Nothing
Previous - this entry written on August 08, 2002 at 4:56 am - Next


Do you remember that tiny room? I'm sure you do... it would be hard to forget the loneliness, the cold floor, the pathetically eager look you'd get on your face each time the door opened, the feel of your own hands - paws - rubbing at your face, scratching pleadingly at the door, the way you curled up on the thin blanket or huddled in a corner, trying to sleep, praying you'd wake up and it would just be a bad dream... yeah, you remember that room.

Three versions of it exist: the almost-kind one, where there are at times other slaves, where you are fed regularly, taken out for exercise, allowed to move around the cell; the middle ground, alone but well-fed and cared for, kept clean, knowing you'll be allowed out sooner or later; and the damp, frightening little cell at the end of the hall, the one with the triple-lock door, a little windowslot at the bottom that can be opened up for food, but only opens from the outside...

...there are rings set into the walls of this last room, lots of them, chains dangling from some, others rusted nearly away... bloodstains on the walls, the floor... a drain in one corner because no one wants to bother letting you out, a trickle of water that runs down one wall to puddle near the drain, rock wall worn smooth not just by the water but by goddess-knows-how-many hands and tongues scraping at it, trying to catch up as many of the cool droplets as possible...

This room is at the end of a long hall of cells; most of them are in better repair, some even have cots, or thick foam mattress pads... many only have a lock for appearances. The door to this room is small, half-hidden by shadows and old, broken tools that have been tossed down here until someone repairs or removes them. Almost no light. Almost no sound.

The other slaves all know this room is here; many of them have heard stories of it, seen the shattered, mute creatures that have been released from it, seen the terror in their eyes, the hunger drawing skin painfully tight over brittle bones, the desperation to please, to serve, to be used well, used up, anything as long as they don't have to go back to that tiny room.

There are even fainter whispers of a second room, one without even a normal door... tales of sobs heard down at the end of the corridor where there are only stone walls and dust, cabinets and cupboards full of forgotten toys... it's said that behind a cabinet, locked, the key long lost, there is one other door.

That someone remains in that room.

That the Lady knows of it, makes sure that somehow, food and water get into the room. Food. Water. Nothing else. No praise, no punishment... no affection, no anger... no human contact at all. Nothing to remind the creature locked away there that once, he was human.

There are rumors of that creature, as well. They say that once, he was the Lady's favored pet. Once, he wore fine clothing, sat at her side, ate from her plate, she shared everything with him. The slaves ask each other in whispers what he might have done, what ANYONE could do, to deserve such a fate.

Reassuring each other that it can't possibly be true; no one who had the Lady's favor could displease her so greatly, she would never give up a slave to such a horrible end, there's no door, no long-locked room, no slave shut away so long he's forgotten words, forgotten light, forgotten everything but tears and the eyes that looked at him with betrayal and pain and anger so pure he couldn't bear the sight of them for more than a moment.

Surely, no one could exist like that.

Of course it's all legend, stories told to frighten new slaves.

No one could earn that fate.

...no one...

...his name is Nothing, he remembers that word, knows it because sometimes the tinny speaker set high up in the wall crackles, words spitting out, memory-swords cutting deep into what remains of his broken spirit. His name is Nothing. He failed her.

He remembers her eyes, he remembers her voice, he remembers that he is a failure, he is Nothing. He is not allowed to kill himself, not allowed to die. He is not allowed to serve, not allowed to live.

He cries, because once his tears were pleasing. Some half-forgotten instinct keeps him sobbing, face lifted to the barest slit of a window and the faint gleam of a single skitterish camera, arms raised in supplication he no longer understands...

...and she watches...

...not always... sometimes she forgets him for days. Sometimes she watches him every night for a month.

She does remember him, mostly.

She remembers his name.

Nothing.

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