Unspeakable, Part 3

Time passed in this way; Miles guessed a few days’ worth. Shylock stared into space, or trembled, but ate and drank, and slept curled next to Miles.

Then he took the bowl in his own hands, and ate of his own accord. It was a good day. Ivan still brought only one bowl into the room, but there was more in it. Miles let Shylock eat first.

It wasn’t that great anyway, as food went. Sort of like a paste. It was, technically, what Miles used to get in the mess hall miles above their heads, but the piss poor bottom of the pot stuff that the youngest or most hated received. Only worse.

Shylock had a way of passing the bowl back to Miles; seated on the edge of the slab, opposite Miles in the chair, he still held the bowl up, his eyes down, like a supplicant.

Thank you, Shylock, Miles would say as he took it. Just when I thought the food couldn’t get any worse, he’d add, mostly for his own benefit.

He didn’t know why he kept saying things like that. He supposed he wanted to remind himself of the world, the life, above this place; of the person he’d been.

But every moment, every unmarked day, in the dark and the dust of the dungeon, every creak of the chair, reminded Miles that that person was as far away as the sunlight, and more out of reach.

For time was passing, but Miles felt no strength returning to his arms, nor feeling to his legs. Everything below someplace around the middle was a blank, a void. Just dead weight.

Somehow, though, having Shylock helped. They mostly sat opposite each other in silence. Sometimes Miles talked. Sometimes they were both lost in thought.

Sometimes Miles studied Shylock. The trembles and the twitches were a constant reminder of his time in the hellhole of a room, but the eyes were something else. They were definitely looking at something. What was going on in his mind?

Then Miles caught Shylock looking at him. It was the first time their eyes had met. Miles was pleased at the progress, but overwhelmed by the brokenness in his eyes.

I know I don’t understand, I couldn’t, he said impulsively, but I also know it sucked in there. I know how it feels to be trapped, to be -- broken. He wasn’t sure why he’d said that.

I’m sorry, I guess, he finished, and lapsed back into silence. He couldn’t tell if Shylock actually looked comforted, or if he just hoped that he did.

But later, as they passed the bowl back and forth, Miles absently said, Thank you, Shylock, and Shylock whispered, You’re welcome.

After that the silence was broken. It wasn’t much, but those ‘thank you’s and ‘you’re welcome’s brightened Miles’ outlook considerably.

Sometimes, even, when Miles was talking, rambling about anything, complaining, Shylock was focused on him, would shrug, whisper ‘yes’, ‘no’, or ‘I don’t know’. Still, he was often absent.

There was less waiting for Ivan. The first time Miles was struggling up onto his elbows, impatient to rise, and Shylock reached over to help, their world had changed.

And then, once, after they’d slept, and Shylock had helped Miles back into the chair, and they’d eaten, Miles looked around with the most annoyance and restlessness yet.

He was watching Ivan go out with envy, and he said You know what, Shylock? I’m sick of being in here. Shylock raised his head. Miles gripped the wheels of the chair with determination.

Let’s go out there, he said, roughly aiming himself at the doorway. Shylock arose on shaky legs and gripped the handles of the chair with white knuckles, but followed that trajectory.

Strictly speaking, the room they entered wasn’t that different. It was musty, it was dusty, and it was devoid of sunlight, cheer, or a real hope of escape.

But it was bigger. There were torches set along the walls which dealt the whole region a flickering light. And the round area felt spacious after four walls and a slab.

Shylock placed Miles roughly in the center and stopped, edging around the front of the chair and dropping to a crouch at Miles’ knee. He looked around in terror at shadows and bricks.

Miles couldn’t feel Shylock’s hand gripping his knee. He felt exhilarated to have moved so far, anxious about Ivan’s reaction to the invasion, and still frustrated and restless to be denied fresh air and sunlight and the ability to walk.

Yeah, that’s better, he said. He looked around at the other shadowy doorways lining this area, and for the first time had a terrible thought. What if Ivan and Shylock weren’t the only others?