Behind The Bars [Short Story] ✅

Part 1

We turn to yet another corner and come facing another rusted, metal door. This one has 52 engraved on the metal surface. The same troll pushes it open to admit me. I am taken aback to see the barred doors here are smaller than the ones in the previous dungeon, and that the bars are closer together. I feel my eyebrows knit together, and I can't think properly. My case is not dismissed yet, I tell myself. This one must be for temporary lock up. There aren't many prisoners occupying the cells, and I let out a breath of relief. But I stop short, because when I examine them closer, I notice that they contain some objects that are normally possessed by humans; half-knitted scarves, combs, unmade mattresses, unfolded clothes and just more normal stuff like that.

I build up the courage to ask the trolls - half hoping that they wouldn't answer because I don't think trolls speak English. "Are there prisoners here?"

One of them glances over his shoulder and looks down at me. He nods. Okay, at least he understood.

"Where are they?"

He simply points to a board on the wall with his massive, rocky hand:

MEAL SCHEDULE

BREAKFAST - 7:30-8:30 AM (1 HOUR)

LUNCH - 1:00-2:30 PM (1 HOUR 30 MINUTES)

DINNER - 6:00-7:30 PM (1 HOUR 30 MINUTES)

I nod in comprehension. They're having lunch at the moment. But why were the prisoners in the previous dungeon not out? They have different schedule, you nitwit! So I don't bother asking.

We then stop at one cell at the very end of the dungeon, separated from the others. I mentally groan when I see that there is already someone occupying the cell, their back turned to us as they lie on the mattress. One of the trolls inserts a key into the lock and gives a twist. The sound of metal clanking against metal echoes around the dungeon as it unlocks the barred prison door, enough to rouse that prisoner inside. He gets up from the mattress hastily but pauses when he sees us. He lets his eyes train on me, and there is a frown forming on his face, and the corner of his mouth quirks upwards a little. I choose to ignore this.

The trolls open the barred door and let me inside. Giving a heavy sigh, I shuffle in. The boy - now I realize that he looks around my age - is still studying me from his mattress, his dirty blonde hair tousled up in every direction from his sleep. Another clank of metal tells me that I am now locked inside with this boy.

"At least you're not old and stupid," I say icily to him before coming to sit on the cold floor with my back leaning against the wall, staring at the barren wall opposite me. He doesn't say anything, just sits there, unmoving. I am, after all, quite known for my insolent manners. I suddenly feel guilty for talking like that, so when he continues to stay quiet, I decide to ask; "Why aren't you at lunch?"

"I already ate," he simply answers.

"Wasn't that hours ago?"

"I ate an hour ago," he says. I look at him, my brows raised in confusion; I don't think they allow prisoners to eat outside their meal hours. He seems to get why I look so confused, so he says, "I snuck out to eat so I'm pretty full now."

"Right," I say, returning my gaze to the wall.

"Really,"

"Okay,"

"Cool,"

We don't say anything afterwards. I don't like talking very much. His presence sure is making me less and less comfortable as the minute ticks by, and soon other prisoners start filing in, not really realizing that they have a new one. I can't really see them from this cell, as they are all further out. But, judging by their voices, I can tell that they are not older than thirty. I don't care that much, though.

I don't know how long I have been staring at the wall opposite me. When I chance a glance to my left, I notice that there is another mattress just next to the one occupied by the boy. Odd, I think to myself, because I am perfectly sure I hadn't seen it earlier when I entered. So I guess he must have set it up for me. Or maybe it has been there all along, except that I was too occupied in my own head to notice. I want to ask him, but he's facing the wall now, no doubt deep asleep.

A few hours later, my stomach gives an awkward, loud growl that seems to have echoed throughout Dungeon 52. I duck my head in embarrassment, even though I know nobody can see me.

"You want to eat?" asks the boy, who's still facing the wall.

"Shut up," I snap.

He sits up, runs a hand through his already messy hair, and glances at the small hole for a window high on the wall. "Seriously," he says. "Do you want to eat?"

"Think this is a joke, do you?" I snap again, bubbling up this time.

He looks confused. "No," he says slowly, and I can hear the seriousness in his tone. "And I'm not responsible to have a dead body in my cell if they turn up tomorrow morning to check in on us."

Calm down, I tell myself. Remember the last time you lost your temper? That was yesterday, wasn't it? And I take a deep breath, and say, "It's not like there's food around here."

"Well, of course not," he says.

I tell myself to, again, calm down. So I just give a sarcastic remark: "You're making me happy with this food update."

He stands up, and for a second I think he is about to hit me (because that is what happens in prisons), so I get to my feet as well, ready to fight if I need to. He then lets out a small chuckle.

"Why are you laughing?" I say. "Shut it, you git."

He shakes his head. "I thought you believed me when I said I snuck out,"

I pause. I don't say anything. He sighs, goes to the very back of the cell where a cubicle and a rusty sink sit. He then bends down, puts both hands on either side of the cubicle, and wrenches it back. I expect water to start squirting everywhere, instead I find a hole on the wall which is large enough for a body like me to crawl through. I stare at it, as questions start pouring everywhere. Why didn't he escape? Why did he return? Does he do this a lot? How long has he been here? Was he ever caught doing this? What's his name? How old is he? What crime did he commit to get here?

And he might as well be asking me the same thing. But I think he seems to have caught up with my short-tempered characteristic that he tends to shut his mouth all the time. The uncertainty must have shown on my face, because then he says, "I do it a lot. So if you don't want to die of hunger-"

"Okay, all right, just lead me to whatever food source you have."