Page 7

Hope is dangerous.

He spent the first year of captivity with unyielding hope that he’d escape or be rescued.

Kara wouldn’t leave him here. He’d see her again and spend the rest of his life making up for all those missed chances where he could have told her how he felt.

He’d shove this whole miserable nightmare into that same box that holds the rest of his traumas and be done with it.

Wade hoped every day and every night. Each noise outside his cell door could have been her.

Every hallucination that came to him offering comfort could have been, too.

But hope is dangerous because there’s only so much of it he can muster before the crushing reality of defeat sends him even lower than he thought he could go.

It wasn’t until the third year that he started hallucinating.

Of course, he didn’t know that’s what he was doing at first. Thought his manifestations were really her until they never left.

She simply took up residence with him in whatever dank pit they shoved him into, and that’s how he knew he was losing it.

It was then that he truly began to crumble, after thinking himself on the verge of salvation so often, only to have it snatched away.

If he doesn’t hope, then he can keep going. Keep waking up every day, inhaling and exhaling. Keep enjoying his visits from the Kara in his head. He’s not crazy if he knows it’s a delusion.

Except this new Kara is ruining all he thought he knew and giving him a fresh slice of hope on a silver platter.

She keeps presenting him with a new plate of food, like he’s a picky cat that won’t touch his dish without an extra treat. Looks at him like her whole day depends on him eating it and sighs in defeat when he doesn’t.

The same sparse amount of delicate freckles as the real Kara dot her skin in all the right places and form those glorious constellations he spent his time counting late at night.

But then again, his ghosts are accurate replications, too.

He’s observant to a fault. Has been cataloging all the features of his favorite subject in painful detail since he met her all those years ago.

She sits in a chair in the corner, reading from a little book like they’re relaxing here on any normal day.

That isn’t something that’s happened before.

His captors don’t spend casual time with him, and especially not if he’s uncuffed.

Sometimes, her mouth moves and the rumble of her voice hits his damaged eardrums from across the room, giving him hope that his hearing is coming back.

It’s been…two days, maybe three, since he felt the overwhelming vibration of heavy bass that they stream into his cell.

Where do they find the batteries for that, he’s often wondered.

Do they send out supply runs just for torture necessities?

Maybe. Probably. He wished for the upbeat chorus of those cheery songs they started out with once the unrelenting pounding started shaking his skull instead.

Bass with no music is a terrible thing. Even with music he never liked it, but without it scrambles his brain and thunks deep in his chest.

At least that only happens when he’s far enough away from their own living quarters that they don’t have to listen to it, too.

Not every new location offers such luxuries, and they’ve been running from something lately, or someone.

He isn’t sure what, but that’s the only explanation for how often he’s been moved.

Again and again, as if there’s someone hot on their heels.

It gave him hope that Kara was still searching for him.

She pauses in her reading, saying something to him over the rim of that book so sweetly that he doesn’t need to know exactly what it is to tell it’s something good. Shakes her head like she’s amused, and he’s suddenly curious what happened in that story to prompt her smile.

The more she begins to sound like Kara, the more hopeful he becomes and that’s struck immeasurable terror deep within. He wants it too badly. Couldn’t handle the letdown again. Couldn’t survive another fall when it’s all proven to be his own mind playing tricks.

Still, with a mostly clear head except for the constant hunger, it’s difficult not to watch her when he thinks she’s not looking. He catalogs all the ways she is different, trying to piece together how she could be real like a math puzzle, and he’s always hated math.

The long hair is new. Might be his own imagination substituting what he thinks she’d look like now.

It trails down in a long braid while wild tendrils frame her face.

She cut it off one night when they were younger, taking the scissors to her own head after a fistfight at school where one of the other children used her hair to yank her into the wall.

She never let it grow after that. They were only teenagers then, he thinks sadly.

He hadn’t always been strong enough to protect her.

He liked it short, but this is good, too. Soft, pretty. It suits her.

The scar above her eye is new, and he wonders how that happened. Did someone hurt her while he wasn’t around to stop it? Did she hurt herself?

A few worry lines lay heavier than before, but the rest of her is exactly how he remembers, only better.

Especially that delicate smile that he wants to believe is only for him.

The same one she used when putting down that glass of water he couldn’t refuse.

His throat burned like sandpaper. He’s allowed to drink if it’s offered.

Wouldn’t have survived this long otherwise, since deprivation can only be taken so far unless they want to kill their prisoner.

He’s not useful or entertaining dead. If he’s even useful at all anymore.

He has vague, cobbled-together memories about being used as a trading pawn until they found out they grabbed the wrong guy to trade to whatever early community they were warring with.

They almost let him go…almost. Until that day in the high rise when he fucked up his chances at freedom.

His captors were good at finding reasons to keep him around after that.

Wade wants to use the blanket but fears the repercussions. Wants to eat what she offers but knows he can’t and is beginning to resent that she won’t stop trying to test him. Hasn’t he passed by now? What more can he do?

It’s just another moment that tries to beat him down further, offering that coveted ray of hope he hates so much instead. Until he remembers the details of how he got to this new place. Wrestled into a wagon like always. That tells him all he needs to know.

She wouldn’t let anyone hurt him again or stand there and watch even while shedding her own tears…but no one has ever cried for him before, either. He’s filed that away with the other tidbits that pile together to form a reality he can’t fully entertain yet.

This new manifestation is throwing him, but just because the drugs are gone doesn’t mean he’s any less skilled in creating his own comfort. He doesn’t need any assistance in that area. She is always with him. Drugs or not.

He closes his eyes, lashes fluttering against a soft pillowcase while he notices how quiet it is here. There are no sharp sounds or dull ones. No commotion. No extra company, at least not that he’s seen yet.

It’s only him and her in what looks like a cabin.

A cabin.

Not a cell, shed, or basement. A regular little house.

The windows have no boards blocking his exit and the door to his room is unlocked, even cracked half open. It could be a test…or an easy escape.

The question now is, what will he do with this windfall?

Wade waits until she’s brought him more food after he refused the last plate. By now, his stomach growls so loud there’s no chance she can’t hear it. The desire to snatch it off the table and inhale it all before anyone can stop him is so strong that he almost caves. Almost.

Can’t risk it yet. Not when he knows what happens if he does. He has to wait until she leaves again before he can make a move. She’s been in that chair for at least an hour. Maybe more. Feels like ten years to him when he’s practically drooling in anticipation by now.

He would be an idiot to pass up this chance after waiting years for them to grow lax enough that he’s able to break free.

Finally, she says something that he can only half make out, putting the book down and leaning forward.

“Safe…rain soon….please eat.”

If she got a little closer, he’d be able to hear everything, but he doesn’t blame her for keeping her distance. It’s a smart choice when he’s still on edge. If she even looks at him wrong, he isn’t sure what he’ll do.

Then she’s gone again, leaving the windows unblocked as if he’s perfectly trustworthy when he is not.

It’s now or never. He grabs the food in a shaky fist, stuffing bread in his mouth so quickly he might choke. It’s better than the dry ramen noodles he found on his first escape attempt. Almost threw it all up and his stomach rolls at the awful memory that only breeds more of them.

He was so sure he’d make it then. So sure of it that failure seemed impossible, but in the end, it was never that simple. His arm aches with the phantom pain of the knife scar he earned that day, branding him for his crimes.

You have to hurry, Kara tells him when she appears by his side. Take what you can and run. I bet the front door is unlocked, but we don’t know who’s out there. Could be others.

He nods, shoving another bread roll in the pocket of the pants they forced him into the other day.

Then something catches his eye, and he pauses. His fingers ghost the petals of a flower where it sits in a tiny cup, much like the one he gave her so long ago.