Marigold

Marigold - A Short Romantic Drama

The sounds outside his cell were coming closer. After a long moment, he realized they were voices. A sound he had not heard in a long time. How long? He had no notion, as there was no way to judge the passing of time inside here. His only companion was the buzzing of the single bulb overhead. Choice of resting place was either the concrete pad that took up half the cell. Or the other half which was a soft moss-filled patch of grass that never seemed to die. Or even wilt.

Neither had he wilted in his time here. He used every day to work out. Already an incredibly large man, he had only grown bigger and stronger. Every type of exercise using his own body weight, he did them twice a day. He jogged in place to get his heart rate up, and he alternated between yoga poses and a form of slow motion martial arts to train his muscles to be able to react in every way he could think of. Then he would lay down, body on the soft grass, head pillowed by his arms, and would dream.

Sometimes he would dream awake, and that dream would follow him into his sleep. It was her, always her. He did not know her, outside of his mind. But he knew her, had created her. Imagined her in every way, perfecting her physical appearance until it was solid in his mind. Once he carved out her persona, she came alive. In his dreams she was always there, solid and strong, standing next to him. Weathering whatever storm they were facing at the time.

She never had a name. He had never given her one. His own name was quite forgotten, evidence that he had been in this cell for longer than he wanted to think about. It seemed fitting that they would stand nameless together. The shackle of a name meant an acceptance into society. And here they were all alone.

He felt her next to him as he performed each yoga pose, as he slid in and out of each motion that strained his muscles and tested his control. She turned her gaze upon him whenever he slipped, or whenever he slouched. Demanding with her silent eyes to be at his best at all times. To be ready.

The voices were coming closer to his cell now. He could hear them calling to one another as they crossed the grounds outside. Deep voices, men yelling. Shouting orders. Talking soothing, as if they had found someone shocked at their sudden release. There must be others, prisoners in other cells like his. Never had he heard them. Never had he thought to shout for them, either.

His muscles were twitchy with anticipation. Would this be the day? Would he finally be set free? Or would those who released him be the same people who had locked him in here in the first place? The waiting was getting on his nerves now, so he set about ignoring the voices and settled into a routine of calisthenics. As his mind cleared and sweat started to bead, she appeared next to him and silently scrutinized his posture. Vertical push-ups were difficult enough to do, and he was doing them leaning against the wall. She didn't need to scoff at him, he could feel it. Smiling, he pushed away from the wall and executed three perfect reps of the push-up when the door to his cell swung open.

A quick flip of his wrists brought him back to his feet, crouched into a ready position. He could see nothing through the door as the light coming in was too bright for his eyes. He heard the voices, one louder than the rest.

"Christ, this guy is huge!" came a deep voice.

"What on earth was he doing?" Another voice, sounding impressed.

"Go get the Colonel, now." The first voice said.

"Yessir," the second voice said.

Feet pounded away from the cell, running toward wherever this Colonel was. His eyes had begun to clear up a bit, and the features of the man left at the doorway were coming clear. Brown hair, brown eyes, BDU's, combat boots. Belt holding several knives, a handgun, and a small pouch. Assault rifle held by the right hand, left hand still on the door. The man was big, but not as big as he. But without knowing who he was and whose side he was on, he didn't mean to rush him and take any chances. Yet.