I'm ba-a-ack! Miss me?
As usual, the betas are to be thanked for their hard work and endless patience: Madigirl, Blackletter, and Agraphicdesign.
He crouched down to look under the bench. Not there. He moved to the corner, kicking aside a few stray pebbles. Not there. He moved to the next corner. Not there, either.
From the moment he'd awakened, he'd been scouring the cell. He'd lost something; he knew it, even if he couldn't remember what it might have been. Whatever it was, he felt the loss of it in the pit of his stomach, in the racing of his pulse, in the erratic rhythm of his breathing with the passage of each minute. So he felt compelled to search and search and search, even though he was perfectly aware that if there were anything to be found, it would have turned up on the very first pass. Or the second, at most.
Oh, but his head hurt. He stopped combing the cell and put both hands to it, rubbing the forehead and sides. It was a strange kind of headache, as though his skull wanted to be smaller than it was. Thatwas a fanciful thing to imagine, because skulls couldn't want things. Could they? No, only the brain had consciousness.
He stopped rubbing to stare unseeing at the wall. Brain. His brain. There had been something about that, hadn't there? Earlier? Before he'd lost… whatever it was.
He had to find it. He needed it back.
Sounds of approaching men interrupted him before he could resume the search. For reasons he didn't understand, he was filled with apprehension. He hurried to the barred door to watch as two men in long leather coats "helped" a disheveled and ailing older man down the corridor. They "helped" him to the door of the cell across from his, opened the cell, and then "helped" him into it with enough tender loving force to thrust him against the back wall. Somehow, despite obvious exhaustion and apparent injury, the man kept himself upright until the brutes closed the door and walked away, laughing.
The man dropped onto the bench with a groan, carefully stretching himself out on his back. There was dried blood beneath his nose and he seemed to be trying not to use his right arm.
He wanted to say, "Are you all right?", but it was obvious the man wasn't all right, and it's not as though he could do anything to make him feel better, so it seemed almost cruel to ask. Still, etiquette demanded he say something. "Hello."
"Hello, Ambrose," the man said tiredly, like a grandfather trying to nap while pestered by his eager grandson.
"Ambrose," he repeated softly, glancing around automatically for a rat, for some reason. "Is that me? I'm Ambrose?"
The man didn't open his eyes. "Yes."
"So you know me."
"Yes."
Ambrose fought the impulse to resume his cell-searching by sitting on his own bench. He sensed there were things he needed to sort out. Thinking very hard through the headache, he said, "There was somebody else here, earlier. At least, I think there was. He knew me, too." A thought fragment floated by like a feather in the breeze. "Charles! I think his name was Charles."
"I'm Charles," the man said.
"Wow, really? What are the odds that I'd meet two Charleses in one day?"
The man merely sighed. Ambrose peered at him, leaving the bench to sit cross-legged on the floor inside the cell door. "You look a little like him, actually. Only he wasn't hurt. And his coat was cleaner."
"Well," grunted the new Charles as he sought to find a more comfortable position on the hard bench, "perhaps he hadn't spent a few hours being questioned by Lonot and his thugs."
"Oh, that's probably true. Is that what happened to you?" He waited, but Charles didn't bother answering. He thought he might have fallen asleep, but then the other man coughed a couple of times, bringing his left hand to his mouth out of polite habit, so obviously, he was still awake. "What kind of questions did they ask you?"
"I'd rather not talk about it."
"Oh." Ambrose thought about that until insight struck him. "Oh. Is that why you're hurt? You didn't want to talk about it to them, either?"
"They seem to think I can tell them things that I don't know."
"That's got to be frustrating. What kinds of things?"
"Did I not just say I don't want to talk about it?"
"Hmm. Yes, I'm pretty sure you did. I tend not to remember things very well."
"You don't say."
"For instance, I've forgotten what you told me my name is."
Another heavy sigh. "It's Ambrose."
"Right. Thank you."
It was clear that Charles wasn't feeling talkative, so Ambrose tried to respect his wishes and stopped efforts at conversation. It was hard; he was so glad to have someone to talk to who didn't hit him or call him cruel names. The words kept trying to spill out of his mouth, but because he didn't want to irritate Charles, he clenched his jaw and kept them inside.
After some minutes, Charles seemed to be dozing off. As part of that process, his right arm twitched in response to some quasi-wakeful dream, and he grunted with pain. Ambrose couldn't stop himself anymore.
"What's wrong with your arm?"
Charles sighed again. "Lonot didn't like my inability to answer his questions."
"So he hurt your arm?"
Struggling back to a sitting position, Charles grunted again. "He threw me against the wall and twisted the arm behind me. It felt as though he were breaking it, but I think it's just badly strained." With his left hand, he gingerly felt his nose. "Luckily, he didn't break my nose, either."
"Is there anything I can do for you?" It sounded stupid as soon as he said it. He was a fellow prisoner in a separate cell. What could he do? For anyone?
A funny look crossed Charles's face. Like the blinking of a firefly's light, there was first amusement and affection, followed by what Ambrose could only interpret as anger and guilt. Charles brushed it all aside quickly, however, until there was nothing there but faint desperation masked by a forced pleasantness.
"You can do something for me," Charles said, and Ambrose forgot everything in his excitement. "You can tell me what you remember about the last time you and I saw each other. Outside of here, of course."
He felt his face fall. "Why does everyone want to hear about that?"
Charles looked sharply at him. "They've been asking you about that, too?"
"He did. The other Charles."
"Oh," Charles said, relaxing, "him. Well, try and remember for me, this time, all right?"
"All right." Ambrose closed his eyes. He pictured the face of his fellow captive – tired, pained, worried – and almost immediately it was replaced by the image from his last attempt to conjure up such a memory: the face of the other Charles, dimly lit, healthier, but with that same look of desperate worry in the eyes.
"You're him," Ambrose said, glaring accusingly.
"Who?"
"The other Charles. They're both you."
"Yes."
"You should have told me. I feel like a fool!"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel foolish."
He hated not being able to remember things, hated that he had to rely on someone else to know even the most basic details about himself, about his former life. Recalling memories should be as easy and natural as drinking water or smiling. But for him, it was like climbing a tree without arms. In fact... "What did you say my name is, again?"
"Ambrose. Your name is Ambrose."
Why couldn't he hang on to that detail? Each time he tried, it disappeared – a word written in dry sand on a windy day.
He was tempted to get to his feet and rant about it all. Then again, if he could find his way to just one clear memory, wasn't it possible that more would follow? Maybe it would be like opening a stuffed, ill-organized closet – everything would come tumbling out at once. Ambrose closed his eyes and went back to the dim room inside his mind.
As before when he'd pictured this scene, he felt a sense of great urgency. This time, he could see all of the faces, though only one was perfectly clear. Charles was solemn and apprehensive, concentrating on the diagram as Ambrose explained it to the small gathering. Everyone there was quite focused on what he was saying and showing them. Clearly, the information Ambrose was disseminating was of critical importance.
He strained to produce an image of what was on the paper, but like the retention of his own name, it remained elusive. He could only see the group nodding to one another as though coming to an agreement, and then he began tearing the paper into smaller bits. The fragments were tossed into the fireplace, and they all stood around watching it burn!
Panic overcame him. He needed to know what had been on that paper! It must be significant – everyone in that room had hung on his every word. He needed to know what he'd had to say that could command such somber attention, such respect. This was proof that he had once mattered, that he had not always been a pathetic wretch with a scooped-out skull and no power to affect anything.
He concentrated, trying to replay the memory again from a different angle, but all he saw were the same things: solemn men listening to him, a large paper with an indistinct diagram, and then the paper being torn up and burned.
What point was there in remembering the gathering and not the reason for it? Why recall the attention everyone was paying him and not what he was saying to them? Why forget the specifics of the diagram on the paper but record the act of destroying and burning it in great detail? What was the point of memories that told him nothing?
Angrily, he uncrossed a leg and kicked at the bars, forgetting how close to them he was and sending himself into an unplanned backward somersault. As he landed in a lopsided sitting position, the back of his head slammed against the bench, and he spat a curse he hadn't remembered until that moment.
"Any luck?" Charles asked, sounding amused. He was still sitting up, but he was slumped against the wall and looked in dire need of a nap.
"Yes! Bad luck," Ambrose snapped. "When they carved up my brain, it seems they took anything of any value. Nothing left but stupid, out-of-context stuff that's of no use at all!"
Charles looked sadly sympathetic, but his words were far from comforting. "Well, perhaps that's for the best."
"Easy for you to say!" Ambrose shouted, climbing to his feet and approaching the bars. "You still have all your faculties, so excuse me if I think your perspective lacks relevance."
"I only meant that—"
The pain in Ambrose's head had escalated to an alarming level, and he threw up his arms all around it as though to seal out the invading sensations.
"What's wrong?"
"My head hurts, all right?" He knew he was unfairly taking out his frustration and pain on Charles, but he really couldn't care at the moment. There wasn't room for anger, loss, a killer headache, and consideration all at once. "It's been hurting ever since I woke up. That stupid stick thing doesn't seem to agree with nearly-empty heads."
"Stick thing?"
"You know, the electrified rod. The device that shows you what toast must feel like."
"Oh, yes. I was treated to a demonstration of that myself today. Several times. How long ago did it happen?"
"Do you see any clocks in here? How should I know how long ago! I was just yelling at them to leave Charles alone – wait, that was you – yelling at them to leave you alone, and then one of them proceeded to dry-fry me."
"Ah. Well, that was very foolish."
"I'll say! It's not like a little yelling could hurt anything. I was absolutely no threat to them at all."
Charles sighed. His eyelids were drooping and he sounded as though he was losing a battle for both patience and wakefulness. "I meant it was foolish ofyou."
"Oh, really? Well, that's some gratitude."
"Gratitude for what? An ineffectual show of pointless resistance on my behalf? As far as I can tell, they had no trouble dispatching you while dragging me off to be tortured, so I'd say your efforts were wasted. The next time they come for me, use what's left of your head and stay out of it."
Ambrose felt his cheeks grow hot. Insults and dismissive attitudes from the guards were easily shrugged off, but they felt different coming from a friend. "Fine! When they come for you again, I'll just sit right here and watch. All right?"
"All right."
"Maybe I'll even cheer them on. Or… or whistle a carefree little tune. I might even yawn!"
"Very sensible," Charles said sleepily.
"Oh, you'll think so!" said Ambrose. It didn't really make sense, but it seemed in the spirit of things. "And by the way, aren't you just a little bit full of yourself, assuming that they'll even bother with you anymore? I mean, you said you have nothing to tell them. Maybe they realize that now and won't come for you again." It wasn't until he'd said it that he realized how badly he wanted that to be true.
Charles spoke with eyes closed and a voice that was halfway to sleep already. "They'll be back."
There was anger that was truly anger, and there was anger that was really just fear. Ambrose didn't know how he knew that, but he knew which one was making him yell.
"Oh, sure, because you're so important, aren't you? A real big-shot. Well, who knows? Maybe the next time, they'll be coming for me!"
Charles didn't open his eyes, but merely waved his left hand in a gesture that might have been either sarcastic or conciliatory.
Ambrose meant to keep on yelling, because he wanted Charles to stay awake. If he went to sleep, it would be like they had taken him away again. Instead, however, his wayward partial brain supplied a response to his own silly prediction: Why would they come for you? Anything they wanted to know from you, they already have in their grasp.
Already in their grasp?
Oh. Right.
His brain.
The truth of it weighed him down like a cast-iron shirt, and he sank onto the bench. It would be awful to be tortured for what one knew, and yet, in a way, knowing that his secrets had been wrested away surgically seemed worse. He wondered how much he'd withstood prior to that violation. Had he suffered, like Charles, or had they simply put him under the knife right after his capture? How could he ever know?
And what about Charles? Would they eventually do the same thing to him? If so, his friend would cease to know himself, and that meant he'd cease to know Ambrose, as well. When that happened, when there was no one around to tell him who he was… who would he be then?
"Charles," he said urgently, desperately, "what is my name, again?"
The answer was a long time coming, but Charles managed to forestall sleep just long enough to say, "Your name is Ambrose. I suggest… you write it down."
Oh, ha ha. Write it down, indeed. "You know," he muttered, "if this prison thing doesn't work out, you have absolutely no future as a comedian."
And yet, there was a certain amount of sense to the suggestion. If he had the name in writing, he wouldn't be dependent on Charles for it anymore. Hmm.
Suddenly, the only thing Ambrose wanted more than to have his name written down was… well, there's wasn't anything he wanted more. He had to have it. He needed it.
There was a distinct shortage of writing materials about, but he was desperate enough to be inventive. Whispering the name over and over to retain it, Ambrose tugged at a loose button on the cuff of one his coat sleeves until it came off. He held it in front of his face, considering it carefully. It was dull with tarnish now, but once all the buttons on this coat had shone like brassy stars, just like in that scene from his memory.
That thought distracted him. In that scene, all the men gathered were wearing coats like his, including Charles. Yet, Charles was not wearing such a coat now. At least, he didn't think so. He glanced across the hall to note the other man's clothing. Nope, he was wearing a dark gray coat. The coat was of good quality (again, no idea how he knew that), but it was definitely not part of a uniform. Huh.
There was something in his hand. Ambrose looked at it. Turned out it was a button of tarnished brass. It looked as though it had come from his coat. He pulled away the frayed thread that still clung to it. Hadn't he intended to use the button for something?
As though on cue, a fragment of conversation replayed itself in his mind:
"Charles, what is my name, again?"
"Your name is Ambrose. I suggest you write it down."
Yes! That was what he was about to do. Raising the button, he placed it against the back of his cell and used the edge to etch the name A M B R O S E into the cold stone.
He stopped to admire the work and was struck by a sense of completion. He noticed suddenly that the compulsion to search his cell over and over seemed to have finally passed.
"Look, Charles," he said, peering into the other man's cell. But Charles had stretched out on the bench, sound asleep, and there was no reaching him right now.
Ambrose turned back to his wall, comforted by the crudely written proof of his own existence. It struck him that further explanation was required, and so he continued to write with the edge of his button, filling the air with tiny scratching noises as his friend across the hall slept on.
0o0o0
When the guards came to deliver the slop that prisoners were expected to consume for nourishment – or perhaps it was just another form of torture – Charles finally woke up. It might have had something to do with all the noise they made, spouting vile epithets and taunts in loud voices, but it was actually the result of having half a bucket of cold water tossed on him though the bars as he slept.
Ambrose sat cross-legged on his bench and watched. He wanted to say something, and saying something would probably have gotten water thrown on him, too, or worse. But he was practicing "staying out of it," as someone – Charles, that's who it was – had asked him to do.
Charles reacted to the water about the way one would expect, jerking awake and rolling off the bench to hit the hard stone floor with a yelp. The guards reacted the way one expects sadistic jerks to respond to such things, namely, with loutish guffaws.
"Dinner is served, m'lord," the one with the missing eye drawled, executing an elaborate, if ill-performed, bow. He then kicked a dented metal plate carrying a puddle of unidentifiable stew-like stuff through the barred door. It scraped noisily along the floor for about two feet, coming to rest a few inches from Charles's face.
When the guards were gone, Charles sniffed the plate and made a face.
"It tastes as bad as it smells," Ambrose said sympathetically, scooping some from his own dish and eating it from his fingers.
Charles pushed the dish away and lifted himself to a sitting position. He ran a hand through his now wet, uncombed hair and tried to wring some of the water out of his coat.
"As bad as it is, though," said Ambrose, continuing to eat, "starvation is worse."
"I'm not so sure."
"Well, I'm still around, and I don't think I would be if I didn't eat. Go on, have some. You can't keep going otherwise."
"That's sound advice only if you wish to keep going."
Frowning, Ambrose put his plate down and came to the bars. "Hey, now, let's not have that kind of talk. You have to hang on, Charles. There's always hope."
"Is there?"
"You bet there is! Things can always get better. Want proof?" He waited, nearly bursting with eagerness, until Charles actually nodded before continuing. "I can tell you my name now. Without asking first, I mean. Ready? It's Ambrose! Wanna see how I know?"
Charles raised an eyebrow. Proudly, Ambrose pranced to the back of his cell and pointed to the wall. On it were faint words scratched in neat block letters:
MY NAME IS
A M B R O S E
"See? You told me to write it down, and I did."
"So I see. However did you do it? Where did you get a tool?"
"Oh, that's the most ingenious part." Grinning widely, Ambrose stuck his hand into a pocket and held up a small round object. "It's a button! I used the edge to scratch the surface of the stone." He ran his index finger along the outside of the button. "Ouch!" he cried as the edge, honed by the friction of writing, lightly sliced the pad of his finger.
"You all right?"
"Oh, just forgot it's a little sharp. Look, see how writing wore down the edge?"
Ambrose sucked the injured finger and tossed the button carefully across the space between their cells. It bounced with a tiny tink sound. Charles picked up the button and dutifully inspected it. "Very resourceful, Ambrose. Well done."
"Thank you!" Ambrose knew that he had accomplished feats far more impressive back when he was fully himself, but Charles's acknowledgment of his ingenuity made him feel like the most brilliant man alive. He basked in this feeling for just a matter of seconds, however, before adopting a stern stance, wagging a finger at the other cell. "So, you see, things can always happen that surprise you. That's why we can't give up. You need to eat, Charles, you have to, so you can keep up your strength."
Charles heaved a sigh. "I suppose you're right. I'm going to need all the energy I can get."
"That's the spirit!"
Reaching for the plate with his left hand, Charles pulled it closer to him and ran a finger through the goop. He put the finger into his mouth and shuddered. Ambrose laughed, not in meanness, but in expression of joy.
He couldn't remember feeling so full of hope. Ever since his brain had been stolen, Ambrose's life had been all about reacting to the actions of others and waiting to see what would be done to him next. He'd been like a dinghy on stormy seas, subject to the whims of the winds and waves. But then today, oh! Today, for the first time, he'd taken back just a tiny measure of control. It had been more than the simple act of writing his name on the wall; Ambrose had taken positive, independent action to confront a problem and overcome it. It was an exercise of personal power, no matter how small, and it had changed his entire outlook.
If it were still possible for him to act as well as react, then perhaps there were lots of other possibilities, as well. Survival… escape… finding the rest of his brain. Who knew just what was ultimately feasible? He and Charles would think of a way to live through this nightmare. Together, they would overcome the obstacles in their path to fight their way back to normal, meaningful lives.
He turned his attention back to his friend and was encouraged to see he had eaten almost half of the food in the dish. True, he looked faintly ill, but like Ambrose, Charles would get used to the awful taste in time.
"Good, Charles! That's good." As his companion pushed the dish away once more, Ambrose objected. "No, no – try to eat it all."
"Any more and I will vomit."
"Well… that would be counterproductive. Just remember, though: they only feed us once a day."
"The first mercy I've encountered since I got here."
Ambrose laughed and watched Charles heft himself to a standing position. He moved stiffly, flexing his joints with painful care. Ambrose was suddenly aware of being much younger than Charles; although he couldn't remember his age, he knew that he was in his prime and that Charles was well past his.
A flash of insight told him that these harsh conditions were much harder on someone of Charles's age. Sleeping on a metal bench in a damp cell of cold stone; being actively battered and tortured; forced to eat disgusting, unhealthy food in unsanitary living conditions… These things were more easily endured by the young. Charles, on the other hand, was likely to decline rapidly.
That's when he noticed that Charles was still favoring his right arm. Abruptly, he realized that even hope had an expiration date.
"Charles!" he blurted.
The older man turned his head, bloodshot blue eyes alarmed. There were faint dark smudges beneath them. Had someone hit him? Oh right, that was probably from having his nose bloodied earlier. "What? What's wrong?"
The bars wouldn't let him get close enough. He needed to touch his friend, to be comforted by his solidity, but that was impossible, so Ambrose settled for grasping the flat bars hard enough to hurt his fingers and palms. He frowned. What had he been about to say? Charles's pallor and shadowed eyes provided a reminder. "We need a plan," he said urgently.
Charles merely stared. "A plan."
"Yes!" Releasing the bars, Ambrose began to pace. "Nothing too detailed; obviously, we have to stay flexible. But we need to rough out some kind of strategy now, before you…" He couldn't think of a way to finish the sentence without demoralizing Charles, so Ambrose let it hang and hoped he wouldn't notice.
Charles was shaking his head. "Ambrose," he began, and the tone of his voice told Ambrose everything he didn't want to hear, so he didn't listen.
"You're tired, I get that, I do. Tired and miserable and… and depressed. It's perfectly natural under the circumstances. But that's why we need the plan, you see? It'll give you hope, and that will give you something to, to focus on when things are at their worst. I never realized until just now how important it was to have that." He pondered. "At least, I don't think I ever realized it before. Do you happen to know if I –"
"Ambrose," Charles said again, coming to the front of his cell and looking him steadily in the eyes, "listen to me. There may be hope in all of this, but escape is not part of it – not for me. I know that I will not leave this place alive –"
"That's not true!"
"– and it's important that you accept that knowledge, too."
"I won't! There's no reason –"
"Listen to me."
"No! I won't listen when you're talking about giving up and –"
"I'm not giving up, I'm being realistic. I'm too old for this. I know that, and they know it. They're counting on it."
Ambrose felt like a panicked terrier, too stubborn and afraid to let go. "If you just had hope, it would give you the strength you need to get through it!" He looked inanely around the cell for something to use to transmit his own hope into Charles.
"But I do have hope," Charles said, his voice going quiet so suddenly that Ambrose momentarily feared his hearing was failing. "My hope keeps me focused on the bigger picture."
"Bigger picture?" What sort of nonsense was Charles spouting now? They were talking about losing the will to stay alive; how much bigger could the picture get?
Earnestly, Charles continued. "Yes. Actually, if it weren't for that, I'd probably be dead already. You see, when I'm being dragged to a room where I know I'm going to be interrogated and tortured, it's the bigger picture that keeps me from dropping to my knees and begging them not to hurt me. It's what stops me from telling them anything they want me to say just to make the pain end."
It was shocking to hear Charles, whose courage and poise Ambrose so admired, talk so matter-of-factly about capitulation and how close he felt to giving his. It didn't seem possible that someone with a whole brain, who knew everything one was supposed to know about himself and the world, could give up so easily when Ambrose – at best, a hollow shell of a man – was prepared to survive even though he couldn't remember his own name without a cheat sheet.
"I don't understand!" he growled. "You're not making any sense. If you're too chicken to make plans for your escape, just say so. This 'bigger picture' nonsense just sounds like an excuse to me."
Charles looked to the floor in thought. Ambrose felt a small surge of encouragement. Perhaps he was reconsidering.
"It's not an excuse. I know you think I don't care about staying alive, and you're wrong about that. It's that there's so much more at stake than just my life. Maybe I could hang on longer if I made survival my priority, I don't know."
"Yes! Of course you could! That's what I'm –"
"But for me, hanging on longer means risking…"
He stopped himself from continuing – which of course made Ambrose insanely curious to know what he'd been about to say – and took a few steps away, running both hands through his thick, unkempt gray hair. Before Ambrose could ask the burning question, however, he was already resuming.
"The choices I make while I'm here have the power to affect the lives of scores of people outside this prison. Perhaps even hundreds of them. It's that I have to focus on, Ambrose. Compared to the survival of hundreds of people, of perhaps the kingdom itself, my life is insignificant."
Ambrose gaped, overwhelmed by the sudden awareness of a perspective that had honestly never occurred to him. Of course, when your entire remembered existence had been narrowed to include only a prison cell and a handful of people, it was easy to forget that there were scores or hundreds or even thousands of other, unseen individuals out there in the world. It was easy to forget there even was a world. Responsibility to society at large was something of a hypothetical notion under those circumstances.
"You see," Charles continued quietly, searching Ambrose's face for signs of understanding, "accepting that I'm already lost gives me leverage. There's no reason to think that they'll release me or reward me if I give them what they want. They will either kill me outright or do something worse."
Ambrose felt the impulse to reach for his zipper, but fought it. He couldn't afford distractions.
"So if I'm to end badly either way, I may as well try to ensure that I don't spread pain to anyone else."
Overloaded by intangibles like self-sacrifice for the greater good, Ambrose seized on something more accessible: the mechanics of the consequences. "Spread pain to others? How? How would you do that?"
Charles waved a hand, as though such details were unimportant. "Never mind. The point is that I don't draw my strength from fantasizing about survival and escape. Do you understand?"
Ambrose considered the question. "I think I do," he said. And then he drifted over to his bench and sat down, drawing his legs up onto it and folding one under him as he leaned against the wall.
He could feel Charles's gaze following him and lingering, but he didn't look up. He didn't say anything about the swirling sensation created in his stomach as hope drained away, or about the heat of shame burning beneath the skin of his face. He didn't say anything more at all.
"All right," Charles said finally. "I'm glad you understand." He sounded uncertain, as though he was puzzled by Ambrose's reaction, but thought it best to let the conversation end.
At that point, Ambrose stopped paying attention to Charles, or Charles's cell, or any of the noises that floated down the corridor from elsewhere in the prison. His world narrowed to the only spaces directly relevant to himself: the confines of his cell, and the unnatural amount of breathing room in his skull.
Until now, it hadn't occurred to him to wonder who he might have left behind when they had torn his brain apart. He'd never even thought about loved ones, whether he was married, if there was anyone out there who had depended on him – anyone who'd been counting on his strength to protect them.
If there had been, they probably weren't waiting anymore.
Nothing. This is what it all came down to. He had nothing in his head, nothing in his life, nothing waiting for him outside this cell. There was no logical reason to try to escape. There was nothing to escape to.
He stretched himself out to lie on his back, and his eyes landed on the words he'd so painstakingly scratched into the wall. The act that had ignited his ridiculous rhapsody of hope for the future.
"Fantasy," he whispered.
