A breeze refreshed a face. It wasn't particularly attractive; it didn't look at the world with hatred. Upon opening its eyes, it barely felt that something was wrong. Typical features, the only remarkable thing was its posture. Hanging from chains, none offering a view from its current position. It was tilted in an almost horizontal position. Almost. The pain of being like this exists as long as the weight of the person being held is greater. With no apparent muscles, it could do little to move in any direction. Before asking for help—a common thing when you don't know what you're doing in a place—it tried to see what was happening. Below, there were suspended walls, from which the same chains hung, so it assumed that its own were to the sides and a little above. That left it quite worried. It had many questions, but what could it gain by asking them?
"Let yourself down. You need to stay away."
Contrary to what people think, when something takes you by surprise, the first thing you do is turn around. He didn't. He stopped applying force, and his shoulders received the additional weight that his wrists had been supporting, making him descend a little. Then he felt the breeze, like the first one, but it wasn't alone. There, amid the whistling of the wind, a sound well known to any mortal could be heard.
"Mosquitoes?"
"For now, only the harmless Culex Quinquefasciatus."
"Does it matter?"
"You're still new. It will matter."
Time kept moving forward. Every time he heard the whistling, against all his judgment dictated, he relaxed the effort he was making to allow his body to descend. As painful as it seemed, it was a better option than feeling capable of facing the unknown. Especially when the one in front seemed to know more.
"Soon they'll feed us. I'll greet you then."
... It didn't matter at that moment, even though he tried everything. The exhaustion from forcing his muscles for so long generated a sensation of dead weight, which exploded every time the air passed. A noise of gears was heard; his posture changed until he was almost facing the one who had been giving him instructions. Grey eyes looked at him—a dirty grey, not dead; a flame burned there, intense.
"Don't talk. Listen. They'll bring food. No matter what it is, swallow. It's important. You have to live. Here, this is the last thing, the only thing that matters."
The food appeared on a floating tray. Nothing below or to the sides. A tray with something grey that at some point might have been bread, and a container with a metal straw. He had no way to hold it. The chains were the only thing maintaining his position. He slurped and almost spat it out. It was salty, sweet, disgusting, but it didn't matter. He drank and chewed. While biting, he drank to make it swallowable. He didn't want to think about anything else. There were so many questions that didn't matter when something finally entered a hungry stomach. The person in front sounded even hungrier. When he finally finished, he caught the straw with his teeth, for no reason other than to have an additional tool, but he was interrupted.
"Careful. If you're trying to hold that straw, it will electrify, and with your jaw rigid, it will pull your teeth out."
"Who are you?"
"Does it matter?"
"Thank you!"
"I'll be brief. I don't intend to waste saliva in vain."
"What's happening, damn it? Why are they keeping us here? What did you do?"
"In two winds, they'll come to throw water on us to clean off the grime. Don't drink it. Use it to expel whatever you have inside. We won't have anything here until a dozen winds, and I swear I don't want to smell your filth. Besides, that smell will attract more things."
"Why are you helping me?"
"Like I told you. I need you. I won't get out alone."
The water shook him out of his stupor. As humiliating as it felt, he forced his body. Trying to empty everything. As thirsty as he was, he resisted following his instincts. He was never stupid; he knew things were much more complicated than what he normally lived through. Expelling and resisting. The time for questions was near.
"Who were you?"
"After all this, do you think I'm going to answer you?"
"I didn't do anything. I even saved your life."
"I don't know. There's nothing to prove it."
"Oh! But you'll have evidence. Sooner than you think. I ask because you need to be very awake. Very."
"Michael. What should I do?"
"Good! I like that they're smart. Soon they'll put you in a tube. That's the best I can say. Make sure you don't move much. Everything you've done up to now will save your life. You'll see."
"What's your name?"
It no longer mattered. The urge to scream out all the humiliation got stuck in the throat of the chained man. A metal tube descended from an area far beyond his range of vision, swallowing him with just enough separation to limit his movements but so close that the howling of the wind could be heard. Something soft landed on his back—light, feeling a bit unreal. That's when the wind blew. It entered the tunnel, separating him from the fabric. But when it stopped, a deafening buzz began to surround him, so intense that he only wanted to wave his arms.
"Don't do stupid things!"
The shout, even though muffled, was heard clearly.
"It's all about resisting the insects! They haven't touched you yet, but they'll try. They're here for you, for what you can give them."
He began to scream. There was nothing elegant about it—resistance, logic. The touches, alternating the fabric with something. Hundreds, thousands of brushes with the unknown. It was deceptive; it wouldn't let him see. But the touch, the audio amplified by the tunnel, made his bones tingle. As if his muscles were frozen, they kept him rigid, determined not to move.
"It's 600 heartbeats... just hold on."
The counting was torture. Of course, he could count faster, but doing so was ridiculous. He wanted to know how much was left, not to console himself. He sought to find the moment that would give him freedom. The sensation prolonging itself eternally... he thought about confessing. Was it difficult? No. He knew he could end this if he only conveniently forgot what would happen after the government, bounty hunters, or the group holding him here got what they wanted. Only, it wasn't going to be this time. He still had tricks up his sleeve. The hard part was avoiding squeezing too hard, avoiding the mammalian instincts so that his bound body wouldn't react instinctively, like a ruminant shooing away an average parasite.
Finally, when his shoulders had no strength left, he began to feel the buzzing diminish. He raised his head without considering the risk of his actions. What he discovered was a man suspended, with a crazed, rambling look. A cloud forced away by a thin fabric.
"Is that you? Don't you recognize yourself?"
Asleep? Like the old night shift workers clinging to whatever they could to not lose their day's wages, he began to focus. Yes, it was him. In just a few hours, his mind had degraded to the point where he couldn't recognize himself... but wait a moment, when had there been a reflection?
"This is a mirror. Do you recognize yourself?"
"Ridiculous."
"I suggest you think carefully, because the first healing is coming. Look, if you don't treat the bites, they'll cause you more problems. But if you do, there are consequences."
The threat didn't take long to fulfill. A chain descended from a ceiling so high it was lost in the heights. It stayed so close to his mouth; he only had to take it and pull. He didn't dare. If it was true, disinfection was vital. A small rain of alcohol made the welts sting. The worst part was that he didn't have much strength. A wisp that only brushed some of the marks became torture, an invitation to move. He hated them so much. He wanted them to stop. They wouldn't stop by his choice. So he resisted, as he knew how and had been doing for some time.
An intense pang, like feeling his tendons had been pulled out into the sun, snapped him out of his stupor. He still smelled the alcohol in the air, so perhaps he had only fainted for a few minutes. But the wind—that woke him up.
"Back here? I hope it was a good dream. Too bad! You missed breakfast."
"You didn't wake me?"
"Why? You still haven't told me what brought you here."
"..."
"Fine. But they've treated you nicely. Now comes the ugly part."
There was no need to repeat. The tube descends once more. The worst part isn't the buzzing. There's a small tapping against the fabric. The mirror, showing him in worse condition now, changes the angle. Finally, he can see his attackers and what defends him.
The scream was drowned out, so strong that his gums bled. There was only a small, thin fabric. Above it, a cloud—enormous, buzzing with insects. But that was the harmless part. The terrifying things were the objects—small black bags accumulating on the fabric, threatening to break it.
"Hirudineans. Several types. Don't let them reach you."
"Leeches? Who are the madmen?"
"I don't know. We all got them. They're not the typical kind."
They weren't. From the mirror's angle, you could see them stretching their mouths, normally attached to their bodies, extending through the fragile fabric, so close he knew they would reach him. They stretched, but when returning to position, from exhaustion, a couple attached to his shoulder blades.
"..."
"They got you, didn't they?"
"Don't worry. This isn't enough."
"Fool!"
The pain began. Hot needles started digging into his flesh. His blood flowed through the corners of those bugs, carrying out a process so unlike a parasite with thousands of years of evolution. They splashed, rolled in the small puddles created, splashing the fabric, making it weigh a little more, making it descend... inexorably.
"Still alive?"
"Will these things stay attached until I die?"
"Haha, no, how could you think that? They'll heal you. They can't allow someone detained here to last so little. Remember to pull the chain for real."
When the tunnel withdrew, a dozen bugs were attached to his body. The incapacitating pain allowed more mouths to reach his skin. As the fabric rose, it finally tore, allowing those feasting to continue their banquet. Even some mosquitoes managed to get through and were now swollen, generating new welts on his head, back, wherever they pleased to feed. By the time the chain lowered, he bit it and pulled.
A mocking bell sounded.
"It's going to be hard to hear you, but for the sake of you staying alive, I'll endure your madness."
The drizzle of alcohol returned. Some mosquitoes fell on his skin; instead of trying to regain flight, they began to feed. The mirror showed them in all their detail, so much that perhaps it would have been better not to see anything. The eyes, the malice of an act considered natural. Then the arms with the soldering iron appeared.
"Hey, wait! The parasites leave with heat, but you don't need something so imprecise. That could slip out of place... Arghhhh!"
The screams continued—curses, crying. The soldering iron didn't scare the parasite away with its heat; it pierced it and burned the wound caused, cauterizing in the process.
"Damn it! You're done with the leeches! Leave me alone!"
"I'm sorry. Those things will treat any object on your skin as a parasite and eliminate it that way."
"No! Mercy!"
"I'm afraid they don't know it."
There, the torture worsened. Every attached and wet mosquito was incinerated. The welt burned, and the drizzle ignited small flames lasting a few seconds, containing the alcohol buildup but catching fire in the process.
"..."
"..."
"React!"
The shout finally brought him out of his stupor. The tray with food was about to be removed. He didn't think anymore. He bit furiously, drank even though his eyes watered from the taste of everything. When the tray was removed, he had something in his stomach.
"Don't you realize you missed the shower?"
"What does it matter? I'll endure my waste and sweat. Don't you think I can?"
"What you think doesn't matter, idiot. Quick, tell me what you did."
"I don't think you've earned the right to insult me."
"Quick! It's almost time, and you won't be able to talk much."
The noise overpowered the screams. The stomach of a professional surrendered without warning. He felt nothing—not even the related relief—just a noise and the impact a few seconds later on the floor. The smell is nauseating.
"See? They're coming now. This time it's worse, and you fell. You can't tell me this is just your resistance... Quick, talk."
"What do I gain?"
"I'll tell you how to survive."
"I can learn that."
"After this, I doubt it... stubborn."
The air made both of them move their bodies, but this time the air didn't pass by. Small buzzings descended onto the exposed, burned, and welted body.
"Flies? You think you scare me with flies?"
"You don't understand."
Apparently, things were different. Instead of flying away and being scared by any movement, these were bold, seeking any orifice far from where the voice began to scare them away with shouts and then desperately screamed.
"Talk, stubborn. Those aren't the flies you know. They're going to inject their eggs wherever they see nutrients. Each one will make you hurt for hours."
"It doesn't matter."
"They hatch in less than two hours, and the maggots will begin a journey to everywhere they think there's food."
The first few minutes seemed like the training and dangers where he risked his life. But the sensation—suspended, threads with a needle. He knew they couldn't be that sharp, but they seemed so. His buttocks, his legs, what was suspended seemed to attract them. The sensation was unbearable... he finally gave in.
"I'll talk. Tell me what to do?"
"You didn't shower, so this is easy. Open your mouth. Let them in. Kill them. Believe me, no matter how much disgust you feel, it's preferable to them leaving more larvae in your body."
The alternative was horrible. But they kept landing in all his orifices. Some were already settling near his ears. One particularly large one, with bloodshot eyes, was approaching its rear to his tear ducts. So he opened his mouth as wide as he could. Seeing a cloud of insects rush in, he felt them between his teeth, but he didn't hesitate. He chewed. They crunched without stopping. He crushed them until he felt nothing moving. In the struggle for survival where hunger is worse than food, he swallowed. He did it without thinking. But the mirror was there. In the reflection, he saw it—the marks of the massacre, body fragments, his crazed expression, white specks in the little that could still be seen of his drenched parts.
"Don't look at them!"
"But..."
"Don't vomit. Swallow! You wanted to eat, didn't you? Go on!"
"You're horrible."
"And you're stubborn. You owe me answers, and you'd better talk... It'll keep you distracted."
"I don't want to know. What do you want me to tell you?"
"There's no time. Tell me what you think brought you here."
"I killed."
"That's obvious. They don't bring you to this place just for killing. Don't ask who! I don't know, and time is running out."
"Priests, politicians, military, idiot insurgents, some artist, so many overdoses..."
"Don't say... They called you 'the drugs,' the junkie, something like that."
"I won't answer. But if you say killers don't end up here, then I wouldn't be here."
"Exactly. You killed, but you eliminated something—someone. A baby, mothers, old people, all of the above?"
"I only regret one."
"Only one person? Was it a saint? An innocent victim? Quick, the wind is coming!"
"He was innocent and guilty! A well-intentioned type who wanted to do things the way he always promised he would."
"And?"
"Well, that. He didn't know anything about governing. He started leaving everyone without money, screwing everyone over. I didn't charge for that one. That one was free."
The wind blew, bringing with it the breath of putrefaction. The tunnels began to descend.
"You said you'd help me! How do I get out of here?"
"So it wasn't your crimes or your remorse. Look, I have a very ugly condition. My body temperature is particularly low, so the parasites don't pursue me as much."
"You're undercover. I knew it. You wanted information. I gave it to you! Let me go!"
The last scream was drowned out. The same flimsy fabric, lacking integrity, gave way to hundreds of thousands of insects. Not only the previous parasites. In her mesh, still intact, a woman contorted, sweating cold, trying to stay away.
"Me, a spy? An agent of those who keep me here? How beautiful that would be."
Her body convulsed a little while some larvae advanced under her skin. That's when she discovered she couldn't skip a single day of the shower. Her mirror not only showed her how many larvae were still advancing; it was larger because she was the one who had remained alive. Below, dozens of bodies in the process of being consumed would be the company of the one screaming in front of her. It didn't matter much that she hadn't obtained correct answers. He had answered. Better than those who died for ignoring her, or worse, those who tried to buy her. She lived on top of their bodies. She breathed with great care, just as she moved, waiting for the next one, asking what the information that kept them detained here could be. Meanwhile, she recited the mantra—one so old it was useless, but at the same time gave light to her patience.
"Don't lose your head with the screams. Remember: one breath at a time."