The Second Floor

It was 3 o' clock in night. Time for the torture to begin.

Angel was, as always, excited. Weird, since the next hour will be nothing short of hell for him. But still, he would see that boy. The one who was in the same situation as him. The one who made him feel as if he wasn't alone. The one who would, eventually, share the same fate as him. Whatever that may be. It was one of those things they still didn't know - the why? factor of it all.

Their "sort of" meeting will be gory, filthy and bloody; it'll be, at the least, reassuring.

Reassurance was always a good thing to have, Angel figured as he sat up in his cage. Cage wasn't an exaggeration. But what else do you call a small room with a bare cot, a commode and a sink, with bars instead of a door? A jail cell? A prison?

No, for who Angel was, cage was the perfect name. As he unable to spread his wings and fly to his freedom.

It wasn't long before footsteps echoed outside in the marbled hallway. They were here to collect him already. Just as they had since he was ten years old, the same old routine of the last six years.

That was one of those things that Angel knew about himself instinctively. He was 16. He was a boy. He knew how to speak but couldn't read or write. Nobody had taught him.

There were certain ideas in his head, certain norms of life that just seemed like facts he had to follow. He knew chocolate was a delicious thing (one of the night guards drank it hot, his face expressed how much he enjoyed it) but he'd never eaten or drank any in his life here. He knew the time because he timed each visits to Dr. Henry Bournston, and not because his cage had a clock or a window to judge the passing of days.

He knew many things. But he knew almost nothing, too.

He knew he had a different life somewhere before the age of ten, a home, family. He didn't recall them though. He knew that he liked the red color, always did. Yet the only time he had been able to admre it was when it bled out of his body and marred the white sheets.

All too soon, the two guards were outside his cage. There was a series of beeps of keys being pressed on the security keypad as his cage was opened. One guard came forward and cuffed his hands in front of him. He didn't resist. Why would he escape when he literally had nowhere to run to? One of those things he instinctively knew, he didn't have anyone out there. Not anymore. If his family really wanted him (if those memories were even real at all) they would have tried to search for him. In the last six years, they hadn't.

So he meekly stood as they bound his hands. Then they grabbed his upper arms, one guard on each side, and the slow march towards hell began.

He also knew the layout of this "facility" thanks to countless trips down these hallways and floors. A highly funded research and development facility, actually; a thing he'd overhead Dr. Bournston say that one time. It had five floors, two basements. The Fourth floor held his cage. So far, he was the only resident there, all the other cages sat empty along the hallway.

The Third floor was where they had more cages, more boys his age and a few girls. They lived a noisy, communal life. They were not alone. They also seemed a lot at peace, as they walked the hallways freely, without any handcuffs.

Angel had long since accepted that they were lucky - that's what they called the people who didn't have to see Dr. Bournston all the time. He wondered at times what the meaning of lucky was. Considering his situation, it must mean something good.

The Second floor was where the rooms were. Numerous rooms with doors and plaques on doors with names of people and sometimes laboratories. The Second floor also housed "that guy". He knew because the trail of that guy's blood, after his session with Bournston, always led up to the Second floor only.

The Second floor, among its various uses, was his very own, personal hell. Well, his and that guy's personal hell. It also had laboratories, but worst of all, Bournston's office was on this floor.

Angel had never been to the First floor, the Ground floor or the Basements. He was sure as the levels fell, they got dangerous. So he was not curious to explore the lower levels anyways.

Soon enough, they were in the Hallway of Hell. Lab 26 stood at the very back. As they neared, Angel's heart thudded in excitement and terror; excitement because he'll see that guy and terror of what was about to happen when his turn came.

And right on the mark, a scream resonated in the empty hallway. Angel closed his eyes in sympathy.

That guy's screams were all he ever heard. In his six years, he'd never once spoken to that guy and thus knew nothing about his voice. When he was ten, the screams were shrill like a child's, now they were growly and deep like a teenager's.

Angel waited for ten more minutes. The screams continued on the other side of the door and Angel's heart rate accelerated with each second. In a few minutes, he would be screaming, too.

Then at once, the screams stopped. After some long, delayed minutes, footsteps shuffled closer on the other side of the door, and it creaked open.

Angel smiled internally but was devastated as well. That guy was slouching, leaning heavily against the guards. His pale face was bloody, drops dripping on the floor. His jaw was clenched tightly, as if to hold back any more screams. As always, dark hair fell into his eyes, hiding his face.

Angel waited, eyes fixed on that guy.

And suddenly, as always, their eyes met.

But the meeting of eyes was all they ever did. It was their usual interaction.

Hi, Angel, here already?

Yes, of course. How was the session?

Painful as always. Well, see you again in a few , then?

Yes, see you.

It was how they communicated. And no, they couldn't read minds. But they conveyed these simple things to each other, to give strength, to sympathize. It was the closest thing to friendship that Angel could imagine. Because they were the same, experiencing same situation, same torture.

All too soon, that guy was going away, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

"Angel?" Bournston's voice called from the confines of Lab 26.

Well, it was his turn to scream then.

Another of those things that Angel instinctively knew was that "Angel" wasn't his real name. Real names were like Jack, John and Tom. Angels were divine beings; although, some people thought they were just myths. No way was he an Angel; he would have brought down divine justice and avenged himself long ago if that were the case.

No, only Bournston called him that. "My Angel," Bournston always said. With no affection, mind you.

Something was different today, as he walked towards the examination chair. He saw a folder open nearby on a table. Right beside the various tools of torture, scalpels, knives, branding rods and even vials of acid.

Curious, Angel sat down and peered at the folder. One name jumped at him. Strange that he could recognize it, since he had no memory of being able to read, ever.

Demon.

So... that guy was Bournston's Demon.

It made sense that Dr. Bournston would come up with such a name, too. It also made Angel happy. At least, after six years, he knew what that guy was called.

It was funny, the contradictory names they had, given that they were each other's only comrades in this place. Well, he supposed it was still better than calling him "that guy" at least.

Bournston came to him holding a syringe bursting full of a dark liquid. "Ready, Angel?"

Angel was screaming soon enough. But with a hopeful heart. Even if they weren't exactly friends. No, far from it. Yet they were just two people in a same situation. Worst situation as can be, sure. At least, they both had one comfort.

They weren't alone.