bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter seven. 💛

The heavy, metal creak of the basement door yanked Case out from his slumber. Instantly, his body was overwrought with panic. Internal alarm bells screaming Danger! Danger!

Case lay still, immobilized with his fear, as footsteps resonated down the stairs. This was it. Sir had warned him about causing trouble. Sir was coming to kill him.

The memory of Miles's dead body flared back to life. A brand inside his mind, glaring red. Miles, his friend, face down in his own blood, a hole in the back of his head, broken bone and nervous tissue smattered through his hair.

That would be Case in a few minutes. A few seconds.

Though he was facing the wall, he sensed a dark presence looming over him. A sinister demon, a boogieman, haunting the side of the bed.

Case gripped the pillow and winced, bracing himself for impact. Would it hurt? The bullet – would he feel it rupturing its way through his skull and into his brain? Would it be quick, or would he remain conscious for a moment after, aware of yet powerless against his death?

He heard a raspy intake of breath, along with the faint crackle of burning paper. Then he smelled it – the smoke. The distinct, skunk-like smell of cannabis.

Alarm-bells quieting, Case opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, Sir was fixed at the edge of the bed, Frankenstein sutures across his temple and a rolled-cigarette between his thin lips. Bruises, blotchy red and purple, framed his low-lidded, bloodshot eye.

A twinge of pain reminded Case of his own bruised cheekbone. He didn't need a mirror to know he'd won that battle. A small, dangerous victory.

Sir inhaled the cigarette, his cheeks hollowing, giving him the impression of a gaunt, scruffy ghoul. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment, quietly evaluating Case. For a man Case had expected to be full of rage and desire for vengeance, Sir was unnervingly composed.

"In prisons . . ." Sir blew out a pillar of gray smoke, its tendrils unfurling in the space between them. "They have these toilets. Stainless steel, a bit like a bedpan. Got a nice two-in-one sink combo in some of them, too. Now, I thought that was a mighty fine design. Would'a been perfect for down here." Surprisingly, he let out a jovial chuckle. "Of course, you can't just pick one up from the local Home Depot, now, can you?"

For a moment, Case merely stared back, too stunned to react. Sir's demeanor had completely disarmed him. Enough so that, after a long pause, he sympathetically shook his head. Yes, he imagined it would be quite hard trying to find a prison toilet at Home Depot.

Again, Sir brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled. Holding the smoke in his lungs, he extended his hand, offering his joint. Case stared at the cigarette, its orange tip glowering back at him. What was this – some proverbial olive branch?

Sir gave a small, prompting nod. An unspoken, go ahead, take it.

Case sat up, bringing his knees to his chest, and took the joint. He pinched its warm, lumpy paper body between his finger and thumb.

Finally, Sir released his breath. Smoke hung in the air, thick and stagnant, a gray haze diffusing the yellow light.

"You know . . ." Sir crouched to his level. "This whole toilet incident . . . it's gotten you a bit worked up, hasn't it?"

Case nodded, obedient. "I'm sorry," he said, voice croaky from crying and disuse.

"You need something to help you calm down, don't you?" Sir gently took his hand, guiding the joint up to Case's mouth. He nudged the cardboard filter against Case's lips.