The Solitude Before the Tempest Toss
In a concrete dungeon of four, hard, scream-proof walls, cut off from the world, & alone, lied a tortured & broken soul, on an equally hard surface – though it felt harder. A nightmare made reality. The aching body & weary mind belonged to Chelsea Manning, while the boiling blood & the fighting spirit belonged to us all.
She awoke from a restless sleep, finding herself in the same position she had been in, when she first closed her eyes. Her body had naturally fallen into the recovery-position shortly after being, almost literally, thrown into her cell. The narrow surface of her bed only barely accommodated her slender form. Chelsea’s way of coping with being shut-in for 22 hours a day was to sleep. Unfortunately, in a room that knew no change in light or sound, it was hard to keep abreast of time at the best of times, but when frequent napping was used in order to best manage the torture of solitary confinement, all sense of time was lost.
She alternated between sleeping & exercising while in her cell, but her mind was still not stimulated enough most of the day… or night.
She was wide awake now, but did not alter her position. The less she moved, the bigger the room appeared to be. She tried thinking of ways to distract, or entertain herself. She didn’t want to relive past memories, as if playing home movies in her head, as the current situation has a way of imprinting itself on a memory whenever said memory is recalled for perusal.
Her own brain took her by surprise when a song floated in from an unknown corner of her mind. It was the type that wouldn’t be satisfied unless sung aloud. So, after some time of the same tune going round and around, like a goldfish in its bowl, it finally rose up her throat & sprouted through her lips, like a rose’s blossom. And it was as sweet as one in too. The tune lifted into the air & expanded into every nook & cranny of the small room, until all the space had been filled, after which it burst forth into the hall, almost drowning out the approaching footsteps.
The only time anyone even got near her door was to either feed and water her, or let her out temporarily at a set time every day, if she had “behaved”. They never came if you called, cried, or screamed, no matter how loud, or for how long.
A skeleton-key jingled for a moment & then clanked within the lock, before creaking as it turned, signalling its opening mechanism. Next, the bolts around the doorframe were unfastened. Normally when this happened Chelsea would spring to her feet, not wanting to waste any of what precious time she was allotted outside her cell in a day, even though it was only 2 hours. During those 2 hours she was allowed to make personal phone calls & attend to hygiene needs. On those occasions the guard would usually tell her, through the door, to assume the conventional pose: facing the far wall, with her hands behind her back. But not this time.
The hard door swung open & the heavy boots stepped in. What could only be the prison guard, though Chelsea made no effort to confirm with even a passing glance, did not move from that spot. He had come in, no doubt, to bark at her for singing, & who knows what else. It was always something, even if it needed to be invented. But not this time. This time, there was nothing. Again Chelsea was taken aback by this remission in routine. Curiouser & curiouser. Her eyes tentatively peered out from under their lids in order to scrutinise her intruder, who appeared to be studying her in return.
He was of tall, solid stature & in his thirties. His facial composition was plain & not one to reveal much. His expression was like that of a man looking at a woman in the prone position. She didn’t know him, but this was not unusual. There was a high-turnover rate among guards.
“Don’t stop”, his bassy timbre bellowed, without warning. The abrupt command gave her a start. She hadn’t noticed that she had stopped singing. The tune had continued playing uninterrupted in her head regardless. She obeyed & resumed her tune from the point at which it was playing in her head. She watched his face as she did so. What it expressed was an incongruity with its surroundings, caused by her song, which was a sound, an expression of its own that too was discordant with its time & place.
The drudgery of patrolling, & with it, it’s attitude of resolute solemnity was slowed to a halt, & in its place materialised an appreciation of her authentic beauty. He was mesmerised by her. Her eyes lowered to his pants, as if her stare could coax his rigidity out of its flaccid state. Almost unconsciously she began to slowly turn her lower half away from him, while arching her back, gradually lifting her arse. After it was fully distended, she began bucking her hips, just as slowly. First in, then out. In his eyes the subtle signs of arousal had transformed into a blazing fire of desire. Her own body began to respond to the light, rhythmic caresses of her garments against her intimate areas. She had to start taking sharper intakes of breath between notes. In has pants, his member was swelling, until it strained against the fabric that secured its length in place. It snaked along the front of the left side of his hip, hugging it.
Spurred on by want, he approached her writhing body. She bit her lip. He licked his. Her song was transforming into a series of sighs and breathy moans. His bulge was very close to her arse. She could almost feel the heat emanating from it. He had stationed himself there, almost barely able to contain his yearning, yet he was not willing to advance further, lest his occupation was made forfeit. So that is where he remained. His heavy chest heaved. Her movements picked up in speed, testing him. His desire mounted, but physical contact did not follow.
This was the man Chelsea had been waiting for – one who desired her, yet had the self-control not to act on that desire, despite her invitations. Other guards, in the past, had either been one, or the other, but now she had found her perfectly balanced man. A man who had principles, strength, could stand for something, while wielding a burning passion.
Chelsea let out one last sigh, but this time one that signalled despondency. As if deflated, her bottom sunk back into its original position – motionless. Her wanton expression drained from her face, leaving a look of peaceful dejection in its place.
“Is something wrong?” the hormone-logged male inquired.
“I have no speech”, Chelsea responded, being deliberately cryptic.
“You have a beautiful singing voice. I never knew.”
Chelsea blushed “I don’t share it with just anyone.”
“I guess I’m lucky. It’s enough to drive a red-blooded man insane.”
“I’m glad you kept your composure, it means you can stay. And share in… well, what we shared together. But I warn you it may not be as easy next time” She winked at him.
“I don’t know if that’s a bane or a blessing.”
“See it as a potentially fatal perk”, she giggled, evilly.
“Man, you’ll get a guy in trouble.”
“Can you do me the tinniest of favours?”
“Let’s hear it”
“Say my name”
“Your name?”
“Mmh.”
“Chelsea.”
Her name glided off his tongue, sending shivers down her spine. She relished the short, but sweet moment.
“Was that okay?”
Still reeling from the pacifying effect it had had on her, she responded: “Yes, thank you. I just wanted to feel human again, connected with myself again.”
“Happy to oblige.”
“Outside, the most visible trans-woman is Caitlyn Jenner. And I’m here. Invisible & muted. I have no online access, no journos can visit, & even if they could, I would be legally unable to talk, comment on, discuss, or even look at any of the material I helped leak.”
“You should have left this country when you had the chance.” He added, nonchalantly, as if it was a matter of fact. But she had never considered it before that moment. She had felt safe in her own country for some reason. Now she knew better. She was coming to a realisation. One of her original charges, for which her country threatened to kill her, was: ‘aiding the enemy’ – what enemy? It wasn’t a war, it was a massacre, the victims having no way of defending themselves. The butchers were the enemy – the same that had locked her up. Only villains lock up heroes. If only she had left the country when she was still free, as the guard had suggested. Then she would be free to talk about everything to an unbiased press.
Chelsea decided that it was now, or never. “Could you help me get a message out?”
“No, I’m sorry, Chelsea.”
His hormone levels were evening out again. He was sobering up. She would have to find that sweet spot again.
Coyly she asked: “Tell me your name?” No! No sooner had the words left her mouth, she had realised her mistake. She had made too many requests in too short amount of time.
“I’m sorry ma’am, that won’t be possible.”
*Ma’am? Oh no*, she thought. Her mistake was confirmed as one. The delicate spell she wove was in danger of breaking. His eyes shifted downwards. He was shaking his head & began shifting his weight away from her. She was losing him. Panicked, but with the need to act quickly she considered all her options. She had exhausted the sex-appeal option, since, if she had reintroduced that now, she would be viewed as inauthentic & manipulative. She could not make any movement that rose her from her position without rousing his defences even more than they already were. She finally decided to do what came naturally: turn her face away from him and begin sobbing.
“I’m really sorry, ma’am.” He drummed on.
She could feel his discomfort go up a notch. He began a more conscious retreat, but before committing 100% to this action, she undermined his agency with: “Just go. Please just go” she sniffed.
Shortly afterwards she heard the door shut behind him. As he was locking it back up, she threw away her inhibitions, her composure & vaulted out of bed & sprinted to the door, after which she began imploring him, overwrought:
“Promise me just one thing: look me up. When you get home, look me up. Look up Julian Assange. Follow WikiLeaks on Twitter! Follow Edward Snowden! Follow Suzie Dawson! Follow Jen Robinson! That will give you all the info you need. Please at least recommend this job to friends you trust! Spread the word! Please!”
His bolting the door had been completed. He walked away without another word. Had he been listening? Only time would tell.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/bfw4sy/whistleblowers_a_wikileaks_fanfic_chapter_2_trans