"Shit," you whispered, looking around the woods.

Unfamiliar land. It all looked the same and you suddenly realized how much danger you were in.

"Shit, shit,shit—'

Your foot landed on something solid instead of soft ground. It was followed by the sound of clanking metal and the most excruciating pain you had ever felt.

Your vision went white as a loud ringing sounded in your ears.

When it cleared. You were staring up at the sky with pain rocketing through your leg. It took all your strength to lift your head to see the source of your pain. You wanted to be surprised but were instead left with a feeling of pure dread at the sight of the bear trap clamped around your left ankle.

The metal was dark, glistening with blood — your blood. It was funny, really. For all your boasting about independence, it would be the thing that killed you.

"HELP!" you screamed. "HELP! ANYBODY!"

Silence clung to the forest. Still, you screamed, determined for someone to hear your cries for help. You didn't want to die out there. You refused to die out there. You wouldn't die out there. Things like this didn't happen to people like— to good people. There was nothing you had done in life to deserve the lashing pain that shot through your leg every time your body accidentally shifted position on the ground.

It wasn't long before the shadows began to grow long with the rapidly setting sun. The temperatures started dropping, and you…you began to cry. Your vision was getting blurry from the pain and blood loss, and you were certain this was it. You would die here with the regret that you never got to live.

It was getting colder and the shivering only made the pain worse. Your eyes squeezed shut, but that cold oblivion never came. Instead, the rustling of leaves and underbrush sounded closer and closer. A bear, certainly. Something to put you out of your misery.

"Goddammit!" a man whispered.

Your eyes flew open to find a man staring down at your crumple body. He breathed what looked like a sigh of relief as he got closer and saw signs of life.

"Am I dead?" were the first words that stumbled from your frozen lips.

"Not yet," the man grunted, kneeling next to you. "Hold on—"

A hoarse, strangled scream tore itself out of your throat when he unclamped the bear trap. You sobbed down at your mangled ankle — blood, skin, and muscle all exposed to the cold air — before passing out from the shock.

It all came back slowly. The weight of a blanket, the smell of a fire, the dull throb in your foot. You were warmer than you remembered being.

Opening your eyes was a chore. When you finally managed it, you found yourself in a bedroom. Everything felt hazy and dreamlike. You weren't unconvinced that you hadn't died in the woods and this was just whatever your personal afterlife was — a slightly dingy cabin with scratchy blankets and pain in your foot that was getting worse by the second.

You groaned, a weak sound that barely sounded out. It was followed by shuffling and creaking on the other side of the door. Your whole body froze as the memory of the man who had helped you came back, then the memory of the bear trap.

The door opened and he was much more handsome than your hazy memory could recall. The two of you stared off for what felt like an hour before he finally broke the silence.

"How do you feel, lamb?"

An awkward beat, then:

"My leg hurts."

His name was John and John was former military, you learned. It showed in his wound care and aloof attitude in such wound care. All to say, he treated you like a soldier who had gotten hurt on the battlefield.

"Should've been more careful out there," he sighed, unwrapping the now-red bandages on your foot.

You gasped in pain, fisting the sheets as if it would stop the lightning bolts shooting up your leg. "I— I was lost — fuck!"

"Hm. Now you do, love." His calmness was infuriating. Tears were streaming down your face and he was moving with no urgency or care as to agony he was causing. "Nonetheless, you were lucky it was my trap. I usually check them everyday—"

"Your trap?" you gasped. "You did this?!"

John finally showed emotion when he laughed at your accusation, infuriating you even more. "Whatever makes you feel better, lamb. Try not to walk onto private land next time. You're lucky you didn't lose your foot."

If he was trying to rile you up, it was certainly working. You were ready to tear into him, his character, and blatant disregard for wildlife with his inhumane traps, when he opened a bottle of painkillers. The insults died on your tongue, turning into curiosity instead.

"Why didn't you take me to a hospital?" you asked, taking a pill from his hand.

"Got five feet of snow last night," he explained. "Neither of us are going anywhere for a while."

The painkillers knocked you out for the rest of the day. When sleep finally broke, you felt trapped between waking and dreaming. The world was soft around the edges, shifting back and forth in waves. But the only thing your mind could focus on was the need to pee. You managed to throw the quilt off of your body, which ended up knocking the carafe from the nightstand. When your body jolted at the crash, the pain exploded in your foot once more.

The amount of noise made immediately alerted John. He burst into the room, ready to save you from whatever had happened, only to sigh in frustration.

"Had to go and make a mess," he huffed.

"N-needed to pee," you mumbled.

You were met with an eye roll, but he swiftly stopped you from trying to get up on your own.

"Don't be daft," he grumbled, picking you up bridal style. "You won't be walking for a good bit in your condition."

Your senses were coming back when he sat you on the toilet. It was a hassle to get your — his boxers off and relieve yourself. It took until he flushed the toilet to realize he had watched you the entire time. If he sensed the flush in your cheeks, he didn't say anything, but that didn't stop the humiliation that burned in your chest. You looked away with a breath caught in your throat.

"Don't be bashful now, lamb," John said as he turned on the bath. "You think I put you to bed without cleaning you up first?"

Your head snapped up towards him. "You what?" The smile on his face only served to fan the flames of anger he knew you felt. "That's not funny, John—"

He turned toward you, finally leveling with the petulant gaze staring back. "You were half frozen and covered in mud and blood. I wasn't staining my linens with that mess. Now take off your shirt." The amusement faded when you started kicking and hitting him. "Alright, alright!"

In one swift move, he grabbed your ruined ankle and squeezed. Your whole body went rigid as pain shot up your leg.

"S-stop— stop—"

Two minutes later, you sat in the tub with your bad foot dangling over the edge. John sat on the closed toilet, reading a book and pretending not to watch you wash your hair.

"You done yet?" he asked, turning a page.

"Do you have conditioner?" The only answer he offered was a snort. "Then yes."

The water drained quickly and Price took his time getting a towel. "Is this a punishment?" you called through chattering teeth.

An eternity passed before he came back and gathered you in the threadbare cloth, and another until you were dressed and under the blankets again, finally warming back up. John had been out of the room for some time and a hint of worry tugged at your mind. It had been stupid to behave so poorly when he so graciously saved your pathetic ass from dying out there and the idea that he was angry lingered uncomfortably.

What if he was angry? Would he leave you there to fend for yourself? Or perhaps he would just kill you, because maybe he was a murderer.

The chatter turned off when John returned with a bowl of soup.

"Eat up, lamb," he said, handing you the bowl. "Need to get your strength back."

The ceramic was warm in your hands, the heat seeping deep into your bones. It was chicken soup. Something simple to fill your stomach, and likely would have been more enjoyable if he hadn't watched you eat the entire bowl with those sharp, unfeeling eyes.

The last few bites had to be choked down, since your appetite was killed by the anxiety that came with being watched.

"Thank you," you mumbled, handing your bowl back to him.

Exhaustion hit with full force when John took the bowl. As you slid down into the bed, you thought how odd it was that he hadn't left yet.

You awoke abruptly in what you assumed were the early hours of the morning. Your ankle throbbed and there was a dull pain between your legs.

Standing was painful and walking was impossible, which left you resigned to sitting in bed all day, with John assisting in getting to and from the bathroom. To go from living on your own and being a self-sufficient, independent woman, to needing help to piss was humiliating to say the least. John keep reminding you that he had seen worse, but he didn't understand the issue.

You had lost all autonomy and were stuck in a house with the same man whose trap had caused your injury. Every time you snapped at him to remind him of that little fact, he would remind you that it was his land you walked onto — that it was your fault.

That's not to say he didn't take care of you. In fact, he was incredibly diligent in your care. He helped you to the bathroom every morning (though you had to pretend he wasn't watching you the whole time), he helped you bathe (despite your insistence you could do it yourself), and finally let you get dressed and change your bandages. Caretaking seemed to be his second nature, which he of course chalked up to his time in the military training him to take care of others.

Around the third day was when the boredom kicked in. The medication, while nice to soften the edges, was the best distraction to the pain.

"Do you have a TV?" you selfishly asked John. "I feel like I'm going crazy sitting here in silence while you're…doing whatever it is you're doing."

"Hunting," he grunted while wrapping you in new bandages. "TV is in the den." At that, you perked up. "But I'm not carrying you back and forth everyday just because you're bored. I have some books you can read."

Though slightly deflated, the prospect of having something to take your mind off the current drudgery was promising. Though, your mind now occupied a new question.

"What is there to hunt?" you asked. "I thought there was five feet of snow."

Silence. It hung frozen in the room, weighing down what had been casual chatter. The longer John waited to answer, the heavier it became. Soon, the room felt suffocating. Your heart raced for what felt like no good reason, your stomach twisting in knots. It dragged on until you were about to ready to scream—

"Never said there was any game left," John finally answered, securing your bandages. When he looked up, you nearly flinched at the suddenly emptiness in his eyes. "But I'm working in the cellar today, so I'll bring you a book."

"What are you doing in the cellar?" The words escaped before your mind could stop them.

Fortunately, John didn't seem as offended by this. "You ask too many questions of the man who saved your life."

He brought you The Jungle.

The routine dragged on like that. Mornings were comprised of bathing and breakfast, which was usually eggs and sausage. Your morning painkillers dulled the pain in your foot and the persistent soreness you felt when you awoke. Then you would attempt to read some mind-numbing book while John took to the woods. Occasionally, you could hear him bringing back game. It was always big game — what had to be deer or elk. The room downstairs was where he slaughtered them, since he always dragged his kills through the cabin and down to the basement.

Afternoons were the same as well. Reading and eating whatever lunch he brought. It was either soup or chili of some kind. Then John would return to the cellar to finish butchering the poor creatures that stumbled across his path. He took pride in the meat he served you, even bragging about being able to make his own sausage. Yet, it was hard not to pity who you ate. You had once been in their position — stuck in a trap, frozen, and screaming for help. The only difference between you and the animals in the basement was that John saw you as worthy of life. But in that sense, you were no different than those creatures, other than the fact you got very, very lucky…

Evenings brought dinner. John would share it with you, and it was always steak or a roast. He loved red meat, you learned, and you loved having human interaction. It was fun to learn about him. A man like John would always hold secrets, and you turned it into a game of unraveling them.

He was a former military captain in the special air forces, he retired shortly after one of his men was nearly killed, and he came out to the woods to find peace. It pointless to try to get him to elaborate, since the memories clearly were not the most pleasant. But you tried to ask them anyways, hoping he might care enough to ask about you. He never did. You once joked that he acted like he already knew everything about you, which ended with him giving you your nightly dose of painkillers early and then leaving abruptly.

It was small moments like that that gave you pause. Little jokes about how he was able to find so much to hunt and teasing him on what he was "really" doing in the cellar. Brushing it off was impossible when there was so little else to focus on. Your mind became a breeding ground for the most vile theories and John did little to assuage them.

Then, one afternoon after a week monotony, John returned from hunting. Before you could even think to call out a 'hello,' a soft groan sounded on the other side of the door in a voice far higher than his. Like someone in pain. It was followed by a dull thud and the sound of John opening the basement door. Then he descended.

You told yourself you were just paranoid, stir crazy. It did little to dissuade your anxieties about…well, everything. Alone in a cabin with a man that you knew so little about. The more your mind focused on your circumstances, the more it began to crash down. It was a weight on your chest that twisted down in your stomach. Your brain had decided John wasn't a threat as a way to protect you from the fact that he very well may an incredibly dangerous person.

For all his posturing as a simple mountain man, he was former military and had kept you in this room without any contact with the outside world for days. Then your gaze slowly drifted to your half eaten breakfast.

"What do you put in your sausage anyways?"

He had gotten so quiet when asked him such a simple question. For a hobby he bragged about so frequently, it had been odd for him not to answer. Your mind continued to work and work until—

Panic surged through your body. Your lungs tightened and refused to expand. Breath came in sharp gasps. You didn't realize you were crying until tears dripped onto your shirt.

By the time the quilt was on the floor, John was in the room with eyes full of worry.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his hand finding its way to your shoulder. "Where's it hurt?"

It was nice, you supposed, that he thought you were hurt.

"Get away—" you gasped, shoving him back. "Don't— don't touch me!"

There was something that flickered in his eyes, almost behind them. Like a switch being turned, you watched as something horrible moved through his mind that replaced all rational thought. The moment moved slowly and in it, he seemed to forget his care for your well being.

A predator stood before you. It was hungry. It was angry something dared to show emotion other than complacence, that the animal in front of him refused to roll over and show its belly. The predator tightened its grip, ready to crush the bone of the prey and make it stop resisting.

Stupid lamb, the predator seemed to say, I invited you in. You never had a chance.

The moment passed. The light returned to John's eyes, though they remained stern. He regained his composure, just as your breathing caught back up. Just in time for him to grip you by the jaw and leer over you.

"Don't shove me, girl," he warned. "I'm trying to help you. Why the fuck else would I save you from a bear trap? Huh?" Your face pinched in wince as he rattled your head. "Huh?!"

A pathetic whine escaped your mouth. "I'm sorry," you forced out, sniffling. "I panicked— I'm sorry!"

John softened at the sight of your fresh tears. He nodded, the grip on your jaw moving to cup your cheek instead. "It's alright, lamb." If he noticed the way your body jolted when he sat down, he didn't say anything. "It's alright. You're anxious from being all cooped up. You have every right to be."

"I want to call a doctor," you sniffled. A doctor was safe. It wasn't as accusatory as the cops might be to him. "I-I'm worried about long term effects and I want to a doctor's opinion."

"Mhm." John's hand moved to squeeze your hand. "That's gonna be tough, since I don't own a phone." Your heart sank and he could see it. "Military, you know? Made me a paranoid, old man."

There it was again. His military excuse. You wanted to believe him, really, but there were times you swore you heard him talking to someone else. The walls of the cabin were thin, so it was hard not to listen when there was little else to do. Most of it was muffled anyways but you knew he was talking.

The fact that he might be talking to himself did little to make you feel any better.

"Right," you mumbled. "What about a radio, or something?"

He patted your hand. "Snow'll melt soon, lamb. How about some dinner? I've been thawing some steaks for you." The way he said it made it clear he wouldn't leave you alone again until you conceded. So you gave a wry smile that he quickly matched. "That's a girl."

Right before he stood, there was a moment you thought he might kiss you. The flicker was there in his eyes again — predatory. It was gone by the time he stood again.

You pretended not to notice the dried blood on the soles of his boots when he walked out.

John joined you for dinner in the room that had become your entire world. He set up a small table next to you with his meal, almost like he was trying to brag that he had real silverware and had left you to cut steak with plastic-ware.

"Maybe next time you can give me real silverware," you teased, forcing a smile up at him as he took your plate.

"You're on heavy pain meds, lamb," he said. "Forgive me if I don't trust you with a real knife."

The smile faltered. "You haven't given me my nighttime dose…" slowly, your gaze followed his to your empty plate. "Oh."

"I could hear you fussing all last night." There was amusement in his tone. "You can thank me later."

The medication settled in while he washed the dishes in the kitchen. It forced the anxiety from your bones and pushed your mind into a forced calm. With the pain dulled, it was easy to let your mind drift. You were half asleep when John returned.

He moved closer, closer still, until he was on the bed. On top of you, crushing you. Forcing your legs apart, soothing your squirming. But the medication kept you calm.

"John," you slurred, your hands weakly pushing at his chest.

"You're alright, lamb," he murmured into your ear. His hands found their way to the waistband of your sweatpants, tugging them down and revealing your soft cunt to him. "Christ, girl. Look at 'er."

You felt heat flush in your cheeks, but everything you had to say died on your tongue when he slid two fingers over your folds, coating them in your slick. A pathetic mewl forced its way out as you watched him lick his hand clean through lidded eyes.

"Fuckin' hell…taste like heaven, lamb."

Your head was already lolling to the side from the weight you could no longer hold onto. The sound of metal clinking tugged at your mind, but you didn't have the energy to look. Everything was so much heavier now. Even the sound of John's voice was going in one ear and out the other.

A sudden pressure, then, burning in your gut pulled you back to the moment.

"Ow," you slurred out.

John groaned right into your ear, his facial hair tickling the soft cartilage there. "You're alright, lamb," he grunted. "Just a little thank you."

"Thank you?" A soft squelch filled your ears and blocked out whatever he been saying. "John?"

"Right here, lamb." He gave your hips a firm, reassuring squeeze before pushing back in. "Gonna fill you up. Make sure it takes this time. Something for my hospitality."

It was all building up far too fast. Pleasure, unwanted pleasure, coiled in your gut, enough to make your legs shake. Another whine escaped, spurring him on even more. He moved faster and harder, his hips snapping up against yours until you came hard on his cock. The combined whines and grunts turned to soft moans when he soon followed. Even in your drugged state, you knew he was pumping his cum deep inside your womb. It filled you to bursting, squelching out around his cock and onto your thighs.

When he finally pulled out, you were fast asleep.

In the haze that enveloped your mind and rational thoughts, you decided that now was your chance to run. The quilt was tossed aside and you swung your legs over the side of the bed. One moment was up. The next, you buckled.

You landed hard. Hard enough that it was impossible to stop the scream that escaped your throat. There was no doubt that John was alerted to your movements, but you couldn't care beyond the pain that was burning through your body. Even your breath was coming in short bursts. A few moments passed and your rational mind was returning, reliving what happened the night before.

"For my hospitality."

So when the door opened, your determination turned to ice and you froze.

"What did you do to yourself, lamb?"

He was moving further into the room, his gaze fixed on where you trembled on the floor.

"Leave me alone," you croaked out. Of course, he ignored your plea.

John knelt on the floor next to where you had collapsed, as uncaring and aloof as ever. With rough, calloused hands, he cupped your face, tilting it up to meet his cruel, empty eyes. It felt like staring down a predator. The only difference was that animals were not needlessly cruel. They didn't know anything but instinct and the need to kill to eat. He knew exactly what he was doing. He always had.

"You poor thing," John whispered, ignoring the tears soaking his hands. "My sweet mourning lamb. It's just us out here, love. No one else is coming. Now, you're going to stay put until I get back. Nothing you've done hasn't been tried before."

Sobs wracked through your body as he stood back up and walked out, leaving you alone in your suffering. The whole house rattled when the front door slammed shut. You couldn't help but scream at the utter helplessness of the situation, never mind that you had put yourself there.

How stupid it had been to try to get anywhere on a mangled foot. How stupid it had been to go on a trip by yourself to the middle of nowhere. You did this.

You screamed into the floor once more.

An hour passed, then five, and resignation had turned to frustration. For someone who had prided herself on being independent, you hated how stagnant you had become. John would be killing you if you stayed in one place or not, so there was no reason to die on the floor of your prison.

Slowly, you used the bed to get up to your feet. By the time you limped to the door, pain was pumping up your bad leg and sweat dripped from your brow. But you refused to give up now.

For the first time in over a week, you finally saw the rest of John's cabin. Beyond the bedroom was simple log cabin with a kitchen and a den. In any other circumstances, it might have been cozy. But what caught your eye was the couch. The same exact couch that was in the house you had been renting. That alone was just a coincidence. But the matching blanket and chair was not.

Twice. Twice he had invited you into his home, and you unknowingly accepted the invitation. The other cabin had to be bait rented by people like you. Lonely and solitary. The regret felt at every decision that led you to this horrible place only deepened as you stared out the window into the woods, the profound lack of snow.

Resignation returned. All that was left was to see what lay beyond the cellar door.

Limping over, you were stunned that the door was unlocked. Part of you wished it hadn't been and there would have been an excuse not to look into the abyss. Alas, the doorknob turned and a stairwell yawned before you.

Every step was a curse, a voice in your mind screaming for you to stop. To go back upstairs and forget about whatever you thought you might find. But you couldn’t. Not now. Not when the seed of terror had filled your mind so entirely. 

Step. 

Stop. 

Further down. 

Stop. 

Hand on the light switch. 

Stop. 

Blinding fluorescent lights. 

NO!

A killing room floor. A slaughterhouse. 

Your ears were ringing. Torsos hung from hooks, discarded limbs lay on metal tables, thick puddles of blood spread across the floor. A large white freezer sat in the back of the room, the kind that looked like a coffin. The kind that could fit a body inside. You knew what you would find inside but that didn’t stop you from hobbling over to look inside. 

With a shaking hand, you reached forward to lift it open. Inside was meticulously wrapped, dated, labeled, and organized organs and, of course, more sausage. He was so organized and careful with his wickedness. You thought it might have been better had he haphazardly thrown organs into a bucket, but the sight of how thoughtful he was — how aware — made you sick.

Bile rose up your throat. You covered your mouth and looked around in a panic. There were maybe seconds before you threw up onto the floor and you simply refused to do that whatever reason. Your eyes landed on a trashcan. There was a moment before your breakfast rushed up your throat that you realized you were throwing up onto a pile of human heads.

You stumbled back, sick dripping from your lips and eyes wide in a horror you struggled to process. It was a nightmare, you told yourself, and you needed to wake up. It couldn't be real—

Your good foot stepped in a pool of blood and you were unable to balance yourself on the bad one. With nothing close enough to steady yourself on, you landed hard on the floor. Blood soaked into your clothes, and splattered into your hair, and covered your hands. Shock set in as you sat up in a puddle of viscera and stared at an eyeball on the floor. It was as though your mind couldn't fathom what was happening to you, because it simply couldn't be happening.

The ringing in your ears became so much worse as your world became a singular point. Suddenly, all there was was the cold air causing the blood to harden over your body.

Things like this weren't real. They didn't happen. You wanted so badly to believe they couldn't happen and that this was still a horrible, all-too-vivid dream.

Not real, you told yourself. Not real. How could something as evil as this be real?

"You can't hide from me forever, lamb!" John called out upstairs.

With the ringing in your ears, you barely heard the heavy footfalls coming down the stairs. Still, your head snapped toward the vibrations that matched the pounding in your chest. You swore your heart was going to tear itself out as your brain racked with what would happen next. All you had to do was look around the room to know what your fate would be.

A freezer bride.

Breath came in shaking rasps as you struggled to your feet, only for your panicked and shaking hands to cause you to lose your grip and slip on the blood once more. Your head hit the concrete floor and the world turned to nought.

You didn't expect to wake up. You certainly didn't expect to wake up clean and tucked into bed in fresh clothes. The only evidence of your exploration was the blood staining your nails and a bandage on your head. John sat next to the bed, his silence nearly making you startle. His gaze was blank. There was no malice nor care — simply nothing.

"Find what you were looking for?" he asked. You looked around the room. Something felt wrong. His calloused hand gripped your jaw to make you face him again. The calm mask was falling. "Show me your face— you look at me when I speak to you."

"Yes." The whispered answer crawled from your throat. "I did."

John nodded, his impassiveness giving way to a mix of something like pure fury and frustration. "Yeah. You did, didn't you? Gave you one rule, love. Can you tell me what it was?"

You knew you should have repeated what he wanted to hear but the words refused to come out. In their place, came: "Are you going to kill me?"

"Not worth the trouble for one sin." He released your jaw and leaned back in his chair, sighing heavily. Your body wanted to relax as well but your mind knew this wasn't over. "I brought you into my home, nursed you back to health, fed and clothed you. And you betrayed my trust."

Laughter bubbled up and you found yourself biting your cheek to keep it from escaping. The audacity of John to claim that you betrayed him. You were working up the courage to question his judgment but he suddenly leaned forward and took your hand. His gaze softened into something…pitying.

"I'm a good man, love," he said, his voice losing the harsh edges. "So I forgive you for this little mistake."

"There was a trashcan full of heads," you whispered back. Once the words started, they refused to stop. "You fed me human flesh, you've been hunting people— you— you— you—"

The grip on your hand turned into a crushing hold. "That's enough," he forced out through gritted teeth.

"You betrayed me."

Silence. It rushed forward, thick and heavy, coating the room like the blood in the cellar. John's thoughts were clear as day as they moved through his eyes, just as he could see yours. The only thing on your mind, however, was regret. Regret at every decision that led you to this place.

When John released your hand and left the room, you knew it was over. You had always wanted to live a full life — to travel, to finally meet people, to live. Your cabin the woods had just been a small part of that plan and it was now the reason you would never get to do any of those things. The thought of running crossed your mind, but he returned before you could try. Besides, it wasn't like you would be able to make it very far.

Your only hope now was that John would make it fast.

He was crouched by the fireplace, making it impossible to see what he was doing. There was no reason to ask him. He enjoyed his secrets too much.

Your heart was racing. You weren't even dead yet and your mind began playing all of your best memories for you, like it was trying to make you feel better. In a way, it was working. It distracted you for pockets at a time.

John finally stood back up and you shut your eyes as he walked back over.

"Open your eyes," he barked, taking your right wrist in a painful grip. "You're going to watch and remember this."

In your confusion, you obeyed. Your eyes flew open to watch through tear-blurred vision as he cut your ring finger off with white hot pruning shears

Winter came early. The first heavy snow came just after Thanksgiving and the land stayed coated in white ever since. It was quiet now, as it was most days. You spent your time doing chores and ignoring the cellar door. Anything to turn off your brain — to not think. John was planning something, that much was certain, no matter how little he spoke to you.

He spent his time in the cellar or his shed out back. The cold didn't bother him as it did you, you learned. Probably because you were the one who had to clean up the snow and dirt he dragged in from outside, and the bloody boot prints he dragged up from the cellar.

You learned a lot those days in the hours you spent tending to the house. Like the fact that John had infinite patience for you now. He didn't mind if you accidentally broke a plate or glass while doing the dishes, or if you burnt dinner — on purpose or otherwise. He would simply sweep up the mess and scrape the char off his meal while you stared back at him.

You had hoped that the more you messed up dinner, that he would take over cooking again. But no matter how many horrible meals you made, he refused to relieve you of the burden of cooking human flesh and organs. Yet, time and again, he'd make jokes about the horrible food they would serve in the military before scarfing down his food while making direct eye contact. You would say nothing and pray he'd choke.

The quiet meant nothing to him either. Whether you talked or not was not something he really cared about, only if you answered his basic questions.

"What's for dinner?"

"Did you do the laundry?"

"What do you want for Christmas?"

The last one always caught you off guard. He always asked it with that infuriating smile on his face, the one that was hidden beneath his beard. You replied the same every time.

"Nothing."

And it was met with a patient kiss on the head every time. His hands would rest on your shoulders so close to your neck that you feared having it snapped every time. Every time he knew the fear he brought upon you.

A Christmas tree appeared in the living room in the middle of December. You were still groggy from sleep, so seeing it there, wrapped in lights and garlands caught you off guard. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you stepped closer. You touched one of the branches and pulled away sticky fingers that dripped sap like blood. Fresh.

"You like it, lamb?" John asked, watching you from the kitchen counter. "Cut it down this morning."

All you could do was nod. "It's pretty."

"Needs some gifts under it, I reckon."

That afternoon, a perfectly wrapped gift box appeared beneath the tree. You tried to ignore it.

Out of fear of losing another finger, you sewed three handkerchiefs for John. The needlework was sloppy but you were certain he'd be happy with anything. He was so smug when you asked him quietly for a box and ribbon. It was like he thought he won something.

Christmas morning came too soon. John roused you with a soft hand in your hair and a kiss on the temple.

"Time to wake up, lamb," he whispered.

You took your time getting up and tried to ignore the twist of anxiety in your gut as John watched you drag yourself around the bedroom. Had it not been for his good mood, you would have felt even worse. A million thoughts swam in your head out of fear of what laid beyond the bedroom door.

When you were finally dressed for the day — in your pajamas — you approached John. "Am I allowed to leave the room?" you asked, trying to ignore the gleam in his eyes.

"Turn around." There was, what you could have sworn, was giddiness in his voice. It almost made you laugh. You turned around and practically jumped out of your skin when he blindfolded you. "Easy, love. Don't wanna spoil the surprise."

With his hands on your shoulders, he led you out of the bedroom and into the living room. The smell of coffee and bacon filled your nostrils.

"Is breakfast the surprise?" you taunted. "You know how to work the stove?"

"Very funny," he chuckled, squeezing your shoulders. "Are you ready?"

You nodded. Maybe he would be letting you go.

John pulled the blindfold off and wrapped his arms around you from behind, his hands resting on your belly.. You blinked a few times to adjust to the light before your eyes landed on a hand-carved crib next to the tree.