the Secret Life of Damien Carmichael

15. the Plan (part II)

Oliver's room, if you could call it that, was a small 12 x 12 square cell that contained a bed, a desk, and an armoire barely big enough to fit more than two days worth of clothes in it. Not that he had any idea why he would need clothing. It wasn't as though he was allowed to go anywhere. Off the cell, there was a very small bathroom which contained a sink, and a toilet/shower combo that looked as though it had been taken from either a horror movie or the most terrifying train imaginable.

The walls were bare, and there were no windows to be found anywhere. Directly across from the bed was the door to his room which locked from the outside and contained a small square hole that opened inward to deliver him meals. The suspension corridor, which was located, Oliver was surprised to note, somehow between the first floor and the Principal's office, in a bizarre nether region of time and space that felt eerily like he imagined hell must.

The security guards who had brought him there had offered him a few book options to read, though Oliver could hardly see the point. He was never going to graduate now, and he would wind up a failure. Just as he'd always feared.

Oliver sighed, collapsing onto the bed, there was no clock in this room, and his phone had been taken, along with his dignity, what little still remained these days.

He had no idea what time it was, only that the desk near his bed contained a lamp, that was currently the only thing that stood between him and absolute darkness. He couldn't normally fathom sleeping with a light on, but the thought of sleeping in pitch blackness was more horrific than he could possibly bear. 

The silence was deafening.

Curling up on the bed, Oliver pulled the pillow towards his chest, and allowed himself to cry. He couldn't remember the last time he had actually cried, his parents' funeral, perhaps? He was lonely and miserable, and he didn't know what else to do. Time, ceased to exist here, it felt as though it could have been hours or days since his arrival, and he never would have known the difference.

He didn't know when he had fallen asleep exactly, only that at some point, the metal flap on his door screeched, signaling that someone had opened it and deposited something in his room. Squinting, Oliver looked around the room, then, remembering where he was, sighed. On the floor was his breakfast, a sad-looking bowl of oatmeal and a glass of orange juice on a tray. Beneath that, sat a single piece of paper. Oliver looked curiously at the paper beneath his breakfast. Carefully making his way across the room, Oliver lifted the paper from his tray. It was folded neatly, with his name on it. Oliver opened the letter, and a pen fell out and onto the floor. Oliver eyed the pen, then began to read. It was all he could do not to cry once more as he repeated Damien's words to himself. I've contacted my father and he's assured me he's going to do everything he can to get you out.

The Carmichael's had a great deal of influence, everyone knew that, surely he would be able to get the job done, Oliver told himself, feeling suddenly more hopeful than he had previously thought possible.

After breakfast, Oliver found himself reading Damien's letter several more times. He had no way to know when lunch was, but he wanted, no needed, to write Damien back. Only there was no way to know if Carrie's friend would be the one to deliver his lunch. The last thing he needed was to get into more trouble.

Oliver sighed, picking up the pen from the floor and flipped over Damien's letter.

Dear Damien,

Oliver frowned staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. He wanted to write something, anything, but for the life of him, nothing came to mind. I miss you terribly, he thought but was not quite brave enough to say. It was true of course; he was certain it had been less than a day all told, but it felt like an eternity since he had spoken to Damien or seen his beautiful face.