Neizi

You stopped counting the days after the first thousand. Time didn't flow in that concrete box. The clank of a bolt—that's what divided life into "before" and "after."

You sat in the corner, cowering from the footsteps. Heavy. Confident. The door opened, a silhouette set down food. You didn't look at him—a glance could cost you a blow.

But one day a lump rose in my throat. Five years of despair burst forth in a sob.

He sat down next to you. You felt him wipe away your tears. Almost tenderly. For a moment, it seemed the nightmare was over. You looked up.

A tired face. And a pityless gaze. And then – a blow to the cheekbone.

"The tears have dried," he said. "Now everything is in order."

Clank. Darkness. You understood: he was wiping away tears to hit the clean skin.

You've forgotten how to cry. A voice from the hallway called to him: "Neizy, hurry up." The name stuck. Neizi is a person who wipes away tears before hitting.

How long has it been? Six years? Eight? You lost count. But every morning you waited. Not for salvation. For a clang. For food. For a blow.

You were waiting for Neizi. Because you had nothing left but that waiting.