Barren

Feeding Time

"Move into the light and put your hands on your head."

Nothing moves within the darkness for a few seconds. The familiar navy eyes glide into the orange glow of the night flood lights and I study them intently, as I always do. Searching for the slightest hint of something different. He doesn't scare me and I unflinchingly meet his stare as I turn the key in the padlock.  The metal grating sensation is almost comforting. With one free hand, I unhook the lock from the bars and swing the cell door open with an equally familiar squeak. We both stand completely still and that feeling of electricity runs up my spine.

He's up to something.

I hold the dark gaze in front of me, his face holds the same pressed lip expression that it always does. We both stand silently in the cold darkness for just a moment, waiting for the next routine step in our nightly ritual.

"Turn around." My voice is its usual commanding tone, the last thing I want to do is let him know I'm suspicious.

Our eyes are completely locked together, and then he starts to slowly turn in the shadowy space. The light shifts across his dark wavy hair as we break eye contact. A brief flicker of distrust  flashes through my body. The captive is usually much quicker to obey my instructions. I note my growing suspicion, along with a note to bring the hair shears in the morning.

I carefully watch as the familiar tall form stands with his large interlocked fingers knitted together on the back of his head. His dark unruly hair curling beyond his shoulders. It was hard to believe that he'd been at House of Cole for so long for his then closely cropped hair had grown to that length. My eyes narrow and stay locked on the still figure as I lower the bowl of steaming stew to the wet, concrete floor.

"It smells good today.'  His voice is emotionless as he speaks. I almost want to laugh out loud in response. I'd seen this approach too many times and it never worked out well for a captive. He's trying to engage me in casual chat, to distract me, before making his move. My hand is controlled and swift as it releases the bowl and immediately moves to firmly grasp the handle of my knife in it's holster.  I slowly straighten my body and walk calmly, backwards out of the cell, effortlessly negotiating the lack of light, uneven floor and reattach the rusty padlock within seconds. I carefully pull the key from the secured lock and steps back from the door. We both know this routine well. The sound of the knife sliding back into its sheath triggers his fingers to slowly pull apart and he twists to meet my stare.  His face the familiar stoic picture that fails to conceal his true feelings about his living arrangements. His hands move down to his sides, almost in slow motion.

"Thank you." His voice rumbles in the darkness. A hint of true appreciation, wrapped in sharp bitterness. I meet his voice with a small, blink-and-you'll-miss-it nod, instantly breaking eye contact as I stride back to the main complex. I keep my eyes straight ahead, pretending not to notice his intense stare as I quickly move out of his view.

"Careful with that one, Cassie'. I don't trust him."  Weaver's silhouette stands in his usual spot by the captive complex entrance. His weathered hands, ever-gripped on his rifle. As one of the more friendly militia in the captive's quarters, I often welcomed his up-beat chat at feeding time.

"I think he learned his lesson last time." I quickly respond, feeling slightly demeaned by Weaver's concern. The last thing anyone needs in House of Cole is a reputation that you're easy pickings.

"A broken arm is quite the learning curve." He retorts, grinning as he recalls the night the captive in question had attempted to overpower me at feeding time.

The memory of his army boots squelching in the mud as he ran at full speed to the cell flashes through my memory. He'd expected to have to shoot the captive that evening and he would have done so without a second thought. Captives meant nothing to him. He saw them as trading currency and nothing more.