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It's been getting foggier lately. Dulled senses were all they could remember anyway, but something about the cold stones and ever-present headache made for fleeting memories and a head stuffed full of cotton. Four identical walls and a sturdy iron door were the only things he could remember.
Another line is carved into the stone as the Vocalist gathers his bearings. They use a grimy nail to add another slim whit mark into the stone. One of many adding up across the surfaces available. Another scar across the flesh that was confined there. They aren'tt present enough to truly have confirmation that a day has passed; they used to be sure. Years and years ago, when their hair was shorter and things used to make sense. They aim to make a mark every time they wake up. Every sleepless night works with the hours of lost time to hopefully have a balanced count.
They used to get beaten for their marks. They used to get screamed at by the guards; that was before they remembered how to speak their native tongue. They must have given up trying to stop them.
The floor is dark with dried blood. That means it must be a new week. The blood always appears at the start of a new week. They can't remember why. Their chest burns deeply as they wake. Another successful performance, they assume.
The vocalist sits on the solid bed. They stare through the small barred window on his cell door. A hall, lit by a single white candle. The flame flickers and dances in the chilly hat passes through the outside jail They vaguely remember a time when they were allowed their own candle in their room.. A slight golden glow o interrupt hte constant cold darkness they sat in, but it was taken from them after using it to burn themselves one too man times.
Its incredibly maddening to remain in the cell. The vocalist knows how easily they could have lost their sanity if it werent for their friend. It's quiet in the cell as well. If they strain their ears and listen closely, sometimes they can hear distant speaking. Voices and music. They can't identify the source. Maybe their family. But they are a sign that there are other people alive.
The most painful torture that they're faced with is the loneliness. Not the hunger deep in their stomach or the cold that resides in their bones. The stabbing sensation in their chest, orr rthe lingering feelings of forgotten reconditioning. But the silence of loneliness. They knew their family was there. In cells similar to this one, provably. They even know they've seen them. Not that they were allowed to keep those memories.
When the loneliness started to really itch, that was when they would dare reach beneath the bed, a narrow cutout in the mattress. The room where his only companion resided. Fingers brushed fraying fabric, the slight weight of a small body. the gentleman, his gentleman.
Drawing the dummy into his arms, he clutched it the way a mother holds her child. They rocked it gently in the dim candlelight. It's hard to make out his features, but the vocalist knew that the gentleman was smiling back at them with the same soft expression his face always held. The knot in their chest loosened as he whispered soft assurances and words to his child.
The silence, unfortunately, remained. Frustrating the vocalist slightly. It seemed that the gentleman wasn't feeling very talkative tonight. Choosing to instead stare upward with glassy, unblinking eyes.
That was fine. Silence with his friend is better than silence alone. The gift of being able to hold the gentleman was all they could ask for. To remember they were not and would not be entirely alone. Caring for the gentleman, their friend, their child, was the only purpose that remained a constant. That was not stripped from them or beaten from their mind.
On certainnightss the two would talk for hours. Sometimes the gentleman would speak back. The small thing had so many insightful things to say, though he was not always kind. It's ok. He was often correct. The vocalist was a coward; the gentlemen did have good suggestions. Sometimes they would get a punishment for their conversations, but it didn't matter to them. Pain was better than the ache of emptiness.
Now he rocked the doll. Dull and slow. Back turned to the door, hunched over the small thing. Making gentle rhythmic movement, whispering every thought that pressed against their soul. Secrets and songs, the fragments of memory they were granted.
And with the gentleman in their arms, the loneliness was defeated. The silence didn't seem so cruel.