water torture ~ {Jimmeh}

I'm convinced they do this just to heighten our discomfort. Play on our weaknesses. The tormenting of Fanta, by mentioning whatever her name was who she killed. The one who caused her to snap. What was her name... The faces haunt me, nameless, but scornful, sorrowful. Vengeant. They've yet to figure out how to torture me further. Pepper however. I'm convinced they put him in the dirtiest, leakiest, most mold infested cell in the place. Just to play on his allergies. The dripping starts, faint, but so loud against the silence, my eyes snapping open to acknowledge the surroundings, the same surroundings as the only memories that seem to hold true substance any more have. Drab, squalid imprisonment. The steel bars, partially corroded, large flakes of rust peeling from them. Concrete floor, weathering from who knows how many feet, pacing, kicking, dragging, sliding. Cracks in places. A roof that holds water about as well as a collinder. Today, the dripping is testimony to that.

A soft, off-beat patter. Never fast enough to count them out, but never slow enough to forget. Rhythm ever-changing. Dripping in the cell next to me. That of my brother. The least prepared to deal with any sort of climate based torture. A grimace smears itself across my grubby features. The next patter is muffled. Skin. It's almost depressing that such an instance has happened often enough for me to know the difference between water on flesh or concrete by heart. Then he starts. First one. Then two, then a chain, loud, unbidden voicings of the almost permanent cold Pepper seems to have. I frown, before my head thumps the bars. There's no point trying to say anything yet. He won't really acknowledge it until he gets it all out. Whatever it is.

Abruptly, it ends, and the dripping stops against the concrete entirely. The constant drip against his hand. My frown intensifies as I shuffle over next to his cell, looking over to him, his nose red, his face possessing that slightly vacant look that accompanies most minor ailments. Pep. Pep. Pep! I try whispering at first. He hears nothing. The second call of his name is louder. The third is followed by a small stone, that careens with unerring accuracy into his neck. Get your hand out of the water. You have enough problems as is without adding hypothermia to the list. My tone is unsympathetic, as it always seems to be nowadays. Way back when we weren't here, I would be appalled at my tone. So dismissive, unfeeling. Now? I barely even know what it is to be appalled. Incarceration, being trained as little more than a human pitbull, and the prospect of having to kill everyone in the same room as you just to survive tends to beat sympathy out of you.

But there lies a small gem within this dark heart that they can't crush. My lithe frame shuffles over to the corner of the room, before pulling at the spongy filler that marks my last botched escape attempt. Tunneling, evidently, was not a practical solution when Ms Deltri, Arch She-Bitch of My-Personal-Part-of-Hell, insisted on trying to bait me with food. My fist clenches at the thought, eyes narrowing, before pulling a piece of the filler free, before shuffling back over to the join of the cell. Oi. Use this instead of your hand. Again, my arm cocks back, wrist flicks, and the spongy whatever it is bops him square on the nose. It would be comical if it wasn't for the fact that, you know, we're prisoners in a gladiatorial arena. C'mon, get up, laying on the floor'll only make you colder. Shift. Now. Now Pepper. Impatience colours my tone. I'm not very good at the whole sympathy thing, never have been. Certainly isn't improving now.

It was odd how the more things changed, the more they stay the same. Despite being incarcerated within this place, Pepper was still Pepper. Never seemed to do anything to help his almost perpetual illness, allowing his sickly nature to get the better of him. Of the two of us, he was dealt the considerably weaker hand. In all but looks, we are so very different. Most of all, through our comparative will to survive. I'm a caged wildcat. Fighting with every fibre of my being. Pepper? He seems almost resigned to a spluttering and kind of gross death, involving snot and coughing. Again, she cocked her arm back, having loaded her grasp with another stone, sending it flying into his chest.

If you're cut, do you stab yourself? No. So don't do the same with cold. I shuffle over to the bars, leaning against it, resting my head against the iron rods, playing with another chunk of the sponge in my hands. Inwardly I sigh at our plight, and at his general lack of will to fight. Outwardly, I am like a stone. Impassive. Cold. Without emotion. The tiniest crack, however, began to shine through. He was, after all, my brother. They patched the hole from my last escape attempt. It's low grade filler, so it's basically just expanded foam. You know, the sort of stuff dad used to pack things with? The faint memory might shake Pepper from his grim reverie.

You gotta stay strong in here Pep. I know you're ill, but wallowing in self pity is only gonna make it worse. You got to help yourself, I can't do it for you. Nobody can. I'd said the exact same thing when he came in moping after his ex-girlfriend had ditched him because of his allergies. About two hours before she'd made her nose about an inch wider, crooked, and very much broken.

There's a hint of the old Pepper. The perplexed, but inquisitive tone. That and his seeming inability to throw straight. He never was particularly good at throwing things. Mom and I put it down to balance issues, what with his allergies screwing up his sinuses and what not. A tiny smile flickers upon my face as I remember the two of us throwing rocks at a sign while we talked about... What were we talking about? Probably doesn't matter now. If it ever did. We had time back then. Time, and the luxury of knowing your fate was almost entirely in your hands. In a sec and perverse way, we still control what happens to us. But at any moment, we may well be brought forward. Who knows what Altair thinks.

I look up at hiim, nod slightly, before looking back over to the corner where I had raked out the fracturing concrete. Reasonably. It was more the idea it gave me. The concrete had begun to crack from water exposure, so I just have to wait for our next leak to spring. And try to keep the hole covered. I sit, looking fairly nonchalantly at him, but inside, a small bubble of hope begins to form within my bosom, that incorruptible gem I have clung to since I wound up in this place. That same gem I hope can bring relief to Pepper. That gem I hope shall be of some relief to Pepper. Lead by example and what not.

I grimace at his words. Worry... A luxury here. I cannot worry, for it only serves to blind, confuse and disorient. To question yourself. I cannot afford to worry. Think not of your anxieties. Think only of the moment ahead. Her tone was stern, but not oppressively so. Merely a reminder, encouragement. I look to the cracked ceiling for a moment. That way, your thoughts are forever changing. Or something. I read it in a book somewhere. I'm sure the bookworm could tell you which. I was of course referring to Chato, the scrawny little geek in the cell nearby. My tone turned a little sour at his question. Of course I am. What, you think I botch one escape, I just give up? Hmmph. My head thumps against the bars, as I begin to think about how exactly I would try and get out of here this time.

In other circumstances, I would reach out to Pepper and hug him. Tell him everything will be okay, and that if he gets into trouble, I will beat the snot out of whoever is causing his problems. But here? In this squalid prison, for all my strength, intelligence and general hardiness, I am as powerless to defend him as anyone. Only he can save himself. Pepper. The perpetually sickly one. I wonder how someone so closely related to me could have been dealt such a rotten hand when I myself hold a royal flush. The holy trinity of brains, beauty and brawn. Pepper was given a heart of gold and an immune system as effective as a sieve. Fortuntately for him, he's possessed of a similar stubbornness to me when confronted with life or death. Hence the candlestick kill.

I continue to slam my head against the bars as he speaks, becoming increasingly more and more frustrated with myself and with Pepper. More and more furious at our captors. Wheels of my mind turning in my head as I frantically try to conjure a means of escaping this hellscape. ’Then think only of the now. Anxiety is a self-perpetuating rot, that feeds solely upon itself.’ Once more, I slam my head against the bars, a dull, metallic thump echoing through my cell, a sharp sting of pain ripping through my head. I care not. Merely stopped smashing my skull against the cold steel, instead rapping my knuckles on my temples, as though trying to batter an escape plan into my brain. I’d tried a few things. The tunnelling endeavour. Feigning death (Much to Pepper’s dismay, until Tiltoo had dropped a pail of water over my head, laughing sadistically at my spluttering). Simply running when I got an opening. None had truly worked. They always caught me, brought me back, earning a fresh round of bruises upon my pale flesh. Thankfully, I don’t hold bruises long.

I feel Pepper’s hand against my head, as though restraining my self-inflicted headache inducement. It’s comforting, and I even smile a little, a rare sight upon my face. Something only Pepper, with his gentle nature and my utter love for him, can ever draw from my darkened heart. His words calm me further, and I can’t help but shake my head. ’I’m not all that smart really Pepper. I just try hard. I can’t accept being worse at anything than anyone.’ Pepper more than anyone knows this. Everything is a competition to me. I just happen to be very well suited to most of it. A quick learner, physically capable, naturally a stunner. And with that knowledge of what I am, I know when and where to compete. After all, little point in me trying to beat one of the juggernaut career boys in a weightlifting contest.

I place my hand on his, patting it lightly. ’Thanks anyway Pep. We’ll get through this. We just have to stay strong. Not give in, y’know?’ Easier said than done apparently. Just look at Fanta. Poor girl was so lost in the prison of her own fashioning that she could barely form a proper sentence. Not without descending into the spiral staircase of her own madness. Pepper at least held on to his sanity, even if he himself was a wreck, a snotty, spluttering wreck at that. He didn’t deserve this. None of us did. But least of all Pep. Sweet, utterly genuine Pepper. That was why I had to get us out. Get us away from here. Back to our parents, who must still be grieving our disappearance. My heart, hardened by my concrete and steel incarceration, can’t help but throb painfully at the thought.

I hate it in here. So very much. I can’t be myself, but slowly, I am turning into the façade I put on. And I loathe it. I loathe myself. My face returns to it’s stony expression, taking his hand in mine, squeezing it, and moving it from behind my head. ’I’ll get us out of here. I promise. If I have to kill every single person in here, we’ll get out.’ I refuse to contemplate having to kill Pepper, not because I can’t. But because I know, unreservedly, that I can.

Word count: 714