Incarceration

 

My weary, throbbing, purple eyes prised themselves open to watch the last of the light disappear from the dark, dingy and dirty cell that was swinging by upside down like I was an ugly, bruised pendulum in a grandfather clock. I faded out.

That time I awoke with a jolt of pain. I found I was suspended with a long indistinguishable line of thread or twine stretching up into the darkness of the ceiling. I could feel the numb, draining sensation where the blood had failed to reach either of my legs, but the pain of my face and my tiny body was screaming louder than that insignificant twinge in my legs. It was dark, very dark and I quickly found myself mumbling incantations through my cut, roughened lips, “Es casiento, nosowa, noctae.” Quickly my eyes flooded with a viscous, green, tar-like liquid which spread across my eyes like flames licking at a hay bale.

Sight was reassuring. Being alone in the pale green light was better than being alone in the cold, sinister darkness, though being alone was being alone.

The chatter of half-words and monstrous grunts followed by the ravenous, breathless guzzling of food and thoughtless consumption of ale swarmed me of the evenings; the cold, deafeningly lonely evenings.

This wasn't made better by the daytimes, when the sun would spitefully heat all the blood, bodies and other fluids until they clung clammily to the air like a cloud of putrid, rotting microscopic flies dancing around me and mixing with my sweat thus clinging to me as well as the air forcing all sorts of sickening lonely thoughts to explode in my mind.

But at least day time was quiet and night time was cool and less pungent, that was relieving: I took all the relief and comfort I could in that dank prison cell; swallowing it like a Terrofex beast that roamed the outlands in the west.

I'd been here less than two months but more than one... I'd stopped trying to count the time passing 'cause it made me ever more aware of the passing of night and beginning of the day. Besides, I didn't know what I was counting to.

I'm glad I don't eat, or to put that correctly I don't need to eat; It's a useful trait of a fairy, "Food for pleasure not for living." That's what I remember people saying. We lived off of the air y'see, the cleaner the air the longer and more actively we lived which is why all the towns and villages were created in such seemingly bizarre places; most being formed up high like on the mountains or on great canyon's over-looking nothing but arid desert, I've been to them all and not one is located somewhere dirty, wet and unclean: Always clean and fresh.

Well, I was glad for not needing to eat because upon bravely gathering courage to examine another member of the torturous room I found myself staring at the bones of a man - or a woman - slouched against the cell wall, the giant black skeletal hands clutching an imaginary stomach that was really just an empty gap between the weathered rib cage and the tattered rags that fit loosely around the waistline of the unfortunate creature. I know it was wrong and detestable and possibly evil... But that night I took inspiration from that skeleton - To succeed where it had failed and defeat my captors before they defeated me.

The End

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