AN: TRIGGER WARNING
This chapter will include (but not describe) a situation of non-con sex. We promise you it will get better though!
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Chapter 8
"Atrocitas"
Hunger was something that, up until very recently, had been foreign to C.C. Babcock. Having been born into one of the wealthiest families in America, C.C. had never worried herself about when (and if) she'd get the next meal. It had once been unthought that she'd ever go without, not to mention that the only type of hunger she'd experienced (if it could be called that way), was diet-related hunger.
Having a svelte figure had been a worry of hers since High-school, and she'd striven to stay in shape by way of strict diets, constant exercising and meal replacement (and by that she meant replacing lunch or dinner with a few cigarettes and a glass of her best Scotch). She remember gloating over her killer figure at the many High-school reunions over the years – she'd consoled herself that, while her classmates' bodies had all been ruined by childbirth, hers was a curvaceous beauty, and she'd made it her mission to wear form-fitting dresses whenever she'd had to attend to one of these annoying functions.
Now, she couldn't regret it more.
Hindsight is twenty-twenty they say, but had C.C. allowed herself to pile on a few more pounds, she wouldn't find herself in her current situation.
She had no idea how long it had been since Thomas had taken her (for all she knew it might as well have been a lifetime), but since her abduction, she'd lost almost twenty pounds. Thomas, the sick bastard, had gotten her a scale, and weighed her every night. He'd always smile in delight when the scale showed lower numbers, and C.C. would silently despair.
Currently, she weighed 110 pounds, and if things didn't change soon, she'd keep losing.
She, a 5' 9" woman, weighed only 110 pounds.
She could feel her ribs with her fingers – count them, even. Her collarbones and hipbones jutted out, and her once gorgeous legs had been reduced to half their size. Not that size had been the only thing that had been reduced by way of starvation; she lacked strength. And given her situation, that was more than worrying.
Before being abducted, C.C. had been confident in her ability to fight off an attacker should she need to, but as it were she could barely stand without having to lean against a wall. Her body was feeble, weak, frail…
It stood no chance against an attacker.
It was powerless.
She was powerless.
And she didn't know what to do about it.
What could she do about it? Nothing, really – not when she wasn't been fed regularly, or sleeping well, or being allowed daylight or the chance for exercise...
Allowed. Once, someone using that word to mean giving her permission (instead of, say, a subordinate) would've been laughable. No one had ever given her permission to do anything – she'd done it herself, each time!
She'd been strong and independent. The very model of the modern woman, just doing her best to have it all.
Now, she'd give anything just for some of what she'd had.
Occasionally, her mind raced from the fear and the tiredness and the hunger. It was doing it right then, as she thought about what her life used to be like.
She closed her eyes, and rested her head back against the wall to try and ease the feeling. She still couldn't fully believe that it had ever come to this – being forced into a dark cell at the bottom of some psycho's house, being beaten, starved, made weak...
It made part of her wonder what could possibly happen next, but the thought didn't stay very long. She had a small dizzy spell, and had to open her eyes again to try and clear it.
Every moment she was awake was a fight to stay alert, and right then was no exception.
She might have lacked physical strength, but she'd be damned if she allowed herself to drift into unconsciousness. She had to fight the need to sleep or lie down — she had to keep herself occupied.
Throughout her captivity (and much to her surprise) Thomas had given her plenty of new trinkets to entertain herself with. He'd usually bring them after particularly bad beatings in order to somehow "make-up" for his bad temper, which only reminded C.C. of the way abusive men would try to "make up" for their behaviour by showering their victim with gifts and attention in cases of domestic violence. She didn't want his attention but, given that she had nothing to do down there, she did want his gifts.
C.C. was painfully aware that the dynamic between them resembled that of abusive relationships (save for the fact they weren't in a relationship, no matter what his twisted mind thought), but she had to make the best of a bad situation. That's how she'd gotten a Walkman, a number of new books and CD's, a colouring book with a set of 50 Caran d' Ache pencils no less, a deck of cards, a number of notebooks, an assortment of crossword puzzles compendiums, two jigsaw puzzles, and a few Lego sets for her to build. She'd even learnt how to embroider after receiving an embroidery kit and a book on how to embroider!
Overall, she'd kept herself occupied.
Nevertheless, there was so much she could do before boredom found her again, and weak as she was, it was easy to give in to the lure of inactivity. Doing nothing was detrimental to her sanity, but as it was, her lack of physical health was preventing her from doing much apart from lying on her mattress.
How long had it been since she'd last eaten? Hours? Days?
It was hard to tell.
The one thing Thomas had refused to provide her with, was a clock.
He obviously wanted her to be completely taken out of time. Probably to disorientate her, and make her wonder what everything was like outside...
She wasn't going to let him know that he'd succeeded, in that regard. Often, when her thoughts weren't racing from any of the categories of her neglect, she thought about what the world outside could look like, and if it was it spring still, or if she'd been down there so long, that had changed as well. She wondered about what people could be doing – both the ones she knew and the ones she didn't; the lives they were living, the work they were going to, and the...the families they went home to at the end of the day...
She tried to imagine what could be happening in the news, too, but that was harder than the other two.
The world changed too quickly these days, and everything was too unpredictable to make a guess at what could happen next.
And she had to stop wondering right then and focus, as she heard the now-awfully-familiar sound of Thomas' footsteps, and him unlocking the trapdoor to come down...
Soon, she heard the latch being lifted; the heavy metal door swung on its hinges making a loud, creaking sound as it opened. As usual, Thomas had to lower the small ladder into the cellar before carefully climbing down into her personal Hell. She couldn't help but feel somewhat happy (if such thing was possible in this context) when she noticed he was carrying a small basket filled with a number of food items as well as a number of new CD's for her to listen.
Despite her suspicions of this being one of the different levels described in Dante's inferno, she still had it in her to appreciate the occasional positive occurrences. And food and entertainment easily fell on that category.
"You look unwell today," commented the bastard airily, almost as if he were unaware of where they were and who was to blame for her current deteriorated state. Not that that was the case, really — he knew perfectly well why she was unwell, and he was relishing in it. He was savouring every miserable second of him being in control.
Bastard.
Utter, fucking bastard...
She didn't answer to his observation, preferring instead to save her strength and use it crawl over to the table, where he'd already lowered the basket and was retrieving items from it.
She'd noticed he always followed an almost obsessive pattern when it came to setting her meal on the table — first, he'd remove her drink, which he'd promptly settle on the far left corner of her little table. Then, said drink was joined by a disposable set of plastic cutlery and a small Styrofoam cup. Next, he'd get the sweet items out of the basket and stack them in a neat pile opposite to her drink. Usually (and today was no exception), he'd bring her a small bar of chocolate and a banana, but when he was not being a cunt, he sometimes added cookies or other pastries. Lastly, he'd place the main course in the middle of the table. He never cooked it himself, so it wasn't uncommon for him to serve it to her in one of those Styrofoam take-out containers.
This time, C.C. realised, he'd brought her Chinese food.
She could smell it, even before she saw it. Her stomach growled in response to the tantalising aroma, low and fairly loud. She clutched at it, not wanting him to hear just how badly she wanted – needed – that food.
She didn't want him to think that she needed him in any way. She knew that she didn't. But he would obviously try to put a spin on it, to make it sound like he was the be-all and end-all of her existence. That nothing would ever be better for her, and that no one would ever treat her as well as he did.
Never mind the fact that as she approached, he began speaking to her like she was a dog.
"That's right – come and get it..."
The words and the tone both made her skin crawl. But if she was going to live, she needed this next meal. The frequency with which her head started to spin when she tried to get up these days told her that.
She made her way over to the table, and it was hard not to simply jump on the food that he had spread out there. But she knew she'd get a beating if she did, for not waiting for his permission to start, so she sat down heavily in the seat without touching any of it.
After a short pause, she finally asked what she needed to, more than anything else.
"May I start eating, please?"
Thomas' answer was minutely gesturing at the food, almost as if saying voilà. Still, C.C. knew better than to make a move without his express command — he'd tricked her before, and she didn't fancy having her meal taken away for "disrespecting" him. She'd developed the habit of hiding some of the food he gave her and storing it for later; emergency supplies for when need arose. But as it was, she'd run out of them, so she truly needed to eat.
As silent seconds ticked past, C.C. remained absolutely still, eyes cast to her lap and hands neatly folded behind her back. She knew she needed to be subservient, that's what made him tick, and keeping the monster happy was the best course of action if she wanted to eat. It was survival, plain and simple, and as Niles' voice insisted on saying, she had to do what it took to survive, no matter how painful or humiliating.
"That's the Babcock I know!" whispered Niles' voice — she could almost see the pride on his face... "Remember, you are doing this to survive."
I know she thought back, having to blink back tears, I am doing what it takes...
It was humiliating. It was painful. It went against everything she had believed about herself and it was more wrong than words could say.
But that was what it took, to keep herself alive. And that was all that mattered at this point.
She didn't have to like or respect Thomas, which was lucky because she really didn't do either. But she had to play the part, keep herself meek and non-volatile. It was the only chance she had.
Just like keeping still, and waiting for him to say something was the best way of making sure that she was going to get her food.
After what was probably only a few minutes but seemed like an agonising age, Thomas finally deigned to speak.
"Alright. You may begin."
C.C. was about to lift her hand to pick up the cutlery, when Thomas' hand slammed down on the table, catching her attention by making her jump.
"But," he continued, looking at her without blinking. "Not before you say it."
C.C. swallowed, knowing what he was after but not wanting to give him the satisfaction of the words. It killed her a little bit inside, every time she had to do it.
But the food was right there, and she needed it badly today...
So, she swallowed her pride once more. She always did, when this moment came around.
"Thank you, sir..."
Smugly triumphant, Thomas nodded and backed away from the table.
"Good. You should be grateful. Now, you may begin."
"Well done," said the voice in her head as she began her meal by pouring herself a nice glass of orange juice, "You don't owe him anything — you are strong and doing what it takes. Keep going."
C.C. would have liked to nod, but knowing Thomas always kept a close eye on her as she ate (and by that she meant that he simply wouldn't take his eyes off her), she decided against it. She was thankful for the little voice in her head, it helped keep her somewhat sane during her long confinement, and when she was around the creep it was a wonderful support.
Still, she tried not to think too much about the real Niles. Or the real world for that matter...
It was too painful.
She wasn't strong enough to face the obvious fact that there were no guarantees that she'd ever see any of her friends and family again. She couldn't yet accept that this torture could stretch out for years on end. Currently there wasn't any hope in sight — she had no chance to escape, nor did it appear as if someone was looking for her. If she really thought about it, it made her want to let go, and finally put an end to the pain...
C.C. closed her eyes for a moment, almost as if trying to erase those thoughts from her troubled and overworked mind — she had to take it a day at a time. One day at a time...
That was her only option.
"I saw our boss today," Thomas said, starting C.C. and making her open her eyes; it was unusual for him to engage in conversation with her. Especially during mealtimes. "You know, he's cancelled the play."
What?!
Maxwell had shut down the production?!
She couldn't help what happened after that thought. She looked right at him, eyes as questioning and panicked as they could be when they were also so very worn and tired.
"Oh, yeah," Thomas continued on, almost as though they were two people just having a normal chat at a coffee shop. "Said that he couldn't continue in good faith when his "friend was still missing"!"
C.C. felt her heart sink, listening to Thomas' mocking tone. He really didn't care about other people at all; he...found Maxwell's worrying to be funny...
She didn't find it funny. She found it incredibly touching that her business associate was so distraught, and that he'd put her above the production.
Even if the businesswoman in her was screaming in despair at all the time, money and work that they'd put into the thing in the first place. Not that any of that mattered where she was.
Thomas then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, pocketbook-sized rectangle of paper.
"He gave us our final paycheques, too. If you're good and lucky, I might get you something nice with some of it..."
C.C. usually took what she could get when it came to the things he provided for her entertainment, but this time, there was something far more...sinister...about the way he said it.
Like whatever the "nice" thing was, it was going to be nicer for him than it was for her.
Either that, or he was pleased with himself and expected her to be grateful simply for the possibility of him buying her something.
C.C. wasn't grateful for any of it, but to placate him and to keep herself out of trouble, she gave him what he wanted anyway.
"Thank you, sir. That...would be nice."
It really wouldn't be, but she had to make it sound like she was agreeing, if she expected him to remain in a good (or at least calm) mood.
"Yes, it would be. And as long as you do everything I say, you'll get it," he said.
That was when he apparently noticed that she'd stopped trying to eat, in order to talk to him.
The smile slowly slipped from his face, "Aren't you going to eat, like I told you? I have given you my express permission, after all..."
Hearing a concealed threat in his words that might be followed by him taking the food away from her for "not liking it and being ungrateful", she nodded quickly and returned to the meal.
She'd been a fool to think he had any interest in actually talking to her. He was only telling her these things to get a reaction out of her – to enjoy from the pain it caused her. A clear power dynamic had been established the moment he'd first locked her in the cellar, and this was yet another proof that he was the one in charge. It was a way to remind her that he could (and would) take everything from her if he so chose. Not only that, but he'd also make sure to rub as much salt in the proverbial wound as he possibly could.
He'd taken her freedom, her clothes, her food, her job… what else was there for him to take?
A dark part of her mind reminded her he could very easily decide to take her life. The ultimate loss, as it were. But, she'd learnt a thing or two about Thomas (an inevitable result of being confined in his prison and him being the only human being with whom she had any kind of contact or interaction), and he enjoyed lording over her too much to put an end to it.
As horrible as it sounded, she was still his plaything, and he was not ready to dispose of her (yet).
How long would it take for him to get bored of her, C.C. didn't know. She could only hope that she'd be able to escape long before that happened.
As Thomas droned on about his day, C.C. slowly but tirelessly ate her meal. She managed to eat all the rice, most of her sweet and sour chicken and all but one sprig roll. She felt heavy and more than a little sleepy by the time she was done with the main course, but if she didn't attempt to eat her dessert her captor would get mad at her, and that would only mean another, harsher, beating. Besides, her survivor brain was urging her to stuff herself with as much food as possible, all in preparation for the next period of starvation.
After having settled her empty plate and cutlery back into the basket, she reached for the banana, gently pinched its top, and pulled back some of the peel. She did so slowly, wanting to enjoy from actually having food in her hands, and also biding herself some time to get her meal down so she wouldn't feel as though her stomach would burst once she'd eaten her dessert. That, apparently, was yet another downside to starvation – she desperately needed food, but her stomach couldn't take large quantities of it without her being sick.
She could already sniff the pleasantly sweet scent of the banana – it was making her dizzy, almost as if it were a nice glass of fine Bordeaux rather than a fruit that she was holding in her hand. She'd found that, nowadays, her sense of smell was enhanced, making every meal an almost intoxicating onslaught on her attuned senses. She supposed that, when your every daydream revolves around food, these things were inevitable.
Once it was open far enough, she broke off the top, and put it in her mouth. If she ate it in small enough pieces, it wouldn't be so bad on her already-satisfied stomach, and she might be able to get through it all...
Thomas still hadn't finished talking at this point. Luckily, whenever he got like this, he'd get so caught up in whatever he had to say about himself that he wouldn't beat her for eating too quickly or slowly, or any other insane reason to hurt her that his mind could come up with.
She managed – barely – to finish the banana. It hurt to have eaten so much, but it was better than him deciding she "obviously hadn't been hungry enough" and then leaving her without any meals for longer the next time.
She wasn't sure if she could stand that. It had already been bad enough, before.
"Luckily, it won't come to that," the voice in her head reminded her with a kind of sensible straightforwardness. "You're eating all that you can. Surviving however you can."
C.C. replied in her head that she knew that. But she also knew that even that might not be enough.
With Thomas in charge, he could move the line she had to cross at any time. And that could easily spell trouble, if something she did one day was fine, but the next it became a problem...
It made her wonder what the final straw would have to be.
She could only hope she'd never have to find out.
Once she was done with her banana, C.C. carefully disposed of the peel in the little wastebasket she kept by her table. Thomas was assiduous in ensuring she kept her small cellar clean, and he'd made it clear that, should she ever fail to satisfy his high standards of cleanliness, she'd get beaten up.
C.C. knew better than to step so much as a toe over the line where Thomas and his multiple displays of OCD were concerned, and so far she'd incurred his wrath only once, when she'd accidentally dropped her cup of juice. Her hands had shaken too much and had been too weak to hold the small cup for long, but Thomas had made her pay dearly for that... misdemeanour… anyway.
Lastly, she moved onto the final bit of her meal — a small bar of dark chocolate Thomas insisted that she had. Before her captivity she hadn't been a fan of dark chocolate, preferring sweeter types, but here she didn't get to choose.
Here, she had to obey.
"Did you like the food?" asked her captor in an unusual (and, quite frankly, worrying) display of interest about her culinary preferences. He never left anything to chance, not even the tiniest detail, so there had to be an ulterior motive behind his asking.
"Yes, sir, I did," she replied with caution.
"Good! Now, I am pleased to tell you, I have deemed you worthy of going upstairs. You'll get that shower you've been asking for," replied Thomas, giving her an unsettlingly bright smile — a crocodile's smile...
She didn't like the sound of being "deemed worthy" of anything in his mind. But the word "shower" caught her attention full-force.
At one point, the idea of getting a shower would've relieved her. She might have even openly been happy about it. But as things currently were, the look on his face put her too much on edge for that.
Not that she was going to turn it down. She felt disgusting from the grease and sweat that clung to her body and hair, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to live with the filth for much longer before it became unbearable.
She had to take it. It might make her feel a little more able to do things, if she did.
"That's it, Babcock. Do what you have to, nothing more."
The voice sounded...warily encouraging. Even he knew she had to be careful then, while she did this.
So, she took in a breath that she made as quiet as possible before she answered Thomas.
"Thank you, sir. I do need to take a shower..."
"That you do," Thomas agreed. "I don't let filthy animals wander around upstairs, so you'd better make it a real good, deep clean."
C.C. felt her stomach turn over a little as he said that. The emphasis didn't sit right with her at all. But she couldn't throw up - the consequences of showing her repulsion would be worse than just emptying the contents of her stomach onto the floor.
They'd be worse than being made to clean it all up, too. And she doubted that she'd be allowed to eat again for a long time if he felt that she was being ungrateful by "rejecting" the food, even without meaning to.
And then there would be whatever happened because she'd "disrespected" him...
No. She had to keep it down. If she expected to get any better at all, she had to eat and keep clean.
She might even have a better night's sleep, if she managed both of those.
So, she nodded, "Yes sir. I'll clean thoroughly..."
"Good," Thomas stood up straight. "Get up. We're going up right now."
Again, once she would've been eager to get up there to go for a shower. Her body would've been screaming that any chance for a little bit of relief from the grime was better than nothing, and that she should jump at it while it was being offered.
Well, not offered. Granted. Thomas would remind her of that, with his words and maybe with his fists, if he felt like it.
But now he wasn't. She was going (right now, even though something about that sounded threateningly abrupt) because she needed it, more than anything. She knew it would help her, but that was it.
Still, she didn't like the sound of the way he was ordering her up, even as she slowly rose to her feet...
"Get over to the trapdoor," Thomas ordered. "Stay in my sight at all times, and when we are upstairs, don't even think about running. I have a gun in my pocket, and I'll use it if you make me angry..."
With a nod an a soft "yes, sir", C.C. quickly moved towards the old, aluminium ladder, not wanting to keep her captor waiting – nothing good ever came of Thomas' patience running out. She couldn't help but feel a ting of apprehension as her hands closed around the side rails and her left foot landed on the first step. The structure didn't look (or feel) entirely secure; it creaked the moment her full weight was on it, almost as if it were complaining about having her on top. It made C.C. fear it would cave beneath her, and she'd come crashing down to the floor. Thomas would probably find a way to blame it on her, too.
But, surprisingly enough, it held strong. Carefully, she climbed up, always making sure to hold onto the ladder's side, and she eventually emerged into a small, dimly-lit chamber, the only source of light being a lone 50-watt lightbulb, which was hanging precariously from its socket. There seemed to be no way in or out of the room – almost as if she were inside a small war bunker. Everything around was made of concrete, save for the six wooden support beams and the square-shaped iron slab fixed to the wall opposite to her.
It left C.C. with the unsettling feeling that she was locked inside a tomb…
But she didn't have much time to look around – Thomas had soon joined her, and he pushed past her, forcing her to press herself against one of the walls so he had room to kneel in front of the iron slab.
Much to C.C.'s surprise, Thomas pulled at the slab with a grunt and wrenched it open. It was a concealed door!
He let it slowly swing out, revealing a floor on the other side but very little else, from the angle she was seeing.
The door had to have been extremely low in the wall...was it so he could hide the entrance behind something...?
She didn't have long to wonder about it. Thomas was soon shoving at her again, obviously tired of her just being stood there and staring without moving.
"Kneel down and crawl," he near-snarled. "And don't get up until I say so, on the other side!"
That got her moving again, faster than before. She might have felt slowed down by the large meal before, but when a threat was presented, it was surprising how quickly that food could be burned off into energy.
So, C.C. crawled. She crawled until she could see the new flooring only by the better lighting, knowing that that meant she'd reached her destination.
It was hard not to move fast, especially knowing that he had a gun somewhere on his person. But any sudden moves could've been all the excuse he needed to pull the trigger...
So, she waited on her hands and knees until he had made it through the door and into the room. He also got himself to his feet first, dusting off his jacket.
"Get up, or I'll drag you."
C.C. immediately did as she was told, and when she turned to look at him, she couldn't help but see the...door...they'd just come through...
The door was hidden within an old-fashioned fireplace. Quite literally, the back of the firebox was the concealed door. No one would ever think to look there, because all they'd be seeing, was the empty firebox of an old, defunct chimney!
And it wasn't like the fireplace appeared out of place where it was, either. They'd arrived in a stylish-looking den or living area, which appeared to be set up with a large television for comfortable home entertainment. A fireplace just added an atmospheric charm to the place!
He'd set it all up just perfectly, to work out in his favour...
Again, she didn't have long to stand around, admiring the place. Thomas was getting fed up of apparently having to wait for her again, and he was deliberate in showing her how he put his hand into his jacket pocket, pressing something hard against the edge of the fabric.
If he did really have a gun (and she didn't entirely expect him to be lying and just bluffing with something gun-shaped), then she had to tread even more carefully than before...
"Start walking in the direction that I say," he told her. No ifs or buts, just an order that he expected her to follow. "Go. Move towards that door, on the other side of the room."
He gestured with the pocket containing the gun.
C.C. nodded, not feeling brave enough to even attempt to speak, now that she was out of her prison. Here, out of the cellar, she was in more danger — animals, when they feel cornered, become more aggressive, and here in the open, where someone could perhaps see her, Thomas was just like a rabid predator, willing to go to the very end to protect himself.
She didn't dwell on the joy of actually having more space to move in, nor did she relish in the sunlight filtering through the half-open living room blinds — she kept moving, taking care not to make a false move that would warrant being shot.
This was survival, and she had to pull through.
They only stopped once they'd reached the master bedroom, and Thomas lost no time before locking the door behind him and pocketing the key. The room was, unsurprisingly, pristine — unnaturally organised, almost.
It all made C.C. feel extremely uncomfortable. It was almost as if no one was really living there...
She was certainly just existing there...
Thomas then ordered her again, pointing the gun in the direction of another door in a corner of the room, "Get into the bathroom."
She did as she was told, not even stopping to relish the feeling of a soft carpet beneath her feet instead of a hard floor.
The bathroom was just like Thomas' bedroom, really - clean and organised to the point of obsession, every surface gleaming and the sense about it that nobody ever used it.
She also got the feeling that if she touched anything for too long or in the wrong way and stained it, then she'd never be allowed to use it again.
Thomas turned partially away from her then, to lift a couple of towels down off a high shelf next to the sink. He dumped them on the counter, right by her.
"You'll use these to dry yourself off. You won't need any more than that."
The way he said that made it sound like he'd practically measured her up for these towels, which only added to C.C.'s sense of feeling sick.
But she had no choice, other than to nod and thank him.
"Fifteen minutes," he warned, as he moved to the door — was he actually going to let her bathe by herself?! — "Put your clothes inside the hamper once you are done. You'll find your new clothes inside the vanity's far left drawer."
"Yes, sir," C.C. said almost automatically, itching to rush into the shower, "Thank you—"
"I won't care if you aren't done in fifteen minutes," he interrupted her, "Once the time is up, I'll come get you. Clear?"
C.C. nodded.
Seemingly satisfied with her answer, Thomas slammed the door shut and, judging by the faint clicking sound that followed, he locked it, too. He wasn't taking any risks, clearly.
Not that he should have worried — she knew better than to try to fight him, given her weakened state.
Besides, she was craving a warm shower — a relaxing bath after weeks' worth of grime and filth. She'd missed the heavenly relief of warm water licking at her skin, running down her long body and soothing her aching muscles. She'd missed the peace it gave her.
She'd missed feeling... clean.
But she couldn't stand there all day long, wasting her precious (if limited) bath-time. She knew he'd meant it when he'd said he'd drag her out the moment her fifteen minutes were up, and she didn't fancy incurring his wrath nor being dragged back into her cellar without having completed her bath.
She stripped of her dirty clothes, tossed them in the hamper and, without caring to look at herself in the mirror (not that she would have liked the reflection upon it anyway), she jumped into the shower-box and turned on the water.
The warm water was the most welcome sensation she'd had in...well, longer than she could remember. She nearly always overstuffed herself with food and ended up in pain because of it, but the water wasn't bringing her any pain.
No. It was bringing her the sweet relief that she hoped it would. The relief of feeling clean, after too many weeks of being trapped in a layer of filth she'd had no choice but to keep.
The built-up sweat and grime washed away with a little bit of effort, and she used some of the soap and shampoo to wash her body and her hair, remembering what Thomas said about making it all thorough.
She didn't want an inspection, but if doing as he said and making sure she remained clean got her a shower more often, then she would do it.
She was quick about rinsing off, not wanting to find out that she'd run out of time and he was about to burst in and fetch her out.
Stepping out felt like another torture all of its own, but if she was in plenty of time, then she knew he couldn't fault her for it.
The towels he'd left out for her were the softest, fluffiest things she'd felt in far too long, and they helped to dry her off fairly quickly. She even stayed wrapped in the larger one for a few minutes, before finally deciding that she had to take the next step and get the fresh clothes that Thomas had talked about.
They were just, were he'd said, stuffed in a little box inside one of the vanity's drawers. She was surprised to see they were new — he'd bought her clothes? Why...?
"I wouldn't care too much if I were you" said Niles' voice, "Just put them on and be ready. We don't want him getting mad, do we?"
No, no they didn't.
Especially when he had a gun in his pocket and was clearly ready to use it.
Gently, she pulled out an admittedly gorgeous soft-pink nightgown. It felt soft and delicate underneath her fingertips, and she rather liked the trapeze silhouette and straps accented with lace applique. They give a retro feel of vintage sleepwear. She was also glad for its loose, billowy fit (although these days most garments were loose on her).
It was definitely something comfortable to sleep in.
The second item was a matching cashmere robe with a scalloped lace trim.
She couldn't help but smile a little at that. It was, as of that moment, the warmest thing she had to wear.
It would be perfect for when the cold in the cellar got unbearable...
She slipped it on over the top of her gown, stopping to look down at herself in them both. She might not want to look in the mirror, but she could see how both items looked together.
Both were just right, of course, but she stopped herself from thinking about how she could have almost bought them herself, to wear around the penthouse. That would be asking for trouble, considering she thought she might burst into tears if she thought too deeply or too much about a place she might never see again.
There were a lot of places she thought she'd never see again...
But, she couldn't stand around any longer. Thomas was probably running out of patience, and even if he wasn't, there was always the chance that he might burst in because he felt like it.
So, she quickly combed her hair through with a comb that she found placed next to the sink (she put it back exactly where she found it), pulled the robe tight and tied it at the waist, before turning to try and turn the doorknob. She was surprised to find it actually gave and the door opened – her captor must have unlocked it while she was washing…
She couldn't help but wonder why.
Thomas, she soon found out the moment she walked out of the bathroom, was lying on his bed, a book in hand and reading glasses on. If she didn't know who he was and what he'd done, she'd have said he looked just like any normal, middle-aged man. Not that she knew his age, but he looked like he was pushing fifty, and she could see a number of grey streaks in his hair.
It was a...conflicting picture, in a way. She was so used to seeing him impeccably dressed and he was always so tense and on edge, that seeing him sprawled on his bed, relaxed, without his tie or shoes on and with a few buttons on his shirt undone, was...odd.
Unsettlingly odd.
He didn't look up from his book when she first walked out of the bathroom; he kept on reading, almost as if she weren't there. What should she do now? Call for his attention? He had to take her back to her cellar, didn't he?
"Stay quiet," the voice suggested in what resembled an imaginary whisper, "Don't call for him."
C.C. nodded to herself — the voice was right. She didn't want his attention on her. So she resolved to stand there, eyes cast to the floor and hands folded behind her back. Had the door to the room been open, she'd have tried to make a run for it, but as it was she was trapped. Not even the enormous window opposite to Thomas' bed was open — the blinds were shut, obviously to avoid any unwanted onlookers.
Eventually, after a few silent minutes (than to C.C. fell like hours), Thomas looked up from his book. He placed a small metallic bookmark between the two pages and, heaving a sigh, he slammed it shut and placed it on his night-table. He didn't comment on her new clothes nor did he ask if she liked them (thus going back to normality, C.C. thought).
He simply stood up, and addressed her as he pointed at the bed, "Lie down. I have decided that I'll have you tonight. No ifs or buts."
...What?
C.C. could've sworn that he said he'd...that he was going to...
As her heart began to pound with fear and her breathing began to speed up, her thoughts began to race. And between the blind panic of immediately wanting to get out of there and to stand her ground and scream "no", she thought about everything that had happened that day that had led up to that moment.
The nice meal. The shower. The...the lingerie that now made her feel sick to have even agreed to wear!
How could she have been so blind? So stupid?! Of course this was what he'd been planning all along!
No. She wasn't going to let this happen – she was going to run, and she didn't care how many locked doors she had to try and get through, or how many guns he had on him!
Being dead in a ditch was better than giving herself up to him.
So, seeing as the words had currently failed her in her attempts to scream and shout and verbally protest, she simply made a bolt for the door. She pulled at the knob, desperately trying to get it to give, but to no use. It was locked, and it wouldn't budge.
But she wasn't going to give up. Not even with Thomas charging at her, having realised that she wasn't going to go down quietly.
She was going to fight.
It was during this moments of panic and overwhelming fear that C.C. felt a little bit like her old self. She'd become subservient for far too long, and she was not planning on letting this bastard force her to do anything that she didn't want!
"Don't you dare!" roared the kidnapper, trying to grab at his prey, but finding she was more elusive than he'd thought she'd be by this stage. He'd tried his hardest to weaken her, to make her more vulnerable, but she had fight left in her.
Gross mistake.
With a kick aimed at his shin (and which impacted perfectly on point), C.C. bought herself a few seconds to try and run for the window. She'd jump from it if she needed to; she'd flung herself to the unknown, regardless of whether she lived or not.
But, sadly, she never made it.
He was faster than her, and he managed to reach out and yank at her hair. That was enough to make her to collapse to the floor, and the bastard had soon grabbed at her arms and was carrying her to bed. She kicked, screamed, even tried to punch him a few times...
But again, it was useless.
He roughly threw her on the bed face first, and he then climbed on top of her back, hiking up her nightgown as he went. The fight was over.
She tried to delay the inevitable by trying to press her legs together, but he was stronger. He was healthier. He was bigger.
And he subdued her.
At some point, she eventually realised while the vile sound of his zipper being pulled down and pants being removed reached her ears, she'd begun crying.
It only worsened when she felt him positioning himself...
"Babs, let's go."
Huh...?
The voice...what was it doing there, right then? And why did it sound like it was coming from somewhere else...?
Angling her face up as best she could, she nearly let her jaw drop as she saw the one man whose face she'd once thought she never wanted to see again.
Niles. And he was reaching out to her...
"Come on," he said again. "Let's go."
Confused, but knowing it was far better than staying where she was, with what was about to be done and the man who was doing it, she felt the inner parts of her – her mind, her heart, and her very soul – reach out a hand towards his own.
His hand felt pleasantly warm as she took it, and she was gone from her body just as Thomas invaded it.
"Don't look back," Niles said, pulling her towards him. "Just keep your eyes on me..."
She wasn't even dreaming of looking back. Not when it would only cause her more pain. And especially not in front of the one voice of reason and comfort she'd had for so long...
She shook her head.
"I won't," she replied, wishing she could cry again but unable to. "Just...keep talking to me..."
"I will…" he promised, smiling sadly at her and coming to wrap an arm around her, "I promise I will…"
She nestled into his embrace, trying to ignore the cries coming from her own body as a sick bastard broke her over and over again. She knew that this – being in an imaginary embrace with what could only be the imaginary manifestation of Niles – was her mind's way to shield her from what was being done to her. She was blocking out the trauma.
Even if, deep within, she could feel everything that was being done to her.
She'd never had out-of-body experiences before, but she was thankful that this one had happened when it did.
She remained in Niles' embrace for what felt like an eternity. She listened to his soothing words – she listened to him saying over and over again that she'd be okay. That this would be over soon. That he'd keep her safe…
But eventually she felt a tug at her spirit – her body was calling. She had to go back.
She pulled away from Niles, aware that as she did so Thomas culminated his vile act within her (thank God she had an IUD), and the two shared one last heartfelt hug.
"I won't be gone for long," he promised, "Be strong, Babs."
She nodded, unable to say anything. She didn't want to go back, but she had to. She couldn't stay in this limbo – she had to go back to Hell, where her body needed her to be. So, letting go of Niles at long last, she turned to her body, now pressed between the bed and a panting bastard, and with a sigh, she walked back to it and touched her own fingertips.
She was back then. And she'd made it just as the intruder pulled away from her.
And the pain was back, too. Everything that had happened when the parts he'd never touch were gone, was now back, full-force and making her want to collapse in agony.
Agony of the abuse. Agony of the heartbreak...
Agony that she hadn't been strong enough, and now she was broken.
Broken, and filthy all over again...
"Get up and go to the door," her captor's voice ordered. She couldn't look at him. "That's all I need from you today."
Today. Because it was going to happen again, and she had no say in any of it. He was going to break her beyond repair, and nothing could stop him.
She didn't feel herself getting up or moving, but she soon found herself at the door anyway. Thomas soon joined her, and ordered her to start moving back down through the house to get to the cellar.
She walked, and crawled, and climbed, all the while trying not to flinch or cry at the pain coursing from between her legs, and causing her heart to crack...
He shoved her down the last rung of the ladder when they finally got to the cellar, making her stumble into the room, and when she turned to look at him, he smirked.
The smirk of a man who knew that he'd won.
"See you tomorrow," he said, before turning and going back upstairs, all the while humming merrily to himself.
The ladder followed him back up immediately after, and the door slammed with the finality of a life sentence.
A living death sentence.
And only then, in the cold silence and empty loneliness, did C.C. collapse to her knees and start to sob.