"Please step onto the bar, Ms. Wells." And so it began again. Her bones ached; she had never actually felt her bones before. Her foot dragged along the ground, followed by the next, shuffling forward. The skin on her soles stung as they rubbed raw, dirt and bits of stone digging in the open wounds, but she shuffled forward. She coughed and didn't bother wiping away the spit that caught on her lip. After what seemed an eternity, the length of no more than four steps, she stopped. No one said a word; she had been given her instruction, and it was up to her what would come of it. Fetid water dripped from the ceiling and burned her eyes, forcing them shut. Green pools blazed behind shut lids followed by a bashful smile.
She groaned, the sound rattling in her chest as she shifted her weight to one foot, stepped, and then again, grasping at the stones to find her footing. She settled on the bar, a pole bolted to the floor, hollow, and only as wide as her own instep. Pain flared through her legs as she settled in, every bone in her foot screaming, that odd pain behind her right shoulder as the sympathetic nerves reacted. Goosebumps raced along her skin, the cold of the bar beginning to numb the pain slightly, but the shivering caused new aches. She was in rags, and they were in no position to ward off the chill of the damp, murky room.
"Take your position." Shuddering, she slid her feet shoulder width apart, leaning forward with her palms on the wall for balance, nails chipping and tearing where she gripped the stone. And then the questions began. The same questions, the same order, the same level of utter uselessness. The answers she gave didn't matter. She knew, and they knew she did; yet, they continued to ask. There are times when you simply ask a question because you don't care what they say; the noose scratches against their necks just the same; the drop is just the same. Helena's world narrowed to nothing more than question and answer, cadence and pitch as the hours crawled away.
Her legs trembled, her knees holding on by sheer force of will, but her head tipped forward. People never thought about just how much energy it took to just stand still. It seems like such a restful state, static, but Helena could feel every muscle twitch, every ounce of blood her heart was forced to circulate, the push and pull of every breath that yanked her ribs apart. The human body was never truly meant to for stillness.
The stone was rough beneath her cheek, tearing at the skin, but it was cool, solid. It was real. As her mind drifted, she needed that anchor to keep answering. It was rote, but she had to keep answering. She had to. Her mind, however, finally began drifting away to a happier time, not unlike the blood seeping down the walls.
"I don't know what's up with your anti-awesomeness, H.G., but you should just embrace the swag and get a Kindle. You'd never 'run out of appropriate literature' again." Claudia's fingers dropped a set of air quotations to go with the worst fake British accent Helena had heard since Pete had forced her to watch Robin Hood featuring someone named Costner. Helena just shook her head, a little grin quirked her lips as, out of the corner of her eye, she could see Myka all but jump out of her seat she twitched so badly at the mention of the computerized book-killing machine. With the smallest part of her finger possible, Helena slowly pushed the small machine back toward the young woman, and stood up. Without saying a word, she stood up, and walked toward the bookshelf in the corner. It was well stocked, redwood, and practically glowed in the sunlight streaming through the bay windows. Her thumb rubbed along the spine, catching the stop and pulled out a small volume. She wandered back to her seat, letting her legs brush against Myka's knees when she passed, relishing the heat that contact caused. Settling into the high backed chair, she leaned forward and gently placed the small book in Claudia's lap.
"What do you see?" Claudia looked down, taking in the frayed edges, the fading title, The Invisible Man, straining to be seen. The pages were yellow and dog-eared. "It's a book. One of yours, of course." Claudia's voice was teasing, light, with just and edge of confusion as to the question. Helena was not one for the obvious questions.
"This is the first copy of this book printed. It was mine, sent to me by the printer. Well, sent to Charles, but he knew better than to try and keep them." She reached out and fingered the book in Claudia's lap. She opened the cover, turned to a well-thumbed page. "I read this to Christina every night for weeks. It became her favorite book. That small stain on the edge? It's where she spilled a drop of her tea in her excitement to crawl into my lap." She turned the pages again and came to a pressed daisy. "I put this here after a day in the park. My little girl spent it spinning in the sun, laughing as her hair was set loose by the wind and her skirt flowed around her ankles. I can hear her even now." Another series of pages. "The smudges on the bottom, those watermarks and blurring? Those were my tears the first time I read this after losing my Christina. It was one hundred long years before I opened this volume again." Claudia just stared at her, her eyes a little glassy, leaving the open tears to Myka. There was one more turn to the final page. "And that mark is where I gave myself a paper cut last month when I was distracted by the glory that is Myka's laugh. Books live, Claudia. They tell more than just the story printed on its pages; it tells the story of every person who touches it, takes the time to love it. It smells, and tastes, and breathes, my dear girl. That is something your Kindle could never do, Claudia. It contains the story, yes, but nothing else. Life has weight; it takes up space. Having a book do the same is more than acceptable." Claudia looked up and her lips parted —
Helena found herself tipping backward into rough hands. She couldn't feel her legs, and the questions had stopped. She had answered, as she always did, and it was done. They dragged her back toward her cell, or she thought it was toward her cell. Her eyes had swollen mostly shut, the skin irritated and hot. She must have hit her face on the way down again. A door creaked open, but they failed to throw her in as usual, but carried her bodily. It wasn't until she heard the door slam behind them that she tried to lift her head. There was only the faintest of light, and she never saw the tub of water in the center of the room, or the gurney. "We gave you the opportunity to stand, and now we'll try something a little different. You will be clean, one way or another."
"Standing is a fairly common interrogation technique. Often, a person is forced to stand, unmoving, for as long as possible. Any shifts of position are punished until the body simply gives out. The average person lasts about half an hour. Agent Wells was made to stand for an hour at a time. The pole she stood on caused the broken bones in her feet. The pressure of that long term pressure caused a series of stress fractures, fractures that were exacerbated with each new interrogation and her lack of food and proper rest. Her body was extracting minerals from every available source to keep her alive. The answers were irrelevant, as were the questions. It was little more than an exercise in breaking her will and making her compliant."
The group of agents was silent, Artie wringing his hands while Pete wrapped Claudia up in his arms, tucking her head beneath her chin. He could feel her try to breath and a wet patch spreading along his chest. He looked down, his own grasp on his emotions was tenuous at best, and, no matter what his shirt might say, C would never be for cookie again. "They tortured her." Pete felt Claudia twitch and pulled her tighter. There was no sugar coating this, no wink and nod to save her from having to hear those words. They all had to hear those words. H.G. had to live them.
"From the day she entered their custody. It's remarkable she coped as well as she did. They instituted a rolling sleep schedule to further make her susceptible. She would sleep for an hour, be awake for four, sleep for twenty minutes be awake for an hour. The longest she ever remained asleep was five hours, just enough for one REM cycle and the interruption of another. It was not uncommon for her to be awake for eighteen hours straight with only a half hour nap to begin with." Mrs. Fredrick uncrossed, and re-crossed her ankles. "Soon, however, she began to slip away during their questioning. Her mind would drift off, and no amount of beating seemed to draw her back out again. That was when they decided to escalate the situation. I believe you know it as waterboarding. They would ask a question, different from those previously used, and immediately pour ice water over her face through a cloth. This would continue until she was rendered unconscious from having held her breath so long or she choked."
Artie grunted. When the attention shifted his direction, Claudia let out a squawk and was on her knees in front of him before anyone realized she had moved. Blood was streaming out of the hand, which had previously held a teacup, little bits of porcelain were sticking out every which way. The blood just puddled at his feet, soaking into Claudia's jeans, mixing with the spilled tea. Claudia cradled the hand between hers, staring, fully aware there was nothing she could do. There was never anything she could do. Artie reached out and tilted her chin up, letting his thumb trail along her jaw, pain etched clearly across his face, but he managed to hold his voice steady. "It's all right, kiddo. Just, do me a favor, go get a towel for me. It's not as bad as it looks, I promise."
She hesitated, looking back down at his hand. "Go on, Claudia. I'm not going anywhere." And she was off like a shot.
Artie began pulling bits of cup out of his palm while Pete clung to his sobriety chip with everything he had. He so needed a meeting.
"Her survival reflexes would engage toward the end. They beat her rather severely a few times, accounting for the cracked ribs and general bruising. It was something of a last resort. From the information I've been able to gather, she was submerged on 27 separate occasions, sometimes the sessions lasting upward of an hour. It has resulted in a case of hydrophobia that Agent Bering seems able to cope with somewhat. Those sessions were the only bathing she was allowed for the full six months she was with them. Once, toward the end, she apparently had some sort of panic attack when they dragged her toward the table where. . . . She managed to claw one of them, almost took out his eye, running on adrenaline and moxy alone."
"I want names." And when Mrs. Frederick hesitated, Pete simply stood up and walked out, grabbing his car keys on the way. Leena came out of the kitchen, broom and dustpan in hand, and simply swept up the glass. She would have to find some wood to patch the hole while they went to get a new door.
A week passed, and then another. Her bruises had faded, for the most part, and Helena was able to keep down some of a small turkey sandwich without fear of revisiting Leena's excellent cooking. Her feet were on the mend; she was still restricted in the amount of walking she did, no more than to the bathroom and back to the bed, with help, but she could shuffle with no more than a cringe, and Vanessa had cleared her to take off the braces she'd brought for short amounts of time. Those times were quickly becoming some of her favorite as Myka undid the straps. Cool fingers would dance over the skin, pulling gently and tugging the edges away. Nails would tease her sole before a flat palm barely touched from heel to ball, letting the warmth of her skin heat the muscles, stretching it, helping to sooth the ache. That those same fingers would detour north, would frolic over her calves to dance at her knees was only a bonus. She was petted like a house cat, and, if asked, would happily agree that she purred. Cool lips traced along her hairline, tender and possessive, unafraid now that the scratches had healed. "Helena." Fingers followed lips and stroked along, falling to trace the shell of her ear, tickling the skin, tugging so very gently. She sighed, letting her body sink further into the soft mattress below her, and the softer warmth at her side. Her world had no edges, so hard points, no darkness in moments like these. It was gentle heartbeats, spice, and soft curls. It was how she measured her life. She certainly couldn't have died in that pit; this space was far too wondrous to be heaven.
Lips touched skin again, followed by a forehead pressed to her own, eyelashes tickling her skin, almost reminding her of how it felt to laugh. "Come on, sweetheart, we need to get cleaned up." Terror surged through her, stealing her breath, shutting out the light. It was always the same; she could feel her own trembling seep into Myka, shaking them both, threatening to break her apart at the seams. Her throat burned, her eyes burned, she could feel her lungs blaze for air. But, arms just pulled her close, and the air she breathed was her air. It fell past lips that soothed, slid over tongue that spoke honeyed words, sustained a life more precious than all the world. Helena took it all, was hers inside and out. She could be brave again, and every time after, for that air. She would be brave. She so wanted to be.
She breathed it in deep, resting heavily on the slight shoulder, but nodded nonetheless. She forced away her tremble and hooked her fingers over Myka's collarbones. "As before?" She was beginning to enjoy the feel of words again; they tasted fresh and gave her weight. They were possibilities again.
"Of course, Helena. Just like last time. Come one, love. Claudia's been chomping at the bit for a visit. She keeps going on about needing advice for something called Cosplay and accusing me of squirreling you away for my own purposes."
The thought of seeing the others filled her with warmth, and no small amount of trepidation. It couldn't be possible the others had forgiven her, even if the impossible had already happened once when she fell into a set of open arms. She wouldn't turn her back on them again.
She winced as her feet hit the ground, leaning heavily on the taller woman. The shuffled across the small space, faster than the last time, she timed them, and soon she found herself sitting naked on the toilet seat, watching the knobs turn. Myka made a point of keeping the flow rather slow, the noise dampened, but she would be brave. "Faster."
Myka just looked at her, a little startled, and it sent a tiny thrill through her that she could surprise the woman. "Faster." Definitely a thrill.
The tub filled, and steam rose gently. The bubbles that floated on the top made it a rather pleasing picture. A small splash and then a hand was reaching out to her, eyes coaxing, and she reached out as she always would. Fingers wrapped around hers, tugging gently, thumb brushing against her pulse point, making the hair on her arm stand on end. The water on her feet was hot, silky, and she could feel the ache in her ankles ease as she settled in. Goosebumps broke out as fingers trailed down her body, teasing the deep hollows of her hipbones, tugging briefly at her own curls before sliding down thighs to circle knees and scrape over shins. Myka settled against the back of the tub, spread out and welcoming, thumb trailing over her ankle bone until she could no longer deny her siren's call. Slowly, painfully, Helena allowed herself to kneel in the tub, heat flushing her body as every new inch sunk below the surface. She made waves, and was surprisingly calm enough to enjoy the irony, before settling in between her love's thighs, resting on her own knees and enjoying the play of light that filtered in from the bedroom. A deep breath and slight turn found them back to front. The pounding of the running water stopped.
"Okay?" She simply nodded, refusing to let her heart pound. Her fingers curled around the knees bracketing her hips, holding her tight. She felt a foot slip under her own, toes tickling her arch, stroking her sole. She let her head fall back onto a sturdy shoulder while hands began to stroke her flank, the flannel soft and slowly making its way up her stomach. She could feel every drop as it pooled in her belly button before sliding lower to join the rest while her nose burrowed deeper into damp curls and she enjoyed the shudder it produced. Nothing could touch her in her little nest. "You are the best part of me."
Neither woman heard the knock at the door, far too wrapped up in the way soap slid over skin. But a knock there was. Pete was just wiping mustard off his lip when he reached for the knob, still squeaky, and the door swung open in its casing. What he didn't expect was the short woman standing on their doorstep, hair pulled back, and eyes breaking out into a twinkle. "Mom?!"