Rated T for violence and nonexplicit sexual themes.
Spoilers for: Apollo Justice: Ace Attorney
His ankle is pinkish red, like diluted blood, and so swollen that it feels heavy, cumbersome, like another shackle. He can't move it well, so the bone must have shattered at least once, maybe twice. There are a couple of wet marks, too, like pomegranate seeds against the pallor of his skin. The pain is enough that it keeps him moaning softly even through his new fear of being overheard.
He's stretched out on the bed now, and the chain of his shackle has been shortened to keep him there, his toes brushing against the cheap wood of the footboard. It's warmer up here on the duvet, its softness a relief from the abrasive carpet, but he can't curl up like he wants to; his abused ankle won't allow for so much movement. So he rests his head between his arms and presses his face against the fabric, taking both comfort and terror from the familiar scent there.
Mr. Wright brought the frying pan down six – or was it seven? – separate times onto his ankle, until Apollo was blinded by his own tears and nearly suffocated by his snot. His throat is dry from screaming and dehydration; he keeps swallowing, hoping it will help, but there's no longer anything but air to swallow. He's tired, his eyes sore and bloodshot from so much crying, and he wants to sleep, but the sharp, incessant throb of his ankle is a constant blight on his awareness, and he can't ignore it long enough to pass into unconsciousness.
He doesn't know how long it's been since Mr. Wright left him locked back up in here alone. Time passes torturously slowly, and he has nothing to occupy himself with besides his pain and fear. At some point in this new stretch of his confinement, he became aware of his increasingly full bladder. He doesn't remember when he last went, or even when he last drank, but the pressure in his lower stomach is unmistakable. He squeezes his thighs tighter together as that pressure gradually mounts, but a few drops of urine manage to leak out into his boxers anyway after awhile, to his discomfort and mortification.
With the blinds and curtains still shut, there's no way for him to tell the time. The room might have gotten darker, signaling the passage of noon to night, but he can't even be sure that he's not imagining it. Maybe it's been longer than that. Maybe it's been a whole day, or a week. He wonders if he'll die here, alone, forgotten.
Then the door clicks as it's unlocked. He lifts his head and struggles to hold it up as the door swings open and Mr. Wright steps in. He's holding a pair of sewing shears, and Apollo jerks back, rolling his injured ankle. He bites down on the cloth in his mouth to stifle his groan.
"Relax, Apollo," Mr. Wright says with a smile as he approaches the bed. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Apollo tries to push further away, but with his shackle and his wound, he can't get far. Mr. Wright grabs his bound hands and effortlessly drags him to the edge of the bed. The shears gleam mere inches from his nose, and he doesn't squirm. Then he feels a light touch on his swollen ankle, and he yelps behind his gag.
"Maybe I hit you too hard," Mr. Wright muses, retracting his hand. Apollo breathes deeply through his nose, trying to chase away the dizziness that's starting to overcome him. "I should probably clean this up..."
He cries out again, this time kicking his chained foot as Mr. Wright runs another finger over the tender flesh of his wound. He doesn't mean to, not with the shears so close to his face, but it's an instinctive response, almost primal. He thinks he's going to be hit for it, and he prepares himself, but Mr. Wright only chuckles.
"I can't understand you with that tape on your mouth, Apollo," he says, sliding his hand under his captive's chin and rubbing his thumb against his covered lips. "Trucy's out sleeping at a friend's tonight, so if you promise to be quiet, I can take this off."
He doesn't wait for a response; he just brings the shears too close to Apollo's right ear and starts cutting. Apollo can feel the tape starting to loosen, but occasionally, there's a crunching sound, and he's sure Mr. Wright is cutting strands of his hair as well. In his current state, he hardly cares. Once the edge of the tape flaps up enough to be pinched between two fingers, Mr. Wright takes hold of it and says, "This'll hurt a bit." Then he yanks his hand back.
A bit, Apollo learns, is a gross understatement. If he hadn't already screamed his voice hoarse, he's sure he would have alerted the whole apartment complex to his pain as the tape is whipped off, peeling skin and hair from his face. It takes Mr. Wright four pulls to complete the job, and by the time it's over, Apollo is shaking, the cool, still air of the room stinging his raw lips and chin. He has to steady himself enough to hold still as the cloth, soaked with saliva and blood, is drawn from his mouth. His jaw feels strangely but mercifully light without it there.
"How are you feeling?" Mr. Wright asks, and Apollo wants to say something cool and angry and defiant.
Instead, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, he says, "Please... I need to use the restroom."