Dreams and Whispers
Sometimes he dreams of screaming and sickly colored lights. It seems like it should be important; that this dream that will not leave him alone should mean something to him. But he doesn’t understand it. He cannot remember anything like it, and he doesn’t understand why something inside him twists painfully every time he hears that scream. He thinks it might be sadness. He ignores it.
Sometimes he hears whispers. He can never quite make out what they say, but he knows that they are there, creating a persistent susurrus in the background. It does not bother him. He knows that he isn't mad. They are comforting, in a strange way, because he knows that they cannot hurt him. And sometimes, as he lies in the dusty darkness of his cupboard, surrounded with the smell of stale blood, he smiles, because he is never really alone. And he knows that he will not be broken by the solitude his captors have enforced upon him.
He is a quiet child. He has no one to talk to. He can’t remember ever leaving this house. He has memorized every scratch and blemish in the wood inside his cupboard. There are exactly twenty-six knots visible in the wood of the cupboard door. Sometimes he thinks that he should make the effort to mark this place as his, as small and pathetic as it is. But no, doing so would be admitting defeat. It would be an acceptance of what his jailors have decided will be his lot in life. So his cupboard remains unmarked, except for dry dark stains of his blood that all of the Horse’s frantic scrubbings have been unable to remove. He watches her sometimes, just to see the frustration in her eyes, the tiniest bit of defeat.
By the time he is three they realize that he could be useful for unpaid labor. They don’t trust him with their food, yet, so is is thrown into the back garden (where the neighbors cannot see him) and is told to start weeding. It is the first time he can remember being outside. He does not recognize the majority of the plants, but since Horse has never been one for explanations he decides to try his best to rip out the plants that are not lined up in neat orderly rows. Horse had not given him any gloves, or water, so by the time he is done his hands are dirty and bloody and his vision is going black at the edges.
Horse comes outside, looks at him a moment, then sprays him down with the water hose. It is degrading, but what that they do to him isn’t? It cools down his burning skin and he gets to swallow a few mouthfuls of the precious water by the end of it. His oversized clothes hang heavily off his too-small frame, dripping steadily onto the concrete porch.
“You’d better not get the floors wet, boy.” Horse tsk’s and goes back inside.
J thinks that one day he might enjoy ripping out that tongue of hers, if it didn’t mean that he would have to touch her.