A Vow of Silence
When a boy is found at the bottom of a well slowly filling with water, the race is on to rescue the other victims, all in unidentifiable locations. The only problem is that the boy, the only witness, has been voluntarily mute since he was a child. An outcast, but highly brilliant, he dodges every attempt to ask about the man who kidnapped him. His family life, as well as that of the other known victims, comes into question as the agents begin to doubt whether or not this unsub actually exists.
Chapter One: at the bottom of the well
Water trickled from the garden hose in a thin, steady stream. The water level rose in fractional increments, currently at about five inches from the bottom of the dusty well. It had been dusty for years, most likely, and little scraps of animal carcasses were scattered across the floor along with random gum or candy wrappers from the neighborhood children. Those items were either floating on the rippling surface or had sunk to the bottom, but it was hard to see them anymore.
The constant sound of running water from above, splashing into the well, might have driven others crazy. That was why he was the only one in a well located in a residential area. Most of the others had probably started screaming the minute they were placed down here, even through the gags. He had settled on the dusty floor without a complaint, so he didn't need to be bound at all.
He found the running water, while foreboding, a sort of silent comfort. Inanimate though it was, the splashing water had a calming affect on him. He much preferred a pensive sound to concentrate on rather than complete silence, after all. Silence was nice, too, but there was a certain point when it became oppressive and unpleasant. The kind of silence typically found at the bottom of a well, for example, would be oppressive. The air down here was harder to breathe than on the surface.
After the water level rose a few inches, he had slipped off his sneakers and socks. Now his bare toes felt the cold water running across them and the solid floor of the well. Both his ankles and his bottom were soaked, and it was somewhat uncomfortable. He considered taking his jeans off, too, but it would be quite embarrassing when someone found him to be undressed like that.
The distant sounds from above had died down long ago. The well created a strange vacuum in which those sounds were distorted, faint even from the yard next door. The summer sun had set, and it was cold now. The water was cold, too.
The only comfortable way for a boy of his age to sit in this small space was with his legs bent, arms hugging them or folded on top of his knees. His limbs were cramped and numb from the biting cold, but there was nothing to do about that. He put it out of his mind as far as he could and pressed his cheek against the side of the well. The stones were cool.
If not for the water - no, even with the water present - it was the perfect place to think in silence. He had never thought to meditate at the bottom of a well before, but then again, wells weren't very common. Dried up ones were in even less demand. Most were for decoration and were only a few feet deep. Still, if not for the inconvenience of the cold and the water hugging at his body, this would have been a nice place to think.
He had drifted off to sleep, waking only when he heard sounds reverberate off the walls of the well, echoing and distorted by the time his ears picked them up. The caught his attention because even the closest sounds from the neighbors during the day had not been nearly as loud.
The night sky was black. He couldn't discern where the rim of the well ended and the darkness began. The stars were so faint he must have been imagining them. Still, the sounds of people shouting were coming from the surface, and they must have been close. Even though he inched himself up a bit in curiosity, he quickly scolded himself for entertaining that silly thought and sat his wet bottom back down. He had no way of catching their attention.
The water had risen up to about six or seven inches. His pulse was normal, his breath normal as he sat there and peered up at the opening. It was probably ten at night by now. What were people doing up there? This well belonged to an empty house currently being sold on the market, after all. No one had been interested in it lately, due to its unkept appearance, and certainly no buyers were about to visit at ten o' clock at night.
"Oh my god, there's a boy down here!" shouted a man's voice from above. This time, he could hear the distinct words and realized that someone had found him, against all odds. Looking up, he saw a few faces in the opening, all horrified as they scrambled to call the police and yank the garden hose up with haste.
He had expected to quietly sit here, his life slowly seeping from him as he drowned, utterly alone as he listened to the rushing water around his ears and the joyful screeches from the world above. It was a painful, yet peaceful way to die.
Bright, penetrating flashlights shone down the cavern of smoothly polished stones. The sudden intensity rattled his system, his eyes burning as he buried his head in his arms. A few thin tears welled at the corners of his eyes from the sensory overload. The ripples on the water's surface shimmered, wavering bars of light that brushed and collided against his legs.
Voices were calling out to him, reassuring him in distorted tones that everything would be alright, they would get him out of there soon. A woman's voice in particular stayed with him the entire time as he closed his eyes to soothe the burn and block out the light. Now he was sitting in still, lifeless water that shifted only when he moved.
He wasn't going to die. If he repeated it enough, he just might come to believe it. He, who minded dying far less than the others, would live. Life and its little ironies were so cruel. It wasn't as if he wished for death, but more like he had come to accept it quicker than anyone else. He couldn't explain why the transition from thoughts of life to an imminent death came so smoothly to him, because he didn't want to die.
The proof of that came when his heart flickered painfully at the sight of the flexible ladder someone had tossed down. It clattered against the stones and swung to a stop against the walls. A large, dark figure descended to retrieve him, as his limbs were far too numb to support his weight. It was a police officer, as a firefighter's bulky uniform would impede his way down the narrow space. Even the thin, but broad shouldered officer had trouble maneuvering himself to land on the ground without kicking or stepping on him.
"It's going to be alright, you hear me?" the man said in a deep voice that resonated off the walls as he crouched down the best he could. After he had spent so long in silence, it took him a moment to process the clarity of the man's voice and nod in reply. The officer motioned for him to wrap his thin arms around the man's neck as he hefted the boy up. For his age, thirteen years and six months old, he was still small, light, and not very tall.
A firm hand held the back of his head for a moment, pressing him closer to the man's shoulder, before they started to climb. It was a struggle, as his legs were too weak to grasp the man's waist, and it wouldn't be safe for him to stay on the officer's back as they made their way up. He held on tight, though, and gave the officer little to worry about. He was dripping, but that didn't matter.
As he detached himself from the officer and stood on shaky legs, trembling from the piercing pain that invaded his flesh, the paramedics began to rush across the overgrown lawn. More as a test to himself than anything else, he forced his legs to shuffle over to meet them. It wasn't long before they sat him on the ground, checking his vitals, searching for any debilitating wounds. They waved away the officers trying to question him with fierce glares.
He glanced around, seeing over the paramedics' heads that the police and fire departments had shown up, as well as the rest of the neighborhood. People were roaming the streets in their night clothes, curiously migrating closer to the vacant house. The media had yet to intervene, and the paramedics were likely trying to make this business quick so that they could squirrel him away in the ambulance to avoid that.
They encased him in warm blankets and shuffled him over to the open doors of the ambulance, offering him a change of clothes and some privacy to slip into the sweatpants after he dried himself. They wanted to eliminate any adverse side effects from sitting in the water for hours, and let him take it slowly since there seemed to be no harm done to his person. As the situation wasn't critical, they allowed the officers in to question him.
They asked the basic questions:
Who did this to you?
What's your name?
Who are your parents?
He shook his head in reply to each inquiry, much to their befuddlement. They asked: Do you understand what we're talking about? He nodded patiently and pointed to his throat with one freezing cold finger. This was why he hated talking to strangers, to be honest.
They stopped bombarding him with questions when they found out about his disability. The word always left an unpleasant impression on him. If people were willing to pay attention, they would see that he could communicate with them perfectly. It might have been unorthodox, but it functioned well. Instead of confusing them with sign language only specialists would understand, he simplified it so that normal people would have little trouble speaking with him.
"What's your name? Who are your parents?"
I'm Basil Lewin. Of course, he wrote that out for them on a piece of paper. My mother is Atsuko Lewin and my father is Thomas Lewin.
"Who did this to you?"
A man. He refused to answer any further questions pertaining to his imprisonment at the bottom of the well, even with a pad of paper in his hands. Seeing his adamant stance on the subject, the paramedics forced the officers back and moved to close the doors as he settled down on the cot inside. They would first contact his parents, and then ask him more when he was safe and reunited with his family.
Before the door closed, he hurriedly held up a hand. Wait, it meant. There are more children in wells like I was. Help them, please. The water levels will continue to rise.
The officer who rescued him leapt up the stairs and slid inside the ambulance as the paramedics closed the doors. He questioned the boy as he was coaxed down on the cot where the medics preformed their ministrations on him, but they didn't allow him to further interrogate the boy. All he was able to find out was that it was approximately seven hours before the first could no longer breathe.
The man in uniform cursed under his breath, perhaps thinking that the boy could not hear him, but he heard all too well. Even the quiet conversation he had in a corner of the tight space, amidst the paramedics' commotion, did not go unnoticed or unheard. The boy listened with closed eyes as the man called the station, spoke to the chief of police, and requested back up. He was put on hold for some time before he received the news that the case had been forwarded to the FBI.
The boy, of course, could have told them more. The information swirled around in his head, indulging in a lazy swim, useless unless spoken. He was tired, though, and bleary-eyed. Despite the gravity of his situation, he was miraculously composed, even if he was only thirteen years old. That didn't stop him from longing for his mother's embrace, though, and for the company of those who understood him.
Against his will, he drifted off to sleep a few times throughout the ride thinking about her. Would she be worried? He had never seen his mother lose her composure completely. She came undone every now and again, as was normal, but nothing he knew of had ever fully derailed her. He only thought about it because the medics mentioned how worried his mother must have been.
They reached the hospital, but he could barely notice the transition, too focused on the alarms blaring around him, the scents and glaring lights assaulting his senses, and the hands groping him. Well, they weren't really groping him so much as they were poking and prodding in uncomfortable places, and asking too many questions for him to answer. He wanted to shrink away, sorely wishing at times that they would have just left him at the bottom of that well.
When he was finally isolated, there was only a doctor and a couple of nurses around. They listened to his heart and lungs, checked for injuries, and examined his body for any signs of trauma that might have stolen his voice. They preformed a number of familiar tests on his throat, and although he knew the outcome, refused to say anything on the matter. They wouldn't believe him, anyways, if he tried to convince him that there was nothing physically or mentally wrong with him.
A nurse took his blood and he waited patiently as they drew the sample from his thin, pale arm, even when they had difficulties locating a vein and missed the first two times. Someone else shined a light in his eyes, his mouth, nose, and ears. To make sure that he wouldn't contract any infections from the water and debris at the bottom of the well, they had him take a shower.
Later, provided warm comfortable clothes, he was sitting with a nurse on a hospital bed in the children's ward. She explained in clear, easy tones that they would wait for his parents, run some more tests, and observe him for the night in case he had contracted anything. He nodded and picked at some magazines they provided in the room for the parents of the patients. The colorful kiddie books didn't interest him.
They returned to take a few skin and hair samples, probably intended for the investigation instead of his health, and finally received the faxed records from his pediatrician. Baffled by the long list of results, the doctor in charge came in to ask him whether or not the information was correct. He smiled and nodded.
There was nothing physically wrong with him. Mentally, he had experienced no trauma horrible enough to convince him to stop talking. But at six years old, he had suddenly become silent and never spoke a single word since. When anyone pressed him for the details, he simply shrugged it off and smiled. He either had no explanation or had no desire to explain why. It perplexed everyone who knew him.
The final test they ran before his mother arrived managed to unsettle him more than the rest of the night. He understood sex, yes, from textbooks. He told them that the man who placed him in that well had done nothing sexual to him, but they insisted on doing the test. His mother had even consented to it over the phone.
It was vaguely discerning and very uncomfortable, more so than the dozens of tests people had done to his throat and mouth when he was younger in an attempt to figure out what had happened to make him become mute. Still, because his mother expected him to, he behaved himself and didn't protest. He even smiled at the nurses afterwards.
- Since people ended up liking this, I rewrote this chapter. Hope it's better.
- This was completely inspired by Haruki Murakami's The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. The character Basil Lewin is inspired by Cinnamon. I don't own any of the references in this story.
- Other references will reveal themselves as the story goes. See if you can spot them all! Some are from Haruki Murakami's novels and others are from anime/manga series that I like.