Thank you again, Jess. I'd be lost without you!
I own nothing.
A small alarm clock sat on the edge of the bedside table. One of its hands moved with each minute that passed and Lana listened to the quiet ticking among the deafening silence that resounded throughout the basement. Oliver hadn't come down since early this morning; he'd woken her up around 7:45 this morning, according to the clock, and had given her eggs and toast before heading to work. The clock's hands now read 8: 39 PM, and he hadn't yet returned. She had been listening closely for the sound of his footsteps above her head or the sound of the heavy door at the top of the stairs opening, but only silence greeted her.
Despite herself, her stomach rumbled with hunger and she glanced desperately toward the plate he'd left her with this morning. Nothing but a few crumbs remained on the plastic dish but she swiped a digit over the plate, catching them on her index finger before pushing the plate away from her.
She shifted in the bed and the chain on her ankle caught on her skin, a sharp, painful hiss slipping through her teeth as she glanced down at the raw wound beneath the shackle. She reached down, gently slipping the metal cuff down just slightly in order to study the raw skin beneath. Her skin had been rubbed raw in spots, shiny with specks of blood. It stung so badly that she considered tearing off a piece of the nightgown Oliver had supplied her with, just to create a barrier between the wound and the metal. She quickly realized, however, that she needed every inch of material possible to separate herself from Oliver's roving hands.
It was difficult to keep track of days, even weeks, when she was secluded from any sort of outside contact or natural light. She could judge the gauge of time only by the hours on the clock and how often he came and went. Oh, but she couldn't forget the words she had written. They were the one system of measurement that she could control, even though Oliver struggled daily to take that from her, as well.
So far, she had typed fifteen pages on the typewriter. So many words. Words about his past, his present, his future. Words that described the pain he had endured as a child, the emptiness he felt growing up without a mother. Words that were beginning to lead into his career choice as a psychiatrist and his experiences in medical school. There were, however, no words that described this. She hadn't typed a single sentence regarding his little torture chamber, or the way his eyes scanned her body shamelessly. Not a paragraph about the fact that he removed women's skin while they were still alive and struggling beneath him. That, long after their lungs had stopped gasping for breath, he would slip the skin over his own face, dark eyes peering out from gaping holes in the crudely assembled mask.
Of course those details weren't included in the book. She had recognized, days ago, that this book wasn't about his descent into madness at all. It was, in fact, the tale of someone who had been abandoned as a child and, through the ashes, rose into a phoenix of a man. The story, for that's all it was at this point, portrayed him as a man who had shed his unfortunate beginnings just as a snake sheds its skin, emerging later as a shinier version of himself. It was enough to make Lana's stomach turn.
He dictated to her certain things, experiences he wanted to ensure were written exactly as he claimed to remember them. Other times, he let her use her skills as a writer to report the essence of the truth. However, he read everything she wrote. Not a word, or even a letter, managed to slip by his overbearing sight. If she even tried to slip in a fragment of the truth, she knew there would be hell to pay. And, despite everything, she still wanted to live. At least for now.
Though the manuscript grew nearly every day, she estimated it to be somewhere around five thousand words. Five thousand lies. Five thousand chances she'd had to warn others of his danger... to save the lives of unsuspecting women. Like her. Like Wendy. Five thousand times she'd let cowardice overrule the passion she'd once felt to be a martyr.
Sounds above her head caused her to raise her eyes to the ceiling, drawing her attention away from the thought of her lover-in-absentia. His steps were hurried overhead, crossing the floor above before she heard him approach the heavy door at the top of the steps. Silence for a moment before the door opened and he hurried down the stairs, breathing quickly as he found her watching him from bed. He still wore his suit coat, though it looked as if he had been struggling to remove his tie. His dark hair was disheveled and he ran a hand thoughtlessly through the strands that fell into his face.
"Lana," he gasped her name, moving toward her quickly. "God, I'm sorry. I got caught at work. I didn't mean to leave you alone for so long, but there were patients who needed me, and-" he paused, attempting to catch his breath. Obviously he had rushed inside. "I didn't realize the time. I had no idea it was so late. And you haven't eaten..." he swore quietly under his breath. "You think I'm awful, don't you?"
His sudden apologies caught her so off guard that she could do nothing more than watch him silently, shaking her head in disbelief.
"I'll fix your dinner," he offered quickly, shrugging out of his suit coat and hurrying over to the hot plate. She could do no more than watch him as he rambled on, loosening his tie. "I tried to leave, but Sister Jude- she was desperate. You see, there's a new patient at Briarcliff, a young man, and his mother swears he's been... possessed by the devil. No. Yes. There's no other word for it. He's foul, Lana. And the way he-" He stopped suddenly, turning back to her. She sat, unmoving. As the hot plate began to warm, he paused, his posture drooping slightly, head falling forward.
She watched him unsurely as he allowed his tongue to dart out and wet his bottom lip. His eyes closed for a moment, a small smile slipping over his lips before he opened his eyelids.
"I'm sorry, Lana," he apologized softly after a moment, reaching in to a cabinet high above his head to retrieve a loaf of bread. He spread butter over the bread and watched as it began to sizzle in the skillet. He turned toward her. "This is all new to me, too, you know. Having someone to come home to."
She stared at him, the words registering as odd in her mind. That phrase, someone to come home to, it was so misleading. As if she were his dutiful wife, a happy homemaker simply waiting for her husband to return from a day at the office. Though, deny it she may, she preferred when he was here. It was easier. So much easier than waiting for those footsteps to come down the stairs. As much as she hated him and, yes, feared him, she was completely dependent upon him.
"I know, you're hungry," he went on as a spatula pushed the bread around. "You haven't eaten since early this morning. You must be starved." His eyes met hers. "That wasn't my intention, Lana. You must believe me." His eyes left her face, dark irises scanning her frail body beneath the thin gown he'd provided for her. As if his very gaze could penetrate her to her bones, she crossed her arms over her chest and shuddered. His eyes narrowed as looked up at her.
"You have magnificent curves, Lana. I wouldn't dream of denying you food only to watch you grow thinner and thinner. Your clavicles would begin to protrude, the cavities of your ribs would interrupt the perfect flatness of your belly. Your shoulder blades, peppered with those tiny freckles on your skin, would jut from your back as if you were growing wings." He turned to look at her. "Watching you starve to death wouldn't be easy for either of us, Lana."
More so than the thought of him letting her succumb to starvation, she was disturbed by the intimate ways in which he seemed so familiar with her body. He could have simply been assuming, of course, but... hadn't it been he himself who had told her that assumptions were often incorrect?
As he turned the hot plate off and slid the toasted cheese sandwich onto a plate, he caught her frightened gaze. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion before he connected the dots between her alarm and his recent words.
"Oh, God, no, Lana. I haven't touched you." He seemed offended by her silent accusations, "I've been watching you for some time now. I've noticed certain things about your physique. Occasionally, your hair falls away from the back of your neck and I've admired your skin." He grinned at her. "You have lovely skin. Lovelier, perhaps, than any I've worked with in the past."
Picking up the plate, he carried it to the bed. As soon as the food was before her, she grabbed for the sandwich and bit into it. She hated eating in front of him because she saw the way he watched her, his eyes glimmering with each bite she took, watching in joy as she swallowed his creation. Currently, however, her body was craving food and there was no room for spitefulness.
"I drove by your house today," he said nonchalantly as she ate. Her eyes rose to his and she swallowed the food in her mouth. "I thought about going in... but I decided against it." He settled on to the edge of the bed, slipping his black dress shoes off. "There's nothing there for either of us anymore."
A different nausea than the one she'd experienced from an empty stomach filled her. The sandwich tasted sour suddenly, and she placed it back on the plate. She knew that she shouldn't ask... shouldn't even let him see the question in her eyes, but she couldn't keep it from clouding her vision. The desperate need for information was too great.
"Wendy hasn't been there, of course," he answered her unasked question as his fingers loosened and removed the red tie from around his neck. He sighed heavily before looking up at her with a bright smile. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"
She realized with a sudden dread that, wherever she was, Wendy wouldn't be going home ever again. Their house would be abandoned. The neighbors, if they even noticed they were missing, would probably assume they had sold the property and moved away. No one would ask questions. No one would care. It was the price that both of them had to pay for wanting to keep their private life private.
"Could you get some of my things?" She found herself asking the question, though it shocked even her. What would she possibly do with any of her material items in this dungeon? She had nothing of any importance, anyway. Still, the idea of holding onto something from her past, no matter how minuscule it was, appealed to her. "Please, Oliver? For Mama?"
His eyes flashed suddenly and he pushed himself off the bed. Anger rose in his cheeks, face flushing as he narrowed his dark gaze at her.
"You can't do that!" He screamed, causing her to flinch. "You don't get to be my mother when it's convenient for you, and just Lana when it isn't! You're just the same as her! She only wanted to be my mother when it was convenient for her." He turned away from her, hands raised to his face and stood quietly for a moment. Only when she saw his shoulders shuddering did she realize he was sobbing into his hands. She sat silent and still, alarmed by this intensely emotional side of him. Thus far, she hadn't seen him exhibit such sadness, and the thought that he was perhaps slipping into a depression frightened her.
He sniffled loudly after a moment and turned back to face her, eyes rimmed with red. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and shook his head as if he could expel the sadness from his mind.
Lana wanted to use the opportunity of his distraction to find a way out of her shackles, up the stairs and back to the world she had so taken for granted. However, his watery eyes were trained upon her again, watching her as a child might gaze at a parent who has just scolded him.
"You're right," she began, taking a shuddering breath. "Absolutely right. You need me to be your mother, and I-"
He held up a flat palm, stopping her.
"I don't," he shook his head, swallowing hard and still choking on his words. "I was wrong about that. I've been wrong about so much. You're not my mother."
The words came as a relief at first, and then their meaning hit her. He no longer considered her a mother figure, which meant that he no longer viewed her as a sacred position in his life. The fact was, that as much as she despised him, she needed to be important to him.
"Then what am I?" She asked after a moment, the words nearly catching in her throat.
"You still have many roles to fulfill for me," he replied, blinking before slipping his glasses back onto his face. "Writing my story is only the first step for you."
He moved closer to her slowly, she heard his quiet breath as he joined her on the bed. She pushed herself away from him, but he closed in on her still.
"I used to think my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world," he began, crossing his legs beneath him. "I loved her dark hair, her eyes. Her voice. There was nothing about her that wasn't perfect to me. But you, Lana..." his eyes ran the length of her thin arms, "you're a vision. More than she ever was."
His fingers reached toward her, and she saw him trembling. His fingertips traced along the soft skin on her arms as he watched her, mesmerized.
"There's a tiny scar just on the underside of your arm," he spoke slowly, raising his eyes to hers. "What happened?"
She swallowed hard.
"I fell on a brick when I was four." It felt too intimate to discuss her childhood with him, and she hated him suddenly for thinking that he had the power to force her to recall her life. That he had the power to make her share with him.
"You had stitches," he nodded, turning her arm and tracing his index finger over the tiny white scar. "I've given many stitches myself." His smirk turned upward at his own words. "To both living and non-living patients."
Her eyes narrowed at him, but he didn't seem to notice. He was busy studying her other arm, and then, to her horror, slipping her nightgown above her hips and studying her thighs. She shrugged in his grasp but his strong hand held her, eyes roaming the skin that he had exposed. She froze in his touch, but the fact seemed to be that he had no interest in the stained white panties she wore, or the hidden area between her legs. He focused solely on her exposed skin.
"You've always been very thin, haven't you?" he asked, fingertips touching her sensitive inner thighs which caused her to jerk against his hand. This reaction made him smile. "No evidence of stretch marks. No scars, no mars of any kind, Lana." He looked up at her, his eyes bright with excitement. "Your skin is, quite literally, flawless."
She clenched her teeth tightly, her breath straining in her chest.
"I've never had such perfection at my very fingertips," he mused softly, his eyes once again traveling to a far away place. He was no longer in this moment, but in his own dark paradise. After a brief silence, he returned, his eyes flashing to hers.
"There's something I've always wondered."
The phrase caused a wave of nausea to roll over her, though he pulled his fingertips from her, curling them into his palm as if he intended to cherish the traces of her skin upon them. Free from his touch, she allowed herself to relax slightly, her posture relaxing against the pillows behind her back.
"Does it feel differently for you, Lana?"
His eyes seemed to grow impossibly dark as she tilted her head, considering his words.
"Does what feel differently?" The words were hoarse as they left her throat.
He grinned wolfishly.
"Don't be coy with me, Lana. If I'd have asked this question last week, you surely wouldn't have hesitated to share your most intimate details with me. Now, of course, what I mean is... how does it feel when a woman brings you to your climax?"
His question outraged and humiliated her. His eyes fixed on her, obviously waiting for her response. She turned her eyes from him, focusing instead on a grimy tile on the floor. The heat rose in her cheeks as she thought of Wendy and the passion they had shared together. Often they'd giggled that the neighbors would hear them and call the police, despite the fact that they made sure to keep their voices low in the bedroom. And now here he was, asking about their most private moments together.
"Tomorrow is Saturday, Lana," he reminded her, tilting his head. "I've got all weekend to wait for your response. And eventually, you'll need to use the restroom. And I'll still be here."
She tore her eyes away from her focal point and glared at him.
"I don't know," she spat the words at him. "I've forgotten."
Of course she hadn't. One year or one million years couldn't erase the memory of the lovemaking she had shared with Wendy. The power of the orgasms that the tiny brunette gave her was something that she knew she would never be able to forget. The way her hips had bucked and rolled into her lover's gentle touch would stay with her forever. Oliver didn't need to know any of that.
She heard him chuckle softly, shaking his head.
"Now Lana," he chided her gently. "I made a profession of understanding the human psyche. Surely you haven't fooled yourself into believing that I think that's true, even for a moment. Making love is a sensual, sacred experience. One doesn't easily forget the sensations that come along with such an important occasion. You can't simply forget such a grand pleasure."
"I haven't forgotten," she hissed the words at him. "I could never forget. I couldn't forget a single moment with her. You wouldn't understand."
"Wouldn't I?" He quizzed her.
"No, you wouldn't," she returned quickly. "Making love to someone you care about is something you'll never be able to comprehend. It's like..." she hesitated, face flushed with hatred, "it's like falling through a hole. Falling, and you don't know where you're going or how you got there, but you don't even care."
"And where do you go?" He challenged her. The excitement was evident in his face.
Lana blinked, breaking the moment between them. She turned her head.
"Nowhere," she shook her head, dark hair falling into her eyes. "I can't talk about this."
"That's the problem, isn't it, Lana?" He quipped. "You have an unnatural aversion to discussing your feelings. That's why you came to me. That's why you felt you had to hide what we had from Wendy. That's how we got to be where we are at this very moment. Now," he straightened his posture, "I'm all you have. Nowhere is not an acceptable answer."
She remained silent, eyes glassy and unblinking.
"Or, perhaps," he smirked, "we should find out if I can make you go nowhere myself."
His crude comment filled her with a rage she hadn't realized she'd been holding back.
"The feeling my skin gave you," she began, her voice cold, "that sick little thrill you got when you were tracing your fingertips over the insides of my thighs? It's ten-thousand times better than that with Wendy. Nothing you could ever do to me would make me feel the way she made me feel."
His jaw clenched tightly and he leaped from the bed, turning away from her for a moment before back to her, grabbing her ankle tightly and pulling her down and towards him. An unbearable pain in her ankle made her cry out, drawing her attention back to the chain on her leg. Fire flared in his eyes as he glared down at the gaping wound beneath the metal cuff.
The anger remained at first, and then he moved closer, narrowing his eyes as he studied her ankle.
"Jesus, Lana," he hissed at her, pulling her ankle closer to him by the chain, disregarding the pained whimper that escaped her as the metal caught on her raw skin. "You're going to die of an infection before we even accomplish what I have planned for us." He glanced up at her accusingly. "Why didn't you tell me about this earlier?"
"When was I supposed to do that?" She challenged him, wincing as he handled her ankle roughly. "You haven't been home all day. It must have gotten worse over night." Her eyes grew dark and she met his gaze. "You're the one who put this goddamn thing on my ankle, Oliver. The least you could do is monitor the damage it's doing to me."
His face flushed at her words, his jaw clenching before he turned from her.
"This is nothing I can't fix," he told her, his voice low. "All it needs is a little first aid. Or perhaps I should leave it untreated for a while and wait until the infection sets in. Until the pus begins seeping from your wounds... the skin growing red and inflamed." His eyes challenged her. "I guess that depends on how you behave, Lana."
His words frightened her, and she lowered her gaze to the ring on her ankle.
"I'm sorry," she spoke softly, feeling the lump in her throat as she tried to swallow. "I truly am. Can you help me, please, Oliver?" She met his eyes quietly. "Please. It hurts."
His hard gaze remained on her for a moment before he pushed himself away, moving to a cabinet across the room and out of her reach. He shuffled through the cabinet briefly before retrieving a small white box and crossing back to Lana. The metal tin fell onto the bed and she glanced at it. A first-aid kit. She breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that the pain would end soon. At least the physical pain.
"I'm going to have to remove this chain for just a moment." He looked up at her seriously. "I trust you won't do anything stupid. You're well aware that your actions have consequences by now."
His words made the breath catch in her throat. Her heart started to race at the prospect of being free, if only for a brief moment. She tried to control her racing pulse, lest he see and realize the mounting anxiety within her.
"Don't move," he warned her again, keeping his eyes trained on her as he reached into his pocket and retrieved a small set of keys. Slipping a small metal key into the key-hole, he turned the key quickly before slipping it back into his pocket. As he opened the metal cuff, the thin blue vein in Lana's neck pulsed with adrenaline. His fingers gripped her ankle surprisingly gently, one hand holding her while the other worked to open the first aid kit. Her slender ankle in his large hand made her feel small and vulnerable, and she knew that this was the moment she had been waiting for. She couldn't expect this opportunity again.
She was surprised by how gentle his touch felt on her skin, and she hesitated for only a moment before she jerked from his touch, the heel of her foot connected squarely with his jaw. Her own strength surprised even her and sent him sprawling from the bed, onto the floor. Within a second she was off the bed, scrambling across the cold tile floor and free. Rushing towards the stairs, toward her freedom, she wasn't far now, just a few stairs and then out the door. Out of this hell hole, away from this monster forever.
The fact that he didn't seem to be in a hurry to climb from the place he'd fallen didn't disturb her at first, but as she climbed the stairs like a wild animal, hair falling in her eyes and panting desperately, the realization hit her. Her hands found the heavy door at the top of her stairs, reaching for the handle. She tugged, nothing happened. She pounded, and, beneath her fingers, felt nothing but the heavy steel of the door itself. It was solid. She took a step back, her eyes raising. The door was locked. Of course it was. Locked from the inside, only to be opened with a heavy key. A key that she didn't possess.
"No!" She cried the word loudly, sucking in her breath, "God, no!"
She heard shuffling from Oliver at the base of the stairs, just beyond her line of vision. Even now, he didn't sound particularly concerned, or even hurried. In fact, his footsteps on the tile floor sounded even and relaxed.
A sharp sob threatened to rip through her and she covered her mouth desperately, hugging herself as she sunk back onto the stairs, making herself as small and quiet as possible. This couldn't be happening. Her chance at freedom, waved in her face and taken from her so cruelly, just as a starving animal being denied food. The realization that she was now literally cornered by a monster was too much to accept. She closed her eyes, wishing herself away. Praying to a god she didn't believe in that she would magically transport from this spot, into another place. Anywhere but here.
"Lana," his voice called for her. She could hear the smile in her voice. She kept silent, kept praying. He was silent for a moment before speaking again, calling for her in the same sing-song tone. "Oh, Lana."
Silent sobs wracked her body, burying her face in her hands, her heart racing out of her chest. There was more shuffling from the basement, though this time the footsteps sounded more desperate.
"I don't like to admit when I'm wrong," his announcement came after a brief silence and a quiet grunt on his behalf. "But this time, Lana, I think the situation calls for acknowledging the indiscretions I've made. I'm not mad at you." His voice softened a little. "I expected you to run, after all. Your first chance at escape, you would have been crazy not to take it. Despite all the comforts of home I've provided you with, you're not comfortable. That's my fault. And I intend to see that those misdoings are remedied."
The sound of her pounding heart grew in her ears, tears slipping down her face as she tried to control her breath. She couldn't lose control of herself now, not at such a crucial moment. She had to stay in this moment, to be able to react to whatever Oliver decided to do.
"However, I was wrong about you when I thought you were my mother. Working alongside you, being with you day after day, it has led me to see that you aren't made for mothering. You're a bright, ambitious woman. You would never be content with staying home to care for a child. To stay home and take care of me. I need more than you have to offer, Lana." She heard him giggle quietly. "But that's okay. I'm not upset. I'm not upset because I've found a new mother. Thanks to you. She's everything I've ever needed. You'll want to come down and see her."
She realized, with horror, that he wasn't alone downstairs. A woman had joined him, or, rather, he had brought a woman from some dark place that had been hidden from Lana's view all this time. Despite the terrifying realization, she couldn't bring herself to move from her hiding place. She clung to the desperate hope that if she stayed in this spot long enough, she might begin to blend in with the wall. Maybe disappear completely.
"Come down, Lana." His voice was more firm this time, and it contained a harsh edge that she hadn't heard from him before. The excitement was gone from him, replaced with deadly seriousness. "Now. I don't think you'll want to be responsible for her death."
The words hit her hard. This couldn't be real. It had to be a nightmare. Not only was she responsible for her own life, but for the life of a stranger. The fear of him placing this responsibility on her shoulders was one that she hadn't truly expected to come about. She should have known, of course. Nothing was beyond his sinister intentions.
"Okay. I'm coming," she heard herself say softly, her voice breaking. She shuddered with another sob before slipping down the stairs slowly. Her eyes squeezed shut as she reached the landing, tears still slipping from beneath her closed lids. Taking a deep breath, she forced her eyes open, bringing herself back to her grim reality.
Oliver stood grinning now, his arm wrapped tightly around a woman with dark hair. She raised her head quickly, catching Lana's eyes. The recognition between them was immediate.
"I'm sure you've always known dear Wendy would make a wonderful mother," he sighed, stroking her frightened lover's dark hair. "And now, Lana, thanks to you bringing us together, she's mine."