Waking up in the arms of her capture had startling effects.
At first, Esmeralda was confused and highly disoriented, but at once, the pain brought it all back. It waved through her, throbbing her skull and singing down to the marrow of her bones. As she recognized the coppery tang that sat heavily on her tongue, she recalled the unfortunate transgression. She was supposed to meet up with Claude. The night was cold and quiet. He came from behind, but it wasn't Claude.
Phoebus, she realized, had her in an embrace as if to coddle her in some sort of assuaging attempt. But the fear had set in, squeezing her lungs as a debilitating panic took rule of all thought. She began to thrash, to struggle in every attempt to severe contact. But he held fast, pulling her closer as her eyes squeezed tight as a scream scorched her throat. She could feel his hot breath wash over her like a stench and before long, she felt his lips. They traced her neck, then her jaw line until he sought her mouth.
She stilled as he pressed his mouth to hers. And though her panic-laden heart raced, the kiss was gentle. He pulled away to gaze into her eyes with steady blue pools. There was pain there, a reflection of her own plight in his eyes as he looked upon her, imploring her to see passed the fright and hysteria.
But she couldn't and her entire body continued to tremble as her eyes began to well with tears.
"Please, don't do this." She whispered. Her jaw rattled her teeth together, but not out of chills.
The tears fell from their corners, racing passed her temples and ears, lost into the tresses of her messy hair.
He brought a hand up to trace a finger delicately across her quivering lip. She opted to turn away, but fear was an inhibiting beast.
"I'm sorry this had to happen to you." He whispered back, reaching over to wipe another stream of tears from her eyes.
She squeezed her eyes shut in effort to gather enough courage to find her voice again. "Please," the word came out as a tremor, barely audible. "Just let me go. I won't tell anyone."
He stroked her hair as she began to cry, every so often, catching a tear before it reached the floor.
Esmeralda had cried herself to exhaustion. She'd never been a weeping one, but there was a certainty of her death that seemed to loom over her, shadowing her with doubt and regret, and of course, fear. Now she sat upon the cold floor with her back to the wall, accompanied only by her finally steady heartbeat and the damp smell of mold.
Phoebus had left her to her own device in the basement and once it he disappeared upstairs, she quickly made haste to scour the innards of her confinement. Albeit, after she mustered the courage to move from her spot.
First, she went to the only pair of windows. Outside was washed in pale light and a thick bleak overcast snuffed out the sun. It hung so low, she imagined the tree tops tickling the bellies of the cloud while her hands work around the edges for a latch or break in integrity.
No avail. Not even a breeze detected.
She stepped down from the rickety table that sat beneath the windows and respired. She glanced up the stairs to listen before returning to her task at hand; escaping. But when she scanned around the basement, aided only by the light at the top of the stairs and whatever shine came through the windows, she found the place to be a collection of paintings and art supplies. Dirty cups collected paint brushes and bottles of paint littered the floor and tables.
Another respire seized the rise and fall of her weary shoulders. She had already checked her persons after her left, hoping Phoebus hadn't searched her while she was unconscious. Unfortunately, the keys to her dorm and her cell phone were missing. She hoped it had been lost during their strife and not taken. If the right person found it, they could have started looking for her, perhaps alerting the police of her disappearance.
And for the first time since she had arrived, she thought of Claude.
Her heart depleted with angst and new tears were quick to arrive, hot and fat, rolling over her cheeks. She stuffed her face into her hands and suppressed the cry that threatened to spill over her lips as her shoulders quaked, gently. But now was not the time to cry and feel pitiful. She took a deep breath, unsteady with sorrow-filled lungs, exhaled and strode across the room where stacks of paintings rest against the wall beneath tattered sheets.
She had only meant to understand him, but instead, she only delved deeper into the fear-fueled reality of her dire situation and her inevitable demise.
In the hours she had been left alone, she tried to keep herself busy. It proved to be easier than she anticipated, because as her curiosity propelled her to sift through his artwork. But the busyness was a curse, filled with fretting, suffocating bouts of sobs and panic attacks the deeper she dug.
The paintings.
The paintings said it all.
The first was harmless; a white barn owl with beady black eyes. But as she progressed through the portraits, the more malignant and grotesque they became.
A werewolf whose muzzle dripped in a frothy crimson. Its lips peeled back in a perpetual snarl, revealing the rows of canines, yellow and decaying. The eyes were wide and pale, staring into Esmeralda like a cattle prod searing into flesh. The widened eyes were unnatural, almost human and hysteric with rage. She returned the sheet and moved to the next.
A woman, she supposed, with ashen skin and no eyes, not even the characteristics, just flesh over what should be the place for eyes. Her skin was cracked, seeping an obsidian substances from within that followed the uneven planes of her white skin. Her mouth was obscured by a terrible wound, also black and barely distinguishable lips beyond that. She covered it with its respective sheet.
Another woman behind that with wispy white hair that drifted down to bare shoulders, also without eyes. Her expression was a scream, but her jaw was missing, leaving a gaping gash between her top teeth down to the center of her collar bone. The flesh was dimpled and wet with red, making Esmeralda's stomach roll.
She stopped there, letting the sheet fall back into place as a cold sweat came over her brow. What did she remember of Phoebus?
Not enough, she realized. She'd been too wrapped up in Claude to see she had created friction and error elsewhere. If she had tended to Phoebus by placating his affection, this could have been avoided. She could have said something sooner, instead of allowing the wound to fester and become infected.
She glanced once more at the conceals portraits. Despite their countenances hidden, she could still feel them.
Perhaps, the wounds had been infected long before she arrived.
Frigid, calm, with a low, but stable, overcast.
Before Phoebus were the skeleton remains of dark trees with gnarled limbs, stretching their black reaches into the obscured sky. He preferred the cold weather. Though humans were subtropic animals and thus had better survivability in warmer climates, after sweating blood and sand for months on end, he found winter to be far more forgiving than the scorching desert.
For once, he was in a stable mood. He finally reined in the emotion, the instability, the unknowing, and voices in its wake. It was quiet now, like the winter before him. He knew once he obtained her, it would return to tranquility. That's all he wanted. He never wanted to hurt anyone. He just wanted things to go his way. It was as simple as pulling the trigger.
Don't think about it. Just do it.
The seemingly detached statement had turned into a mantra for him, helping him clear the top of a difficult decision. It was a memory at first, now it was a motto.
In the corners of his mind, he heard the echo of a gunshot. At the beginning return home, it used to startle him. It wasn't a lone gunshot. There were many and they all used to take him back to groveling within the sand, sifting through bodies to find comrades. But eventual, he grew desensitized. The voice, one of the many, belonged to another soldier.
He chuckled to himself. A cup of coffee sat in his hand as he stood out on the porch of his cabin. Upon its black surface rose thin tendrils of steam. He watched them rise languidly before diminishing as the winter air dissolved its heat.
He drank the remaining before returning inside. He had started a fire, and tidied up the place. He hated leaving her down there where the heat strayed, but he had to make sure she was concealed long enough before bringing her up, in case any curious passersby came within the perimeter of his cabin.
The land was too vast. Hunters, trackers, animals traversed the thicket. Most of the time, they remained too far out of his detection to pose any problem. But just out of his own surety, Phoebus set traps and snares, dug pits into the earth and hid them with canopies and ghillie tarps.
Once he was sure she would abide to his wishes, he'd allow her to roam free. It would take some time to gain enough trust and reason for this to transpire, but Phoebus was a patient man. Albeit, she was a mess and needed tended too before long. Her hair was matted and the blood he had drawn dried and cracked against her skin. She would need stitches and to be under careful watch for infection.
A fire cracked and popped from within its hearth and the familiar schtick was there.
He really wanted to spend some time with her. He also wanted to paint. An image was amidst genesis and he needed to get it out before it gained a voice.
He sat his empty mug down quickly and headed for the basement.
Upon heavy footfalls, Phoebus descended the stairs with enough racket to alert the woman down below. He didn't want to sneak up on her and frighten her any more. She was spooked enough as is.
When he made it to the bottom, she was backed up into the farthest corner provided, her knees drawn into her chest. Fear still shadowed her expression and distrust turned her lips into a frown. Could she not feel that he cared for her? He sighed.
He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his denim jeans and said, "You need a bath." He kept his stance relaxed and open in hope that she wouldn't see him as a threat. But after the first night he treated her, it might take weeks.
Her arms with crossed tightly over her shoulders and her dirty socks were beginning to tear. A toe peeked out from the top. She met him only with silence, but judging by the flushed pink that kissed her cheeks, she had been crying and was still upset.
"And I'm going to assume you're hungry." He continued.
Her scowl remained as she regarded him, waiting to see if his suggest for food was one of honesty.
"Come on," he continued. "Let's get you cleaned up and fed."
[A/N]: You guys are a brave bunch, but you have to be when it comes to Fresme, huh? Much apologies for the delay in update, I was back and forth with this chapter. Wrote it, deleted it. Rewrote it, still didn't sit well. I want to keep the story moving without losing too many details and I'm satisfied with the speed of this one.
I hope you all had a Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! Let me know what you think of the chapter! Oh, and if I don't put out a chapter before Thursday, have a SAFE and fun New Years!
AND GO SEE THE NEW STAR WARS!