Chapter 5
Count Your Losses
She knew that she was dreaming – or better said, that she was daydreaming. But was she truly certain that it was daytime? There was no way to know. The outside world – that world that now felt like a distant dream – was achingly foreign to her, and it had been weeks since the last time she had actually seen it. Night and day were indistinct to her; there, in her small prison, time was meaningless and so were mundane terms such as night or day. C.C. had no way of knowing what day it was, how much time had passed or if she was supposed to be asleep or awake – her captor had made sure to deprive her of that. She suspected it was all part of his plan to force her sanity to slip through her fingers as she lived in an eternal standstill.
In a sense, C.C. sometimes felt her prison was hidden away in the far end of the universe; in its deepest, darkest corner, where even time forgot to pass by. She sometimes struggled to understand that the aforementioned belief was a mere illusion caused by her inhumane confinement, but to the horror of the small portion of her mind that was still trying to find a way to escape, it was easier to cope when she actually allowed herself to believe those illusions.
Between the maddening loneliness, the silence and having been starved for a long period of time, the producer had very little presence of mind to think hard about anything. She had refused to even touch the few forms of entertainment that had been given to her, choosing to plunge into her vivid fantasies instead. It's truly formidable what the human psyche can do when pushed to the extremes, and one of the many wonders her brain had managed to create so as not to go insane just yet, was permitting her to vividly remember the sound of piano music.
Her dark cellar, where there was no noise apart from her faint breathing, was filled with a non-existent music almost daily – filled with an invisible melody that only inhabited her mind. But it didn't matter, she could hear it as clear as the sky in a summer day, soothing her soul from the sadness that was slowly tearing her apart. The ghost of a smile rested upon her lips every time she created her very own imaginary music, and the only movement she made – mainly because of the weakness caused by starvation – was the delicate dance of her fingers feigning to play the keys of an invisible piano.
Today she had chosen to think about one of Chopin's Nocturnes – Op. 9: No. 2 in E-Flat major. Andante, if she was correct.
She knew she was, though; it was all in her mind, after all.
C.C. remembered playing that particular nocturne on one Christmas evening many years ago – she must have been about sixteen years old at the time, and her mother had insisted that she should delight the family with one of the many songs her private music tutor had taught her. Of course C.C. had been delighted to show off her impressive ability as a pianist, and she could almost hear the impassioned applauses and beaming smiles that she had received from her family.
She'd loved playing the piano as a teenager, for music had always made her feel free. Many times, as her fingers danced expertly over the keys of her father's Steinway piano, she'd close her eyes and imagine she was flying over the city, observing it from a lone white cloud. She'd imagine the sun warming her skin and the breeze blowing softly against her face... that was freedom. Deep within her, C.C. still held the memory of that precious feeling of liberty and well-being that tingled her body whenever she played the piano, and now – being locked up inside an underground prison – that was the only thing she could hold onto to try and remind herself what freedom felt like.
She hadn't allowed herself to cry since the day of her abduction, nor had she caved in to Thomas' demands. The sick bastard had come down to her cellar every single day with a plate laden with food. He would sit before her and ask 'Are you going to obey me?' as he toyed with the food, enticing her senses. But she had always replied 'no', of course, so her captor would simply eat the food in front of her before beating her up. He would always leave her be afterwards, trapped in a maddening silence and body bleeding and aching. Sometimes he would allow her to take a bite of the food, just to torment her by not giving her more of it after she had refused to obey him.
The blonde was quickly learning that spite and stubbornness were going to take her nowhere in that situation, but then again, she was far too proud to give in to Thomas' wishes. Part of her feared that if she did so, she'd betray who she was...
But there was a harsh reality – there was only a limited amount of time she could go without ingesting food, and she was running out of time. C.C. supposed he wouldn't let her starve to death, but she was not sure how much longer she could hang on. For starters, the lack of food meant lack of energy, hence the simplest tasks (such as getting up of the mattress to get some water) representing a gargantuan effort to her. She had been unable to move since she had woken up, even if her mouth was dry and both her empty stomach and her desperate thirst were demanding her to get some water.
She opened her eyes, breaking the spell that kept her immersed in a bubble of imaginary music. The room was dark except from the faint light coming from the little lamp that had been given to her, and it was also a bit messier than when she'd first woken there – there were a few clothes on the floor and, a few days ago, she'd thrown the books against the walls in a rage, scattering them across the little cellar as she demanded to be let out. She wanted – no, scratch that, she needed water, but the few steps that separated her from the sink would surely feel like kilometres to her.
The producer whimpered, slowly rolling on her mattress. The pain of hunger was a feeling that had become macabrely familiar to her, and although she knew a temporary solution was to fill her stomach with water, she couldn't bring herself to move. Briefly, her mind was assaulted by thoughts of just letting herself wither away until she fell into a deep sleep and never woke again…
"Babcock, get a grip!" that familiar British voice said from the back of her mind.
The producer groaned, rubbing her eyes before attempting to sit up. Ever since she had been abducted she hadn't been able to get rid of his voice, and it was starting to irk her. Strangely enough, however, his voice was usually the voice of reason, and she had begrudgingly accepted that listening to its advice was the best course of action in most of situations. In her heart of hearts, she was also aware that the voice brought a strange form of consolation, for in a way it was like she wasn't so alone anymore. Not that she would accept it, though, she was still angry with the butler, and the notion of his voice being comforting was completely infuriating.
Nevertheless, she supposed that she had to try and do what it said. She had to get a grip. No matter how inviting just letting herself slip away would be, it wasn't gonna do her any favours in the long term.
Part of her mind tried to argue back about whether or not it would really be worse than where she currently was, but she immediately snapped back that at least this situation was potentially reversible. As long as she was alive to see it happen, there was always a way out.
Her attempt at sitting up was successful after she thought like that.
"That's more like it - there's the Babcock I know!" it was back again, and it seemed to be cheering this time.
Scoffing or groaning was impossible when her mouth was so dry, and C.C. didn't know if she had enough strength to roll her eyes, so she just thought the annoyance instead, to see if that was successful in shutting the voice up.
"You're not going to shut me out, Babcock," came the irritating reply that told her she'd been unsuccessful. "You're going to go get that water that you want."
'I can't,' C.C. thought back, leaning against the wall, 'I'm too tired…can't move…'
"Aren't you at least going to try?" the voice said dryly; she could almost see his unimpressed look – the crushing disappointment in his face. "Or are you just going to give up and let him win?"
C.C. didn't reply to that – she told herself that she just couldn't deal with him right then, but deep down she knew he'd hit the nail right in the head. Even in circumstances like this, saving her pride came first and foremost, especially where Niles was involved.
"Hm, I see…" Imaginary Niles hummed, "You are giving up then. Never thought I'd live to see that! I mean, since you are a succubus and all that, you are supposed to run on spite. And we both know you have a lot of it to keep going for another millennia or so."
"And what the hell do you know?!" she rasped, her eyes feeling hot as tears pricked in their corners. "You are not even real. And the real you is most probably slacking off at the mansion, celebrating I am gone."
There was a pause, which C.C. used to wick away her tears. She could almost see the piercing glare Niles would have been giving her at that moment.
"That's not true. And you know it," it replied in a clipped tone. "The real me cares about you, and so do I."
"Bullshit! But I'm not discussing this with you. Can't you go back to the hole you crept out of? I have better things to do than listening to you."
"Last time I checked, dying of thirst is not what most people would define as "better things to do"."
C.C. was sure Niles would have said that with his characteristic unamused expression.
"I am not like most people, so buzz off."
"Do you even qualify as people?"
Great. Now even a creation of her stressed mind was teasing her. If the real Niles knew about this he'd be laughing his ass off. It's not like she could find out, though. "Shut up and disappear. You are a creation of my mind, you should do what I say."
"On the contrary! Seeing as the real me rarely does what you want, it wouldn't be fitting for me to do that, would it? We are stuck together whether you like it or not, Babs."
The producer groaned. "Is there any way I could get you to shut up for a while? You are annoying me. Big time."
"Go and drink water. Then I'll shut up."
C.C. glanced at the sink. It was just so far away... her legs were weak, and she doubted they'd be able to carry her weight for more than a few steps before giving out. It was true, she needed water, but she was not willing to subject herself to the humiliation of falling to the ground as she tried to get it.
"No," she lay back down on the mattress. It hurt too much to move, she couldn't do it... she had no strength.
The voice didn't say anything for a few minutes, and C.C. slowly began to drift back into one of her daydreams – this time her song of choice being Mozart's sonata N 14, 'Moonlight', in C-sharp Minor.
"I knew it," the voice suddenly spoke again and laughed sardonically. "I was right about you. You are a coward – you've given up."
The words struck her harder than they had done before, and that officially did it.
She didn't know why that was what pushed the whole thing over the edge; it could've been the voice calling her a coward; it could've been the declaration that she'd given up; heck, it could even have been the fact that the voice had declared itself right in the tone Niles always used when something typical had happened to appeal to his sick sense of humour.
She wasn't sure. All she knew was that she wanted to – no, had to – prove it wrong. Whatever that took. She had never shrunk from a challenge made by Niles before, back when he could hide around the mansion and call out his little zingers to her whenever he wanted – this would be just like that.
It was much easier to think of it that way, and with an unbelievable ache coursing through her entire body, she forced herself to sit up again.
She was going to show that jumped-up little butler. She'd made the first hurdle - now she needed to tackle the second, which was actually getting to her feet.
The humiliation of falling, she realised, wouldn't be anywhere near as bad as letting the voice think it was right.
Groaning, she pressed her back against the wall and, gathering all her strength, she attempted to stand, always aiding herself with the wall. She couldn't help but hiss at the pain caused by the countless cuts and bruises on her body; she was disturbing them as she moved.
Not that she was intending on letting the pain stop her – no, sir. She was going to stand, even if it was the last thing she ever did.
It took her some tries, but eventually she managed to get to her feet. She tried not to feel humiliated the many times she stumbled or gave false steps – she told herself that it didn't mean anything, and that she couldn't lose heart, but her cheeks still took on a faint reddish hue.
"Come on, Babcock, even a limp man without his crutches could move faster than you do!" teased the butler.
She would have replied to that with an equally scathing jibe, but she didn't have the energy to do more than one thing at the same time. It was either bickering with a made-up voice in her mind, or actually getting water. She was already panting as it was, heart hammering in her chest, and she was sweating profusely – she simply couldn't afford to do anything but move towards the damn sink.
No matter. Getting water would shut the butler up nicely.
The producer took a deep breath and steadied herself. She had to prove him wrong, she had to show him (or perhaps herself) that she was still the same fiery and powerful woman she had always been. Even if she was locked in a cellar and – at least for the moment – slowly starving to death.
"Come on, Trollop," Niles' imaginary voice encouraged, "prove me wrong…"
'With pleasure, Bell Boy,' C.C. thought back as she moved forward, supporting her weight against the wall.
"Is that the best you can do, Brunette?"
If it thought that was all she had in her – that as far as she'd gotten was really the best she could do, it was so wrong, she told herself. She wasn't going to quit where she was - she wouldn't let the butler have the satisfaction of her giving up on something he'd said she couldn't do. She'd never do that!
Never in a million years. Not even if he technically didn't know he was in a competition with her, and was being represented only by his voice...
His voice alone was all she needed.
It fuelled the fire just enough, to keep her heading towards the long-awaited sink. The place was almost like an oasis now, in the bleakest and most hopeless of deserts...
And she was going to make it there, no matter what that bodiless servant threw at her next.
"We both know you can do better than that, witch!"
Yes, yes she could.
Using the last of her strength, C.C. took a deep breath and crossed the small room in three big strides, collapsing against the sink when she got to it. Luckily, she had enough strength to hold herself upright by clutching at its edges, and once she'd rested for a moment (and after her heart had stopped hammering in her chest), she reached out and turned the water on.
C.C. didn't even try to use the small cup Thomas had left for her atop the sink – no, she bent down and began drinking from the faucet. She frantically guzzled down mouthful of water after mouthful of water, relishing in the heavenly relief caused by clear, fresh water rushing down her dry throat and into her empty stomach.
Even if hunger was still gnawing at her, like a ravenous bird of prey, having her stomach filled with water helped take her mind off it. Temporarily, at least. Being hydrated was helping her mind to become a little bit clearer, too – her body felt less heavy, more alert, even energized…
This, she had to admit, was a nice change.
As she came down from the high caused by the sudden (if very much welcomed) intake of copious amounts of water, C.C. had to take deep, calming breaths. There was a sense of satisfaction to having been able to quench her thirst, but the exhaustion and weakness were starting to get to her again, and she couldn't help but wish for her "bed" (if that raggedy old thing she'd been sleeping on could actually be called bed). She had to sit down soon, or her knees would give out beneath her.
Slowly, she staggered back to her mattress and collapsed on it with a loud, satisfied sigh.
She had to admit it – now she was feeling considerably better than she'd done moments ago. However, she soon realised, there was a downside to no longer being lost in the haze of her hunger-driven lethargic state – boredom.
"Well, perhaps you ought to do something about that?" came that familiar but oh-so-frustrating voice.
It might've been encouraging a moment ago, but now he was pushing it with how teasing it sounded.
"Only because we both know that it riles you up, Babcock," the voice definitely sounded like it would've had a smirk attached. If it had had its usual stupid face. "Summons up the blood, as it were. And, I thought it might summon you up, to go and grab one of those books from where you took your anger out on the wall. But, I suppose that I was wrong and you are going to give in after all..."
C.C. let her eyes scan the room, until she found the books scattered across the floor. They were too far away to read the titles without her glasses on, but currently she'd read anything as long as it had more than one sentence on it.
She could get at least one of those books, couldn't she? She could do it to spite the voice again!
Even if nothing else, doing something to spite the butler's voice made her feel a little more...alive.
After taking a few more steadying breaths, she eased herself back to her feet.
"I'll show you," she grunted with the effort. "I'll get one...I'll get 'em all, soon enough..."
This time (much to her chagrin), she didn't find it in her to stand up, but she made do by getting on all fours and crawling towards the books. If someone had told her two weeks ago that she'd be dragging her weak and malnourished body across the dirty floor of a small cellar where she was being kept captive, she would have laughed in that person's face – what's more, she'd probably suggested that they considered voluntary admitting themselves to a psychiatric hospital. But, well… here she was.
Life had a twisted way of showing how much of a bitch it was, didn't she?
It felt like an eternity before she made it to the scattered books, but when she did, her arms and legs were shaking. She had to slump her petite body against the wall, but she had the satisfaction of actually having made it to where she wanted to be. She only had to make a little extra effort to reach out for her glasses, which were soon perched on the bridge of her straight nose.
There were ten books in her cellar. Two of them were cooking manuals, and the remaining eight were, weirdly enough, storybooks.
Her love for fantasy novels was a side of her personality that she kept well hidden; she'd never carry around the book she was reading when she was out and about, and she'd made it a rule to never discuss fantasy with other people. She supposed that came from her own mother ridiculing her spending hours poring over the pages of books like "Lord of the Rings" or "The Neverending Story". B.B. had put it in her head that that was not the kind of literature a young lady should read.
Not if she didn't want to be perceived as "geeky".
Lucky for C.C., she'd never heeded her mother's advice, and she'd amassed a more than impressive collection of fantasy novels. One of her most treasured possessions was a deluxe set of Lord of the Rings signed by Tolkien himself; it had cost her about thirty grand, but she didn't regret her purchase.
How she wished she could be at home, sat on her sofa, a mug of (spiked) hot chocolate beside her and a nice book in her hands.
Instead, she was huddled in the corner of a dark cellar, wearing oversized clothes and slowly starving to death. The only thing her fantasy and her reality had in common, was books.
That much she could have.
Gently (and moving extremely slowly so as to conserve energy), she reached for the books and examined their covers. Some of them, she knew, and she was especially pleased that, among the "selected" assortment of reading materials, was Hodgson Burnett's "The Secret Garden". She remembered feeling a special kinship with the ugly, unloved Mary Lennox – just like the sour protagonist of the book, C.C.'s parents had been mostly out of the picture during her formative years, she'd been looked after by an army of servants, and she'd been described by many as spoiled and conceited. She hadn't had many friends, either, and she remembered she'd daydream of finding her own secret garden.
She remember skipping along her mansion's gardens as she repeated Mary's rhyme in a loop:
"Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells and cockle shells
And marigolds all in a row."
It was...a nice memory to have, really. But it all seemed so long ago now, even if some of the feelings were the same.
Now, like then, she longed for a garden. But she was also longing for sunlight, and grass, and trees and plants. Those weren't things that she'd lacked as a child - she'd just been hoping for something special.
C.C. was beyond hoping for special, at this stage. She knew she wouldn't get it. She'd learned a long time ago how the world really worked, and that secret gardens just weren't something that little girls got. But she was still hoping for ordinary - the usual bushes and trees that people had in their yards, and that grew in parks and squares.
Plants of any kind. All of which she was sorely lacking down where she was, in the depths of Hell.
Sighing to herself, she picked up the book and began easing herself back against the wall. She needed to conserve energy, if she was going to make it back to her mattress...
But the book was just as much of an incentive as the voice was.
"Really? You'd do it for a book just as much as you'd do it to spite me?" the voice asked, feigning being hurt. "Well, now I'm insulted..."
"Shut up and let me read, Dickon wannabe," she grumbled as she opened the book and began to read.
Surprisingly enough, the voice obeyed, perhaps having realised that it had achieved its purpose of actually getting her up and doing something. It was only fair anyway — he'd promised he'd shut up if she did what he'd asked of her. She'd been true to her end of the bargain, now it was his turn.
In the silence it was easier to read, at any rate.
As page after page were turned, and C.C. was soon deep in the wild English moors, with its deserted plains and howling winds. She was soon Mary herself, skipping all over Misselthwise and following the red robin.
It was her prowling the Earth and planting seeds.
It was her running free, instead of being locked in her dark, empty prison.
And she was happy there. For the first time since she'd been stuck down there, she found something to be happy about, and to get lost in.
That was, until the trap door being thrown open snatched her straight back out of it. With a loud gasp, she shrank back against the wall, slamming down her book and keeping her eyes fixed on the feet descending the ladder into the room.
The bastard was back, and C.C. knew exactly why he'd be there. It must've been about his usual time to come down and taunt her with a plate full of food, before the usual beating...
Sure enough, as soon as he was fully through the trap door, C.C. could see that in his hands he was holding a tray.
And even before C.C. saw the meal, she could smell it.
Since she'd had the water, her mouth was hydrated enough to start to salivate. The smell of cooked chicken floated through the air, and she inhaled deeply. Her stomach rumbled loudly in response.
She was going to have to give way today. If she was going to survive, she had no other choice...
She had to eat. And she didn't think she could survive another beating.
He set the tray down on the table, and sure enough there was a cooked chicken breast on the plate, along with mashed potatoes and a side of peas. He'd also brought an apple and an orange, bread and butter, and a bar of chocolate...
He smirked as he saw her staring, "Like what you see?"
He'd said it that way deliberately; it didn't take a genius to work that out (as was evidenced in that a half-starved person who was now occasionally talking to a voice in her head could figure out what he was doing). But that didn't mean she had to respond the way he wanted her to.
Of course, she knew she had to be careful, but she still remembered how to be tactful - years of being a businesswoman hadn't completely left her.
"The food does...look good," she replied, not yet moving from where she was still pressed to the wall.
Thomas seated himself at the table, clearly ready to eat the meal all by himself, if he thought that was the route she was going to choose.
"You can have it, if you do as I say," he told her, hands heading for the cutlery he'd also brought down. "Are you going to obey me?"
The word very nearly made her cringe internally. She was a powerful Broadway producer outside that room - she bowed to no one, flinched to no one, and obeyed no one but herself...
But she wasn't outside. And inside the room, she was none of those things, was she? It didn't matter what position she'd held, or how much money she had. She was stuck where she was, with no way of getting out and only one way of surviving.
She wasn't intending on saying no, even if it went against everything she believed about herself to say yes.
And the voice came back to her, reminding and encouraging.
"You're only doing it because you have to, Babcock! Eat, and then worry about it afterwards!"
He was right. She could have her pride when she wasn't in danger of starving to death.
But she still couldn't look anywhere apart from the floor when she answered Thomas' question.
"Yes...I will obey you."
A smile - triumphant and pleased - spread itself across Thomas' face. He rose to his feet and stepped aside, gesturing to the chair.
"Then, you may sit," he told her, a hint of smugness shining through. "Take the chair."
Slowly, and with every cell in her body both praising her for getting food and screaming at her for giving in (to do God knows what, it reminded her), C.C. left her book and half-crawled, half-walked to the table.
She might have just gone from being in the frying pan to basically taking a swan dive into the fire, but she needed to eat.
And all of the food looked so magnificent, how could she not? Once she was sat, it was right there in front of her!
And he'd said, at long last, that she could have it!
Eagerly, and after looking it all over one more time to make sure it was real and to decide where to start, she made to pick up the fork-
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
Thomas' voice made her start, and she grabbed her hand away from the plastic fork. He obviously didn't trust her with metal cutlery.
Or, apparently, with starting her meal. What was the big idea about all of that? He'd said she could have it!
She looked up at him questioningly, to find him staring back down at her.
"You will ask permission to eat," he said. His voice had an edge to it, and made it sound like he was leaving no room for argument. "Is that clear?"
C.C. wanted to argue back. To fight, and kick, and scream...it was what she normally would've done, had she been literally anywhere else...
But none of those things had gotten her anywhere so far, down there. She couldn't handle another beating and she needed the food. What else could she sensibly do there, other than fold?
Nothing, as much as it killed her to admit.
So, gritting her teeth to combat the anger building nicely, C.C. replied, "Yes, sir...may I start eating now?"
Thomas grinned horribly and took a step back, "You may."
He watched her as she started on the food; C.C. could feel his eyes boring into her, but she tried to continue as though she wasn't bothered by it.
Even if the whole scenario terrified her, and he had won this latest round by getting her to obey.
Her survivor's mind just kept on reminding her that it meant she'd gotten to eat.