Brahms and greta #1
He was coming.
Greta flew down the corridor, keeping Malcom in sight ahead of her, and hearing his hard, panicked breathing as she tried to avoid crashing into the splinter-ridden sides of the passage. The light was dim, and she could hardly see more than a foot in front of her face in the run down walls, but she pushed on, her adrenaline like lit gasoline in her veins, burning her up and screaming at her body to move.
"Come on!" Malcom reaches a high ledge and ducks down to give Greta a leg up onto the platform. She quickly placed her sneaker in his cupped hands and scrambled as he lifted her up so that she could crawl onto the top. She took hold of a pipe jutting out of the wall and leaned her other hand over the lip of the platform for Malcom, who swiftly jumped so that she could catch hold of him and, using the pipe as an anchor, hoisted him up.
"Greta?"
Their heads snapped in the direction of the child-like voice, sweat dripping down both of their jawlines and snaking through their hair, their chests heaving.
It was close.
Closer than Greta had thought.
They leapt to their feet and continued on until the wall lurched to the right suddenly, causing both of them to slam into the dusty wood before realizing the turn. Behind them a grunt echoed through the air and a loud thud hit their ears as they reached a small dingy room. Vents and pipes crisscrossed the space, and cobwebs, old tools and rusted gear lay around like corpses on a battlefield, discarded long ago and forgotten. The two searched ravenously for an exit, darting around the small space, praying, hoping.
"A door!" Greta rushed forward and crawled under a stack of metal chutes to reach a door hidden behind, their call to freedom, their only way out. She ignored the scuttling of spiders, mice, and other vermin as she plowed through the dirt and grime on the floor, paying no heed to the pebbles that dug into her palms and spiderwebs that captured strands of her hair as she went on. Her hands reached a metal door quickly, and she pushed with all of the might she could conjure, hearing the creak of the rusted metal as she strained to pry it open.
"Hurry!" Malcom screamed, as an angry, albeit childlike voice reached them from down the passage.
"It's stuck," Greta shrieks back. "It wont open!"
The look that flashed on Malcolm's face suddenly worried Greta, and as he stepped back toward the hall they had emerged from she cried out, "what are you doing?"
"Just get out of here!" he yelled.
"I'm not leaving without you!"
"Just GO!"
"NO!"
Malcolm disappeared from view, and in the midst of her panicked screaming for him to come back, she was horrified to see Malcolm fly back and hit the cement floor, a mammoth of a man with a ratty green cardigan pounced on top of him, slamming his head into the ground over and over, raging and growling like an uncontrollable animal. Greta shrieked and called out her friend's name as the monster pinning him to the ground brought his weapon down on his face once, twice, and finally a third time, hitting Malcolm viciously in the center of his forehead, snapping his head harshly to the floor with a dull thunk. Her screams of terror and despair cut through the thick, dusty air as she watched as her only ally flopped to the floor, unmoving. Greta didn't know if he would ever get up again, and the horror shot through her like a pistol shot.
"No!"
Slowly, menacingly, the monster turned his head to look at her, dead eyes slicing into her through the ghost white mask hiding his true form. Greta suddenly felt dark dread seize up her chest, and she began slamming her shoulder into the stalled door, almost hysterical as she rammed against the metal so hard she was afraid she would dislocate her shoulder.
"Greta," the soft, sing-song voice called out. "Come Back."
She tried to block out the voice as she turned desperately and braced herself to kick out forcefully against the barrier, tears rushing down her face and mingling with the sweat of her effort.
"Greta," the voice went on, breaking, turning harsh and throaty, no longer sounding like a child's quaint call. "I'll be good, I will. I promise."
She yelled out as her shoes slammed against the door again and again at a faster pace.
Bam!
Bam!
Bam!
"GRETA," the voice barked, all the softness gone. Suddenly, as she leaned back to give the door another blow, Greta felt the ends of her long brown hair being pulled, dragging her backward by her head. She screamed, realizing that she had extended back too much, giving him the chance to reach her, and after only one yank she felt long fingers tangle in her hair and grip her scalp roughly. She screamed and scratched at the hand in her hair savagely as she was drug slowly out of her hiding place under the pipes.
"Get back here.." the voice growled as she struggled, giving up on getting the grip to release her and using her hands to flail out and look for anything to hold onto as she cried. Raking her nails over the metal of the pipes and chutes that went over her head as she was dragged out, she was able to break off a small, jagged piece of thin metal before finally being hauled out into the open space by her hair.
Hiding the shard of metal in her hand, clenching it tightly and feeling it slice open the soft skin of her palm, Greta yanked away and Brahms let her fall to the ground, gasping, struggling to get onto her hands and knees, thinking of only getting away.
He is going to kill me. He is going to kill me...
"Oh Greta."
Hands grasp her on either side of her waist as she struggles to get in a full breath of air, her terrified lungs trying to right themselves. She feels herself heave backward in the air, and as she flipped over to face that mask, that sickening, blood-spattered, horrific face that that hid the evil behind, her hand strikes out and with a yell she stabs the metal shard deep into the man, right between the neck and shoulder.
She hits the floor hard as he yells and grabs his wound. Greta moves to scrabble away from the hulking form above her, making in a few feet, almost back into the walls, but a deep, raging snarl reverberates off of the walls, and in an instant she has lost all of her ground, and is face to face with the gore-spattered porcelain mask, her feet dangling below her, a vice grip on her neck.She tries hopelessly to pry the hands from her windpipe, but they are as if carved from stone, and she claws at the skin on his knuckles as she starts to see balck spots in her vision. The eyes that meet her when she looks forward are wide and bloodshot, filled with unequivocal madness, not an ounce of humanity or sanity to be found. She squirms and gags, praying for something, anything to save her.
Please. Please. Please.
Then a thought hits her.
Maybe, she thought. This is for the better.
No running. No more hiding. No more nights spent terrified and feeling cut off and alone, locked away in a cold, damp mansion, letting a lifeless doll control every decision and action. No more Cole, no more...anything...just...free…
She had never been in this place before, never even thought to take her own life or forfeit it. She was a fighter, a survivor. She had taken a lot of abuse and neglect, been mistreated and undervalued, and still she pushed on, telling herself that only cowards resorted to such things, Pain was just a part of life. Everyone dealt with it, everyone moved on.
Suddenly though, the cowards route seemed different as she realized how exhausted she was, how little she had left in her after everything that had unfolded. All of the years, all of the memories. The image of her lost baby, the one thing in her life that even the thought of it brought her so much joy, nothing but a bloody mess in a hospital bed. Taken by the life that helped create it.
The more her mind went on in its asphyxiated state, the more the idea grew to be attractive to Greta. Now that the situation had morphed into this horrifying scene, she found herself relaxed, so god damn tired, ready for the sweet plains of silence beyond the chaos. Ready to sleep, maybe see her baby and hold it tenderly in her arms, united at least.
With one last effort, she reaches out and trails her fingers down the side of the mask gently, choking out one last word as she looks into foreign hazel eyes.
"Br...Brahms…"
And Greta welcomed the soothing blackness that enveloped her.
—
The light began to trickle out of Greta's eyes as Brahms felt the tendons in her neck squeeze under his palms. The pain in his left shoulder reminded him of the metal shard that still protruded from his body, and more than that, that Greta had stabbed him, even after all of his mercy.
Her choking turned to almost a gagging noise and her face started to turn blue. It wasn't long now until he would see her body give up the ghost, he knew very well what it looked like, he had done it many times before.
She made me do this, he told himself. She had broken the rules, letting that disgusting American man stay the night here, in his own home. He did understand why Greta had done it though, the way the man looked at her was like a Lion stalking a doe, and Greta acted very much like a frightened doe in his presence. And when she asked for his help, staying with his little self in his bed, he understood then what his parents really meant. She couldn't protect herself, care for herself, so they had given her to him, so that he could. In return, she would stay with him forever and love him.
They needed eachother. They belonged to eachother.
But then, Greta had run from him. After he had graciously fulfilled her request to save her so she wouldn't have to go, all she did was gawk in horror as her tormentor bled out on the floor.
His rage surged once more, and at the last moment her small hand reached out and tenderly slid down his face, his pretty face. He paused, shocked, and as soon as he heard her tiny, air-less voice call out for the last time, he softened.
Her last word.
It was his name. His name.
"Br..Brahms…."
He immediately released her and caught her limp body before it hit the ground, carefully lowering her to the floor boards. He placed an ear to her chest and heard her faint heart. She was still alive.
Standing, Brahms looked down at her, quizzical. What was he supposed to do with her now? She had made too many egregious mistakes for him to simply move forward as he had hoped. Too many things had been knocked off course for it to go as he had intended.
She wasn't supposed to see him for months still. She had just started accepting her duties with little Brahms, she needed more time. He had drawn out a plan of course, little things over a long period of time that would build up to him revealing himself to her. Though, he had planned to be much more presentable, not to mention gentlemanly. Maybe, even a bit charming like he had seen Malcolm demonstrate when he came to drop off groceries.
His mood soured.
Malcolm.
He growled in frustration and ran a hand through his thick curls as he glanced detestingly over at the form of the delivery boy. He had always liked Malcolm growing up, he started coming around when Brahms was about fourteen, dropping off groceries from his father's local market in town. He was finally old enough to have a "proper job", as Malcolm explained to his parents, who had known Malcolm for years, and quite liked him.
Shaking the memories from his mind, he looked back to Greta, her throat already turning an angry shade of red. How was he to remedy the situation? How was he to control this? Control her? If she were to live she needed to understand the nature of her new existence, and more than that accept it. Embrace it. She was stubborn, he had learned that, and in a way revered her silent resolve, but now it posed a problem for Brahms.
His mind wandered back to a psychological study he had read in a University textbook his father had given him years ago. It spoke of how people's minds began to break down when their senses were inhibited, or blocked. They were left essentially without any protection or direction in reality. Totally handicapped.
Brahms thought on this, a new timeline forming in his mind. He turned from Greta, for now, and checked the other man for a pulse, which to his dissatisfaction he found pounding quite strongly, stronger than Greta's even.
Grunting unhappily, he hoisted Malcolm over his shoulder with ease, being much larger than him, and disappeared into the intricate maze of the Heelshire home.
—
The darkness was the worst, twisting and turning through the black, Greta found herself running in every direction, only to find more of the same dark emptiness that she encountered before. What was this place? Is this death? There are no monsters here, surley, but there are no saviors either.
She runs until she sees Malcolm on the floor, bleeding and helpless, and she rushes to him. But as she gets close, he looks up at her, with his big blue eyes, and he evaporates as if he were only water on a burning stove. His mist trails upward and disappears into the dark air above, with no trace remaining of him there.
Within moments, Greta sees something out of the corner of her eye, and she catches a slight glimpse of her sister, Sandy. She's laying on a bed, her wavy, dirty-blonde hair is heaving up and down, and she realizes that her sister is crying, sobbing even. Instantly, Greta runs to her to try and comfort her, her sister, her best friend, her rock in life. But just the same as Malcolm, Sandy looks into her eyes longingly, and then slowly dissipates as Greta reaches out to her, watching her grasp fly through the image that was her sister only seconds ago.
Greta screams, and spins in circles, where was this place? What was this place? She dared not believe that it was death, the idea of her sister being here only spun her mind forward in other directions, any other direction. Why was Sandy here? Where did she go? And Malcolm too…They couldn't be dead too...
Not knowing what to believe, or what to do. She grabs her head and sinks down into a fetal position on the ground, all of her thoughts screaming at her like a crowd in a frenzied riot. The noise is digging its way into her brain, scratching like an avid gambler on a raffle ticket, she starts to feel the back of her head, heavy drums pounding against her skull.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
That wretched doll takes up space in her mind, with its glossy, lifeless eyes staring at her, always. She hears the Opera from the record player, and sees the rows and rows of literature rising up all around her like skyscrapers, with all of the immaculate toys from its room circling her, seeming almost menacing. It continues to stare out at her, into her soul, seeing all of her dirty secrets, all her biggest fears, soaking them up like a sponge in a muddy puddle. And all she can do is scream, and beg to be left alone, even in the darkness, she cannot find peace.
—
Greta shifts, and when she opens her eyes she realizes that she must have fallen asleep, and sees, disheartened, that she is still in the darkness. Where in the darkness she is though, she has no idea.
Are there places in the darkness? She wondered absentmindedly, only to be brought back by sharp pain.
Her head is pounding, the stupid drums in her mind really going crazy as she shakes her head to try and get them out, annoyed that the darkness can't just leave her alone for a few minutes. It has gotten colder, Sandy and Malcolm are nowhere in sight, and her arms and legs suddenly start to ache, though from what, she doesn't know.
She takes a deep breath, and opens her mouth to say something to the bastard midnight black around her. The vast blackness that she mistakenly thought would be such a peaceful, saving grace.
She snorts, So much for that.
She can't speak though. Something is blocking her words.
Confused, she tries to sit up, and when she does she hears metal clanging, and her head cant take the fast movement, so she rockets back down and smacks her face quite aggressively on something hard, seeing stars.
Slowly, she becomes aware of her hands, they are lethargic and numb, but they come to life inch by inch until she can tell they are laying at her sides, behind her back. Her legs are cranked up behind her, and as she explores, she finds that she can feel the bare bottoms of her feet with her fingertips, which puzzles her greatly. The more she pays attention, she realizes that she is laying on her left side on a hard floor, shoes and socks are mysteriously gone.
Uhm, okay...
The darkness still blinds her, and she is terrified, but even more than that she is perplexed. The blackness had not done this to her before, and the more she thought about how little she knew, the harder it became for her to make sense of anything. Panic began to wander up into her chest as the uncertainty of the situation grew and grew. She began to struggle against the void, trying to turn onto her other side or sit herself up, frustrated and not understanding why the darkness would do this to her.
"Greta."
She froze. Hearing the childlike lilt ring out in the nothingness, she paused before looking back and forth for some kind of distinguishable feature, finding none.
My mind must be messing with me, she thought. That or this disgusting place wishes to torture me with that voice. That voice that only leads to the horror inducing recollection of that mask. The mask, and the creature behind it that lay hidden away, scrambling in his own darkness...
Around her head a scuffling noise scratched at her ears, and a heavy thud landed what sounded like no more than a foot away from her head where it lay. Terrified, unable to see what was there with her, she started to pant erratically, not understanding at all what was going on, and petrified at her own obliviousness to the situation. No longer morbidly curious, she began to pull on her arms and legs once more, only to hear the ominous metal clanking again, and find that she had no way to appropriately move herself.
What in the actual hell.
Her face began to get hot and humid, not being able to breathe properly through whatever was keeping her from speaking her words, feeling as though she could suffocate.
Something warm and soft brushed her face gently, and she quickly started to cry, despite her efforts to keep it in and be strong. She was just so lost, so lost and so damn scared lying there in the void, unable to see what was in the thick blackness that stretched out in all directions. Her cries slowly turned into soft sobs as she turned her face to the hard ground underneath her and tried to hide her face, looking for comfort and safety from the cool, rough surface beneath her, it being the only thing she knew was real and could feel with her own body.
Slowly, she sensed what she thought was a finger caress up and down her cheek, gathering all of the tears and whisking them away. The tenderness of the hand comforted her, and as she thought rapidly, she realized the only explanation for what was happening.
Malcolm.
He was there too, in the dark. She had seen him, he had just gone somewhere else, somewhere she couldn't see for some reason.
Her breathing hitched and became excited, her heart bursting at the return of her friend, and the idea that Sandy could be there too, searching for her somehow.
What if he had more sight then she did, what if he had been able to find her!
He had come back for her!
Excited she reached her face toward him, turning her head into his warmth, laying the side of her face into his hand, soaking him up and eager for him to release her from this hell that she had found herself in.
"Mmm! Mmmm!" She screamed under the vicious gag that the darkness had put in place.
She struggled against whatever held her confined, and moved her head from Malcolms soft hold to rub her eyes against the ground to try and get her sight back, scratching her face slightly on the rough surface, and not really caring. She wondered why Malcolm hadn't already returned her sight to her. Maybe he was afraid, she could not judge him for that, this whole situation was insane. Who knows what he saw in the vastness of the darkness? Was it even close to the same as what she had experienced?
Quietly, she heard him mumble in a low, soft voice," Okay, okay. Hold on."
She sat still, and slowly she was surprised to feel fabric being removed from her eyes. It was so bright at first, she couldn't make anything out, she couldn't even keep her eyes open really. The light was blinding, and splitting into her brain. But slowly she was able to open her eyes, and instead of the bright blue, friendly eyes of Malcolm, she just found a white mask, with deep, dark hazel eyes looking back at her, still stained and spattered with the blood of her ex-boyfriend, compounded with all the dirt and grime he had accumulated over the night of chasing her and Malcolm through the walls.
Her mouth is still gagged, but her breath became shuddery, she tried to control it but she couldn't as her head whipped around radically, searching for her friend, praying that he really had been there. He had to be there! But no matter where she cast her gaze, her friend was nowhere to be seen, and her chest clenched in despair.
Slowly, it dawned on Greta that it hadn't been Malcolm that had wiped her tears. It hadn't been his palm that she had tenderly laid her cheek in, looking for comfort. It had been Brahms.
Horrified, she tried to rush backwards, and put as much space as she could between the two of them. But as she started her efforts, she realized what predicament she was in. To her horror her arms and legs had been chained together behind the back of her, hog-style, and they were attached around a leg of what she could partially make out behind her as his bed frame. She was trapped in the heart of the house, she couldn't speak, she had no idea how to get free, and with this realization all she did was look up at him and pitifully cry once more, fresh tears rolling down her skin as she let her head sag to the filthy wooden floor.
"Oh Greta," Brahms softly coos, the child voice gone, as he runs a long finger over her skin once more, collecting the perspiration and wiping it carelessly on his revolting white shirt, leaving a wet mark on top of the dirt and blood that was already matted on the cloth. "I don't want to make you cry," he runs a hand through her tangled hair, ignoring when she bucks away from his touch, instead moving closer and placing her head physically in his lap, holding her there while continuing to pet her. "But you broke the rules…"
His eyes stare down and meet Gretas momentarily before she looks away quickly, so he goes on. "You left me alone. You were never to leave me alone." He gulped, his adam's apple bobbing, "You...you tried to leave-" His voice deepened, darkening. "You ran from me, you...you were leaving me behind," suddenly his hand clenched in her hair angrily, clutching hard enough for her to whimper. He yanked her chin up harshly, trying to meet her eyes that were pinned shut tightly, avoiding his raging gaze as he shook her head vigorously and hissed, "You stabbed me!"
After a few moments, he seems to see the fear and pain on Greta's face as she summons the courage to peek up at him, sad and tear ridden, and he calms, loosening his fingers in her hair, returning to his petting, smoothing her dirty locks down almost lovingly. He doesn't say anything for several minutes, settling in a disconcerting state of calm as he works though the knots and snarls in her hair with his long, thin fingers.
Greta laid there motionless, using everything she had in her to keep her breath even and calm as he ran his hands across her scalp, not wanting to anger him again, still feeling the burn of his grip only a moment ago. Her cheek lays on his thigh, rubbing against his soiled pants, her face much too close to his crotch for her own comfort. She closes her eyes and lets him go on, a small part of her hoping that this will be the worst of it, that he will be satisfied and she will be left alone once more, away from his touch that frightened and repulsed her so.
"Greta," he mutters, shifting and bringing his head down to rest on hers, breathing in her scent deeply. "My Greta...to love...to care for…"
Greta freezes, flashing back to the letter in her quivering hands, dimly lit in the light, her mind barely able to focus on the swooping cursive as her adrenaline flashed through her.
The girl is yours now…
Brahms takes another deep inhale, pressed up against her, too close. Too close.
To love and to care for…
She jumps and recoils, pulling back off of him and hitting the floor hard, only able to land just past his knees, despite her effort. Her vision is blurry for a minute, and the pounding returns, a club splitting her skull into two inside her head. She rolls around, regaining her senses slowly. Everything is slurred, disjointed, fragmented, wrong. Her eyes struggle to focus and her mind scrambles to find stability.
A terrifying fist rocks the floorboards mere inches from her face, making Greta jump.
"You want to get away from me," Brahms barked, crawling over her and snatching her chin in his giant hand, his fingers wrapping up almost to her temples as he leans over her, hulking above her huddling form. "You...you think you canreject me..." His mask is inches from her face as she tries to shake her head no, unable to communicate and terror-stricken as he rises up even higher above her, dragging her head with him, clenched in his hand.
Her eyes grow wide as the insanity flows over him, "you don't want me to hold you, hmm? To touch you?" He suddenly straddles her shuddering form and her body is stretched, her hands and legs still bound behind her as she cries out, and then fights to stay silent, waiting for it to end, looking away and pinching her eyes shut, unable to reservoir the tears.
She begins to be shaken aggressively again, and as it continues she hears Brahms, sounding absolutely mad, screech out, "look at me! LOOK AT ME!"
He stops for a moment, lowering her, and she shakily turns to meet his gaze, afraid, but not knowing what else to do other than face her monster. Her demon. The creature that loomed above her, fists clenched as he glared down at her through his mask, looking livid.
She holds eye contact, fighting to stare into those deep, empty eyes, afraid to even blink in the moment. His massive weight pressed down on her restrained figure, and it is hard to breathe, regardless, she didn't dare move. Instead, she analyzes his eyes, seeing the colors swirling together, green, brown, amber, all tossed into a ring of color. They are mean, ruthless, and have no light to them at all, only savage furocity burning down at her. But, Greta oddly finds that they are different, a mosaic of shades, a unique assortment she had never seen before.
The more she made herself peer into his eyes, the more he seemed confused and almost resigned, looking serene for a minute, piquing his head as he studied her. Then, almost as though he remembered what he was trying to accomplish, a spark of fury snuck back in, and his eyes turned hard as he clenched her chin coarsely, giving her a good shake before ducking his mask down close enough for her to smell his foul breath on her face. She watches her breathing, and maintains eye contact, not reacting in the slightest, giving him nothing to fuel his irrational behavior, despite feeling petrified to her core. He cocks his head once again to the side and regards her sudden composure suspiciously. His glance roamed from her eyes, down her face, to her chest, which Greta thanked the gods for wearing a crew neck shirt with a jacket, fully covering her. She stared back at him steadily, trying as hard as she could to hold eye contact in an effort to keep him level headed.
He returns his gaze to her eyes, and analyzing her face, he reaches out and caresses her cheek, watching for the flinch, the grimace, any sign of repulsion that could fuel his anger. Greta kept herself steady, and after a moment Brahms seemed to deflate, slowly releasing her face, moving down off her and lowering her head back to the floor. He eyed her for another few moments, his crouched figure blocking much of the dim light, his face relaxing and softening behind his porcelain mask, then reaching out to trail his fingers down her face once more.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way," Brahms whispers, seeming disconnected. "Why couldn't you just behave...follow the rules…"
In his moment of tenderness, Greta had a thought, and carefully, afraid that he could be riled up again if she was too brash, she cautiously moved forward until her face was against his knee. Brahms snapped his attention back to her, eyes grave and untrusting. Gently, she twists her face back and forth, rubbing the gag against his knee in a silent plea.
Let me have my voice.
She continued her movement, looking up at Brahms, soothing her features, asking him with her eyes, gently baiting him, praying not to ignite his anger.
He regarded her silently, understanding, but hesitant. After a moment he leaned down and spoke, barely audible to Greta as his mask grazed her ear. "I would love to hear your voice, pretty Greta," he murmured in a low voice, and Greta's hairs stood straight up as she suppressed a shudder. "But can I trust you not to scream? Hmm? To not say nasty little things? That would not end well for us."
He straightens up, waiting for her answer, cold eyes regarding her as Greta quickly nods yes, enthusiastic.
Yes, yes! She sings in her head. So elated she squirmed excitedly in front of him, her breaths increasing at the thought of fresh air.
Brahms wavers a moment, then gives a quick nod and reaches behind her head to unbuckle the gag. Greta takes a deep breath as the leather strip is released from her lips, her chest heaving instantly, lungs singing out as she pulls in a cold, refreshing inhale.
"Thank you, Brahms." Greta breathes out, closing her eyes and leaning her forehead against the dusty ground, the free flowing air tasting blissful.
She lays there content for quite a while, but unbeknownst to her, she finds herself nodding off, bobbing in and out of consciousness. The ordeal finally settles into her body as her energy drains from her, flowing like rain water trickling into a storm drain after a hurricane.
Right as she is ready to let go and drift off, the world goes black again, and her mind replays the feeling of the ragged gag blocking her lips, the neverending blackness that he had trapped her in, cut off from everything. Her exhausted eyes fly open as she stares up at Brahms, who has not moved, and is simply watching her.
"Brahms," she says weakly. He cocks his head to the side, showing he is listening.
"You won't…" she goes on quietly. "You won't put those back on me, will you?" She nods to the gag and blind fold beside him.
He pauses for a few moments, and then moves to sit cross legged, bringing her head back into his lap. She feels his hands in her hair again.
"Not right now." He responds soothingly, to Greta's relief. "Go to sleep now, my Greta. You are so tired. I'll watch over you, don't you worry. Just sleep."
As she sinks into slumber she feels him trace lines and shapes on her scalp lightly, as he says in a small voice, over and over, "to love and to care for...to love and to care for…"
New chapter
Greta didn't know what was worse, the nightmares that haunted her dreams, or the nightmare that waited for her when she woke. Not that there was much of a difference, no matter her conscious state, he was there.
In sleep though, he was still chasing her, endlessly pursuing her inside those bastard walls that twisted and turned over and over again. Never finding an exit, never able to shake his trail behind her as sweat and dust clung to her chest and beneath her skin her heart raced. Running on and on and on and on…
Her eyes shot open, and seeing the inside of the walls she was thrown into a state of uncertainty, wondering if she had really woken at all. After a moment though, the intense pain in her limbs brought her memory back, and she groaned into the floorboards.
Brahms was nowhere in sight, the decrepit little room sat empty other than her, still on the floor, stuck to the bed. Her joints were screaming from lack of blood flow and being locked in such a strenuous position for - Greta thought for a moment, realizing she had no idea how long this had been going on.
Does it matter? She thought. It's too damn long, that's all I know!
Grimacing, she shifted her weight and gave up after a single try, her arms and legs simply hurting too much to make it worth it. Dejectedly, she began to glance around the room, really looking at it. The last time she had been here she had been fleeing with Malcolm, and between the life-sized straw doll that represented her on the bed, his panicked calls, and the letter from Brams's parents, she hadn't really had not been in the head space to explore much.
There was a chipped white-ish sink against the far wall next to the entry, with a mirror hanging above it, all smudged with little spiderweb cracks etched around the edges. Against the wall adjacent, what looked like a very old school desk and chair sat against the wall, with a cork board above it that had dozens of papers tacked onto it, and thread strung between different diagrams running all over from page to page. A very old, dirty fridge stood next to a short ceramic counter space housing a small kitchenette sink, which all looked very stained and over-used. Atop of the ancient fridge was an equally outdated microwave, spattered with filth, and at the end of the ceramic platform, after dancing over a shelving area with all of his eatery, was where Brahms had a small wooden box. This functioned as a night stand of sorts, which housed various books stacked almost a foot high, a small table lamp, and a half full glass of water. His twin bed was snug next to the night stand, and Greta was tied to the back left bedpost a few feet down. Stairs rose up in the middle of the tiny space, and blocked her view from seeing what lay in the other half of the room, other than more cluttered shelving, and also cut her off from having any comfortable leg space of any kind. All around the area were small lamps connected to the ceiling and walls, which admitted a very low yellow-ish luminescence. They all seemed very old, haphazardly installed, and not well-maintained, except for one star shaped light above the bed. He seems to take good care of this one, and it shines brighter than any of the others.
Absentmindedly, after moaning in frustration, Greta found herself fixated on the glass of water. Her mouth was so dry and her throat ached. Only god knows when she had last had a drink of water, or anything to eat, and all at once her stomach kicked in, roaring out in hunger.
Because the joint pain wasn't enough I guess. She griped.
The glass was much too far for her to try and navigate her way to it, she doubted she would even be able to get within a foot of it, much less have the capability to maneuver the glass so that she could drink anything while trapped on the floor. She shut her eyes and tapped her forehead against the wooden floor several times in aggravation hoping to jog an idea loose, anything helpful at all.
Why hadn't he tried to feed her, offer her something to drink? Greta eliminated the idea that he was going to starve her to death, he could have killed her any time and not had to deal with her crying, screaming, and overall neediness in this state. Hell, she already thought he had killed her before she woke up to this mess. She knew that it had been at least two or three days, and she doubted that he went that long without food and water himself.
Then, as if the universe had to pay her back for one more tiny little thing she had done horribly in her life, her bladder added itself to the cacophony of misery that was her body, and she finally reached her breaking point.
She was defeated, she knew it, and he especially knew it. She had no option other than to rely on the maniac that had trapped her in this predicament. It made her stomach twist in knots to think of it, but the longer she laid there, her tongue so dry it stuck to the top of her mouth like it was glued, her stomach empty and aching, bladder ready to burst, she realized what a sick situation he had created for her.
Knowing now what his twisted little mind was wanting, she swallowed painfully and called out to summon her demon.
"Brahms!" Her voice was thin and cracked, hardly a shout at all. "Brahms! Please!"
She heard movement within a minute, a slow creaking in the wood of the walls that got louder and closer, until that damned mask slipped out of the dark of the passage, the low light glinting on the shiny surface as he slowly slid into the room. Rising to his full height, he studied her from across the small space, his head tilting unnervingly as his eyes glinted, clearly happy with the outcome of her calling out for him.
Already feeling tiny in comparison to the man in front of her, she collapsed to the floor tiredly. "Brahms," she said, miserably. He perked up at the sound of his name, and took a few tentative steps forward, keeping far enough away as to not promise any aid, his stare boring into her, expecting.
Taking a deep breath, Greta found her shame flowing down her face again as her limbs throbbed, and she begged, "Please untie me, let me move. You don't have to let me go just...just let me sit up. I'm in so much pain-" Her voice let out at the end, and she almost gave up, wanting to just cry so hard she would melt into the floorboards and never return again. Instead, she pushed herself into action once more, and made herself look back up at him, shaking and hoping her distraught would move him somehow.
"Brahms, please, please help me," she weeped. "Please, I won't try anything, I won't."
Eyes closed tight, she could feel the pool of her own sadness on the floor under her face as she added pitifully, "Brahms, I need you. Please, I just need you."
Within a minute, she heard the sound of him moving closer, and she opened her eyes to see him kneel down not too far from her, his hazel eyes observing closely as he reached out and placed his palm against her right cheek. Slowly, obviously glad to see no recoil, his thumb began to trace back and forth across her face, gracing her high cheekbones and making its way all the way down to the cleft of her chin. She knew he was waiting for something more, this is what he was trying to tell her with his soft affection. Still not moving to grant her request, but showing that she was on the right track.
She looked up at him urgently, needing to know what he wanted, needing to understand what she was doing wrong, her eyes blurred, confused, and distraught as they tried to catch his sights. He peered down, following the outline of her jaw for a time, distracted, then peeking up at her sorrowful gaze he seemed to see her intense uncertaintanty. Making sure he had her attention, he leisurely brought an arm up, and gently placed his hand on the mattress of his bed, meeting her gaze concretely, making the choice very clear.
Greta's heart pounded. It was obvious what he was asking, it was something she would have been very unwilling to deal with right now. But as her arms and legs continued to groan and scream at her, feeling like frostbitten flesh roasted over an open fire every time she moved, even in the most insignificant ways, she knew she had to try.
Looking at him uneasily, she inquired, "Can I just sleep? That's all?"
He nodded wordlessly.
"You promise?"
He nodded again.
One unsettled breath, and then she found herself nodding. "Okay, yes. Yes, please Brahms, just untie me. Please, please, I swear on everything…"
Before she had even finished, he had lept into action, retrieving a pair of keys from his ratty cardigan pocket, and reaching behind her, she heard a click, and her arms and legs were set free from each other. Bringing her hands under her legs and to eye level, she saw that her wrists were bound with rope, but in between her hands hung a pair of handcuffs, with the bottom pair dangling empty. Looking down and realizing that her ankles had been bound in the same fashion, and she finally realized how she had been lashed to the bed frame.
She undid her ankles, and her limbs screamed as the blood flowed back into them, her entire body ached with pain and relief as it adjusted to not being constricted in such a tight position. She laid herself out on the floor, stretching upward and downward and in every way she could no matter how painful, exhilarated by the movement she had.
It didn't last long.
Within a few moments of her stretching out, Brahms had already taken a hold of her and was pulling her backwards toward the bed. Needing more time to relax and recover she began to buck against him, fighting and straining to have more freedom.
"Just let me -" She tried, as he threw her onto the musty mattress.
She quickly scrambled to the end of the bed, hoping to hide herself somewhere to get more freedom to stretch and feel the freedom of her limbs. She reached the end of the bed frame and her toes had just touched the floor, when she was yanked backwards, and she found herself trapped in Brahms arms. He clutched her to his chest like a vice, as she squirmed and fought to get free.
"Greta," he said, glowering. "You are working yourself up, just calm down."
Her breathing turned into shrieks for air, as she realized how close he was and how unable she was to protect herself in this situation. Her hands began to scramble, sometimes trying to get his arms to release her, sometimes simply crying and holding onto herself, but then she began to truly panic.
"Greta, calm down."
"No, no, no," She convulsed, "I need to breathe. I need to breathe! I can't breathe!"
Brahms turned over onto the mattress, putting Greta beneath him, in between the mattress and his own body. She became catatonic, feeling as though he was trying to smother her.
Greta began screaming, terrified, and unable to make sense of what was happening to her. All of the sudden, what she thought would be a step toward freedom, had become her gravestone marking. She fought with all she had, but she was trapped on her stomach with her face pressed down into the mattress as he took hold of her arms above her, with a knee pressed on her back.
Her voice vanished when she tried to call out, her fighting stopped, her body unable to move, locked in a perfect skeletal lock.
"Greta, stop this, now!" His voice roared, close enough for her ears to ring.
She froze, trying to breathe as steadily as she could, her body shook, as much as he tried to stop it, she couldn't.
He pushed her arms up until both of her hands could feel the metal bars of his headboard. She tried to pull away but he snatched her wrists and squeezed them hard enough to make her wince, and then led them back up to the bars, which she held onto hesitantly, still so afraid of what would happen, but going with the flow.
If she tried to run, he would catch her, undoubtedly. She had no idea how to get to the main part of the house from inside the walls. Sure, she could run until she found a hiding place, but how long would that last? With him being a master of these dark pathways, how long would it take him to find her?
She had no real time to contemplate this though, as she found the handcuffs being tightly fastened on both of her wrists, imprisoning her to the headboard of his small, twin bed.
"Wait, I need to go to the bathroom," she called out. "I know I've misbehaved, but I really, really need to use the bathroom, please."
Brahms met her plea with a dark silence as he turned away from her.
"I'm sorry," Greta went on. "I was afraid, I wasn't thinking. I was just scared, I'm sorry, please, Brahms."
He stood still and wordless, with his back to her as she waited and prayed for just a tiny bit of mercy. Her hopes faded though as he made his way out of the room, ignoring Greta as she called out his name and apologized over and over. Her words turned to cries of frustration, and she realized she had completely ruined any opportunity she could have gained from this encounter. She could have been calm and collected, stretched out a bit and willingly let him secure her hands to the headboard. She could have asked for some water, maybe something to snack on to ease the emptiness in her abdomen. After all of that, she could have smiled at him sweetly and requested politely to use the restroom.
Idiot! She chastised in her head. You had a chance and you fucked it over! Stupid, stupid, stupid-
Her thoughts were cut off as Brahms entered the room once more, and Greta turned to meet him as he made his way quickly to her. She smiled and had the thankyou already on her lips, but was taken off guard when he lifted leg legs and slid something under her.
"Wha-", she began to say, but he had already stepped away, leaving her puzzled. She sat up a bit and to her horror she found that a thick towel had been laid under her. Mouth hanging open in disbelief, Greta looked to Brahms, who stood silently beside the bed.
"You can't be serious," she implored, hoping to god that he was somehow joking with her.
He responded by slowly backing away toward the exit and Greta pulled on her hands, snapping the chain of the cuffs against the bed frame loudly as she called to him not to leave.
"Where are you going?" She asked, panic in her tone. "No, don't leave me alone!" He reached the door as she continued to beg. "Come back! Come back! Don't leave me here like this!"
Pausing again, Brahms turned back one last time to meet her eyes, but there was no tenderness or pity for her, just hard anger and determination. In a few quick steps he was hanging over her, and before she could register anything he jerked her head up and to her horror she felt the gag wrap over her mouth again.
She kicked her feet out and tried to shake her head, but he held her steady until he was finished. Screaming at him as much as she could, she thrashed against the handcuffs savagely, fury and dread rising in her throat. She hadn't seen the blindfold coming, due to her fighting, and her sight was swiftly taken from her as well, as Brahms tightened the strap around her head firmly, before placing her back down on a dusty, rotting pillow.
Greta shrieked and pulled on her restraints, though almost no sound escaped the gag, and her strength was no match for either the bedframe or the cuffs.
This is bad.
She tried to twist her body around to use her legs to pull against the handcuffs, needing to try more, needing something more, anything.
This is bad, bad, bad, level 3000 bad. You are on his bed now Greta. Do you get that? ON HIS BED.
Shut up! She yelled back at herself.
Her legs can't quite reach the headboard and as she listens she can hear Brahms' heavy footsteps getting quieter. She cries out as loud as she can, and then, terrified to be trapped in the dark once more, she simply begins to weep. In the silence of the room.
"This is a mercy," she jumps at the sound of his voice, believing herself to be alone. "Don't forget that, my Greta". And then he is gone.
—
Brahms stood outside his room in the walls, listening glumly to Greta as she cried under the gag, sounding even more pitiful. He didn't like making her cry, her big green eyes got all swollen and her smooth, soft face broke out in a rash-like red complexion that he didn't like. More than that, he felt guilt. He was supposed to be her caregiver, her protector, instead he felt like he was kicking a puppy, defenseless and innocent.
She needs to learn. He reminded himself, turning away from her muffled crying and making his way through the walls. She will never learn unless she suffers consequences.
He emerged in the kitchen and went to the fridge. He looked at the items inside, not having the slightest idea of what to do with any of it. Having been in the walls the majority of his life, had seen his mother and the housekeepers cook and put meals together, but as for his own experience, he had done little more than re-heat meals in a microwave. He had already eaten all of the things that he knew how to make, mostly being peanut butter sandwiches and loose fruit he had found around.
He knew Greta needed something to eat. Whether she behaves or not, he couldn't starve her much longer. There was no reasoning behind that, and he wasn't trying to torture her. Unfortunately he didn't think he would be able to come up with something to give to her without her help, which frustrated him greatly. He could let her come to the kitchen, keep a close eye on her, make sure she did what she was supposed to. He was hesitant though. She was smart, he knew that, and she would most likely try something if she had the smallest chance.
He couldn't blame the poor thing, she simply just hadn't had the time to learn yet. But she would, in time. She would one day understand that there was no place for her outside of this house, not anymore. Not now that she had him. She would grow to accept it, as he had accepted his place in the walls.
Slamming the fridge door closed, he rummaged through the cupboards until he eventually found some condensed vegetable soup. He knew enough to follow the instructions on the label, and set about preparing it.