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He responded by staring at me like he had no idea what I was talking about.
“Can you talk…with words?” My unsympathetic tone sounded cruel, even to my own ears.
He pulled off the written note and stuck the green sheet on the wall to my left. After writing another message, he handed it to me.
I stutter. Badly. I have since I was little. Since my parents died. But my voice is different now, through injury—
His words ran off the page that I added to the wall with his other message as he penned the rest of what he wanted to say.
Last year, my girlfriend and I were attacked. Someone tried to cut out my tongue. Apparently, I was too loud. Karma sucks.
My eyes widened in shock. But I found it amazing that he could make a joke at a time like this. It lifted the depression creeping in.
I gave him a sad smile, and he gave me a bigger one, straight white teeth hiding behind the curve of his full lips.
A third note made it to the wall as I pulled it from the pad, distracting him. He wrote another.
Are you okay? You were asleep for a while. That note joined the others, decorating this room with a bit of color.
“I’m cold.”
His hands rubbed at my small biceps, defeating the army of goosebumps. I was glad he was no longer confined. His hands were free, the chains replaced by a thick red graze on each wrist. Free to unbutton his shirt and slip it over his broad shoulders before gifting it to me. I stretched out my heavy arms, happy to accept his generosity, and hide beneath the cotton. He and I froze at the sight of a needle hanging from my arm, the barrel empty, the tip buried in my skin, crusty blood clinging to it.
“What the fuck is that!” I panicked, my voice louder than intended. I gripped the barrel and tossed the needle at the wall. “What do you think was in there?” I asked him, as if he had the answers to all my questions.
He saw the fear on my face, and tried to calm me, quickly jotting another note.
It was probably just a sedative.
He shrugged.
He’s giving you the chance to prove yourself. He doesn’t want you dead...yet.
I kept this message in my hand longer, trying to understand it as I creased it between my fingers.
The man, whose name I didn’t know, stood tall and menacing, his personality soft and soothing. He stepped away from me, returning with the drying food. I tucked his note into the pocket on his shirt after I slipped my arms in and buttoned it up, but I didn’t have a reason not to add it to the wall with the others.
I forgot all about the note as he placed the food between us. His head bobbed—initiating ladies first—and his hair fell into his pretty eyes.
Not a fruit person?
“Fruit is okay.”
When I didn’t eat, he edged the tray closer, yet another note accompanying it.
What’s your favorite thing to eat?
I almost wanted to ask what was the point in telling him, feeling like I would never enjoy the earthy taste again, but I appreciated this man’s efforts to talk to me. To keep me sane.
“Anything with lentils,” I mumbled, not wanting to give the person watching tips on what my favorite foods were should he choose to poison me.
My shaky fingers reached for a slice of watermelon. The man in front of me wrapped his hand around mine, steadying me and brushing my skin in a way that pacified me.
I smiled, this one feeling more real as our eyes met, and I fed myself.
Undignified, and with a very full mouth, as this dry fruit tasted better than expected, having not eaten for who knew how long, I asked, “What’s your name?”
He wiped his fingers, ridding any proof that he had joined me for the most unconventional dinner date.
