Page 3 of Calico Descending

Breath flutters in and out of my lungs, and I close my eyes, willing myself to calm down.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I reopen my eyes and find he still hasn’t emerged from his hiding. Not that he has to hide from me. The females in here are given slightly more than the males, but certainly not as much food as what makes up the weight of this tray.

I’m not exactly a threat, physically.

“Hello?” I cringe at the wobbly tone in my voice, which makes me sound like a scared little girl. I’m one of few females who’ve lasted four years here, one of only a handful who’ve survived their experiments, which is probably why I’ve been assigned to this one. In some ways, I’m the female version of him. “I’ve brought you some food. A gift.”

No movement. No sound.

Over my shoulder, I look back over to where Medusa continues to watch and shrug. “Are you sure he’s even in here?”

Something cold prickles the back of my neck, sending goosebumps across my flesh, and I slowly turn back around to find the shadows have moved. A monstrous figure stands before me, perhaps six and a half feet in height, with long cords of muscle and thick biceps that I imagine have crushed a number of skulls. His naked chest bears the markings of fights and poorly stitched wounds that stretch in disfigured ways. A fighter, to the death. And his build is unnatural for this place that starves its prisoners.

A helmet covers his head, reminding me of something out of the Greek warrior books my mother used to read to us as children. Cast in iron, it covers his face completely, offering nothing more than holes for his eyes, nose, and mouth.

He hardly looks human.

Recalling the order not to look him in the eye, I lower my gaze, momentarily distracted by his meaty thighs that taper down to muscular calves and long, but sturdy, feet. The boys here are thin and tenuous, and I’ve never seen one so brawny and robust.

Healthy.

Masculine scents linger on the air, sweaty and metallic—ones that hit the back of my throat and water my mouth on instinct. It’s a smell I’ve been conditioned to crave as much as food. One I smell on my uniforms and in my bedsheets, and the weight of it, bearing down on me, is more than I can stand right now. I swallow back the saliva and clear my throat. “Food. For you.”

He steps forward, and in spite of the instruction given to me by Medusa, I step back.

“Don’t move!” Medusa’s whispered voice is more of a raspy croak.

Halting, I keep my eyes glued to the floor, the dishes rattling so hard, the lid comes off the plate on the tray, crashing to the floor where it spins like a wobbly top. Clamping my eyes, I shudder at the clatter it makes.

The tray flies out of my hand, knocked away by a hard force, and my eyelids shoot open to find the manbeast looking right at me. Though I can’t see his expression through the mask, the tight clench of his fists tells me he’s pissed. At me?

Panic bubbles in my chest, and I wonder if he’ll slam that fist square in my face. If I’m lucky it’ll knock me to death before he decides to rape me.

Taking another step toward me, he seems to be approaching with caution, and when the cold metal of his helmet hits my throat, I can practically hear my pulse hammering through my veins. They smell fear. I know that. Some say it’s as much a part of their diet as the dead carcasses they feed on--another rumor. Of course, if their lips are sewn shut, that doesn’t make any sense, I suppose.

I can’t let him know he terrifies me, or it’ll incite him to provoke a steady stream of fear, like an addiction. Lifting my chin, I grind my jaw, waiting for him to finish smelling me. When he pulls away, I do exactly as I’m not supposed to, and look him square in the eyes.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper, but the gulp I swallow back betrays those soft and shallow words.

Before I can so much as blink, a thick palm grips my throat, sending me flying backward, until the concrete wall slams against my spine, shooting lightning bolts behind my shuttered lids. While held just up off the floor, I scratch at his hand that crushes my neck, trying to release the oxygen that lies trapped beneath it. Stars float before my eyes, the urge to breathe tugging at my chest for one sip of air. His eyes don’t so much as blink behind that iron mask, as he watches me suffocate.

“Valdys …” I can hardly push the words past his throttling. “Please.”

He finally blinks and releases my throat.

The floor crashes against my knees when I crumple, coughing and wheezing to catch my breath. I suck the air into my lungs, desperate to replenish the lost oxygen, and cough again.

Valdys retreats back into the shadows of the room, and I steal the opportunity to crawl toward the door.

“Let me … out! Let me out!” I slow my hard panting breaths to keep from passing out and rub my neck where the phantom sensation of his grip still lingers.

The door clicks, and I push up from the floor, not bothering to look at Medusa for fear she might see the elation across my face of knowing I failed.

Once back inside the elevator, Medusa presses the button to the main floor, which is about six stories above where we are, and for the first time in the last three minutes, I can breathe normally again.

She crosses her arms, and in the reflection, I notice a smug sort of smile. “I’ll report back to the doctor with the results.” Perhaps she gets something out of failed interactions. A pat on the back. A turkey leg. Permission to turn something to stone. “He’ll be quite pleased.”

At that, I whip around to face her, all the confusion pouring out through my frown. “Pleased? I failed.”

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