Barred - 1. His Tale

What day is it tomorrow? Thursday. No … Friday? … Wait, wasn't it a Sunday when this all started? Can't be bothered to work backwards. Too long ago. Makes my head hurt for no purpose. What's the point in knowing what day it is? Doesn't make any difference. What you expecting, you stupid fucker? Fish on Friday? A Sunday roast?

[Sigh]

Can't see my calendar marks in the dark. Don't even know which wall they're on, hardly, in this all-enveloping blackness. Can't even see the measly, barred excuse for a window. Not surpising really, given how high up it is. And, it doesn't exactly give a view of the sky. Another sodding stone wall, more like. Dingy grey murk is the new sunlight. Almost forgotten what yellow is. Colour in general. Black is the absence of colour – remember that from school.

[Sigh]

Hang on … thought there was to be no more sighing? Doesn't help, does it? Why waste energy on something inessential? … So many other marks, scratches, pleas, last testaments. Those are the worst – make me cry every time. Maybe there'll be one from me? Why though? Another poor, unknown fucker. God, it's so easy to feel forgotten. Even during the day – food and water grudgingly pushed through the grate. Not a word. Ever. They probably call it a de-personalisation strategy or something. … Wish they'd take the slop bucket away. When was it last done? Dunno. The stink has an almost three-dimensional quality to it. Rank isn't the word.

… What was that? Not the fucking rats again. How they even get in, beats me. … No, more like a cockroach – that skittering noise they make. Eugh! Stay away from me, you bastards. Fuck, one just ran across my foot. … And there's more of them. The fuckers can move so fast. Noises everywhere. Are there, though?

Can't trust my ears any more. Silence does that to you – almost as if the mind's trying to fill the vacuum. It only needs to hear one genuine sound and bingo! An orchestra. Well, don't bother. Thank you. Got enough noise going on in my head, without any assistance.

Thoughts of my mother, for one. How you managing, Mum? Sorry. Can't have been much fun watching me being dragged away. Fucking bastard police. Got nothing better to do obviously. See, that's what happens when you have a pervert for a son. An abomination. Not that you ever knew, not consciously, anyway. As good a case of turning a maternal blind eye as I've ever known. Bless you, Mum.

Trust it doesn't come back to haunt you. Have you found a job yet? Hope so, otherwise how're you gonna survive? Though, if those bastards have branded you with my mark, my filth, then you'll be having trouble. Nobody'll want to know you, never mind pay you good money in our upstanding, law-abiding neighbourhood. Craven lickspittles, the lot of them. Lickspittle … like that word. So mediaeval, so descriptive. And so appropriate. … How about that bloke next door? Don't let him take advantage, just because he can now. You can do better than that – fat, greasy slob that he is. And don't tell me he'll change. He won't.

You're so far away, dear Mother. Did they tell you anything when they snatched me? Heard your voice, crying after me. You cared. Hope you didn't tackle the bastards yourself. That would've been unwise. Sometimes, they don't know where the cargo is going themselves. Shouldn't stop them from telling you aftewards, though. Let me go, Mum. Forget me – it'll be for the best. …

Hope it's not one of those nights when the walls crowd me, pushing and shoving in their eagerness to surround me, wanting to almost press me flat. When the darkness lies on me like a lover, embracing me tight. A lover who would like to turn murderous, trying to suffocate me with his dark, velvety hands over my mouth and nose.

So why think of it, you stupid arse? Nothing more likely to guarantee a repeat showing. Think of something else, anything, in fact. The last time that claustrophobia happened, you screamed yourself hoarse. Did anyone come? Care? Even give a fuck? Course they didn't. Probably laughed their heads off in their plush, airy office, wherever it is. Haven't been able to find the camera, or the audio feed. Doesn't mean they don't exist. Just means the bastards are good at hiding them.

Owh! What now? Something else fancy a bite? Surely it could find something tastier elsewhere? My leg hasn't got much meat on it now. … Was it my leg? Yes? … No. Perhaps … This absence of things, of sensations, confuses me. Almost every night. Sometimes my brain tricks me, making me seemingly float above my body, looking down. Only, there's almost nothing to see. Just an indistinct outline, a two-dimensional sketch. … Now feeling my body, touching, caressing every single part of it – toes, chin, arse, elbows. Seeking confirmation of my existence, my corporeal being. Sodding fleas certainly seem to find me real – sucking what's left of my lifeblood.

Sucking … That's what you, my love, do … Did. No, do so well. My cock salutes you. Or it would if it had any life left in it. What's the point? … Come on! Don't give up hope. Never give up hope. … Who are you kidding, love? Me, your ex-lover, here for eternity. So it seems. Or death. Whichever. Hope? Hnh. Wait … Did they get you as well, my sweet? Are you here? Maybe you're next door to me? … No. No, no. My nights are already so full of tantalising dreams, fantasies, hallucinations, without adding you in. No cum left. No hard-ons. No signs of life in the nether regions. Food – there's something to fantasise about. Or not. Unfortunately, hunger isn't appeased with a phantasmagoria of culinary delights, however Technicolor they are.

Meanwhile, back to you, my love. Are you out and about, free as a bird, fucking someone cute? Having fun, sex-filled nights, oblivious to me, your one-time lover, and my disappearance? Jealous? Me? No, not really. What's there to be jealous about? Either you're in this bastard place, or you're not. If you're still out in the wicked world, good luck to you. Don't waste time grieving for this shadow, this ghost. This fucking bag of bones that used to be me.

See, now you've made me cry. That can't be good. What's the point of tears if no-one can see them? Not even me. Better lick them up. Salt's too precious to go to waste. There you go. I'm real – proof positive. I ooze once in a while. Touch and taste. Using two senses at the same time? Luxury. Overkill, almost.

What's happened to my body? My work of art. Those hours spent in the gym, the swimming pool, running. Ha! Why all the bother? Five strides in any fucking direction – that's my exercise. Strength and willpower permitting. And that doesn't happen very often. Must try harder. Must do something every day. Can't do exercise at night, though. Chances are the shit bucket would get knocked over – none too steady on my feet nowadays. The stink's bad enough when contained. Oh, and standing on cockroaches … Eugh!! Doesn't bear thinking about. Bare feet and cockroach – not a good combination. Did it one time – the sensation nearly made me vomit.

My hard-earned muscles and glutes have gone the way of my clothes. Rotting, wasting away. Feel my arse – two blades of bone with sod all covering them. My 'bubble butt'? Vanished. Be my teeth soon, and my hair's starting to fall out. My beautiful straw-coloured hair. You loved it, didn't you, my sweet? You were forever running your fingers through it. And the other place it appeared. You never allowed me to shave round my hole. Said my hair made it look even more inviting. Pretty, even. You romantic twat. Just as well they've hidden me here. What a sight you would behold now – me and my shrivelled, shrunken, ghost-like approximation of a human being. A husk that was once a man.

Your cock pierced my flesh with such joy, a burning, pulsing desire, elating in its intensity. Fuck, you drove me wild. And when you seeded me? Bliss. Such a feeling of fulfillment – it always sent me over the edge. Sometimes without any need for my trusty right hand. That always surprised you, didn't it, my love? Why, though? Was it really so unexpected? Surely you knew that me getting fucked by my beloved stallion was the high point of any day? Every day, wasn't it, pretty much. We only missed occasionally, and it gave you a wonderful excuse to make love to me so much longer the next time.

Past tense. All of it. You, our love, the sex … Accept it, you arsehole. Past … tense. No false hope, no stiff upper lip, no positive thinking. What's fucking positive about being here? Come on. If you were back out on the streets now, no-one would even notice you, apart from the odd side-long glance of pity. Me, who used to turn heads, male and female. No … Enjoy your new lover, my sweet. May you be happy. Can't imagine you being alone in your bed for long. Unlike yours truly. There again, where is my fucking bed? One threadbare blanket doesn't a bed make. It wouldn't start to cover two people, even snuggled up. We loved spooning, didn't we? A guarantee of a good night's sleep. Can hardly remember what sleep is. That sort of sleep, anyway.Your cock parked one way or another between my arse cheeks, sometimes actually in my hole. Loved that.

It's actually darker with my eyes open. How does that work? Just close them, and let yourself retreat back into your head. Ignore what's outside, the filth, the cold, the soul-destroying tedium, until it decides finally to cast you off. A release of sorts. A fitting end. Nobody'd miss me. What's to keep going for? … Black thoughts suitable for this impenetrable darkness. This nothingness. They're not new, of course. Fuck, no. A new morning brings hope? Don't make me laugh. What's another day in this hellhole? Same as the fucking last, and the one before. …

That some grey up there? Yes? Or it's my imagination. Again. … No, it's definitely grey. It'll be foodtime soon. Yay. Why do they have to give it out so fucking early on? Not as if they keep the supply coming. … Yep, here it comes. Usual dull, tasteless sludge. Better eat it? Suppose so. Wait! What's this? Something wrapped in foil. They giving out jokes with the crap now? New torture, new year, or something. OK, let's play along. What's mine? … Shit, that writing's familiar. It can't be …

You are not forgotten. Help is coming. Soon.