Re: Dreaming: Billy & Eames
He had a moment’s clutch of faltering anxiety in the pit of his stomach as the door protested, and in the last seconds before it revealed whoever stood on the other side, Billy suddenly brought the book up behind his back. He pushed it under the t-shirt’s baggy hem and slipped the book beneath the elastic waistband of his pants, groping blindly to ensure the shape of it was hidden by the droop of his shirt. The clothes they dressed him in were always just a little too big for his frame. His let his hands fall back to his sides for a second, but inevitably he reached up to pluck at the crisp edge of the bandage on his forearm.
“Hi,” he replied, taking a few careful steps forward. Mindful of his gait, the shakiness in his legs, and careful not to get too near the new arrival. “My name’s Pesha. I’m guessing you probably have some questions.” He offered an expression on his features that wasn’t quite a smile, lips flattening into something gently sympathetic. “I know I did when he first brought me here.”
The difference Billy left out was that there hadn’t been anyone else here to answer his questions. For weeks, he had woken up each day in his little stone cell in the dungeon, with only the sliver of light that came through an incongruous arrow slit near the ceiling to differentiate between night and day. Every day he’d come to with a pounding headache and new needle pricks trailing along the inner crease of his elbows, down the backs of his hands. After a while, he figured that his best veins were no longer accessible, since the marks moved down to the veins on Billy’s feet. Between his toes.
“I can’t promise that I’ll have all the answers, but I can promise you that it will be easier if you don’t fight him.”