Unspeakable, Part 2

Time dragged on worse than ever, and though the pain began to ease, Miles continued to feel nothing below his chest. He had never felt more trapped.

His fear became mixed with all the old anger that had driven him into the arena. But there was no arena, now. Life truly was a pointless farce. He stopped responding to the stranger.

With the pain gone, and no day or night by which to time the giant stranger's comings, Miles became furious with boredom, and began to pay more attention to his surroundings.

He turned his head completely for the first time, and saw his cell contained another door. But this one was sealed.

He stared at the door for so long, wondering, that he didn't notice the stranger come in and check on him. He offered Miles the pitiful sustenance he had, but Miles irritatedly ignored him. What was behind that door?

When the stranger had gone again Miles strained his ears. He was sure he'd heard something. It was a long time, the space of days, before he realized that what he was hearing was weeping.

A cold shock went through him, and after that, hour after torturous hour of immobility, it was all he could hear. Muffled, brokenhearted sobbing. It was the sound of despair.

At first it irritated him. How could he rest, or hear himself think, with that noise? He resolved to complain to the giant nurse, and get his neighbor moved, or at least to pipe down.

But then, as he waited, the weeping seemed particularly loud.

He turned again to look at the sealed door. Could anyone even get into the room? How long had the occupant been in there? With a sudden sadness, Miles realized that even he had more freedom than his unfortunate neighbor. When the hulking stranger came, Miles' complaints died on his lips.

He studied the boy's shadowy face instead. For his nurse was young, as young as Miles, and yet lived quietly here in this depressing place, without complaint.

What disaster had trapped him down here? All of Miles' questions rushed back to him in a flood.

What's your name? he asked. The stranger paused as if to think. Ivan, he said at last.

He braced Miles' head and brought the cup to his lips. Miles drank and sank back down, tired even from holding himself up so briefly.

Thank you, Ivan, Miles said. Ivan paused again, in straightening Miles' coverings. You're welcome, he answered.

Listening to his neighbor weep was a new kind of pain for Miles. It was an ache that wouldn’t go away. He felt helpless and frustrated, but for an entirely different reason.

It was a great revelation, a wondrous day, when Ivan brought in the chair. It was the last thing Miles expected. He was trying not to join his neighbor in weeping.

It made a creaking noise, and Miles struggled a little upwards. What’s that? he asked, though he could see it. He was afraid he was wishfully hallucinating it.

I found it for you, came Ivan’s voice from the shadows. He passed in front of the sealed door, pushing it right up beside Miles’ slab where Miles could see it.

It wasn’t much to look at. There was rust, or tarnish, over most of it, but there was a seat, and two strong handles, and two big, hardy wheels. To Miles’ weary eyes, it looked like freedom.

For me? Miles said. He was eager enough to push himself up on his elbows. Yes, Ivan said, putting a big strong arm behind Miles and helping him into a sitting position.

Here Ivan paused, gently holding him upright. Miles’ head spun a bit as the blood rushed around. He had been lying down for a long time. A very long time.

Would you like me to do it? Ivan asked politely. Miles looked at the great abyss of space and height between himself and the seat of the chair, and nodded his head.

He felt foolish and annoyed being lifted like a child, but Ivan was gentle, respectful, placing him carefully in the chair and situating his legs in a dignified position.

Feeling a heady rush of liberty, Miles said, Thank you, Ivan, and began awkwardly shifting himself. His hands felt fumbling and weak, his fingers nerveless, but he made progress.

Where are you going? Miles didn’t turn his head to look at Ivan’s shadowy form, but when he asked, Do you want help? Miles sat back to catch his breath and nodded.

Get me over there, Miles asked, pointing to the sealed door.

The wheels squeaked, but when the chair was again still, Miles could hear the weeping much more clearly. He stretched out a hand and touched the stone.

Ivan, he asked, realizing with annoyance that he couldn’t do anything himself, can you get this door open? Ivan was silent for a moment, to Miles’ great frustration.

There was suddenly  nothing more important than Miles gaining entry to that room.

Yes, Ivan answered, and carefully wheeled Miles back out of the way. Then, applying his great strength, he shifted the reluctant stone until it, dropping crumbling pieces, revealed the doorway.

Impatient, Miles wheeled himself over before Ivan returned to him, and peered into the room.

The weeping had subsided into whimpers at the noise of the unsealing. Miles squinted but could not immediately see anything or anyone within.

What he could do was smell. The room gave off a great and terrible odor, and Miles was torn between nausea and rage. Somewhere in this filth was a person, someone suffering.

Hello, he said cautiously. My name is Miles.  There was no immediate answer from the darkness. I’m coming in, okay?

There was no immediate protest, and Miles crunched over loose stone on the threshold, laboriously wheeling himself into the room.

The smell worsened, but Miles’ eyes adjusted. He began to make out shapes and shadows. There was a grey square at the ceiling in the corner, some kind of chute, maybe for food. But there was also a slab, like Miles’. The worst of the smell was there.

He approached, and began to make out an occupant upon it. A thin, filthy, shadow, and the source of the tearful whimpers, though attempting to stifle them.

Hey, Miles said, stretching out a hand, searching for the body in the dark. His hand met matted, dirty hair.  I’ve been lying out there for ages now, listening to you cry, and I can’t do it anymore.

The whimpering stuttered, and in the shadowy half light, Miles saw a pair of big scared eyes peek out at him for an instant, before ducking out of sight again. He wondered quite what to say.

Come on, Miles urged, let’s get out of here.

Slowly the other raised their head and looked at Miles out of lost eyes. He realized that whoever this was, they hadn’t expected compassion. It hadn’t even occurred to them.

Come on, Miles repeated, and took hold of the thin arm. He scooted himself awkwardly back, pushing on the wheel with the other hand, until Ivan came in to assist him.

Ivan rolled Miles backwards without speaking, and Miles kept a hold on the weeper, who followed along, half crawling. Miles could hear them breathing shakily.

Miles’ cell suddenly seemed bright, and the filthy weeper stopped and huddled on the threshold, burying their face in their arms. Miles stayed beside them.

Ivan, Miles said, do you have anything to wash up with? Ivan went silently out. Miles worried that he disapproved of Miles’ actions. If he stopped helping, Miles was doomed, to say nothing of the weeper. But Ivan returned with a bucket of liquid, and some rags.

Miles took them and bent towards his huddled neighbor. Let’s get you clean, Miles said, dipping a rag into the bucket. The weeper stilled at his touch, and rocked under the rhythmic scrubbing.

Miles realized the weeper was a boy, whose hair was light, and whose eyes were big and hollow in a fine and sensitive face. He stared keenly at something beyond Miles, Ivan, or the cell.

When he’d cleaned him, Miles drew his neighbor farther away from the hellish room, until the boy was huddled at the head of Miles’ slab. There he rested, leaning his head back against the stone, still staring away with a haunted look.

Ivan picked up the bucket, but went quietly into the formerly sealed room. Miles heard him scrubbing, cleaning out the filth and the stink. He emerged sweaty, and went out.

Left alone, Miles watched his guest, wondering what to do next. The boy continued to stare, but also began to tremble a little. Miles realized just how thin he was.

He picked up the meager offerings Ivan had left for him last, and awkwardly managed to scoot the chair over by the boy. He felt weak and unsteady bending over to him.

Feeding him was strange for Miles. The boy seemed delicate, and as weak as Miles himself was. He had to be careful, and take it slow, but when he did the boy responded, and ate.

Miles sat back with a sigh. He was very tired from his exertions, but eyed the slab with animosity. Then he looked back at his guest.

Hey, he said, why don’t you lie down? You look like you could use it. He waited, but the boy didn’t move. At last he gave up. It took the last of his energy to maneuver himself onto the slab.

He lay again trapped, but kept the chair in his vision, to remind himself all was not lost. He fell asleep pretty quick, but then he woke again.

The boy was crying softly, his head bent. Miles stretched out a hand and touched his head. Hey, he said tiredly, don’t. I’m right here. It’s gonna be okay.

Suddenly Miles felt the boy’s thin hand on his arm, clutching at him. With effort the boy clambered up onto the slab. He curled his trembling body next to Miles’.

Miles had never shared a bed before, and he wasn’t sure about it now. But the boy wasn’t crying anymore. Miles thought of Ivan, of Ivan’s silence, and this boy’s tears. Why were they here?

What’s your name? he asked into the shadows.  

The moments ticked by. Miles grew drowsy, almost forgot he’d spoken.

Then at his ear came a whisper. Shylock.

Nice to meet you, Shylock, Miles murmured, and went back to sleep.