#scribbles.

He gently knocks your shoulder with a knuckle until you stir enough to get your bearings. It’s cold here, and you shiver beneath your thin tattered clothes. If he was nice he’d drape his jacket over you, but he won’t.

You make a distressed noise.

One of these days you’ll wake and be overjoyed to see him. He can make that happen within the blink of an eye, and a tap at the book in his bag. He doesn’t. Not yet. He’s got all the time in the world to wait.

He plucks a small chocolate from the box and dangles it over your head. “Happy Valentines.”

You huff in exhaustion. Your lip wobbles.

You push off the floor weakly and Tamsy takes the opportunity to wrap his arms from behind and pull you into his chest. You fit between his legs like some overgrown stuffed animal, and you try to get away as best you can.

The chain rattles as you move your leg to try and kick at his ankles. It doesn’t work and it never does. Even if you managed to beat him senseless you’re still stuck in the cell, and he’ll eventually wake up and give you back twice the effort you inflicted.

That, or he’ll kiss you until you’re blue.

You don’t know which is worse.

You don’t fight beyond that. It’s useless.

“Open up.” The heart-shaped chocolate sits close to your lips. It’s filled with vanilla cream according to the box.

You hesitate for a moment, kicking out desperately for some semblance of escape before you harden your jaw and let him slip the treat through your teeth. You force yourself to swallow it. The sugar makes you feel sick.

He plucks another sweet and untwists it from the bright red wrapper. He then tightens his arms around you. You elbow him in his ribs in surprise, flailing when he squeezes even harder until the wind is knocked from your lungs.

Tamsy manages the chocolate down your throat before you wheeze and he releases you from his grasp on the floor. Your nails claw into your arms.

He watches you like you’re an animal in a cage.

“You’ve behaved relatively well these past weeks,” he starts. It’s not praise. It’s condescending, scolding, barely noticeable in his voice, but still there. “I felt awful not rewarding you.”

You don’t say anything.

You don’t want to ask if the chocolates were laced.

“I can’t feel my feet,” you mumble. You continue to shiver as he turns back to the giant bag and rummages around inside.

“It’s not permanent,” he tells you gently. He reaches down the bottom and heaves.

“I can’t even–” It’s been a while since you’ve used your voice for longer than five seconds. “I can’t even run if I tried.” The chain around your ankle rings in enunciation.

“Why would you?” He brandishes a bouquet of flowers from the bag, surveying and preening and straightening the red and white petals of each flower before he’s satisfied. It’s huge, decorated with a gorgeous pink lacy ribbon to hold the flowers together. “After how well I treat you.”

You back up against the wall of the cell as best you can.

He wears a terrible grin on his face. His lip is still bruised from the last time you lashed out and struck him in the mouth. He didn’t even seem to care; rather he looked delighted.

Aww…

His little pet finally fought back.

He crouches down in front of you and extends the bouquet out for you to take.

Flowers.

“Pretty, hmm?” His index finger curls within the arch of the bow. “Expensive, too. The florist told me my partner was very lucky to have me.”

He places them in your lap when you don’t reach for them. You don’t want his pity gifts, or his charity, or whatever form of depreciation he calls this. You flinch when he pets your head.

You’ve never seen flowers before.

You’ve never considered putting aside hundreds just to get some, especially as a gift, especially when fake ones exist that are just as beautiful. The petals are soft, almost velvety, and you’re worried for them. All this money for things that’ll die within a week.

You don’t ask for a vase.

He gave them to you so you could watch them wither and decay.

Your fingers tremble around the wrapped stems.

He looks expectant.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

He smiles. “You’re so insincere.” He pinches your cheek, and he sounds giddy. He slumps down over your shoulder on the floor, nose bumping against your sore cheek and sighs dramatically. “But you’re welcome.”

He’s settled for less.

You’ve been worse. You were more defiant when he’d first brought you here, biting, scratching, fighting, making him bleed. Once you managed to break off stone from the wall while he was gone and stabbed him in the leg. You missed a major artery, and you were rightfully angry, and he was livid.

He finds that violence isn’t enough for you. It keeps you placated until it doesn’t. You come back harder, more stubborn, and he finds it difficult neutralising you. Then came the sedatives; a little slice of Heaven in this dump. He’d hidden them in your food when he was nice enough to feed you, and then when you figured that out, he would hold you down and force it down your throat. When that wasn’t enough he turned to needles.

For the first time you couldn’t physically fight back.

You snapped and shouted and spat but that was all you could manage. Your words don’t hurt him.

Now, you try to avoid him.

That’s difficult to do when he’s the only person you’ve seen in months.

“I have an offer.”

You don’t want to listen.

Tamsy speaks anyway, “I’ll allow you a new place to stay.”

He notices your shoulders tense. Suddenly, you’re attentive. He doesn’t blame you. This place is miserable and cold, and you’ve gotten sick from the mould and how damp it is.

“Why?” you utter.

He coos, “because I love you.”

That’s not it.

He doesn’t elaborate.

Your fingers squeeze around the flowers.

He’s taking you to a second location. He wants to take you somewhere else. Somewhere away from where he snatched you off the street. You assume someone’s looking for you and he’s getting worried, and when he gets worried he gets sloppy.

The problem is, Tamsy doesn’t often worry. You’ve seen it first hand. You’ve been sicker than a dog more times than you can count, and ignoring your wailing for an actual doctor, he elected to treat you himself in the dingy dark cellar. You’d cough your lungs up through your throat and he’d sat there patiently and spoon fed you medicine and soothed over your back.

He was worried for you once when you weren’t getting better. You couldn’t eat, couldn’t stomach down water, couldn’t even respond to him.

You assume he’d rather you die than take you to a doctor.

“You don’t want a new place?” he asks.

You sniff. “I want to go home.”

He rolls his eyes and squishes his cheek into your shoulder. He closes his eyes and rests there.

“Thank you for the flowers,” you try desperately again. You know it won’t work. He’s not stupid, and although he’s delusional he still has a few screws on to understand how miserable your situation is. He doesn’t think you even love him, not anymore at least. “They’re pretty.”

Tamsy smiles softly. He reaches up blindly and pats your cheek. “Not as pretty as you.”

“I think you’re pretty too,” you snap through your teeth.

“How lovely.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” you attempt.

“Mm-hmm.”

“I won’t,” you insist. “I’ll disappear from your life. You won’t even hear from me again.”

Tamsy sighs. The hair in his face flies for a moment. “That sounds terrible.”

“Please.” You briskly wipe your tears before he can start mocking them again. “I’m sorry if I’ve done anything to you. I’m sorry if anything ever happened to you–”

He lets you ramble. He looks bored. He reaches for the box of chocolates and unwraps one of the treats before popping it in his mouth.

He chews.

His nose scrunches. Cherry.

Tamsy does his best to swallow the treat. The creamy insides almost make him sick to his stomach. Too creamy, too rich, too expensive for treats to taste this sweet. And being heart-shaped means there’s even less chocolate to eat.

What a scam.

This whole tradition is a scam.

Most men don’t even get their partners anything. They just expect sex, which, well… Tamsy glances at you in the midst of your apologies. He’s not entirely interested in stealing more of your autonomy. Not at the moment.

But wouldn’t it be nice? More pricey than any fancy bouquet.

You, half-dressed, touching him gently, and not grounding your knuckles into his skin to give him even more scars. He can imagine forcing noises from your throat, how much nicer you’d sound when you’re all pretty and stripped bare for him. All shiny and sparkling and willing, all touching on him, all loving all smiles and all heart-eyes all hair gripping all rough and soft and hard and slow and–

He almost vomits at the thought.

Tamsy steels himself and throws his hair over one shoulder.

“It’s a house,” he murmurs. “Shower, kitchen, bedroom, anything you want, everything you don’t have here.”

“And you’ll tie me to the bedpost?” you snip at him. “And get off to me struggling with your pathetic little–”

“You won’t be chained at all.” He tilts his head and grins cheekily. He has such a lovely smile. It’s a shame he is the way he is. “You can walk around all you like.”

“But I can’t leave,” you whisper.

You’re so clever.

“I’ll bring you new clothes, maybe other things if you’ve been good.” Tamsy bats his lashes when you sneer and try to bite his hand when he lightly smacks your cheek. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll purchase a puppy and you can both eat from the same bowl.”

He pulls away and shoves you when you attempt to break his leg clean in half with what little strength you have left. He tosses the rest of the bag towards you. Thankfully, there’s actual human food and a bottle of water he’s been generous enough to gather for you.

You grunt when he leans forward and kisses your cheek. It’s sticky with sweat. He’s surprised you don’t throw a punch, or wrap the chain around his ankle and pull.

He’s leaving again.

You can’t stand up.

You try and grab his boot but he slides out of reach.

You result back to laying back on the side, facing away from him. The chain jingles once more. You leave the flowers in the corner to die.

Disappointing.

You sob quietly, arms wrapping around your torso, and your wails echo through the chamber.

Even more disappointing.

“It’ll be alright,” he consoles flatly. He doesn’t even bother to pat you on the spine. You usually just tense and claim that he’s scaring you. “I know you won’t tell a soul.”

The book weighs heavy in his bag. He pulls at the lever and the iron bars drop to the ground with a giant crash.

He knows you’re loyal.