Irony: A Narrative Fiction

A narrow shaft of sunlight radiated through the awning window, the shimmering beam shining directly onto Booker’s face. With a moan, he fought his way back to consciousness, and opening his eyes, he squinted against the light of the bright rays. A bone-shaking immediately shiver ran down the length of his body, and pushing himself to a sitting position, he drew up his knees and wrapped his arms around his torso. The temperature in the room had dropped rapidly during the night, but he had remained blissfully unaware due in part to head injury he had sustained from the force of the ceramic phone smashing into his skull. The memory of the assault returned in vivid color and lifting his hand to his head, he gingerly explored the lump on his
left temple. Dry blood caked the wound, the crusty layer crumbling beneath his probing fingers, and he winced slightly. After twelve hours, his head still throbbed from the force of the impact, and he briefly wondered if getting knocked out twice in ten days had, in fact, caused some damage. However, after careful consideration, he concluded he was not in any significant danger, and that despite feeling mildly disoriented, the injury was not too severe. Therefore, he fought through his confusion and attempted to pull himself together. It was important to keep his wits about him because if not, he ran the very real risk of suffering a permanent injury at the hands of Holland, or worse, he could wind up dead.

Using the wall for support, he slowly stood up. The room immediately began to spin, and closing his eyes, he waited for his vision to return to normal. Several minutes passed before the rolling nausea in his stomach settled, and peeking cautiously through half-open lids, he reacquainted himself with the small room. The only difference he noticed was an upturned bucket at the bottom of the rickety stairs, and he deduced Holland must have thrown it down sometime during the night. He was surprised he hadn’t heard it, but after sobbing out his pain and frustration to an invisible Tom, he had fallen into a deep, almost coma-like sleep. But now the bucket was in view, he realized he was desperate to go to the toilet. On unsteady legs, he lurched over to the staircase, and righting the pail, he held onto the wooden banister and relieved his bladder. Once finished, he moved the bucket under the stairs and gazed up at the heavy, wooden trap door at the top of the steps. He knew it was a pointless exercise to try to open it; Holland was methodical, and there was no way he would leave the hatch unlocked and risk losing one of his prized possessions. It was a realization that left him feeling frustrated and powerless; he was trapped, and he had no choice but to sit it out and wait for his captor to release him.

A sudden wave of fatigue washed over him, and without warning, his legs gave way, and he collapsed to the floor.
Emotion surged through him, and his covering his face with his hands, his shoulders heaved, and he gave into his grief. All his pain and humiliation came out in loud, racking sobs, the intensity of his anguish sending tremors of remorse throughout his tired, aching body. Never before had he felt so wretched, so utterly worthless, and at that moment, he hated Tom with a fiery passion. Because of him, he had willing become Holland’s whore, and by doing so, he had degraded himself to the point where he no longer knew who he was or what he stood for; he was a nowhere man. Every time Holland rammed his cock deep inside his anus, another piece of his soul died. Dennis Patrick Booker the man, the son, the friend, and the police officer were all gradually fading away, obliterated beneath the brutality and debauchery of the sexual acts he participated in, and in his place, a faceless automaton was slowly emerging. It was a rebirth of sorts, a metamorphosis from a living, breathing, feeling being, to a desensitized, emotionless robot. The change was an obvious transition, and Booker desperately wrestled with his psyche in an attempt to hang onto his identity, to maintain his sense of self. But every time he voluntarily submitted to Holland’s demands, another part of his essence ebbed away, leaving him bereft and
numb.

He was fighting a losing battle, and it was all Tom’s fault.

The grating scrape of metal-on-metal halted Booker mid-sob, and heaving himself to his feet, he gazed upward through tear-filled eyes as the trap door slowly opened. Light flooded into the small dungeon, instantly blinding him, and shielding his eyes with his hand, he held his breath and squinted into the ethereal luminosity; watching, waiting, praying that his was his salvation. So when a celestial figure came into view, the glow of its silvery-gold halo hovering above its featureless face, his mind whirled in confusion and dropping to his knees, his raised his arms above his head in a gesture of supplication.

“Help me,” he sobbed. “Oh, God, please help me.”

A cruel laugh filtered down into the abyss. “I told you, boy, God won’t help you. Now stop your sniveling and get up here, I want to have some fun.”

The words cleared the confusion from Booker’s addled mind, leaving him embarrassed and vulnerable. Without pause, he scuttled stiffly up the wooden stairs, and emerging from the darkness of oubliette, he drew comfort from the warmth of the sun’s rays streaming in through the French casement windows. As the life-giving beams heated his cold flesh, the rigidity in his body gradually eased, and a grateful sigh exhaled from between his parched lips. But his relief was short-lived, and without warning, a finger poked him sharply in the stomach, causing him to flinch.

“You stink,” Holland announced in a matter-of-fact tone.

Booker cast his eyes apologetically to the floor. “Sorry,” he mumbled, the odor of his stale sweat suddenly overpowering his senses. He longed to rid himself of the blood and semen coating his thighs, but he was having trouble gauging Holland’s mood, and therefore, he decided not to run the risk of another injury by asking to take a shower. Instead, he continued to stare at the polished floorboards as he basked in the warmth of the morning sunlight.