AN: for those who found the last chapter too much where T-Bag was concerned, I don't recommend reading this one. I feel this is my most hardcore "horror" chapter. Though I don't consider this is exactly a light story, I'll let you know when it gets a little lighter ; )
…
Sara wasn't sure how to feel about what came next. Things got worse, but then, she felt so far from her own body, as if she'd floated to a corner of the room and was watching herself, with Theodore Bagwell, that it almost wasn't happening to her at all.
A tall, redheaded actress, moving instead of her, doing the things she couldn't do.
For some reason, Sara imagined herself explaining this to her father and saying things got out of hands. It would be funny because Bagwell only had the one left.
He made her give him food – well, not her. The actress. She made him a sandwich with what she found in the fridge. Whole-wheat bread, turkey slices, mayonnaise. That was after.
After what?
She wasn't exactly sure.
In a flashing, putrid second, she felt the man Bagwell had grabbed her by the hair and forced his filthy mouth on hers but then the actress had taken over pretty soon and she couldn't tell for certain anymore.
Now she was watching him eat his sandwich. It struck her that it was the single most horrifying thing. The act of chewing, the food grinded in that brown-teethed maw, the smell thick with the memories of family picnics with Bruce. Sara thought she'd die before she ate another sandwich. It felt like a very logical thing to think.
"Boy, are they taking their time." Bagwell said, his mouth full, half-chewed unidentified pulp. "What are they doing in those woods, I wonder. Maybe it took a heated turn. Heck, Scofield sure did a lot of things for his brother – you've got to ask yourself if everything's quite normal there, if it's just plain old brotherly love, ain't I right?"
Sara didn't say anything; didn't hear, really. The sky was black outside the window. The air was cold on her bare skin. Suddenly, she had no clear idea what she was doing here, clutching her robe close to her, barefoot in her kitchen, watching this strange man eat.
The remembrance of the four inmates breaking into her cabin seemed a faraway dream.
Pull yourself together. There was still that faint voice of reason but Sara couldn't listen, couldn't shake off her numbness. Do the smart thing. There's a smarter thing to do. Think.
"You sure don't talk a lot."
Talking between swallows. The sound of his chewing was wet, eager. A wave of nausea hit her, so strong she felt certain she was going to throw up then mercifully pass out for the next few minutes. Instead, it wore off, leaving her feeling hot, dizzy.
Still, a little more clearheaded.
Think.
"I've got some booze to wash this down, if you like," the actress said.
Bagwell gave her an intrigued look. "Really? Didn't find any in the fridge –"
"There's some in the basement."
She and Tom had stashed some the last time they'd come here, beneath a weak slab on the floor. Her father hadn't thought of looking there and, in that six-month recovery, she'd refused to throw them away, had preferred to endure the torture of temptation – then she'd know she was capable of quitting, not because she didn't have any drugs or alcohol available, but because she'd chosen to. She was stronger than her father thought. Not that either of them cared.
Bagwell finished his sandwich in one great mouthful. Sara had to will herself not to look away, not to look sickened. "You know," he said, his voice slick as a snake's skin, "I'll admit I'm curious as to what a lovely girl like yourself is doing all alone in a cabin, in the middle of nowhere – what, drinking booze? Waiting for the big bad wolf?"
"Just – taking some air from the city."
He chuckled. "What a remarkable timing. Well, by all means, honey – if that was your way of asking, I'd love to have a drink." His good hand closed around her forearm, strong, remarkably fast, when she got on her feet. "Now, you don't think I'm going to let you wander off alone."
On her face, his breath was warm and thick. For a second she felt faint again. "No," she answered, didn't try to tear from his grip. Playing it smart. "You can come with me."
The basement in the cabin was so small, it felt like an afterthought. Dusty, packed to the brim with canned food and water, and some other things that would be of use on family trips – fishing rods, ice skates. And her father's hunting rifle, at the top of the shell, in some innocuous-looking carton box.
Bagwell was like her shadow when she led him down the stairs then removed the lose wooden slab in the floor, but he relaxed a little when she took out the bottles – enough bottles to last her a full week with Tom when they were drinking hard. Strong stuff. Whisky, gin, vodka.
"Aren't you full of surprises."
He made her sit next to him on the ground. All the while, she was soft as a rag doll, impressively compliant. Maybe I'll get a medal, like men get for bravery. Bravery is good in men but they like their women docile. But I'm being better than brave. I'm being smart.
She uncorked a couple of bottles at random and they each drank from their own. The taste of alcohol was fire in her throat, wonderful, forgotten comfort. She tried to drink as little as she could without drawing suspicion – knew she had to drink if she was going to get him drunk. The odds were in her favor. She was in a bad shape and lacking sleep but he was much worse off. With all the blood he'd lost, he might be out cold after just a quarter, maybe half a bottle.
"You know, you might look like a good girl on the outside, you've got some tricks up your sleeve."
She answered softly, "Yes." More thank you think.
"Yes," he repeated, pleased with himself. He'd only had a few sips but you could hear in his voice the sweet grip of intoxication. After all, he'd been in prison for a while – that was a long time to go without alcohol, when she'd had years of practice.
Ha. How funny it would have sounded to anyone, before today, to hear that being able to hold her liquor would serve her so well one day.
"You play innocent but beneath all those layers of modesty – there's something wild about you, isn't it? What else would you be doing here?"
The actress smiled. It was supposed to look a little frightened – just as if she needed more disinhibition to get through the night.
She said, "Let's drink."
And wonders of wonders, wasn't Theodore Bagwell spectacular. The meanest, most disgusting animals are always the toughest to die. He went through nearly the whole bottle and he was still talking, was still alert enough to try and steal a kiss every now and then, and she had to struggle to get him to drink more – she'd had more than she'd intended herself.
"Now," he sighed, and she couldn't taste anything on his breath anymore past the booze. "Let's get down to business. Scofield and his little team will be back, we should be upstairs before long."
His words were slurred, his movements heavier. For the time they'd been sitting here – how long was it, minutes, hours? – she'd gotten used to his proximity, like having a spider crawling down her neck or inside her mouth, and remaining still, trying to will the horror out of her mind.
"A few more drinks –"
"No."
He took her by surprise, thrusting her backwards with his good hand, letting go of the bottle on the floor. On top of her, he looked uglier, worse than a man, something she had no word for.
"Okay." She answered; maybe it was the actress. Fishing for more ways to stall and finding there was none.
"Okay." He repeated.
Her body went completely limp. Now was when it mattered, she thought, that she'd been nothing but compliant from the beginning.
She didn't think it through more than once. Was very political, very smart overall. Waited for Bagwell to open her robe before she hit him, hard, with her half-full bottle.
It got him in the back of the head. He made a strange gasping sound. The bottle didn't break like they do in the movies, so it was just a dull, unimpressive thump.
Sara had time to crawl backwards sufficiently to be out of range before he collapsed. His body was face down but she could hear hushed grunts, stifled against the ground. There was no telling whether he was unconscious or just stunned from the blow, and she decided not to stick around long enough to find out.
Scrambling to her feet, Sara sprinted towards the stairs, kept waiting to feel Bagwell's hand around her ankle, dragging her back in the cellar, for her to scream at the top of her lungs and drown into this nightmare she couldn't seem to find her way out of.
But nothing like that came. In a minute's time, she was at the top of the stairs, still running, not stopping to catch her breath, even when she'd run past the exit door, when she could feel the dewy grass beneath her feet.
There was no time to think, not about her father's rifle, still in the basement, or about Fernando Sucre who – to the best of her knowledge – was still tied up in the living room. No thought at all.
Sara just ran, and the air whipping her face, the harshness of occasional rocks cutting into her feet, felt free and exhilarating. If she got out of this alive, if she made it, she would never stop running. Insane it hadn't occurred to her before, to replace the rush of addiction with this – her lungs burning, the pain in her chest raging like a mad hammer.
I'll never stop. Never. Never never never –
What hit her felt so brutal, at first Sara thought she must have run into a tree. Though the impact didn't knock her straight off her feet, it left her feeling dazed for a few seconds, her sight fogged.
She blinked a couple of times and suddenly – suddenly she could see the shapes of men around her, one, two three.
"Oh no."
"What the –"
No way in hell was this happening again.
Sara lurched forward but soon the man she'd hit – Lincoln Burrows, of all – held her tightly by the forearms.
Her eyes were getting used to the dark. The moonlight made it easy for her to distinguish as Michael stepped closer to her – the look on his face was a whirlwind of incomprehension, worry. That's what he must look like when something doesn't go according to plan. She thought suddenly this was what she was; just one huge pebble in his mastermind scheme.
"Sara," he said, "what happened?"
You could tell he was sounding calm, trying to calm her.
John Abruzzi whistled softly between his teeth, took a couple of steps forward. She hadn't answered Michael's question, but he did the next best thing after he'd gone over her from head to toe. "My oh my," he said. "Girl, you look like hell spat you out."
…
End Notes: I apologize if some bits of this chapter were hard to read. They were difficult (albeit very cathartic) to write. I'll warn you at the beginning of each chapter if I feel things get too dark. In the meantime, I'd love to know your thoughts so please remember to leave a review.