Page 6 of Descent

Scarlet tickles down the wall across from me. Mostly dried.

It splattered there at some point in the night when I woke up coughing, spraying spit and blood all over the jail cell. My roommate was less than impressed. Of course, he’s a cracked out junky with three teeth, so who’s he to judge?

Not that he’s judging much more than the tone of the concrete floor right now. Had to clock him across the jaw when he tried to go digging through my pockets. Not that he would have found shit.

It’s the principle of the thing.

You don’t let people take from you or they never stop taking.

And the only thing I want anyone to take from me these days is my life. What’s left of it anyway.

Yet no matter how many times I try to throw it away, I can’t seem to get there. So I lay bruised and battered, beaten to a pulp from another pit fight.

Problem is, I keep winning. Well, the fights anyway.

Otherwise, it’s lose, lose, lose. I’ve lost everything. My freedom in just about every city throughout Europe, my identity. No one seems to know who I really am. Which makes escaping transfer all too easy. But most of all, I’ve lost my memories. My whole life is a blur of half remembered snippets and faces that I’m not sure are real or some part of a TV show I watched one time.

All I know is that my name is Ero. I had a brother. A twin.

I had other family once, too. I think.

“Jídlo.” The Czech officer grumbles, gesturing for me to back up with a tray of cafeteria slop in his hand. Behind him, another gruff-looking cop flips his baton, watching me and then the limp form of the other petty criminal lying in the corner.

I guess I hit him pretty good. Still breathing, I think.

Shaking my head and sighing, I try to sit up, my entire body protesting. It’s cold in the cell. Better and cleaner than most, though. Prague is a pretty nice city. I know it really well for some reason.

Another one of thosenot sure howthings.

“Co je k veceri?” Or that. How the fuck do I know Czech? And what do I care what’s for dinner?

“The food? Is shit. Just for you.” He sneers, clacking the tray down on the floor and kicking it through the slot. Hm. Guess they’re still mad about their friends. I may or may not have put up a little fight when they tried to arrest me. I’m insanely capable in a fight. Deadly. Which is why they should be thanking me that I was conscious enough to hold back.

To be fair, I was in a drunken stupor walking down the middle of the road right outside an underground fight club that traffics drugs, weapons, and people. Someone must have called it in. Red and blue lights, flashing beams, sirens, the whole nine yards.

I slipped out, dipping a bottle of whiskey and nursing my cracked ribs.

Not exactly inconspicuous though.

So here I am, shivering in the metro police station, waiting for a judge to tell me they don’t know who the fuck I am. Join the club. Sooner or later, they’ll slip up and I’ll make a move. Slip out.

In the meantime, I’m too tired. Too…done.

I must drift off, cause next thing I know they’re unlocking my cell. Crack Junky Monkey is gone already, his blood still smeared on the wall.

Crack Junky Monkey?

I shake my head. It’s almost like the thought isn’t my own. Reminds me of someone else.

Anyway …

I must not have killed the junky or they’d probably be a lot more aggressive when my keepers snag my arm and shove me out of the cell. It’s anI don’t like you, trashsort of shove. When you spend as much time in lock up as I have, you learn to recognize the ole “going to drag you down to the boiler room and exact some revenge beating” sort of shove. Or my least favorite, “hey I think you’re pretty and want to get mine before you go” shove.

None of those end well for them.

In this case, it’s a long walk down a long-ass hall I don’t really remember from two nights ago. All along the walk I see offices, interrogation rooms, cells. This place is pretty big. Definitely will present a challenge when I decide to escape.

We’re nearly to the front desk when I see it out of the corner of my eye. A flash of sandy-blond hair. Scarred face. A half smile and a fuck-you swagger. Across from him, a black-haired woman giving me an ice-cold glare.

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