#whumped

He approached the door and his fingers rose to the lightswitch, hovering over it when Elora’s meek voice sounded from the bathtub.

“Will-will you leave the light on? I-I’m scared,” her voice cracked, trembling along with the rest of her body.

That was the first time she’d admitted to it-her fear. Of course, it wasn’t the first time she felt it, she’d been terrified nonstop for the past two weeks, but it was the first time those words had ever slipped from her mouth in front of him. I’m scared. A whirlwind of emotions swept through her as the phrase escaped her lips; shame that made her cheeks warm and red, and chilling desperation that balanced the heat. It wasn’t truly the darkness that she feared; though the creaking sounds that filled the apartment at night and the occasional scurrying of a rat or a roach unnerved her in the darkness, it wasn’t the dark that she feared itself. It was merely placebo, an outlet to dump her fears so that she wouldn’t quake quite so violently every time the man walked into the room. And in a way, more than anything else, she craved control. The lights were so simple, yet she wanted so deeply to control them. She wanted there to be something in her life that she was in charge of and he wasn’t. She wanted a say in something, no matter how arbitrary.

The man paused. His hand hovered the switch for a few seconds, as if debating whether or not he’d humor her request. Elora swallowed hard, the sound filling her ears as the room was otherwise silent. His fingers began to drift away from the switch, and for a moment she thought he’d shown her a fleeting moment of kindness and given in to her request.

But as soon as they’d wandered away, they found the switch once again and he silently plunged Elora into darkness then left the room.

Elora didn’t notice, but his footsteps didn’t wander far. He sat with his back against the wall, his neck craned and his ear pressed to the door, listening to Elora’s muffled cries as she tried desperately to find sleep that always seemed to evade her and leave her constantly awake and wallowing in her pain.

There was just something about her, Clyde Anderson thought. Something about the sound of the tears she thought he couldn’t hear her shed throughout the night. Something about the way she tried so very hard to be brave and stone-faced in spite of how much pain and fear she was enduring. Something about the way she went from a strong, fighting spirit to a sobbing shell of herself by his own hands.

He left once her cries had quieted down and were replaced with the sweet sound of her rhythmic breathing. While it was relaxing in its uniformity, it simply wasn’t as enticing to listen to as her cries. It could’ve taken anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours for Elora to finally give in to sleep; Clyde couldn’t tell. He was entranced by her sobs, drawn in deep by the hitching sound her throat made every time she uselessly tried to stifle them.

What he did know that night was that he wandered to his bed a very contented man.

Elora awoke several hours later, disoriented as she always was. The near total lack of natural light in her life sent her circadian rhythm haywire, leaving her painfully confused the majority of the time. She had some basic hints that helped her deduce the time and day, like where the man was and how cold the apartment was, but other than that, she was clueless.

She heard his footsteps down the hall that led to his bedroom. She knew those steps, she heard them every morning, but they still managed to inspire a tightness in her chest and a hitch in her throat that she was almost certain would never fade.

Elora looked down and stared at her beaten legs, afraid to look the man in the eyes. She’d been so quick to glare him down in the beginning, so eager to retaliate however she could, physically or verbally or both. Now, she hardly ever worked up the courage to resist, saving it for only the most necessary situations. It scared her to think that her resolve had crumbled so heavily so soon-she still had her internal resistance, the anger that bubbled up in her body every time he spoke, but would he take that away, too? When? What would happen to her in another week or another month, if she even made it that long?

He opened the door, and though she flinched, she didn’t otherwise react. Even as he stepped forward so close that there were only a few inches between her slumped shoulders and his legs, she was quiet and still, save for her shaky breaths.

“How did you sleep?” He asked her, his body towering over hers as her chains and battered ankle kept her sitting in place. The question might have seemed genuine or caring had anyone else in the world posed it, but Elora could tell that the man didn’t care at all about the quality of her sleep. He was only trying to intimidate her, and so she inhaled deeply, her voice strained as she replied with a mere, “Fine.”

He scoffed loudly, continuing his caring farce. “Mhm, I’m sure you did. You want some breakfast?”

Elora tried not to let herself hope. Never before had he offered that, and he sure didn’t have any reason to be inclined to do so now, not after everything that happened two days ago. Still, she didn’t want to anger him by calling him out on his bluff, so she simply nodded. “Sure.”

Her voice was quiet and perhaps a little curt, which must have been the cause of his sudden anger. Elora tried not to let herself run with the what ifs, but as he grabbed her tangled hair and jerked her neck backwards to look at him, she couldn’t help but wonder if a softer voice could’ve prevented this.

His face was red as his dark brown eyes bore into her. She tried to avoid them, instead staring at his graying hair, but that wasn’t enough; he gripped her jaw with his other hands and twisted her head so that she was forced to stare right into his eyes.

“Why are you being so cold with me, Elora?” He dropped the hand on her jaw, presumably to allow her to speak. He expected an answer to the question. All she could muster was a faint “What?”

That only seemed to infuriate him, as his eyebrows furrowed even deeper in rage. “What do you mean, ‘what?’ You’re being cold to me. Acting like I’m not here, like I never do nice things for you.”

Elora was speechless, for a moment. She didn’t think she’d been acting any different than before-hell, she’d been on her best behavior the past few days out of fear of him worsening her broken fingers or ankle. “I don’t know. I-I’m sorry.”

Evidently, the man didn’t like her response. He abruptly let go of her hair and pushed her shoulders so that she fell back in the tub, leaving her vulnerable as only her head stuck out above its walls.

“You don’t seem to know what I mean. Or maybe you do, hmm? And you just don’t care about your behavior? That’s fine. I’ll show you cold, then, Elora.”

She was confused at first, until he reached for the faucet and turned it on. It was December in New England, and so both the pipes and the water tank were near-frozen, the water that flowed out of them much the same. She shivered as the icy water began to lap at her toes, the man shoving her aside to place the plug in the drain. She tried to sit up and curl away from the freezing water, but the man merely pulled her chains tighter, forcing her to lie still with no solace from the cold. The sound of rushing water filled the room as the tub rapidly filled, each additional inch of cold water around her body making Elora shiver more and more violently. She called out to the man, apologizing and begging him to turn the water off and unplug the drain, but he either couldn’t hear her over the running water, or he chose not to.

Elora was used to cold winters, but this was a different kind of hell. She could wrap herself in a warm coat when the air was biting and dry outside, but there was no escape from the water. This cold was different than the one outside. It seemed to seep into her very bones, lighting every inch of her skin it touched with sharp, cool pain.

He didn’t turn off the faucet until the water was up to her neck, about to spill over the sides of the tub. Elora immediately opened her mouth to speak, to beg him not to leave her here, but he silenced her before she even had the chance to speak.

“Quiet,” he said sharply as he turned away and walked off, nearly exiting before something stopped him and he turned around in the doorway. Anger seemed to run off of him in waves that Elora could feel across the room. She wanted to shrink into the corner, to hide away and not have to face his wrath.

“And there better not be any fucking water on my floor when I come back, do you hear me?”

Elora could hardly bring herself to respond, panic constricting her mind and body, but she managed a small nod.

“Good.”

And with that, he was gone. He slammed the bathroom door closed behind him, stormed through the apartment, and pulled the front door closed after that. Now it didn’t matter how much she screamed or begged; there was no one there to save her. She was alone.

That was the scariest part, more unnerving than the chilling pain that had already begun to rise. Goosebumps covered her skin and she desperately tried to stifle her shaking to avoid spilling the water in the tub, but as time passed, her trembling got more and more violent and the water began to spill. Hot tears of frustration rolled down her cheeks, and she didn’t know if she should hope the man wouldn’t be back soon so she wouldn’t have to face his anger or if she should pray he’d return soon to save her.

Elora stared at the yellowing ceiling and tried to not to focus on the cold enveloping her or how utterly scared she was of her swiftly-reddening skin and intense trembling. She tried to imagine herself somewhere else, somewhere warm, though she only found success in partially zoning out.

Eventually, she stopped feeling the cold. She wasn’t sure how long it had been, but the cold was there, shrouding her in its miserable grasp, and then it was just gone, leaving her body feeling airy and numb. It was a strange sensation, to go from miserably frigid to somewhat peaceful, and though she was scared, she tried to count her blessings. Numbness was easier to bear than icy pain that felt like thousands of needles stabbing her over and over. Soon after the cold went away, her shaking, too, subsided, the water in the tub finally settling, no longer spilling over onto the floor with every quake. The water had turned a light copper color as with time as it washed blood both old and new from her various wounds. The puddles of water on the ground were scarily reminiscent of her blood itself. Would that be what became of her? An empty body with blood on the floor? A crime scene?

Elora tried to shake the thought from her head, which came surprisingly easily, as her mind began to fog over. Her consciousness was slipping from her, and deep down, she knew that she should be scared, that this wasn’t a good sign, but she couldn’t find the strength within herself to care. Her chin began to fall forward into the water as her body went lax, and she tipped her head back as one last attempt at self-preservation before fading into the nothingness.

She didn’t fall asleep, not completely. Her eyes remained open, but she wasn’t there behind them, her mind and body falling victim to the drop in temperature. Elora remained there for nearly an hour, not hearing the front door open or the loud steps heading towards her.

Shit. That client had been a pain in the ass. What was meant to be a short talk at the coffee shop turned into a long conversation and it had been an hour and a half by the time Clyde got back to his apartment. He hesitated to open the bathroom door, afraid of what he might find. He’d done his research, like he always did-he had no intent on killing her any time soon-and he’d only ever meant to leave her for a few minutes, maybe half an hour, just to teach her something. But this? This was dangerous.

He gulped as he opened the door and saw her, passed out in blood-tinged water, her face pale, her eyes half-lidded, and her lips blue. Water covered the bathroom floor, soaked into the bath mat and standing in puddles on the floor. He might’ve been angry at her for that if he’d been back when he meant to, but he didn’t care now. He’d messed up, and he knew it. Not only did he need her, he didn’t know what to do with a body. He didn’t want to figure out how to deal with a corpse.

Elora didn’t acknowledge the figure in the room with her, no matter how many times he called her name and how close he got to her. She didn’t notice anyone was even there until she felt two rough hands on her cheeks, gently pulling her head from the water. They were warm, so blissfully warm, and she leaned against them, her head lolling right into her torturer’s hands. She was dimly aware of who he was and the fact that those hands could so easily twist and snap her neck or bash her head into the wall, but she couldn’t find the energy within her to care. The hands stood still on her face for a moment as she basked in their warmth, but they soon fell away and she began to hear the water noisily slipping down the drain. Elora knew that the man was speaking to her; she could see his lips move as his face contorted into confusion, rage, and what could have been mistaken for sympathy, but wasn’t quite. She couldn’t make out any individual words, only hearing the dull hum of speech against her ears.

He unlocked her chains and lifted her out of the bathtub, her head rolling back and falling against his shoulder as the rest of her body was limp against him. The air was cold, but it was much warmer than the water in the bathtub had been, the temperature difference sending a sharp shiver down Elora’s spine. Her wet clothes clung to her body and made her feel even colder, water dripping off of her and all over the room and the man. He didn’t seem phased, which relieved her, because he’d ordinarily be furious about the mess. He quietly carried through the door, out of the bathroom and into the small living area.

Elora never went out here much. He didn’t let her very often because she was still clinging to the last parts of herself, to the parts that threw herself at the TV just to break it, the parts that smeared blood across the carpet and the walls just to make a mess, the parts that bit and clawed and screamed and fought for freedom.

The man set her down on the carpet next to the unlit fireplace. She laid still, flat on her back, her eyes focused on the ceiling again. If she weren’t so cold and utterly incapable of moving her frozen body, she would’ve reached for one of the fire pokers and stabbed him through the eye. She smiled at the thought, bringing about an internal warmth which was blissful given the severe lack of warmth she felt on the outside.

The man stood and lit a match beside her. The sound and smell of burning wood pulled Elora out of her happy daze, as she flinched, her mind too exhausted to acknowledge it but her instincts fully aware that the matches almost always meant that she would be burned. She could almost feel the small, circular cigarette burns covering her shoulders and arms lighting up with pain, warning her of the danger to come. Someone should buy you an ashtray for Christmas, she thought dimly. She’d told him that, once. He’d slapped her across the face, but she was still proud of herself in the moment.

The man saw her flinch and their eyes locked for a moment as he threw the match into the fireplace, lighting up the timber inside.

His expression was tumultuous. He almost looked sad.

He left the room and she found herself afraid. The fire was helping rewarm her, but she knew she needed more help, more care she couldn’t provide herself no matter how much she hated him. A mixture of frustration and gratitude filled her as he returned with a few towels and a fresh set of clothes and sat down beside her, carefully avoiding the wet puddle that had formed beneath her.

The fire emitted a warm glow, one Elora wanted to be embraced in forever. She watched as embers flew from the flames and fizzled out in the air, disappearing just like that. Just like her.

She let the man pull off her wet clothes and towel off the freezing water from her body as tears rolled down her cheeks. He helped her get a new set on, a long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants that provided much-appreciated warmth. The room felt solemn and the air stale, neither Elora nor the man saying a word, though she was pretty sure she’d come back enough to hear him now.

She laid still for a moment, trying to process everything that had just occurred. It was so cold. She could’ve died. She was awake and alive, but not really there, for god knows how long. And she was weak. He was the one to hurt her, but she let him help her anyway instead of handling it herself.Elora rolled over onto her side and curled into a ball, now just a few inches away from the fire that bathed her in its heat, blissful warmth enveloping her.

“You’ve got to stop acting like that,” Clyde muttered as he watched over her pitiful form. All Elora could manage to give in reply was a quiet grunt.