All God's Gifts

They gift me a window. The scabbing rose-patterned wallpaper is washed in dark amber, sunshine forced in through the thick orange curtains. Watery cerise flowers have been brought back to life, drenched in the bloody colours of the sunrise outside. On the edge of the cracked headrest, a thin slash of red light is painted against rotting brown wood, glinting off my ankle cuffs like distant streetlamps.

The grin splits my numb face almost instantly, flushing my cheeks with heat and scrubbing the glaze from my eyes. I knew there was something off this morning. I could feel it, change glittering in the stagnant air.

I’ve been rewarded. It’s less for compliance, more for compromise. They haven’t been able to beat total obedience into me yet, but even the slightest lack of resistance from me is enough to warrant a shitty little present.

I didn’t trust that they’d keep their word – I’d rank assassins next to politicians in terms of honesty – but they’ve surpassed all expectations. For the first time in weeks, I’m not locked in the dark. I have the sun.

I swing my legs over the edge of the stained bedcovers, loudly jangling the medieval fetters that chain my ankles together. Waking up in this shithole usually leaves me paralyzed on the mattress, tracking the ridges in the ceiling plaster in rigor mortis until I’m bored of being terrified– but today I’m off the bed in seconds. Dust motes cartwheel in whirlpools around me, exposed in the prisms of light like flocking moths. Everything is visible. Everything is tangible.

“Merry Christmas.”

My neck almost snaps as I swing my head around. I’m not alone. Someone shy and Scottish is speaking to me, resting their curled back against the door. My contracted chest starts to relax. This isn’t the person who cuffed my ankles together, busting my nose with a ringed fist. This is the giver of sunlight, the boy who cracked open my window and let the life in. The closest thing to a saviour in hell.

“Haven’t I missed Christmas?” I say dryly, circling around the metal bedframe. Ashton’s flushed face breaks into a laugh, freckles scrunched up around his eyes. “Come on, it’s more like Merry January or some insufferable shit.”

“Good morning?” he suggests, scratching a hand through his tufted white hair. “At least you can tell what time of day it is now.”

“Yeah. Thanks for getting the window.” I stop short of hugging him, my shoulders braced and tense as I hang back. I want to trust him – more than anything, I want someone to believe in – but this place makes it so hard. Every other face is that of a hardened criminal, a well-practiced murderer, a freelance torturer. Accepting that Ashton is just Ashton and nothing more is going to take some time.

“You deserve it,” he tries to hold my gaze, sharp jaw twitching with effort – but he barely manages two seconds before shooting his gaze elsewhere. Something softens and melts like pudding in my stomach. He’s still so anxious. Imagine being nervous around me, a half-dead girl with a butchered back and chained legs.

His throat flutters as he recomposes himself, scratching at the base of his red-raw neck. “I did come to give you more, I promise. They wanted me to let you have the sunlight back, but I thought I could get you something more useful.”

My fingernails pick at the cable-knit jumper they forced me to wear. I’m itching under my skin. “Something useful?”

“Not like that. Sorry. I’m sorry,” he stumbles over his words. “Not like – “

“Not like bolt cutters,” I shake my right ankle, clashing metal on metal as the chain jerks up. I should’ve known he’d be too much of a pussy to actually break me out. Getting my hopes up in this place always ends the same.

“I can’t physically get you out of this room, but I had an idea,” he steps into the light, catching white brushstrokes on his dyed silver hair. “I can take your mind elsewhere.”

A mean laugh bubbles up in my throat, spilling over like mercury. He’s so pretentious. “Is that a come-on? I hate to say it, but a shag wouldn’t cheer me up…”

“That’s not what I meant,” he snaps, shoving his hands into his jean pockets with uncharacteristic aggression. There’s an unsaid “unless” hanging in the air, but I’m unwilling to pin it down. A shag really wouldn’t cheer me up.

From his pockets, he draws a pair of cigarettes that are rolled in fluff and lint. His lighter – that sticker-clad red Zippo with the dodgy flint – comes out next. I watch as he traps one between his lips and sparks up, sending a golden pulse beating over his hands. With his crown of dove-grey hair, his angular bones and those impossibly pale blue eyes, it’s no wonder I thought he was some kind of God when we first met. He’s certainly the closest thing I have to one.

He hands me the lit cigarette, blowing out heavenly mist between us. I take a long drag that goes straight to my head. I haven’t smoked since before I was abducted. This really is a luxury.

“I’ve got more,” he mumbles around the other cigarette, fidgeting impatiently with the flint. He’s much more of an addict than I am. If I’ve been sweating from nicotine withdrawal during my stay here, I haven’t noticed.

“More fags?” I tap ash to the floorboards. He shakes his head, giving me a rare flash of teeth with his grin. With his hit safely acquired – I swear I can see his chest shuddering as he sucks in smoke – he delves back into his pocket, fumbling for something much smaller. He lifts a tiny plastic pocket up to the light, showing off a range of pills and tabs and junk I can’t name.

“Wanna feel like you’re somewhere else?”