wall, ribs sticking out like a long decayed skeleton. Face creased, Strong Jaw released both of his hands to gift Prisoner Twenty-Two with hard, sharp strikes to his face and torso. Prisoner Twenty-Two moaned, and the occasional cough forced its way through his mouth when a blow found a vulnerable floating rib.
Nobody said a word.
Face impassive, Prisoner Twenty-Four watched. On the bed, Prisoner Twenty-One’s body shook silently. A final blow to the face crumpled Prisoner Twenty-Two’s orbital socket, and his eye drooped. Standing over the beaten man, breaths coming in short spurts, Strong Jaw looked around the cell with a wrinkled nose before his face slid back into blankness.
Outside the cell, the two thick-necked sidekicks wore identical smirks. After locking the door, the trio left, Strong Jaw leading with long strides, nothing left behind but a spreading pool of blood and the labored breaths of punctured lungs.
Three minutes - that’s how long it was supposed to last – a minute a word. What could it be that Prisoner Twenty-Two so desperately wanted to say? Not that he blamed the man. Sometimes, he himself wanted to scream random words into the night, whatever came to mind, and then await his death at the hands of the guards, but it took courage to do that.
He sat on the floor, upper back against the bottom bunk. With Prisoner Twenty-Two beaten into unconsciousness, the keeping of time fell to him. He put his hand to the iron bars and spelled out a beat. Isaiah? No. Isaac? Maybe. It sounded right. He chewed on the name. It tasted familiar on his tongue. Isaac Coel. Yes, that was it. A name makes the man, or maybe the man makes the name. It didn’t matter, because he knew his.
He licked his lips, the bottom one a spider web of bloody cracks. A cup of water will come with the breakfast they give him, hopefully. Sometimes they forget. Maybe they did it purposely, but life was unfair and his greatest complaint was that it was never unfair in his favor.
Strong Jaw’s face crammed itself against the bars, startling Isaac to the back of the cell. “Thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you?”
Isaac stared past him. Prisoner Twenty-Two had begun convulsing.
“No, I remember. You’re due tomorrow, aren’t you? How many words you saved up so far, ten, eleven?”
A shrug. Isaac’s hand groped an object in the dirt, released it.
“It’s at least ten. Bet my life on it. What’s it going to be tomorrow, another three, maybe four if you’re brave? But no,” Strong Jaw’s teeth took on a rictus of a grin, “I beat the brave outta you last time, didn’t I? What are you going to do with those words of yours, choke on them?”
His cellmate woke, coughed. Prisoner Twenty-Two’s convulsions worsened.
“Nobody’s ever made it past fifteen, and you’re sure as hell not going to be the first. Tomorrow, you best say the words you have to say, or you best do like your buddy over there and decide that saving ain’t worth it, because if you decide to save any more, I’m going to kill you.” By now, Strong Jaw’s eyes looked to be popping through the bars, bulging as the pressure increased. “You want to waste one of your words right now? Maybe two of them? Say it. I know you want to. Just two little words. Spit them out. Go on, do it!”
Prisoner Twenty-Two fell still. Isaac looked at the floor.
“Shame.” Strong Jaw stepped back and held a cup in front of Isaac’s cell. “Thirsty?”
Isaac turned his face. He knew the games of Whispers too well.
The water splattered. Isaac resisted the urge to lick it up.
“Get some rest.” Strong Jaw dropped the cup to the floor. “Tomorrow’s your big day . . .”
Isaac buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, he but relinquished neither sound nor tear. Did he even know how to cry anymore? Where had his compassion gone, his goodness? But Isaac knew. Whispers had devoured it, torn it apart and brought him low, laughing as he struggled to lick up the few crumbs of humanity he’d once worn with pride. His mentor would be ashamed.
Isaac was ten again, sitting in a patch of foot-sucking mud disguised as a front yard, fresh tears streaking his face like steam in a glass teakettle. His father had sent him out here, and through a small hole in the front window, he could hear his parents yelling. “What are we supposed to do with him!”