Page 8 of Ronan

Pain rockets through my brain as I sit, the throbbing in my forehead growing its own pulse. Gingerly, I touch the area, wincing when I find the swollen lump crusted with dried blood. Finding myself at the wrong end of a baseball bat means it’s inevitable that I’m purple and bloody, and I try not to think about the stained-glass bruising that decorates my skin. My glasses slip on my nose, the frames a small comfort in my panic, and I breathe a sigh of relief that they aren’t broken.

Sensitivity makes my eyes flutter as I study the small room. The uncomfortable cot has a mattress so thin, the metal-woven support underneath stabs me through the stuffing, and a grimy bucket rests in the corner. I retch at the liquid-splashed rust, refusing to think about its prior uses. A tray waits near the door with a bottle of water and a tiny, dried-out piece of bread more likely to crack my teeth than provide nourishment.

I test my balance as I stand, wobbling only a little as I reach for the door and attempt to twist the knob. It’s locked, of course, but I’d be a fool not to try. A rectangular window above the cot offers the only other possible escape, and I drag my fingers across the edges, searching for a latch or catch in the dusty wood. At five foot eleven, I’m not a small man, but the nomadic lifestyle keeps me lean, and my frame is narrow. If I rotate my shoulders the right way, I bet I could…

“Window won’t open.” I spin around, noticing an almost invisible peephole in the dark wood of the door, and I flip it off, waving my middle finger with a flourish. A soft laugh confirms the woman is watching me from the other side.

“Yeah, well,” I croak, my throat scratchy and raw, “I’d be stupid not to try.”

“Considering your position inside that cell, your stupidity is a given.” There’s a hint of familiarity in her voice, and I realize she’s the one responsible for the watercolor of blood on my forehead. The scene replays in my mind as a shiver works my spine, remembering the thud of the metal against my skull.

Dread hits me in a punch as I force myself to ask the question. “Where’s my dog?” Fear squeezes at my chestwhen she doesn’t respond, breath becoming a chore as I try to fill my lungs. “Please?” It’s a shaky whisper, a pathetic sound that exposes my vulnerability, but maintaining my cool no longer matters.

She’s all I have.

Her scoff is loud enough to carry through the door, and I can imagine the annoyed way she rolls her eyes. “Your dog is fine. She’s in a cage outside. Couldn’t have her running around biting everyone, y’know?”

“What did you expect her to do, sit by and cheer you on while you abducted me?” It’s a rhetorical question, one she chooses to ignore as I chew on the inside of my cheek, “Can I have her?”

She’s quiet for a stretch, and my arms cross and uncross as my foot kicks restlessly against the ground. “Gonna clean up after her?”

“Yes, of course,” I say, before she even finishes speaking.

A swish of fabric makes me imagine her narrow shoulders shrugging on the other side. “Saves me from having to take care of her.” Footsteps move away from my door before I remember the man from the trees.

“Wait!” I shout, and she pauses. “August. I need to speak to August.”

The steps back towards my door are harder, more aggressive this time as they stomp against the floor. “How do you know August?”

“He…” I realize I should choose my words carefully before I get him thrown into a cage with me. “When I was hiding in the woods, he spoke to me. I never responded, but he said to find him if I needed help.”

Another tense moment of silence passes. “What sort of twisted reality is this, where the prisoner gets to make all these demands? First your dog, now the medic?”

Medic?

“Just… please?” It’s a weak argument, but the pounding in my head is getting worse and my thoughts are too cloudy to communicate.

The sound of another annoyed grunt echoes in the hallway before her footsteps trail off, this time dragging, almost lazy. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Relief has me sinking onto the cot, exhaustion making the paper-thin mattress seem soft as a cloud. I lean against the wall, knowing if I lay down, I’ll likely fall asleep. Even though I’ve determined I’m not in immediate danger, I need to keep my wits sharp.

I tilt my ear towards the window, listening for clues about what’s happening outside my little six by six room, but the only noises that reach me are distant, muffled conversations and the nondescript sounds of life beyond these walls. Nothing stands out or gives me any insight into my captors.

My head hits the wall with a quiet thud, and the tiny impact is enough to force my eyelids shut.Concussion, I remind myself,no sleeping. The devil on my shoulder tells me I’ve already slept and assures me brain damage is unlikely. Exhaustion overrules my internal warnings against dropping my guard, and soon my body is slumping, twitching limbs heavy with sleep.

The twisting doorknob jolts me awake and I gasp as I clutch my chest, unconvinced my heart didn’t just give up on me. A wiggly blur of fur launches onto my lap, a whirlwind of frantic paws and a flapping tongue, almosttumbling to the floor in her excitement. Tears dial my headache up by a few more notches, but I don’t care as I wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her coat.

“Hey, girl,” I choke, shoving my glasses on top of my head and furiously wiping my eyes. “You’re so brave… so brave, but so fucking stupid. I thought they’d…”

“She’s been well taken care of,” a surprisingly gentle man’s voice says, and I pull back, blinking, staring at the fuzzy blob of a person in front of me. When my glasses are back in place, I narrow my eyes at the man that stands just inside the door.

In his thirties, he’s around my height but built thicker, with defined muscles in his arms and chest. It’s obvious he puts effort into his body, although the fair tone of his skin leads me to believe he spends most of his time indoors.

Exercise, then, and not fighting for his life.

What a luxury.

Dirty blonde hair waves on top of his head, and his eyes are kind, which makes me incredibly suspicious. “Who are you?” I ask, tightening my grip on Boomerang as she leaves a trail of slobber along my cheek.

---