15
Shay
I stopped speaking to him after that day.
It was petty, maybe. Childish, definitely. But silence had become the only currency I still possessed, the only form of power left in my empty hands. My words, my attention, my cooperation—all of it was mine to withhold.
The first day, Tom seemed to accept it with the patience of someone who’d expected as much. He brought my meals, said what he needed to say, and left when I didn’t respond, slow and reluctant, like he was hoping I’d call him back.
I didn’t.
By the second day, I could see the cracks forming.
“Silent treatment? Really?” He set the breakfast plate down, the sharp crack of ceramic against the folding table echoing through the basement. “Isn’t that a bit childish?”
I looked through him like he was made of glass, focusing on the wall behind his shoulder until he became just another object in my peripheral vision.
He sighed, a sound heavy with frustration and something that might have been hurt. He lingered for a few more minutes,hovering in that uncertain space between staying and leaving, before finally climbing the stairs, each footstep heavier than the last.
The silence felt good. It was the only thing in this concrete tomb that belonged entirely to me, that wasn’t twisted or contaminated by his presence.
By the third day, I’d stopped tracking his visits as carefully. I’d found a spot on the wall where the concrete had cracked in a pattern that resembled a gnarled oak tree, and I studied it like a scholar examining ancient texts.
I heard him come down the stairs. Heard the careful placement of a plate and the scrape of that chair he always pulled over, positioning it like we were going to have a civilized conversation.
We didn’t speak.
I kept my eyes on my tree, tracing its branches with my gaze over and over until I’d memorized every line, every shadow, every variation in the texture of the concrete. Until I could close my eyes and still see it perfectly rendered against my eyelids.
After what felt like an hour, he left. I didn’t acknowledge his departure with so much as a glance.
The fourth day—or was it the fifth? Time was becoming increasingly abstract—I broke the silence.
But not for him. For me.
“Can I have a shower?”
He’d been setting down the lunch tray when I spoke. His hands froze mid-motion, and he looked at me like I’d just performed a miracle.
I hated that look. Hated the hope that flared in his eyes, bright and desperate.
I didn’t like that I’d given him anything at all, but I needed this more than I needed to punish him with silence. The need for cleanliness had become overwhelming, almost a physical ache.
There was a bathroom in the basement, though calling it that felt generous. It was basically a closet with plumbing. It contained a toilet and a rust-stained sink, both ancient and barely functional. There was no shower. Not even a mirror. My chains allowed me just enough range to reach it, to use the facilities with what little dignity that remained of me.
But I wanted to feel clean. The grime had built up on my skin like a second layer, and my hair felt greasy against my scalp. Every once in a while, I’d catch a whiff of myself that made me scrunch my nose in distaste, made me feel more animal than human.
Tom’s expression didn’t remain happy for too long, unfortunately. The hope flickered and died, replaced by wariness. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
While there were many things he could be called—arrogant, psychotic, delusional, just to name a few—stupid wasn’t one of them.
He knew I’d attack him the moment he released these restraints. He was aware that I wasn’t afraid of him hurting me—wasn’t afraid of dying, even—which meant that there was nothing stopping me from clawing his eyes out the second I had the chance.
“I could…” he trailed off, and something uneasy flickered across his face, a shadow of discomfort. “I could give you something to make you more… compliant. Just for a little while.”
Compliant?What did that even mean?
It took a moment for it to click, for the meaning to settle into place.
