He listened, but he wasn’t inappropriate about it. There were no touches that lingered for too long or wandered where they shouldn’t. He washed my arms, my back, my legs, taking care of me the way you’d care for someone sick or injured.
Which I kind of was, I supposed.
His touch was gentle, careful around the bruises that mottled my skin in purple and yellow, as if the gentleness couldsomehow undo any of the previous violence.
The drug in my system made it hard to hold onto that clarity, made it hard to remember why his tenderness was a lie, why I shouldn’t lean into it.
When I was clean, he helped me out of the tub. My legs were shaking, barely holding my weight, threatening to buckle. He wrapped a large towel around me, the fabric soft and warm from sitting on the radiator, then another around my hair. He guided me to sit on the closed toilet lid, and I collapsed onto it gratefully. He dried me off with the same careful attention he’d used to wash me until I was mostly dry.
He helped me into a bathrobe, guiding my arms through the sleeves, pulling it closed over my chest, tying the belt at my waist with a neat bow.
I expected him to take me back to the basement then. Back to the concrete, the dim light, the chains.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he guided me out of the bathroom and down the hall. To the bedroom. The one we used to share, where I’d slept beside him dozens of times.
“No,” I said, but it came out weak. “Not here.”
“Just for a little while,” he said, his hand steady on my elbow, steering me forward, “Until the medication wears off. I promise I’ll take you back after.”
His promises meant nothing. We both knew it. But I didn’t have the strength to fight him anymore, didn’t have the will to resist.
The bedroom looked exactly as it always had, frozen in time. There was still some of my stuff scattered on the nightstand—my hand cream with the cracked lid, an open paperback novel I’d been halfway through, my reading glasses folded on top.
It felt like another lifetime.
He sat me on the edge of the bed, and I felt the familiar give of the mattress beneath me. He picked up the brush from the nightstand and started at the ends of my hair, working out the tangles carefully, never pulling too hard. When he hit a particularly stubborn knot, he stopped and worked it loose with his fingers before carrying on with the brush.
It felt nice.
I let my eyes close. Let myself focus on the sensation of the brush moving through my hair, on the slight tug on my scalp. On the warmth of the room and the softness of the bathrobe against my clean skin.
“There,” he eventually said. “All done.”
But he didn’t stop. He kept going, long strokes from root to tip, even though my hair was already smooth and tangle-free.
I knew I should tell him to stop. Should pull away myself, reclaim whatever small piece of autonomy I still had left.
But I didn’t.
The repetitive motion was soothing, reminding me of the time when I was a child, when my father used to brush my hair before bed.
Tom set the brush down eventually and reached for something on the nightstand. A jar—some kind of cream. He opened it, and the scent of chamomile and aloe filled the air.
“Give me your hands.”
I didn’t even think about it, didn’t question or resist. I just extended my arms like an offering.
He took my right hand in both of his, cradling it gently, and began applying the cream to the damaged skin. His thumbs moved in slow circles, rubbing the ointment in. The cream was cool and soothing, instantly relieving some of the burning.
“I really wish you wouldn’t do this to yourself,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on my wrist.
“I didn’t do this to myself.” The words came out slurred, dreamy, but still carrying the hard edge of truth. “You did this to me. You cuffed me, chained me up like some kind of wild animal.”
“You fought against them. If you’d just stayed calm—.”
“Only you would tell a prisoner to stay calm. Every single thing that has happened to me is because of you.”
