Chapter 13
"Enchaining"
Another loop fit snugly over the needle, and the whole row of them fell into place when C.C. pulled. The scarf was coming along nicely - it was pretty much halfway there, and she'd started wearing a long groove on the inside of her mattress to hide it anytime Thomas came down. She didn't want him to think that it was his, or to just decide to take it away anyway...
What could she do if he found it, though? She'd only just recovered from the last...event...and the beating that had then gone along with it because it turned out the police had been sniffing around...
Despite everything looking like a nightmare that couldn't possibly get any worse, it left her hopeful. Niles had told the police something that made them suspect Thomas, and something like that couldn't just go away after one time, could it...?
She didn't want to think so. It would leave her with nothing if she didn't have hope. She could barely move still, a lot of the time, and more often than not she just wanted to rest.
But even with hope, she could barely think of anything other than rest...
Thomas had allowed her rest, too. The past few weeks had been oddly peaceful – he'd left her to her own devises, mostly, only coming down to patch her up or feed her. Of course that his newfound concern for her physical wellbeing hadn't been born out of the goodness in his heart – he simply didn't want to deal with a dead body instead of just a tired one.
Naturally, in exchange for this "kindness", he'd claimed that she could stop wasting his time and money, which in turn had translated into him not feeding her as much as she would have liked. As a matter of fact, recently she'd gone without for a couple of days. C.C. didn't know how many – the tiredness and the starvation made thinking difficult. It was like...like there was a permanent impenetrable fog, clogging up her brain, and no amount of rest seemed to clear it away...
It only left her enough energy and thought to knit. To do that one single, repetitive, simple action that didn't need any thought, when she really got into the swing of it.
Perhaps when she was done with this first scarf she'd get started on another. Maybe one for her father...
"Who would have imagined you'd be able to do such a good job with those hooves you call hands, eh Babs?"
C.C. couldn't help but smile at the voice's jab. It was rather...eerie, but she'd noticed that as of late her thoughts had started sounding a lot like him. It was as if her own inner speech had been hijacked (and replaced) by the voice of a rather annoying British butler. Not that she would have it any other way — his voice, imaginary or not, was a source of great comfort to her.
In the face of abject horror and trauma, the best thing she could do was take refuge in soothing memories, and that included the butler. She'd never dreamed that she'd ever say it, but Niles (or rather, the thought of him) was a saving grace amidst utter horror.
"It's pretty decent, isn't it?" she thought back, smiling down at her creation.
"Indeed. Pity the same can't be said about your cooking."
C.C. rolled her eyes at the voice as she finished off the last row of stitches, tugged on the remaining yarn and weaved it into the scarf's edges, effectively finishing the bind (and her very first scarf) off.
She couldn't help smiling to herself at her handiwork. She'd never had to do anything like it in her life before now, and yet she'd managed it better than she'd imagined she would.
She supposed that was what a human mind was capable of doing when it was pushed. That could be for whatever reason, though, not just the one she found herself in.
Hers just happened to be on the awful, extreme end...
That made her stop smiling, and the scarf dropped into her lap. As proud as she was, the whole thing was tarnished by the fact that none of this was really her choice!
"You are doing what you can to survive, Babs. You chose to do it this way - no one made you make the scarf. It's yours, no one else's."
The voice sounded like reason, but C.C. didn't know if she could really be so sure. Thomas had left her the book on learning knitting - he wouldn't have just picked any old books for her to choose from!
Did...did he want her to learn, for some reason?
Whatever it was, C.C. took her finished work and slipped it into its hiding place. Thomas may or may not have wanted her to learn, but he wasn't getting that scarf.
He wouldn't get the one after that, either. That was already for her father. And then the ones after that would be for Noel and her mother. Then the next few after that would be for Maxwell and maybe for Nanny Fine, if she still had enough yarn by the end of it. She'd fill up her mattress with gifts for her family and friends, and show them all how much she'd thought of them in the time that she'd been there.
In the time that she was still spending there...
The voice must've detected the melancholy tone, because it gave her the mental equivalent of a playful nudge in the ribs - the kind of gesture designed to take someone's mind off something.
"Even saving a scarf for Miss Fine? You're getting soft in your old age, Babs..."
C.C. felt the corners of her mouth twitch into a smirk she couldn't quite help. It was just too much like old times to not react to it.
It deserved a retort, just like old times.
"At least I can still get soft; unlike the butler-shaped fossil I happen to be speaking to..."
She thought she almost saw his amused grin right in front of her eyes then, but as the vision opened his mouth to toss back his own zinger, the image was snatched from her head by the trapdoor bursting open.
Immediately, C.C. was back against the wall, terror gripping her heart and her eyes at all times on Thomas as he stared holes through her from the top of the ladder.
What did he want? He hadn't brought food in a while but it didn't look like he had any on him, and she'd already healed up from his beating...
As if reading her mind, Thomas then snapped his fingers, pointing towards the top of the stairs.
"Get up here now, you're gonna bathe when you do."
Bathing...bathing only meant one thing to C.C. anymore...
It was happening again...
It'd been weeks since he...since the event had happened. And now he was obviously back for more.
She didn't want it again - never again!
But what could she do about it? He'd beat her and make her anyway, and then it would repeat itself, no matter what she wanted...
She wasn't a person to him. She was a thing.
A trembling thing, who had no choice but to obey and climb the ladder as fast as her malnourished body would allow.
"You took too long doing that," Thomas spat, before pointing a commanding finger up through the entrance to her cell, towards the stairs. "Get upstairs to the bathroom, and do not keep me waiting this time."
C.C. went, trying hard not to stumble in her weakened state, and trying even harder not to cry. If he saw that she was, it would only make things worse for her...
Who knew, he might get so angry that he'd just...do it then and there as punishment...
But he didn't. She made it all the way to the bathroom without...anything happening...
But the door closing with a sharp snap behind them both made C.C. stiffen, and all the cells and nerves in her body went on high alert when Thomas spoke.
"Undress. Now."
Oh, God. This was it! He was going to do it here - there wasn't any getting away or fighting it, and she had to do as he said or he could kill her...!
Shaking in terror (and desperately trying to hold off tears that she knew were already falling anyway), C.C. pulled at her clothes, her heart dropping further with every garment that she removed.
So when she was finally stood there, humiliated in her bareness, shivering in a way that had nothing to do with the cold and quietly praying to herself that it would be over quickly (even if she knew to her own despair that it really wouldn't be), it jarred her senses to see that Thomas didn't stare at her like...like it was about to happen...
He briefly gave her the kind of look that suggested something had been done adequately, before turning towards a shelf, and taking down...something folded, with...a pair of heels on top of it? And a small make-up bag to boot?!
He thrust them in her direction, "You'll wear these after you've bathed. Doll up and don't keep me waiting - we have to eat."
The tension gripping C.C.'s body didn't ease so much as let go in confusion and surprise.
...Eat? They had to...? They had never eaten at the same time – Thomas had either given her food or eaten it in front of her, there had never been any...sharing a meal or anything like that!
But...she supposed if it meant that the...other thing...was delayed for at least a while, she could live with it.
So, she took the dress, shoes and makeup, and nodded to what Thomas had said.
"You have forty-five minutes," he said, opening the bathroom door again. "I have left your soap and hair products in the bathtub."
With that, he stepped out of the bathroom and slammed the door shut, locking it behind him. Not that C.C. was even thinking about escaping — weak as she was, it would be lunacy to incite his anger by trying to make a run for it when she knew perfectly well she'd never make it out alive.
For a few seconds, the only thing C.C. felt she could do was stare at the locked door. This was new territory for her — so far she'd either been forced to lie with him or kept underground. He'd never ordered her to "doll up" or even look presentable around him. She'd assumed he had no interest in her being well dressed.
She didn't quite know how to feel about what she was being asked to do, but her brain soon reminded her that she'd rather sit quietly by his side than let him...well...do the...the thing.
She didn't know what he had in mind; frankly, she didn't wish to know. She only knew that she had to comply if she wanted to survive one more day. So, after taking a deep breath, C.C. carefully laid her new clothes on the bathroom's large marble counter and stepped into the shower.
It seemed another age passed in the space of a few minutes before she even turned the water on. She was still weak and her mind had to take time to process...everything, if she was honest.
What had just happened didn't feel real. It was too outside everything that she'd known since she'd been taken for it to feel real.
The shower was real. And being in it usually meant a horrible, inescapable thing was about to happen...
But it wasn't happening yet today. Something else was instead, and she couldn't delay any of it happening. Otherwise, she knew Thomas would drag her out of the shower (whether she was done or not) and have his way anyway.
And that could end up somewhere she really didn't want to go.
So, she turned on the water and started to wash immediately, hoping that she hadn't somehow zoned out and wasted all of her time just staring at the wall.
It turns out that she must've only been at it for a few minutes, because she managed to wash her hair and her body thoroughly and finish up in the shower without any interference.
After she'd towelled off, she turned her attention on the clothes that Thomas had left for her. It was...a very pretty dress, as it so happened. White, with mid-length sleeves, and covered in a floral pattern. The pair of short heels even matched the colour of the flowers.
Thomas had clearly planned it all to a fault. But why was he doing it in the first place...?
It was something that kept her wondering as she dried off her hair and combed it out, before slipping the clothes on.
Again, she was incredibly surprised when the dress fit her perfectly. She'd kind of expected it not to, seeing as most of her clothes were either a little baggy on her or several sizes bigger than she really was.
It was odd, to be honest, being dressed presentably...
She'd gotten so used to surviving in dirty rags, that actually looking somewhat pretty was a foreign (and previously unthought) idea. She inspected herself on the mirror, twirling this way and the other to see how the dress looked on her from different angles. She couldn't help her small smile — this was how her old self would have dressed. She wasn't that woman anymore, of course, but it was nice to have some semblance of what she used to be.
She carefully ran her fingers over the soft fabric, smoothing out the creases and enjoying the feeling of her dress beneath her fingertips. It was the softest and cleanest garment she'd worn since being taken...
She might not have liked what she saw in the mirror, but the dress was absolutely gorgeous. In a way, it was making her feel a little bit more... human.
She went back to the task at hand with that happy-ish though in mind. She had to try and make the best of a horrible situation, and that included cherishing little moments like this, when she got the occasional glimpse of the woman she used to be.
The next step on her short list, was blow-drying and styling her hair, which was soon done. Her hair had grown considerably since being abducted, so she chose to tie it up in a neat ponytail so it would not get in her face.
Lastly, she put on her shoes and quickly applied her make-up, taking care to get everything just right. Knowing Thomas as she did, she was sure she'd get beaten up, should her appearance look anything less than perfect. Or worse.
It was best not to find out, either way.
Once she was done (and as he'd taught her to do after every bath) she picked up every item she'd used and stored it into a small drawstring bag he'd always leave by the toilet. Again, she was no better than a dog to him. As such, he didn't wish to share his own personal space with items that were meant to groom a "lesser being".
If she thought about being stubborn, she'd say that she didn't want to share personal space with him anyway. In fact, she'd keep her personal space as far away from him as humanly possible and do everything in her power to keep it there.
But she didn't have that luxury, and if she so much as even tried being "insolent" like that, she'd probably earn herself another couple of broken ribs.
Sometimes it was still tempting, getting to spit words back in his face and getting to be left alone for a while longer...
But she knew it was risky, too. If he went too far while she was...well, like she was, he probably would end up killing her.
It was best to strike a fine balance – thinking it, but never saying it.
And it was best not to keep Thomas waiting anymore while she inspected her appearance. She'd probably managed to do everything to his "perfect" standards, but if he found out he'd been held up because of her admiring herself he'd probably punish her for "vanity".
And he might have said that he wanted to keep her face pretty, but he probably wouldn't mind roughing it up a little on a non-permanent basis to teach her a lesson.
So, steeling herself for whatever he could possibly have to say or do next, she knocked on the door to be let out.
Thomas opened the door right away, probably eager to get a look at what he'd created. He certainly seemed happy with it, because a grin the Cheshire Cat would envy suddenly appeared on his face.
C.C. would've preferred it on the Cheshire Cat. At least the worst you got with him was harmless, incomprehensible nonsense. With Thomas, once you figured out what it was he was about to do, you wanted nothing more than to get away and not let him do what he wanted.
"Excellent," he said, just as pleased in his tone as his face depicted. "Now, put out your left hand."
Her...left hand? What could he possibly want with her left hand? Why did he have to be that specific?
C.C. thought about hesitating, but knew that couldn't if she didn't want him to get angry, even if she had no idea what he wanted...
She did as he said, feeling a jolt of horror and revulsion go through her when he grabbed her hand with his right.
Oh, God - he was going to drag her into his bedroom! He'd dressed her up as part of some kind of sick fantasy and he was going to-
Thomas fumbled in his pocket for a moment, before pulling out a large diamond ring, bigger than most people would have ever seen in their lives, that he pushed down her finger.
That felt like a bucket of ice water over C.C., freezing her in place and catching her breath far short in her throat. It was joined by another when a plain white gold band followed, and she wished that one of the ice water buckets could be real enough to drown her.
This felt just as bad as what she thought he'd been about to do.
He...he was making her...
"With this ring, I thee wed..."
Thomas muttered the words with the smug self-satisfaction of a man who knew he was getting exactly what he wanted.
And C.C. felt her heart shattering, staring miserably at the rings that had been forced onto her hand and thinking to herself that she'd never imagined this was how she'd ever wear them.
She'd pictured a big ceremony and wearing a dreamy white dress (the one she was currently wearing was but a travesty, given the situation) with delicate details in lace and silver thread. She'd imagined lovingly holding newly bejewelled hands. She'd imagined sharing a close dance. She'd dreamed about laughter and joy and kisses…
But she'd never imagined this.
Not even in her worst, most twisted nightmares.
It was becoming increasingly evident that this man – no, this monster, was not planning on letting her go. He'd planned this to a tee, not one detail was amiss in the perverse scheme of things he'd come up with. She was a mere accessory to what he'd visualised as the perfect life. She was but a simple cog in the machine – a vital part of it, but a mere cog nonetheless. She had no more value than a decorative vase, and she daresay that he'd probably take more care of said vase than of her.
"You are to wear these rings at all times," he told her, finally letting her hand go. "Especially when you are upstairs with me."
C.C. had to force herself to nod, even if she felt that the little bit of her soul that still remained in her had just broken into a thousand pieces.
"Good. I'm not having you wandering around looking like you don't belong to anybody."
C.C. felt her stomach give another twist.
Belong to somebody. She really was just a thing to him – maybe occasionally holding the same ranking as a dog that he didn't want the world to think was a stray. Maybe he'd make her wear a collar next, or tie her up on a leash whenever he wanted to make her stay...
She'd never dream of answering back, of course – especially not when the idea she could sarcastically remark in her head might seem like a good idea to the delusional bastard right in front of her.
No, it was best to just do as he'd said and nothing more, in this case.
He seemed satisfied enough with the cowed reply. He pointed out onto the upper landing, in the direction of the stairs back to the first floor.
"We're going to the main dining room to eat now. We're celebrating this happy occasion. Get moving."
C.C. didn't have any choice but to do as he said, even if every part of her body was screaming that there was absolutely nothing to celebrate.
This wasn't a wedding. It wasn't a marriage. This was some sicko who would kick her down the stairs for so much as looking at him wrong, and who still expected her to act like the perfect wife and serving maid...!
The last thing that thought made C.C. want to do was eat, but she knew she was going to have to force whatever it was down anyway.
She'd probably get another beating if she was seen apparently not "celebrating".
To her credit, she didn't even flinch when he grabbed at her arm and practically frogmarched her all the way down to the dining room. He'd beaten her up many times before, whenever she'd flinched away from his touch – it was her instinct of self-preservation what kept her from shoving his slimy hands away from her.
This was what it took for her to survive.
This was what she needed to do to survive.
She could only keep repeating this to herself over and over again, hoping that it would somehow give her the strength to endure a difficult night. C.C. was certain he still had plenty of nasty surprises in store.
The dining room was the first of many. Just as he'd said, there was a table laid out for two people. She was quick to notice that he'd used the good china, and the tablecloth was made of the finest silk. She'd briefly wondered if he'd make her eat on the floor like a dog or perhaps force her to wait on him before she was allowed to have the scraps, but it seemed she'd been wrong. There were two plates laden with food, two cups filled with wine, two sets of cutlery ready to be used and two cloth napkins neatly folded by their plates. She was actually going to get to eat like an actual human being for a change!
There also was a small side table next to the main one, upon which Thomas had prepared a small selection of wines and a number of hors d'oeuvres for them to snack on before moving on to the main course.
Usually, the sight of so much food would have made her incredibly happy, but today it was nothing but a horrible reminder of the nightmare she was trapped in. What was especially upsetting about the setting ahead of her was the fact that the room was illuminated by the gentle glow of candlelight, and there was soft music playing in the background – an obvious attempt at creating a "romantic" atmosphere. There also were rose petals scattered across the entire dining room, and atop their seats (which were opposite to one another) there were place cards – one read Mr Jones, and the other read Mrs Jones.
All of it – especially those awful place cards – made her feel more than a little bit like throwing up. Nothing about any of this was romantic; the only strong feeling taking over her body right then was disgust.
And even if she couldn't do what her body's initial reaction was for fear of Thomas' reaction, then...no, she couldn't. Her next plan of action was to flee for fresh air, but where could she possibly do that in this house? All of the windows looked like they might as well have been sealed shut, and there weren't exactly a lot of doors that led to outside! Even trying to get one open would probably earn her something in Thomas' books, anyway!
Not that he was intending on letting her look around then. He just nodded towards her chair. The one marked with the little card that said "Mrs Jones", even though C.C. refused to recognise the name and title in her mind.
"Sit. But in the future, when we eat, you'll remain standing and not try to sit until I've been seated first."
C.C. only took in what he said because it made her think about how highly Thomas clearly regarded himself. How many people of no apparent status demanded that they be the first to sit, before everybody else at the table?
He thought himself some kind of medieval lord and master of the place, and clearly expected the same kind of treatment!
And would deal out the same kinds of punishments if he was crossed.
That little added thought was the only thing that kept C.C. from saying something, fearing what Thomas could have in store if she did, and she nodded again before taking a seat at the table.
She still refused to call it "her place".
No matter what he did or said, and no matter how many times he was obviously going to refer to her as his wife, C.C. knew it was something that she'd never be.
Thomas took the seat opposite, beaming triumphantly. This was clearly an image he'd had in his mind for a while - he'd probably made everything "just so", maybe right down to the food on the plates and the clothes C.C. had been made to wear...
That particular thought made her feel like she couldn't eat a single thing, and even if the urge was there, she wouldn't allow herself to down the wine. Thomas had already made her vulnerable enough by making her weak - she didn't want to add alcohol into that mix.
Not even when Thomas picked up his own glass in a ceremonial fashion.
"I consider today to be a success on my part," he told her, obviously making some sort of toast about himself. "I finally got you to a respectable standard. You're now an upgrade of what you were, and it's all thanks to my time and attention."
If everything that had happened was his idea of attention, then C.C. didn't want to know what his idea of neglect was.
But he wasn't finished, either, "So, here is to my hard work, in breaking you down to build you back up into the perfect woman. Your new role as my wife starts today."
He then held the glass there, and for a moment C.C. wondered what he was waiting for...
Until his expression started to shift from proud to irritated, glancing between her and the glass in his hand.
He was waiting for her to clink her glass against his, sealing the toast and "celebrating" with him...
Not that this felt like an occasion at all, in C.C.'s heart. Maybe a funeral, at a push...
But even a funeral had a sense of love and togetherness around it. Family and friends held one another in mourning and everyone present returned home to their beds, safe, at the end of it.
This...captivity, or whatever name could be given to this horror, held only fear on one side and the satisfaction of control on the other. No family or friends were around to comfort, and C.C. lived in fear of what would happen the next day every time she went to bed at night.
And she envied all the people she knew who weren't in pain, and who'd get up the next day and go about their lives.
Surviving didn't seem worth it, some days. But she kept on doing it anyway.
And there was only one way to survive this situation; she had to clink her glass against Thomas'.
She made it as neutral a gesture as she could; she didn't want him to get angry with her for being too reluctant but she didn't want him to think that she meant it, either.
Though why she bothered with that last point, she didn't know. Thomas didn't care if she meant something, as long as she obeyed.
And he was certainly happy once she'd done it. He took his own drink back and sipped it, before nodding towards the food.
"You may eat now. Do it quickly, but don't stuff yourself like a pig or I'll regret giving you this opportunity."
C.C. tried not to snarl at the bastard. Giving her this opportunity – that was a laugh! As if being fed was something to be thankful for…
Part of her wished she could simply reach for the knife and stick it right in his throat. She wished she could sit silently by his side, watching as the light left his cold, grey eyes. She wished she could make him feel even an ounce of the pain she'd had to bear throughout this hellish months.
But wishing and doing were two very different things, and she was well aware she did not have the strength to face him off. He'd made sure of that.
Challenging him wasn't brave – it was reckless. It was calling for a beating (or worse) when currently the monster's anger seemed to be dormant. She wasn't naïve; it would be roused sooner or later, but she'd rather put it off for as long as humanly possible. C.C. was nothing if an experienced strategist – her whole life had been a series of carefully planned battles; calculated risks where she would gamble away, always confident she'd win. That wasn't always the case, of course, but she knew when to stop. She was a pro at cutting her losses and stepping back when the situation called for her to do so.
Right then, the odds were stacked against her, and the slim chance at somehow escaping wasn't worth the risk.
Again, some might see her decision as cowardly, but those people simply didn't know how being in this position felt like – they'd never been abused to the extent she'd been. So she'd much rather curl up in a little ball and play the waiting game. Sooner or later, the moment would come for her to leave, but until that moment came around she'd have to sit tight and bite the proverbial bullet.
And today, that meant eating this meal while praying that he didn't do anything else to her that night.
Fat chance of that happening, knowing him, but she could always live in hope.
She made the meal last as long as possible without appearing to drag it out, just in case. But it was over all too soon anyway.
As soon as he noticed that she had finished, he reached into his pocket again. C.C. stiffened, not wanting any other little "gifts" from him that he could congratulate himself on and call himself generous for later.
But the thing he fished out was a long piece of paper.
"These are your chores and other wifely duties. I expect you to carry them out and to do them well. A man likes to have a well-run home," he said with the confidence that only delusion could bring.
He slid the thing across the table, and even as C.C. got closer to being able to read it in full, what she was seeing was making her organs shrivel up and sink inside.
Cooking...cleaning...two things she'd never done in her life and now she was suddenly expected to be able to do them well?! What would happen if she didn't?! She didn't exactly see Thomas telling her that it was alright and she could try again!
She wouldn't want to try again. She didn't want to do it or to have to be there in the first place...
The next point on the list told her that she always had to be "dolled up" when she was upstairs. "Always" was underlined so hard it nearly went through the paper, and it was followed by an angry-looking, hastily scrawled note about how Thomas would not stand to have an ugly, lazy bitch as a wife.
"Then let me go," C.C. thought mournfully to herself.
But even if in her head she was already dreading her so-called "duties", she knew what she had to do right then.
"Yes, sir," she said, nodding.
Thomas gave her a crooked smile – a smile that so often reminded her of a hungry crocodile. "Good. You can start now by cleaning the dishes. Afterwards, you and I are going upstairs to consummate the marriage."
Oh no.
That was what she'd been afraid of all along.
She hadn't been spared...the event...happening again. She'd only had it delayed in time to let him have something else that he wanted – a meal and her obedience.
She didn't want to go. She'd sooner drop dead if that was an option!
But, while her heart shattered over and over again, she kept being reminded that it wasn't an option. She had no other options, unless she wanted more violence and probably unimaginable pain for an even longer amount of time.
So, as she shakily and miserably gathered the plates and carried them precariously to the kitchen, C.C. knew that she was going to take as long as possible cleaning the dishes until they gleamed.
Not just because she'd never done it by hand and needed to learn how fast, but to delay the...the thing for a few minutes longer.
And only when she was alone, while Thomas sat there in the other room waiting to consummate a marriage that didn't exist, would she allow herself to cry.