fill the basement, it would simply drain out.
Nothing he had done was working. He’d lost his shirt and his jeans were soaked.
The toilet stopped after his last flush.
The silence was intense after spending over an hour constantly flushing the toilet.
“Rosina, I’m sorry.”
He had nothing else to go on, nothing else to do. No one was here and all he had was the toilet to keep him company. The sound of hunger pains twisted his stomach.
He felt his way along the wall to the toilet and sat down beside it.
He flushed it.
“So that’s how you feel, eh?”
The toilet answered with gurgling noises.
“Do you think I can survive this?”
He flushed.
“That does not sound promising.”
He flushed.
“Will Arkady die soon?”
He flushed.
“Now we’re talking. Thank you. How about Yuri? Is he coming up for execution?”
The toilet responded with a luxurious flush.
“Will everyone who wants to kill Rosina and me die?”
The toilet flushed twice.
“I like talking to you because you have all the right answers.”
The flushing continued, the toilet not willing to offer more than that.
Water pooled around him.
Darwin fell asleep on the floor, lost in despair, blood from his wounded kidneys coloring his underwear as he contemplated what death would feel like.
Chapter 7
Darwin woke with an ache in his neck. His back cried out where he was whacked with the sock the day before and his head throbbed.
Why the hell did I sleep on the cement floor in my underwear?
Last night came back to him in a rush. He looked around in the dim sunlight coming through the basement window. A lot of the water had moved to lower parts of the uneven floor and pooled there. His underwear and socks were damp.
He got to his feet and stretched, moaning as his tight muscles protested. He needed to urinate but didn’t want to use the full toilet as it was still jammed up with his jeans. He walked over to the door and pissed on it, yawning.
When he was done, he stopped and listened. The house was silent.
The mattress was darker on the underside, moist from the water it had lain in. He folded it in half and then placed it beside the toilet like a beanbag-futon chair thing, sat down and set his arm on the toilet.
He flushed the toilet.
Then he flushed it again.
“Imagine, my life has been reduced to flushing a toilet in the hopes that something will come of it to gain my freedom. Fucking pathetic.”
He flushed.
And thought about Rosina. He needed to get more aggressive. He needed to think outside the box. A glass box.
He continued flushing as the water seeped across the floor in rivers and out the cracks at the bottom of the door.
“You’re in for one hell of a water bill, Mr. Gangster.”
What if I take the water to the door?
He cupped water in his hands and rushed to the door and checked the seams. He couldn’t detect where the electrical part of the door was fast enough as the water slipped through his fingers.
There was a silver rectangular block touching the door on the other side near the corner. That must be the magnet that bolts the glass door closed. It would prove impossible for him to get water to that area.
Dejected, he walked back to the mattress and sat down to put his face in his hands.
“There has to be a way.”
Something banged outside the walls of his prison. It came to him with its metal tinny sound.
Someone was home.
He waited, hiding behind the toilet bowl in his underwear.
After a minute, he heard another bang.
Then the basement door opened. Light spilled down the stairs.
Adrenaline surged through him. The moment had come. He was ready. This was his gladiator moment, his UFC time in the spotlight. If he succeeded, he would win his freedom and get the girl.
“I love you, baby,” he whispered to his
Nothing he had done was working. He’d lost his shirt and his jeans were soaked.
The toilet stopped after his last flush.
The silence was intense after spending over an hour constantly flushing the toilet.
“Rosina, I’m sorry.”
He had nothing else to go on, nothing else to do. No one was here and all he had was the toilet to keep him company. The sound of hunger pains twisted his stomach.
He felt his way along the wall to the toilet and sat down beside it.
He flushed it.
“So that’s how you feel, eh?”
The toilet answered with gurgling noises.
“Do you think I can survive this?”
He flushed.
“That does not sound promising.”
He flushed.
“Will Arkady die soon?”
He flushed.
“Now we’re talking. Thank you. How about Yuri? Is he coming up for execution?”
The toilet responded with a luxurious flush.
“Will everyone who wants to kill Rosina and me die?”
The toilet flushed twice.
“I like talking to you because you have all the right answers.”
The flushing continued, the toilet not willing to offer more than that.
Water pooled around him.
Darwin fell asleep on the floor, lost in despair, blood from his wounded kidneys coloring his underwear as he contemplated what death would feel like.
Chapter 7
Darwin woke with an ache in his neck. His back cried out where he was whacked with the sock the day before and his head throbbed.
Why the hell did I sleep on the cement floor in my underwear?
Last night came back to him in a rush. He looked around in the dim sunlight coming through the basement window. A lot of the water had moved to lower parts of the uneven floor and pooled there. His underwear and socks were damp.
He got to his feet and stretched, moaning as his tight muscles protested. He needed to urinate but didn’t want to use the full toilet as it was still jammed up with his jeans. He walked over to the door and pissed on it, yawning.
When he was done, he stopped and listened. The house was silent.
The mattress was darker on the underside, moist from the water it had lain in. He folded it in half and then placed it beside the toilet like a beanbag-futon chair thing, sat down and set his arm on the toilet.
He flushed the toilet.
Then he flushed it again.
“Imagine, my life has been reduced to flushing a toilet in the hopes that something will come of it to gain my freedom. Fucking pathetic.”
He flushed.
And thought about Rosina. He needed to get more aggressive. He needed to think outside the box. A glass box.
He continued flushing as the water seeped across the floor in rivers and out the cracks at the bottom of the door.
“You’re in for one hell of a water bill, Mr. Gangster.”
What if I take the water to the door?
He cupped water in his hands and rushed to the door and checked the seams. He couldn’t detect where the electrical part of the door was fast enough as the water slipped through his fingers.
There was a silver rectangular block touching the door on the other side near the corner. That must be the magnet that bolts the glass door closed. It would prove impossible for him to get water to that area.
Dejected, he walked back to the mattress and sat down to put his face in his hands.
“There has to be a way.”
Something banged outside the walls of his prison. It came to him with its metal tinny sound.
Someone was home.
He waited, hiding behind the toilet bowl in his underwear.
After a minute, he heard another bang.
Then the basement door opened. Light spilled down the stairs.
Adrenaline surged through him. The moment had come. He was ready. This was his gladiator moment, his UFC time in the spotlight. If he succeeded, he would win his freedom and get the girl.
“I love you, baby,” he whispered to his
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