Hell Is Not a Six-Foot-Deep Box

I hated fish, most of all anchovies. They reminded me of my father.

“I don’t want to eat fish.” I always pleaded with him, expecting his response to be different.

However, after every wail, was a bang of a plate full of anchovies and a side of rice, or spaghetti, whenever he felt ‘generous’.

“You don’t tell me what to do in my own household. You’ll eat the fish, when I make the damn fish,” he continually responded with a frown on his face, his eyebrows standing tall, mimicking the rigid posture he had garnered.

The anchovies looked back at me with no emotion on their faces. They had met their fate, but soon enough, so would I. Their dull, grey, scaly skin felt rough on my tongue. Their greasy nature was more vile than ever before. With every bite I took, I felt a bone crack, and with every swallow came a gag. I desperately chewed on the rice to bury the flavour, but the heavy brine of the anchovies soaked through everything, ultimately making me hurl.

“You are an ungrateful brat, that’s what you are,” he repetitively said. A different day, the same plate of anchovies slammed onto the table. Every tin a scar, every bite of rice an engraving of that memory.

For a meal meant to be my last, it sure did feel like a first right before a departure. I had already lost count of whatever day it was. The last time I remember keeping count was day three hundred and fifty-two, or maybe it was three hundred and forty-two. Now, I couldn’t even tell whether it was day or night. I hadn’t eaten in weeks, but now the same ‘generosity’ I’d been given by my father was the exact same I was given by my captor. My only source of enjoyment came from counting the number of ants that made their way to the exit as soon as the door flung open, as the brown vintage clock by the door ticked louder every second, creating an ambience of anticipation.

“Eat up!” said my captor as he threw a plastic bowl that contained rice and anchovies onto the floor.

He couldn’t have cared less whether I’d eat the meal or not. The bowl hit the ground just as fast as the door was shut, leaving me and half a trail of ants trapped in that closet-sized room. It was filled with dust in every corner, a bulb that aggressively flickered, and cobwebs running up and down the wall as spiders fed on the ants they could capture. Having not eaten for days, I put all my body’s energy into getting to the plate, hoping that energy would be regained in order to get back to my little corner that felt safe.

I hated fish, most of all anchovies, but in that moment, it did not matter. Now they stared at me with a look of exuberance, like they couldn’t wait for their bones to be snapped in half by my teeth. I could tell he wasn’t a chef, as the rice was half burnt and half cooked. The anchovies looked like strips of old leather as they were straight out of the tin. But none of it mattered; hunger could turn even the most desperate being into someone who could overlook any circumstance. With every grain of rice I bit, I felt much more relief. It was like I was swallowing a handful of painkillers that relieved the strain of hunger in my throat and put out the fire of the acid in my stomach. Each grain of rice, a memory; each anchovy, a trauma.

We were dealt the same hand, the anchovies and I; destined to be put to death by the same captor. It was easier to swallow. I didn’t feel the need to gag, or use the rice to mask the pungent flavour. I felt at peace. Just as the anchovies slid down my throat, a deep feeling of relief washed over me, letting go of past beliefs. I didn’t know what day it was. I simply did not care. The floor was cold, but rather than being harsh, it was soothing. It felt like laying on an ice rink. The cold once caused a sharp pain in my spine, but this time around, the chill travelled down my back acting as a temporary antidote, numbing the ache. Like putting an ice pack on a fresh injury. The drawn-on lilies on the floor tiles seemed to peel themselves off the concrete, transfixing me to the same spot as they wove gently around my limbs. For a moment, it felt like I was Snow White, awaiting her prince to wake her from her deep sleep.

The clock ticked in a rhythm that sounded more like a countdown than an extension of time. The same trail of ants that doubled in number, their synchronised queue breaking down into smaller groups as if they were getting ready to claim the room. I couldn’t help but let out a hysterical giggle. I didn’t care if they walked over me. I was no longer frightened of the little creatures. Soon enough, my lungs felt tighter in my chest, and my cackles turned into hyperventilation. I turned my body to look up at the ceiling to accommodate the failing size of my lungs, only to be met by the bulb that had flickered longer than I had been in this place. Its flashes only reminded me of the past memories of my life. All the good and the bad. With every flash, my chest felt tighter. With every tick, a tear slipped down my cheek, right into the dust. And then…

“Liam. Liam. I need you to tell me what happened in that basement.”

I stared at the metal table in the interrogation room, trying my best to focus, but all I could see was that closet.

“The bulb,” I muttered.

“It had been blinking for months, but I couldn’t be bothered to change it. I just stood there in the flashing lights, staring down at her. She usually stayed quiet, followed the orders I gave without a fight. For sixteen months, she uttered no words and cowered in her little corner, mumbling numbers to herself. She would sometimes eat the food I’d give her and other times leave it for the ants to feast on. I thought I broke her, and that I had gained total control over her. But in her final moments, it was like a switch had flipped.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?” said the detective, the sharp clicks of her stilettos matching the rhythm of the clock’s ticking that day. Every step a reminder of the seconds that passed that afternoon.

“After she had eaten the rice and anchovies I had served her, she lay there staring at the wall, hysterically laughing. It wasn’t a nervous laughter. It was unhinged, one that demanded attention. Then she rolled over, stared at the ceiling, sobbed once, and just like that, her eyes went completely blank. I don’t think I can ever get that memory out of my head even if I tried. Her laughter was so cunning, her disposition damning. Every time I hear a laugh, I’m reminded of hers. Like she’s mocking me from beyond the grave. She might have been the one locked up in that room for months, but she locked me up out here. I'm losing my mind to a sound I can never forget and a smile I can never erase. It’s like she escaped my hell, and dragged me straight to hers.”