Charles is propped against the headboard.Same position.Same cuffs.Same expression of bored contempt.But the sheets are dark and wet and the room smells like a subway platform in August and he’s looking at me with the satisfaction of a man who has just made a point with his bladder.
“Couldn’t hold it,” he says.Flat.Casual.Like it’s my fault for not anticipating this exact scenario.
“You could have rung the bell.Or called me.”
“I’m restrained.”
“You can use the bell.You use it all the time.”
“I was sleeping.”
“You weren’t sleeping, Charles.You were lying in wait like a man planning a war crime with his own urine.”
He doesn’t deny it.He doesn’t need to.We both know what this is.This isn’t incontinence.This is negotiation.This is Charles telling me that if I won’t let him go, he will make every single moment of his captivity as unpleasant as humanly possible.He can’t fight the cuffs.He can’t overpower me with them on.But he can piss on everything I’m trying to build, literally, and make me clean it up.
I strip the sheets.This requires the system—roll him left, pull the sheet, roll him right, pull through.Except now the sheet is wet and heavy and warm in a way that makes me want to shower in bleach and rethink every decision I’ve made since approximately the seventh grade.
“This is the third time,” I say.
“Fourth.”
“You’re counting?”
“I have a lot of free time.”
I get the fresh sheets on.Hospital corners.Because standards don’t die just because your hostage has declared biological warfare.Charles watches me work with the lazy interest of a man watching someone else clean up his mess.Which, metaphorically, is the story of our entire relationship.
“You know what,” I say, tucking the last corner.“You’re right.This room isn’t working.”
Something shifts in his face.Just a flicker.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the bedroom was a privilege, Charles.Pillow.Abellfor Christ’s sake.Movies.And you’ve responded to every kindness with the emotional maturity of a man who pisses his own bed to prove a point.”
“Marin—”
“So we’re going to try something new.”
I walk to the door.Open it.Luke is standing at the bottom of the stairs.I don’t know how long he’s been there.Long enough to hear the conversation, probably.Long enough to smell it, definitely.
“Change of plans,” I say.
He looks at me.Waits.
“About your question…” I lean against the doorframe.Sweaty.Out of breath.Smelling like a mattress I never want to see again.“How about we start by moving him to the basement?”
Luke looks at me.Looks past me toward the bedroom.Looks back.
“The soundproofed basement,” he says.
“The very one.”
A pause.Something crosses his face—not reluctance, not enthusiasm.Assessment.The same look he gets when he’s measuring a wall.
“You’re going to need help getting him down the stairs,” he says.
“I’m aware.”
