Back In the Cage

The past week, even the entire month if truth be told, had swept past with a speed that was unnerving, practically unobserved, as though someone had deliberately cranked up the playback. What was perhaps more peculiar was how silently everything had transpired, in an unfamiliar, almost unnerving quiet. No explosions of temper, no sudden swerves in events. It was as if the world had momentarily pressed the pause button, but neglected to inform Rava.

Each dawn found him awakening at precisely the same hour, not thanks to an alarm, but due to the brutally bright sunlight that seemed determined to shine directly into his face, attempting to rouse him. He would screw up his eyes, turn to his side, granting himself those precious five minutes to simply collect his thoughts. To feel his breath, to understand where he was, who he was, and precisely why he was even conscious. A small, familiar ritual: a mental review of small details such as what clothes to choose, where to get food, whether he had committed to anything with the girls for today, if everything was sent to the streaming organizer, if enough money was still present in his account before the forthcoming payment, and when, finally, he'd repay that wretched debt.

Oddly enough, these frenzied, everyday thoughts supplied him with a sense of equilibrium. They enabled him to feel human. Not a fabricated personality, not simply a username, but somebody real, vulnerable, alive.

Then, everything proceeded in the same predictable rhythm. Bathroom, toothbrush, cold water on his face. He carefully ran a brush through his long hair , almost in a meditative manner, and on more relaxed or pressing days, straightened it using a flat iron. He prepared a light breakfast – eggs, yogurt, something easy. He got dressed, picked up his phone, and went out the door.

And, as if on cue, the instant he crossed the threshold, his phone would start ringing. Always. Without fail.

That was the moment when, as though a switch had been thrown, his mood would instantly plummet.

Generally, he wouldn't answer. The conversations were always identical, brief and tiresome, and he already knew, off by heart, what the other person was poised to say. But today, for whatever reason, he reached for the phone. Maybe it was the chilly, humid weather, or the aching back from his ultra-firm bed, or the sour taste of an unsuccessful stream. Did it matter? He suspected it couldn't possibly worsen things. And, with a bit of luck, the calls might cease for a few hours.

He pulled the phone from his pocket, brushed away a few raindrops from the display, and checked the caller ID. A painfully familiar name. Yet, he tapped "answer."

Silence. In the background, he could hear footsteps, the murmuring of voices, the hiss of a coffee maker. He knew the man was far distant, not just in geographical location, but in everything. Another country, another continent. But Rava feared him all the same.

"..."

"..."

Neither felt the urge to speak. There wasn't actually anything to say. Rava carried on down the street, sensing how the silence on the other end was amplifying, more emphatic than any words.

"Come home," the voice ultimately broke the lull. Calm, but weighted. Almost akin to a command.

"No," Rava answered, steady and practically casually, without hesitation.

"I'm just—"

"I'm not interested," he interjected. Cold, but not callous. Simply tired. "Anything else? I'm late."

The man on the line seemed distracted – Rava heard a secretary's voice, rapid instructions, the sounds of someone else's existence. And again:

"I'm just—"

"I don't care what's happening with you," Rava said, his voice firmer now, more assured.

He was so wearied by it all. The infinite, pointless attempts. The conversations that caused his chest to constrict as though a fist was slowly grasping his heart.

"Do you want some—"

"I don't," Rava cut him off yet again.

From an observer's point of view, he might have seemed like a recalcitrant adolescent bickering with an adult. But internally, a tempest was raging. That man's voice alone was sufficient to rouse a flood of emotions – hurt, rage, exhaustion. And above all, fear. Fear of being drawn back. Back into the past, back into dependence, back into a life he had long since decided to leave behind.

"I must go," Rava said curtly, and hung up without awaiting a response.

For a moment, his legs faltered slightly, weakened by tension, but he swiftly straightened up, regained his equilibrium, and slowed his pace as he walked towards his favoured destination. To his work, where he felt secure. Where he could just be himself.

He was proud of what he had uttered. Proud of the manner in which he had stood up to him. Yes, his words had been childish, quiet, laced with defiance – but they were his.

And Rava regretted his words.

Rava sat, numb and detached, within the confines of the secretary's vehicle. He absentmindedly picked at his skin, drawing blood. The tiny cuts pulsed with a faint ache, but it was distant, almost unreal – as if happening to someone else. He couldn't feel his fingertips. Truthfully, he could barely feel himself either.

"I should've just listened to him. Then I could've run."

That might have been his fate. He could have found refuge somewhere, alone amidst his thoughts and silence, until they eventually located him again. Until they would forcibly return him, packed into a car. Like now.

Occupying the car, thick with an oppressive quietude, were not only Rava and the statue-like, composed secretary, but also two bodyguards. They were silent, enigmatic. Their countenances seemed sculpted from the very same, cold material that had fashioned them. If Rava dared so much as emit a deep sigh, they would instantly reach for their phones, beginning a flurry of frantic typing. Someone was undoubtedly observing. Or awaiting developments.

"Fools," Rava thought, a weary bitterness rising within him, as he turned to gaze at his reflection in the pristine glass of the window. As though, on the other side, he might discover a version of himself that was more authentic than the one presently seated there.

He saw the girls' faces flash in his memory. Their anxious eyes, brimming with questions. They had attempted to converse with the secretary, to grasp the unfolding situation, but she had remained silent, her expression impassive. As if she herself was another cog within the machine that Rava desperately wanted to avoid.

But one face overshadowed all others – Blaine's.

Confused, attentive. He had rushed over at the first sound, coated in cream cheese and crumbs, appearing utterly out of place yet utterly genuine. Without hesitation, he inserted himself between Rava and the woman, shielding him with his body, demanding answers.

The secretary, unperturbed, as frigid as ever, simply raised her phone and initiated a call.

Rava's jaw tightened. With a struggle, he whispered to the girls and Blaine that everything was fine. He promised to be back before closing, or at the very least, to send a text. He lied, but softly – not wishing to cause undue alarm.

He didn't once look back as he departed. He permitted the secretary to precede him, noticing the two bodyguards only at the entrance, upon reaching the door. Immersed in cigarette smoke, they scanned the street. He knew their faces. He knew the menace they represented.

"Why didn't I just look at him one last time?" Rava scolded himself, sinking further into remorse. He had longed to share more with Blaine. So much more. Had he only known with certainty that Blaine felt the same, he would have taken his hand without a moment's hesitation – and fled. Together. Just the two of them against the world. Like in those films.

"We're here," the secretary said quietly, but with an undercurrent of iron in her voice.

The doors opened. The bodyguards stepped out first. She followed. All three stood by the car in silence, waiting only for him.

Rava didn't hurry. He leaned back, then glanced upward at the sky. Afterwards, he looked toward the building before him.

A five-star hotel. Gleaming, dazzlingly polished. Scores of vehicles outside, security personnel, hotel employees. Women in sparkling gowns, men in pricey suits. Everything declared wealth. And yet, it wasn't even midday.

"They look as though they're headed to a gala… mid-workday," Rava murmured with a bitter smile.

"Mr. Swift, we're tardy," the woman said brusquely, opening the door for him.

He hesitated.

"He said we were only going to converse… Then why am I here? Why not at his residence? Or at least somewhere neutral?"

That was Rava's final conscious thought, as the silence around him was devoured by the murmur of unfamiliar voices, and a flurry of stylists, guards, and myriad hands enveloped him, pulling, adjusting, guiding.