Desperation
Cold cycled back in. She began to shiver again at the temperature of her cell dropped. She curled in on herself as best as she could, trying not to cry out from the pain movement brought to her. Her body had been beaten so many times, by fists and feet and metal. She didn’t know how long she had been trapped here. The memory of being electrocuted into unconsciousness was a distant one, pushed away by brutal beatings, interrogations, and various torments. The cell always ranged from too hot to too cold, never settling to a comfortable temperature except when he visited. She couldn’t even take comfort in those rare times, because his cruelty was the worst.
She twisted weakly on the floor, longing for the comfort of something soft beneath her bruised and lacerated body, instead of the cold concrete. Longed for the bindings on her wrists and ankles to be removed, so the gouges there could finally begin to heal and stop itching and burning so badly. Wished for the gag to be removed, so she could breath normally and move her jaw to ease the cramping from being held in one position for so long. She wished she could see something, and wished her hearing wasn’t compromised by the heavy material covering her head at all times.
She hurt. Her body ached from near endless abuse. She was exhausted but could almost never sleep. Hungry, but was only offered food to keep her alive. Thirsty, but only offered water for the same reason. She longed for comforts she could not have. Longed for mercy that she could not ask for.
Sometimes, she just wished they would kill her and be done.
A door clanged. She jolted, fearful that they were coming for her. Instead, there were voices outside, in the large room her cell was connected to. She heard Ross. And then she heard another voice, one that made her stiffen with fear and also feel hopeful for, at the same time. Tony. Tony. It was Tony. She wanted to beg for help through her gag, but remained silent, out of fear that perhaps he was in on this. Perhaps he wanted this. She deserved it, didn’t she? He had no reason to help her. To trust her. She was a double agent, a backstabber, a traitor.
She stilled as he asked about her. Head tilted toward him. Ross answered. Liar!
His next words nearly made her hopeful. She was shaking again, trembling with anxiety and fear and being cold. Then he accepted Ross’s words, and she sagged back in defeat. Why would he help her, when she deserved all of this?
It went silent for awhile. She counted to 500 in her head. Then back down. Then did the same in Russian. And the next language. It was how she passed the time in between being dealt with.
Noise. People walking. Someone leaving.
Tentatre. Trentadue.
Silence again.
Less long this time. Footsteps outside her cell. “Good evening, Miss Romanoff,” a man’s voice said. She recognized it as the agent she had nicknamed Bull. He felt like a wall of muscles. She had kicked him at the beginning, in an effort to escape. In the end, he had charged her down and beat her viciously until she lost consciousness. The other time, during one of the first times they had removed the gag to try and feed her, she bit off a man’s finger. They had beat her unconscious again. After that, they had starved her until she could no longer think coherently, giving her water so sparingly that each tiny amount she was given did nothing to ease the constant dryness of her mouth and throat.
She didn’t know how long she had been here, but she knew even if they removed her bonds, she would not be escaping. She barely had the strength to roll herself onto her side. Prolonged starvation, dehydration, beatings, and being bound and unable to move had taken its toll on her body. She was weak and thin, with muscles atrophying from both the starvation and inability to move.
Chains rattled loudly and she cringed, recoiling in panic. Her arms were wrenched over her head and she writhed in pain as she was hauled into the air by her bound wrists, dangling just off the ground. Her shoulders and arms cried out in pain, and she shuddered, knowing what was to come.
Arms above her head. Ankles tied to the floor, preventing her from kicking out while she was hanging off the ground by her wrists.
Part of her wanted to plead for mercy, to beg them to stop and let her rest. She was never given a chance to heal. No chance for broken bones to mend. The first hit landed in her ribs, and she seized in pain. Another struck her directly in her stomach, and she dry heaved uselessly into her gag. Ribs, hips, chest, cheek. A hand tightened around her throat and she choked, writhing in the air like a dying fish.
She gasped when it let go. Then she trembled desperately in the freezing air, her thin clothing doing nothing to protect her from the cold or the pain as she heard footsteps all around.
“Christ. I think it’s shower time for the lady,” a nasally voice mocked. She couldn’t help the flinch. She had not had a shower since she had come in, and her body was practically crusted over with dried blood and sweat. No doubt it must reek, although she didn’t notice the smell anymore since she had been in it so long.
Chains rattled. She yelped as she fell to the ground, crumbling uselessly when her feet hit the floor, unable to hold her own weight. She heard laughter. Her wrists were grabbed, and she was being dragged outside her cell, also for the first time. Other than the two escape attempts, she had never been brought outside before for anything. At least it was warmer out there than in the cell. They dragged her for what felt like hours, likely just a sensation caused by her aching, weakened body being jolted across the floor. Then they dropped her, and a boot on her chest pinned her face up on the floor.
“Might want to hold your breath a little bit, darling,” a voice mocked.
She tried. Someone kicked her in the side and she gasped just as a jet spray of icy water came streaming all over her. She writhed desperately, trying to get away from the freezing water as it soaked her instantly, almost forgetting all the pains in her body. The boot kept her down, and she understood now what the man meant by holding her breath.
The sack on her head got soaked, pressing down against her mouth. Her desperate gasps soon became coughing and sputtering as water flooded into her nose and mouth, and even as she struggled, trying to breath, the soaked material still made her feel like she was drowning. No matter how she struggled she couldn’t get air in, and panic closed tight around her chest. Just as she was sure she would pass out, the water turned off. She wheezed and spluttered helplessly, struggling to breath through the drenched fabric.
Then something else was poured over her, everywhere except over her face. For a brief moment she was still, simply focused on catching her breath. Then her back arched off the ground and she lost control, letting out a wail as pure, agonizing pain burned across her body. It was so excruciating that she was sure they had actually set her on fire, and she was thrashing weakly on the floor as the smell of rubbing alcohol started to get through the hood to her nose. It burned. She burned. It was like being on fire, as the alcohol found all the many cuts and lacerations on her body and went straight into her.
It felt like hours, lying there on that floor with her body being burned alive by rubbing alcohol, which served a dual purpose of cleaning her wounds for the first time that she had been here. At some point the pain ebbed, and she trembled on the floor, motionless other than feeble twitches or spasms of her muscles.
“That’s much better,” a man said.
They dragged her back, throwing her roughly into her cell. Landing on her side, she simply lay there, so exhausted that she physically could not move. Cold, beaten, and alone, she passed out from complete exhaustion.
She woke to the clanging of the cell door. She stiffened nervously, awaiting a beating. Instead, she was rolled onto her back, and barely held back a strangled sound of pain from the movement. Someone straddled her, sitting just above her waste. She felt a hand pulling up at the hood, and relief washed through her. Desperate for anything to ease the dry ache in her throat. The cup was held to the edge of her mouth, and water trickled in around her gag. They had learned awhile ago not to remove it, as she certainly wasn’t afraid to bite. Now, though, she doubted she’d have the strength to do any damage. Even if she tried, they would still beat her.
The water was taken away much too soon. Whoever was on top of her stood, getting up and leaving. She simply lay there, too weak and feeble to move.
“You’ve seen better days,” Ross spoke.
She flinched violently, not having realized he was there. The temperature was comfortable, but she had been too distracted to notice. Her breathing picked up, panicked, because it was never good when he visited her. She tried to push herself backwards across the floor, away from his voice, but her body barely responded to her. So weak and useless.
“You should have seen the look of disgust on Stark’s face when I told him who you were,” Ross continued. “Quite pathetic. Stark doesn’t want you. Not even Rogers is coming for you. You betrayed your way through too many people,” the man sneered.
She tried not to flinch. Tried not to believe his words, because they were just words to hurt her. But part of her knew it was true. It had to be. She had betrayed and lied to so many people, it made sense no one would care. Just a traitor, a liar. A spy. A spy had no place in this world. It wasn’t the 90s or early 2000s anymore. She was useless. Worthless. Tears leaked out of her eyes in spite of herself. She felt some relief that he couldn’t see her face.
“Why protect them any more? Tell us where they are. I’ll get you a nice bed. The chains will come off. You can eat and drink and bathe. No more beatings,” he said almost kindly.
She hated herself for wanting to agree.
She wanted her suffering to end. But she shuddered, closed her eyes and shook her head.
“That’s too bad.”
His voice was instantly cold.
A boot on her arms pressed them against the floor. A hand on her bound wrists. Another found its way around her left arm, just above the boot holding her down. She knew what was going to happen before it happened, but still couldn’t quite prepare herself for it. Her attacker wrenched on her arm, boot still pressing her upper arm solidly against the floor. A bone in her lower arm – her radius, she thought – snapped like a tree branch. A cold feeling ripped through her, followed by a powerful wave of nausea. And then the pain hit, and she howled agonizingly around the gag still blocking her mouth.
The weight was gone, and she tried to curl in on herself, protecting her broken arm. She broke into a cold sweat, trembling harder as shock raced through her. Chains rattled.
No!
Her arms were wrenched violently over her head, and for the second time, she howled from pain as her broken arm jerked painfully, taking her weight. She tried to pull with her right arm, to take as much weight as possible on that side, but was too weak to hold herself up.
Belatedly she realized pained whimpers were escaping her with every breath, but couldn’t find it in herself to stop them.
“I’ll give you a couple more weeks to change your mind,” Ross said, and she heard his footsteps as he left the cell, leaving her to her agony. But she was not alone.
A hand found its way up her shirt. A knife dug into the skin over her ribs. Cut. Again. Again. She trembled with pain, struggling to hold back her cries. Last time they had left 30 cuts. Shallow, small cuts all over her torso. This time she could feel the cuts were deeper. Blood was dribbling out of her wounds, tickling her skin. She heard a cry and made herself believe it wasn’t from her. Cut. Cut. Cut.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
She passed out at 46.