“I know, my darling, I know,” Victor says and scoots toward the bed with a cup. The straw attached to it slides between my lips. “Drink some water for now. You don’t have to speak if you don’t feel ready. I got some soft bread with jam you can chew on.”
I’d be greedy for any liquid, and the cool water feels like nectar, soothing my aching insides. It’s only now that theheadache really hits me too. I must be dehydrated, but as Victor places his hand on the edge of the bed, I reach for it.
My skin stings from the movement, and I stall at the sight of bandages covering every bit of flesh on show, but I still touch him, seeking the warmth of another body, the proof that he’s still here, that he didn’t use his opportunity to run.
Victor smiles and strokes me so gently it’s like being touched by a passing kitten. “It’s okay, I’m here for you. Do you need the bucket?”
I now vaguely recall I’ve woken up before. And that I’ve peed into a bucket he’s cleaned more than once. I think I also vomited at some point. Even as dazed as I still am, I’m hit by a truckload of embarrassment.
This isn’t how I want my partner to see me. And why would he do any of that labour in the first place? I trapped him here. I destroyed his chances for an artistic career, even if unintentionally.
Why is he still here?
“I’m sorry...”
He kneels by the bed, holding the cup for me so I can have another sip. “What for? Do you need more painkillers?” Victor strokes my leg through the thick blanket. At least it helps me realize that I’m not burned there.
“That you have to do... this,” I whisper, coughing when my lips fill with a coppery flavor. “You stayed?”
“Of course. I said you can trust me,” he says, but there is no trace of reproach in his voice. Only softness. I don’t know if I deserve such kindness, but I’m in no position to say no.
I nod. “How long since—”
“It’s been four days. I know it’s hard to tell withoutwindows.”
Four days.
Fourdays he’s been feeding and watering me, and cleaning up after me. He doesn’t deserve this. That is not the life I promised him before the attack left me incapacitated and my studio—
“The paintings,” I say sharply, moving so fast the skin on my bandaged chest stings. But my legs are fine. Surely I can—
I stumble as soon as my feet hit the floor and I try to get up, but Victor is there, right at my side, holding me up. His face no longer holds a smile.
“I know. It’s… a travesty, what’s been done. Maybe you should rest more until you assess the damage. I moved everything that was salvageable to the living room. Some of the sketchbooks were in drawers, so they didn’t even get all that wet.”
But I need to know. Now that my mind’s back from the sea of nothingness it has floated in for the better part of the week, I can’t just stay uncertain. “So it’s bad. But not all was lost... right?” I ask, attempting to get up, but the moment my knees straighten, the inside of my skull fills with spiraling lead, and I collapse back to the bed.
“Fuck...” I mumble when my injured arm gets trapped under my body, but Victor is there to help. It doesn’t make the pain any better.
“Not all, but…” Victor won’t look into my eyes. A part of me still can’t believe he’s here, that I’m not all alone in this mess, but the persistent fear over my work takes over. “Most of the large canvases are at least damaged. Some burned completely and there was nothing to salvage, including the one you were working on.”
A wave of emotion crashes into me, and no matter how desperately I cling to its surface, trying to ride it rather than sink, I’m so very weak. Somehow, the agony of knowing that so many of the works I chose to keeprather than exhibit, because of their personal value are gone forever is so much worse than the physical pain from the burns.
A sob leaves my aching throat, and I slump forward, feeling it gush out of me along with the blood somewhere in my stinging throat.
I shouldn’t cry.
This moment of weakness is embarrassing enough, but the wave of grief dwarfs me, and I can’t come up for air.
Victor is right at my side, trying to soothe me with his gentle touch. As if I’m a child, not a man who’s handled life on his own for years.
“I know, I know…” he coos, kissing the bandage on my face. “At least those who did it got what they deserved. I’ve got your phone, so we have a lot of the photos of it all.”
That’s good news, but I’m still sobbing, pathetically perched on the edge of the bed while Victor attempts to soothe me. “The bodies... do they need to be moved?” I mumble, hoping the change of topic will tamper this sentimental breakdown.
Victor clears his throat. “I got rid of them all. Just the guy in the spikes, he… he’s heavy, and I couldn’t pull him off, so I locked the floor there for now. You must have done the seal very well, because it doesn’t smell. The police came to ask about the explosion, but I managed to talk them out of even coming in. I apologized that it was one of the painting chemicals stored incorrectly and they swallowed that with no issue.”
He… talked to thepolice? And instead of turning me in as a killer and abductor, Victor covered my tracks? Disposed of the bodies? Cleaned the mess and took care of me while I was unconscious?
