“You want to fucking roofie me?”
“That’s not—” He stopped, rubbed his hand over his face in that familiar gesture of frustration. When he looked at me again, there was something tired and worn in his eyes. Something that might have been genuine regret if I were foolish enough to believe him capable of it. “I just don’t want you getting any ideas. Please don’t make me hurt you any more than I already have.”
The irony of that statement would have been funny if it weren’t so fucking tragic. As if there was a limit to the hurt he’d already inflicted. As if he hadn’t already crossed every possible line.
But I did want that shower. I needed it with an intensity that surprised even myself. And he wasn’t going to let me have it any other way. This was the price.
“Fine,” I said finally, each word costing me something precious. “Just get it over with.”
Tom looked relieved and guilty in equal measure, an expression I was becoming intimately familiar with. He disappeared upstairs, and I heard his footsteps cross the floor above my head, cabinets opening and closing. When he returned a few minutes later, he was carrying a small black case, the kind doctors used for house calls.
From it, he withdrew a syringe and a small vial of clear liquid.
I watched him prepare the injection. He tapped the syringe with his finger and pushed the plunger slightly to expel any air bubbles. His movements were confident, like he’d done this a thousand times before.
I wondered how many people he had drugged before killing them? How many had felt a pinch in their arm, just like I was about to feel, before everything went dark?
“It’ll work fast,” Tom said, moving closer with the syringe held carefully in his hand. “You’ll feel relaxed. Your inhibitions will be lowered, but you’ll still be conscious. Still aware of what’s happening.”
He knelt beside me on the cold concrete, and I felt his fingers on my arm, the needle pinching a bit when it went in.
He was right.
Within minutes, I felt the tension in my muscles begin to dissolve. The constant vigilance that had kept me rigid and alert started to soften, melting away like snow in the sun. My limbs grew heavy but not unpleasantly so. Everything felt… distant. Muffled, like someone had wrapped up my consciousness in cotton.
“How do you feel?” Tom’s voice came from somewhere far away, even though he was standing right beside me, close enough to touch.
“Floaty,” I heard myself say, my voice disconnected from my body like a recording played back to me. “It’s like I’m made of clouds.”
He chuckled.
I used to love it when he made that sound. Used to try to make him laugh just so I could hear it again.
He produced a key from his pocket and uncuffed the restraints from my wrists. I lifted my hands to my face to examine them. The skin was raw and angry, marked with deep grooves where the metal had cut in over days of wear, blood crusting in some places.
I should probably feel some kind of way about that.
Tom helped me stand, and my legs nearly gave out. He caught me, his arm around my waist, supporting my weight. I leaned into him without meaning to. His body was solid and warm, and mine didn’t remember why it was a bad thing to seek comfort in his arms.
We slowly made our way across the basement toward the stairs, each step taking conscious effort. My feet felt disconnected from my body, like they belonged to someone else and I was just borrowing them. Like I was a puppeteer with tangled strings, trying to make the marionette walk. Actually, no—I was the marionette, and Tom was the one with the strings, pulling and guiding.
We entered the bathroom—the real one, upstairs—and the bright light made me squint and flinch, too harsh after days in the basement’s dim glow. I saw myself in the mirror for the first time in weeks.
I looked like hell.
My hair was matted and dull. My face was pale and drawn, cheekbones too prominent, skin stretching tight over bone. There were dark circles under my eyes, shadows that made me look haunted. The marks on my neck had faded from angry purple to a sickly yellow-green. It was as if someone else was wearing my skin, as if I’d been replaced by this hollow-eyed stranger staring at me in the mirror.
“Come on,” Tom said softly, his voice gentle as he guided me toward the bathtub. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Right. Shower. That’s why we were here.
I reached for the hem of my shirt with clumsy fingers and started to pull it up. Got it halfway over my head, my arms tangled in fabric, before I remembered.
“Turn around.”
Tom paused, his hand hovering near my elbow. “Why? It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
The comment sparked something in me—a flicker of the anger that had been my constant companion.
