Mad

He felt the silence wrap around him. It was uncomfortable, he felt sick and he wanted to speak up, but the words remained trapped in his throat. It was as though something was forcing them back down, telling him to keep quiet because now was not the time to speak.

It was dark. The grass was cold and wet from the previous rainfall. The trees shadowed over the moon and it was difficult to say whether the crickets chirping was all in his head as a way to deal with the quiet, or were they really there. He faced forward, frozen in place and listening to the beating of his heart pounding loudly in his head. His mouth opened again to say something, but the silence forced it back down. Beside him he could feel the warm presence, but somehow it felt cold as well. Glancing from the corner of his eye he could see the figure bent forward, their head resting against their knees and eyes focused on the grass.

"I'm sorry." Finally. Finally the words could come out and he could speak. If he still feared movement he probably would have flinched after speaking, but there was no response. "Are you mad at me?" More silence and it was worse now that he had asked a question.

The pair sat in silence for a long time, until finally the other spoke up. He had not moved from his position, his face still facing downward and his voice now muffled as he adjusted his arms. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"You did what you had to do."

Silence again. He wasn't sure what to say. He swallowed hard, his heart still pounding in his ears as he stretched out his legs, finally making some sort of movement. "Really?"

"Yes."

He could tell the other was lying. He could hear it in his voice. It was broken and sad with a hint of anger. He wasn't sure if he should mention that, or go along with what was being said. He turned away from the curled up figure and stared forward again. He was angry. He could tell. It scared him that he was so silent about it. He shifted again, glancing down at his hands, bruised and bloodied. Battle scars. He clenched his fingers into fists before relaxing them again.

"Do you hate me?" he asked, still staring at his fingers.

More silence. This time the crickets stopped chirping. There was not much of a sound other than the soft wind blowing the cool night air.

Suddenly the figure beside him moved, launching himself at him and he was pinned to the grass, his eyes focused on the beady one's in front of his face. He could feel the other's hot breath against his skin and then his fingers digging into his shoulders, pushing him further into the ground. When he showed no signs of fighting back, the figure moved his hands to his throat, a gentle hold on it at first, then his fingers tightened.

His breathing became more ragged and sharp. He had to force himself to take deep breaths just to stay conscious. The fingers dug into his neck and he could see his vision go black, fading slowly before he could breathe again. The fingers removed themselves from his neck and he blinked a few times. Something wet had hit his face and then the weight on his chest was gone.

Now he could breathe normally. His fingers ran across his neck as he slowly sat up. His shoulders dropped and his eyes closed. Another drop of water fell.

His eyes flickered up to the sky, blocked by trees and dark clouds that slowly rolled in. "I'm sorry," he said once more to no one in particular. The figure beside him was gone and he was left alone, sitting in the wet grass as a fresh fall of rain began to steadily hit the ground. 

Letters

Within the dark cell it was impossible for him to tell if it was night or day. There were no windows. The door had no windows except for a small slot that was kept locked until he needed to eat. In one corner there was a small mattress, thrown on the floor carelessly and certainly old with age. A small pillow and thin tattered blanket accompanied the mattress. The bed was neatly made despite the old and worn materials. On the other side of the room there was a desk, round to prevent the prisoners from injuring themselves on purpose. Even then not every one received the piece of furniture. There was no chair, just a desk. On top of the desk there was papers laid out, but no pencils or pens. The printed papers were books without its binding. Once again to prevent prisoners from hurting themselves.

He wished that he could laugh at the pitiful living situation he had ended himself up in, but it was impossible. Making noises, it was prohibited and if they caught any sign of sound, even just a whisper, they were severely punished.

While he sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the cold tile flooring, his eyes flickered to the desk. He couldn't tell what time it was. Maybe around noon. He was starting to get hungry. Noon was around the time when that happened, or what he assumed was noon. He shook that though away though, pushing himself up off the flattened mattress with a silent groan. If he could scream, he would have, just to break the never ending silence.

Once at his desk, he knelt in front of it, spreading out the papers of the book he had been given. He read it so many times he could probably recite the entire book word for word with his eyes closed. Possibly even in his sleep if he wanted. That was not what he was looking for though. He slowly shuffled through the pages, looking for the one that made him smile each time he saw it. It was hard to smile these days, but seeing this. It lifted his spirits.

Having found what he was looking for, he pulled the paper away from the rest of the story. It was a letter, addressed to him. Well, not him exactly, but his number. He no longer remembered his name. He had forgotten it long ago and ever since receiving these letters he tried to remember it. There was still no luck, but his letters had assured him that he would remember. Maybe not soon, but he would. If anything that gave the dimming flame of hope inside him a bit more of a spark.

There was a creak of metal and he quickly shoved the paper back in with the rest, turning his head towards the door. Thankfully it was not opening, just the slot that offered him his food. He got off his knees and walked towards the door as the food was slid under on a plastic tray. He was only ever given food that he could eat with his hands. Nothing that needed spoons, knives, or forks. Any utensil was out of the question. They were given water in paper cups and normally bread with some sort of meat and cheese to go with it. Not the most filling meal, but it quelled the empty belly he felt he always had. For a little while.

Normally he looked at his food with despair. It never had what he really wanted, but this time he could see it. Underneath the plate of food there was a bit of paper sticking out from beneath it. His heart jumped to his throat as he pulled the tray closer to him. He never knew who was on the other side of the door. He could never ask either. It was odd, one day receiving a paper under his tray with his 'name' written on it, but along with that letter he had been given a piece of paper and a pencil stub. He assumed it was a man on the other side, giving him these things. Whoever it was, he, or she perhaps, was helping him. Along with his food there was a stub of a pencil. Enough for him to write a page worth of words if he used it wisely.

He smiled fondly at the folded piece of paper. The one that gave him so much hope that it was beginning to get dangerous. If these promises written on paper never came true, he knew that his heart would be crushed. It never crossed his mind though, that these promises would never be real.

While he unfolded the paper, he ran his fingers over the writing. Xavier. That was the name of the person on the other side of these letters. He had been like him. Trapped and stuck because of the powers they had. Except he had gotten out. He even promised him that he would come back to save him. To free him. It was the only thing he could hold onto now. He read over his words, smiling to himself, laughing silently, an overall feeling of ease passing over him.

He had fifteen minutes to read, respond to the letter, and finish his meal as well. Normally he did not get to eat everything, because replying to the letter was his top priority.

With the pencil stub in hand and using his tray for support, he began to scribble back a reply. His spelling was awful at times, maybe even impossible to read his handwriting, but Xavier seemed to understand everything he wrote. He was getting better, his handwriting more easy to read.

Finished with his writing he quickly ate his food. It never tasted like anything. Whether that was a good or bad thing, he was not really sure. The slot underneath his door opened once more, waiting for the tray. Scrambling for his letter he sloppily folded it into threes, then placed it on the tray underneath the plate before sliding it near the slot. It was taken away from him and he would have to wait a few days, maybe weeks, for his next reply.