No Promises

She marched me down to the basement. As we passed the rack of weapons hanging on the wall at the bottom of the staircase, I eyed the remaining blades longingly. She saw where I was looking and jerked me roughly away, drawing another sharp line through my skin with her knife in the process. She risked letting go of me with one hand long enough to grab an iron chain from the wall. She tossed it away from her immediately into the open door of the single room.

Even that wasn’t enough to stop the brief contact from raising a line of blisters across her palm. She hadn’t thought to bring the stolen curtain down here to protect her hands. She stopped at the door to my safe room, where the overhead lights were still on from when she returned earlier. The polished metal of the walls and floor shone a dull silver under the harsh fluorescent light. She took a deep breath, straightened her back, and strode through the door, shoving me ahead. The room was an iron box. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, the door itself—they were all bare metal.

I could feel it as soon as I crossed the threshold, digging deep into my bones and squeezing hard. It felt like winter had finally come to Hawaii, and I was the old man in the rocking chair complaining about his creaking joints. I was used to the watch, yes. And I had spent my fair share of time in this room. But even I had my limits, and there were some things it was impossible to accustom oneself to.