobia was a gift and a curse. It felt like the walls were closing in and he just wanted to curl his hands in to fists and punch right through them. They weren’t actually moving, he knew that, but it felt like they were.


Of course, he continued to search for a way to escape with all the methodology of a bouncing ball, but he had had already ground his fingers to bloody points and had now given up. Without Marisol, there simply was no way out and yet there she was, saying she wanted to help. His tired eyes landed on her and studied her for a moment and he could see it in her eyes… the guilt. He understood the feeling well because guilt had a way of burning through a person like gasoline through their intestines… painful and extremely burning.


“Heh-“ his dried lips pulled back into a small smile, or at least an attempt of one. Perhaps ‘smile’ wasn’t the right word for it. The top row of his teeth were showing and there was a faint curve to the lips, but there was now crease below the eyes, no movement of the cheeks. On anyone else, it would be a grimace, at best, but on Osiel’s face, given his circumstances, it was a sign of bliss. “I guess that would be kind of nice, having someone from Friends play you, but aren’t they all comedians? This doesn’t really feel like a comedy.”


He gave her a nod, but he wasn’t holding his breath. He didn’t want his expectations to get too high and he, honestly, figured this would be the last time he saw her. Still, he appreciated her words and even if she was unable to follow through on her promise, she appreciated the recognition all the same. Even if she couldn’t act, the fact that she saw the problem was almost enough. The warmth of her skin against his arm caused his eyes to rise, meeting her with a soft quiver in his brow. “I’ll just… I’ll just be right here.”