The footsteps were moving away.

The footsteps were moving away. After 10 minutes of uncertainty, not knowing whether his captor was approaching his cell or passing by, that terrified him more than the encounter with the guard. He just wanted to know.

If his captor was due to pay him a visit, so be it; just let it happen already.

The footsteps had begun around 10 minutes ago - that seemed about right. He had no concept of time anymore. He'd been locked in the dark, musty cell for what seemed like a week. The men had showed up at his house in the middle of the night and muffled his alarmed cries with a canvas bag dropped over his head. He felt himself placed in a van and a journey of about an hour in the car. It was anybody guess where he was.

THUMP. THUMP.

The captor was definitely approaching now. The footsteps must be getting louder.

He had gotten used to the sounds of the cell. The slow trickle of water from the leaky ceiling as it hit the rough cobblestone floor of the cell. The sound of pedestriands 30 feet above. Cars honking. Birds chirping in the early hours of the little sunrise he got - 50 or so feet underground.

THUMP. THUMP.

The captor paid him a visit every day, but the time was random. Sometimes the visits were meaningless. He'd slide the peep hole of the cell and look at his prisoner. Othertimes he would walk into the cell, stare at him for several minutes without saying a word and leave. Whatever he was here for, he was not sure how much more mental torment he could stomach.