Cage

With her lipstick and pieces of toilet paper, she’s been drawing the world to me.

Picture after picture, nothing is left untouched, and we sit here for hours, maybe even days, just talking to each other.

I’m overwhelmed with information, taking it in like a sponge. I can’t stop listening and looking at everything she’s showing me because I can feel the excitement whenever I think of the possibilities.

She asks me what my father has taught me, and she seems surprised. Apparently, he didn’t teach me many things. Only what was necessary ... Like what’s food and what isn’t, he’s shown me a few colors and their names, taught me how to train my body and how to fight, how to talk… and how to fuck.

Her stories are never-ending. She talks about cities and people, what they look like, where they live. Houses and trees, gardens and flowers. All kinds of animals, big and small, mountains and rivers. Summer, winter, fall. I’d never even heard of them before she told me about them.

The world is so big … it’s almost hard to believe.

My father was my teacher, but he never told me anything like this. He never taught me to read the words either. I almost envy her for being able to read and write them with her lipstick when I can’t.

I wish I knew all this before. My father always told me there was only this room and the rooms beyond. The pit where I fight and all the rooms in this place are my home. I don’t know anything else.

But she … she’s seen the world.

She’s lived it all.

I don’t know why he didn’t tell me, but it doesn’t matter right now.

All that matters is that she’s here … showing me life.

Real life.

Inside her eyes, her mouth, her whispers.

Her voice sounds like that of an angel calling out to me from heaven.

It’s too beautiful. Too perfect.

And so is the world.

Where we live now is just a dark, damp hole far away from any of the life she spoke of.

I yearn to see what she’s seen. To watch the fish swim through the sea. To see the birds fly in the sky. To experience the people and their habits. To see where she lives.

I want to learn it all.

But I already know it’s impossible.

Despite telling myself not to think about it, the realization that we’re stuck here still creeps back into my head every time the conversation ends.

Because I know damn well I was born here … in a place where no one will ever know my name … a place that might as well disappear from the world, and no one would notice.

That place is my home. And she doesn’t belong there.

I can’t help but grind my teeth. I’m actually jealous of her even though I don’t want to be.

Because it makes me feel out of place … and it’s not fair to her.

My father put her in here with me.

He took her from that place. That place where the sky is blue and the ground is green. That place she calls home.

He had no right.

Yet I can’t stop wanting to know more. More. More. It’s never enough. I need to know everything there is to know, and I need to know about her. Who she is. What she likes and dislikes. What she wants.

If she could ever want me the way I want her.

And if I could ever give her what she truly needs.

Freedom.

I sigh.

“Talk … more about you,” I say.

“Well … I have parents too. A mom and a dad, like you.” She smiles.

I shake my head. “No mom.”

“Right …” She frowns, rubbing her lips. “Where is she?”

I shrug, not knowing the answer. Father never told me about her. All I remember is him. There was never anyone else but him.

“Oh …” She takes a breath and sniffs. “I’m sorry.”

I bite my lip. “Tell me more about you.”

She looks up, a tentative smile briefly appearing on her lips before a delicious blush overshadows everything.

“I used to have a sister a long time ago …” She looks down at the concrete floor briefly.

“Sister?”

She frowns, surprised at my question. “You were born, right? What if another girl was born from your mom and dad? That’s a sister.”

Interesting. I never realized it was possible to have more than one child. Father always told me that I was the only child who mattered to him, and that he never wanted anyone else but me. And that I was to make a child just as he did. Someone who would follow in my footsteps.

But I am curious … what my sister would’ve been like if I had one.

“And a man?”

“That’s a brother,” she explains.

I wish I had a brother. Or a sister. Doesn’t matter to me. I just want someone to talk to.

I imagine Ella talked with her sister all the time. I wonder why she isn’t here, though. Why Father didn’t take her too.

“Where’s your sister?” I ask.

She takes a deep breath, making a face as if it’s difficult. “She’s … dead.”

“Dead?”

“No longer here. Moved on. Like those other girls your father brought here before me.”

Father told me those girls would never return, so does that mean her sister will never return either? That’s sad. Sad for Ella. Sad for her mother and father. Sad for the world. But why? Why would she go?

“Why?” I ask.

“She was murdered.”

I shake my head, not understanding.

She sighs out loud. “Do you know what life is?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know it can end. Someone else can end it too.”

Someone else? Snuff out life?

“It’s what you do when you fight,” she adds.

“Oh …” I growl.

Those bloody fights with my opponents always end with them not moving. If that is what it means to be dead, I hope I never end up like that. Then again, if it could happen to anyone, it could happen to … Ella.

“You can’t die!” I bark, infuriated.

“Well, technically, I can.” There’s a pause. “Your father could kill me.”

Rage boils up inside me at the thought of her being taken away from me. Especially by him.

“No.” He wouldn’t do that.

“You’re the only one who can stop him,” she says.

I feel so angry right now. I want to break things, fight an opponent, scream, anything. Just to get it out of me. But I don’t. I don’t want to scare her.

So I stay put and listen, despite feeling enraged.

“I get it; he’s your father.”

“Don’t …” I growl.

Her brows furrow. “Fine.”

She looks away, and so do I, and for a few seconds, it’s quiet again.

But I could never stay mad. Not at her. She didn’t do anything bad. Nothing about this is her fault. It’s all Father’s fault, which is why I’m so confused.

Thinking about it won’t help, though. I’d rather focus on her because she’s the one thing that keeps me happy. She makes me feel good about myself and my place in this world.

“More about you,” I say.

With folded arms, she just glares at me as if she’s mad at me too.

I don’t know what to do to make it go away, but I think girls like it when men are a little bit less commanding sometimes, so I opt with a question. “Please?”

This makes her face less grouchy and more relaxed again.

“All right …” She sighs. “I live on my own in a small neighborhood. I work as a freelance photographer.”

“Photogaf—fotho…”

“Photographer,” she repeats. “Someone who makes pictures.” She holds up the toilet paper she drew on. “Like this.”

“Oh …” No wonder she’s so good at it, if she does it all the time. It’s like me and my fighting skills. Only hers don’t involve blood, I think. Unless she normally draws pictures with the blood of her enemies. I’d like to see that.

“I don’t have any other family but my parents. My mom and dad always worried about me even when I moved out to live on my own.” She twirls her hair with her index finger and points at her mouth with her other finger. “Talking. You know. It’s difficult.”

“But you speak …?”

“Now. Yes.” She chuckles a little, and it’s the sweetest sound to my ears. Like that one time Father whistled. He called it a song. Her voice and laughter are just like that. Sweet and fun.

“My voice … disappeared when my sister died. It just became so hard to speak that I stopped entirely. They call it selective muteness.”

“Muteness …?” I repeat. Sounds difficult.

“I physically couldn’t bear my sister being gone, so my voice died with her.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because …” She sighs. “She spoke to a stranger, and he killed her. In my mind, speaking meant death. And I blamed myself for her death.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I could’ve gone after her sooner. Could’ve stopped him. Could’ve done something …”

I nod, swallowing. I can understand what she means. I, more than anyone, know what it feels like to feel guilt for something you didn’t do but could’ve prevented.

Her being here is one of them.

“My parents … also didn’t take it well when my sister died. Their screams made me pull back. I shut myself in,” she continues.

“But you’re here …” I say, not really understanding what she means with it.

I do know one thing, though … no one can change what happened. The past is the past.

But why her voice works now is a mystery to me.

“I don’t know why I can talk. My voice normally never works anywhere but with my parents. People I trust,” she says after a pause.

Does that mean she trusts me?

She gazes up at me with those pristine eyes again. I want to touch her so badly right now, but the glass is in the way, so I settle for placing a hand on the cage instead.

She reaches for my hand and lines her hand up against the glass on her side.

I can’t stop looking at her. Can’t stop falling into the depth of her eyes. I don’t ever wanna crawl back out. If this is hell, I’d stay if it meant I got to spend more time with her.

But suddenly, the door in the corner of the room cracks open, and she pulls her hand away from the glass.

* * *

Father steps in with an angry look on his face. Like I look when I’m ready to fight.

The two plastic bowls in his hand are probably food. I eagerly await mine near the box, but Ella’s not so happy.

She bangs the glass hard. Father doesn’t even seem surprised. Just irritated.

He shoves the bowl into her box and continues to me without even acknowledging her.

She smacks her fist on the glass again, visibly restraining herself from screaming. I don’t know why she doesn’t say what she wants to say to him. Why not use your voice if you have one?

He gives me an annoyed look as he chucks the food into the box and pushes it my way. He keeps grinding his teeth, chewing on the inside of his cheek and eyeing me from the side as I bring my bowl back to my bed and gobble down the fried rice with eggs.

She refuses to eat even though I know she’s hungry. I also know why she’s doing it.

My father looks at her and then gazes at me as if he expects me to speak.

When my bowl is empty, I growl, “Syrena?”

Father narrows his eyes at me and then directs his attention to Ella, approaching her glass with slithering footsteps. He seems amused by the fact she’s inside and he’s not. As if he’s reveling in the fact she can’t reach him.

“You wanna know where she is?” he mumbles.

She nods vigorously.

His smile is bitter. “Yeah, I bet you do.” Then he turns and walks off. “Eat your food.”

Ella’s resistance is admirable, the way she keeps pounding on the glass until she sinks to the floor.

I can hear her belly grumble from where I’m at, but she won’t eat.

She just sits there and stares at the door through which he just disappeared.

I know she’s hungry, but she still won’t eat.

Not because she can’t, but because it’s her way to remain in control.

To stop the guilt from eating her instead.