Chapter 15
"The Twilight of Hope"
The night hadn't exactly been how he'd imagined spending his birthday. Then again, it never was. Since coming to America, he'd never been able to celebrate his birthday how he wanted. That was already a given, and it was something he knew Mr Sheffield wasn't about to change.
It was just the curse of having a birthday on a day marked by a holiday or celebration. Hallowe'en, for instance, when one's employer always insisted on throwing lavish costume parties.
A lavish costume party, that he always had to be on hand to serve, and tend to the bar, and generally see that every guest's needs were catered to.
There had been but one saving grace that year, and it kept him from completely wallowing in his own misery; Miss Babcock, dressed as a witch (in "the colours of her coven", he'd remarked as she'd stormed through the door and disappeared upstairs) had been dumped by her date before either of them had set foot in the house.
And that had presented Niles with an unforeseen (and very much open, considering Maxwell was too busy schmoozing backers to notice he'd left his post) opportunity to get what fun he could on his one special day of the year. He'd grabbed a bottle of wine and some glasses as he'd gone AWOL, and eventually he'd found the producer – sat out on the terrace, her arms folded moodily across her chest and clearly fuming at all mankind.
Perfect. If he could get her to cheer up any, and engage in a few tossed insults, it might make the night more bearable. And he knew just what he wanted to say to get the whole thing started off and announce his presence.
"I heard that somebody out here was in need of her daily ration of virgin blood, but I didn't have any so I thought this Chianti might appeal to the Hannibal Lecter in you instead."
Miss Babcock jumped at the sudden intrusion, looked up at him and frowned. That was a long way from the answer he'd been expecting from her. She really had to be upset for her to willingly decline participating in their usual wordplay.
Time to change his strategy.
"Cat got your tongue?" he teased lightly, coming to sit next to her and offering her one of the empty cups, which she moodily took.
"I'm really not in the mood, Brillo Pad," she grumbled, holding out her cup for Niles to fill. "So if you could try to be a little less of an ass than you usually are, I'd appreciate it."
This time it was Niles who frowned. He wasn't trying to get a rise out of her (not more than usual, in any case), but this was how they communicated. It was their thing. He supposed this was one of those rare occasions when they had to stop their game for a little while, and listen.
Strange occurrence indeed, but sometimes necessary.
"Gee, Babcock, what's got your panties in a knot?" he said, pouring a generous amount of wine into her cup.
She stuck him with a look that would've made most men shrink where they stood.
"Don't pretend like you don't already know what, Dust Buster," she snapped, pulling the glass closer as soon as he was finished with filling it. "My date decided that there were places he would rather be tonight, than attending this party or even call himself my date!"
Niles tried not to flinch back too much at her tone of voice and pulled up his own chair, pouring a second glass of wine. He was intending that one to be his, but he thought that he might have to grip it tightly in case Miss Babcock was still depressed and insisted on another glass before he could pour one out.
"Perhaps it wasn't like that?" he suggested. Getting her to calm down certainly seemed to be the best place to start. "Maybe there was some work thing that he had to take care of?"
Miss Babcock snorted out a sardonic laugh. Yeah, right. Work. On Halloween. No, that idiot didn't have anything to do, he simply hadn't wanted to spend time with her and had seen fit to inform her that he wouldn't be coming only two hours before it was time for them to go to the mansion.
He was an asshole, that was all, and she'd been left to pick up the pieces.
"Yeah, right," she scoffed, taking a mouthful of wine, "Work...on fucking Halloween. Spare me, Niles, we both know he dumped me."
Her words were followed by silence and C.C. downing her wine in one, bitter go. She was getting tired of being stood up by her useless dates. She'd much rather have no date at all than expect a man that in the end wasn't going to come.
She was honestly starting to consider going without men entirely.
"Men are scum," she spat, holding out her cup for Niles to refill it.
Niles listened to the complaint, both perhaps agreeing with her more than a little and also a little insulted because he knew that he would be lumped together with homework (to his dismay) in order to make a point.
He took the bottle and poured another glass. He was considering making it a smaller glass than the last time, but he sensed that she'd have a sixth sense about that kind of thing and that he'd end up in trouble if she found out that he'd tried to deny her alcohol. He also knew that he'd probably be in trouble if he tried to deflect her comment, or insist that not all men were as bad as she was suggesting.
But what else could he say? He wanted her to engage properly, and she already knew that he was up for playing devil's advocate (he'd been trying to soften the blow before; he understood where she was coming from about this guy's behaviour).
So, he swallowed, then took a small sip of his wine, and went for it.
"Surely you can't believe that about every man that you meet?"
She glared up at him for a few seconds, before bringing the wine that she'd been nursing directly under her lips back to the table. Somehow, she managed to do it sharply but without spilling a single drop.
Niles didn't think it would be wise to mention then how much it looked like she'd been practicing that moment all her life.
Instead, he let her answer.
"You know what? Maybe once, in the past, there was a time that I might've not believed it about all men," she said bitterly. "But now I know better. The ones that aren't interested, are playing the field before they pick one from their harem, and the ones that are interested only want something out of it, and the minute you make the decision to either give it up or wait a while, they go somewhere else. They don't care – all they think about is how big and masculine getting all the girls looks. Hence my earlier statement; men are scum."
She punctuated that by taking another drink from her glass, staring daggers off into the distance. Probably at images in her head of all the men who'd ever treated her badly.
Niles had a feeling his name was among them, too.
He didn't want to take it personal. Not when it was easy to see her diatribe had come from anger at having been dumped by a lump of a man, but deep down he had already admitted to himself he'd done more than enough to prove Miss Babcock right.
In his own way, he'd had his fun with her too. Even if he probably wasn't half as bad as the average specimen of self-absorbed, narcissistic imbecile she was known to date, he had still done his fair share of damage. He just happened to be the poor idiot who'd been set up as the fall guy for other men's misdeeds.
Talk about rotten luck…
He'd essentially not so much as walked but rather sauntered into the lion's den, waking it up and managing to gain its full, irate attention. One wrong move and it would be carnage. Make the right move and he'd be praised as the most skilled lion tamer in the entire bloody world.
Niles was afraid of very little, but even he was sensible enough to know that a scorned Miss Babcock was not someone you wanted to be around. He was almost certain that he didn't want to be right in front of her then. But he still wanted to take the risk anyway.
Even if nobody else would, he was sure that the family would find him and realise just what a brave, lion-taming soul their butler had been before his untimely departure. So, he took in a breath (trying to absorb some alcoholic courage through the scent of his wine as he did), and started speaking again.
He was going to ignore the fact that that was most likely a dangerous move, considering the silence was thick with tension already.
"I think you might be...overstating it a little, when you say that all men are scum..."
A scoff followed his words. A scoff and more unsettling silence. A silent Miss Babcock was a rare occurrence, but it never bode well for him when she was. Usually, her silence was a natural consequence of either one of his pranks going too far, or a failed business deal. He'd seen plenty of those throughout the many years they'd worked together, but he'd never witnessed any of her silences being laced with such anger before.
As surprising as it was, it was quickly dawning on Niles that this was the very first time in well over a decade that he'd seen Miss Babcock hurting. Really hurting. She was, to put it mildly, a…peculiar person. He knew she was a formidable woman, capable of eating the word for breakfast without getting a single hair out of place – that was the image of herself that Miss Babcock wanted to show to everybody else. It was not smoke and mirrors, either. She really was one hell of a tough bitch, and getting under her skin was no easy task…
But the moment something did hurt her, she became almost like a tortoise – she retreated, hid within her hard shell, and pushed everyone else away. She couldn't stand being vulnerable, so more often than not, her sadness disguised itself as anger. Niles didn't know what his next move should be after that. If words had followed her scoff, then he might've felt on more comfortable ground, but for him to be faced with silence and actual, angry hurt...
He didn't know if he'd be stepping on thin ice if he continued.
Well, he was probably already treading on it anyway. It was probably better said that he didn't know if it would all start to crack and come apart if he continued. He didn't like not knowing, either – he and Miss Babcock both truly knew that they knew each other better than anybody else, and any time he was faced with a situation that suggested something he didn't know about her, or he went too far when he thought he was still within boundaries, sent his stomach turning itself straight into tight knots that didn't come undone again, sometimes for days.
That was why it was such a gamble when he decided to keep going. How could he not, when he'd already come this far and had already accepted his imminent demise if Miss Babcock took anything badly or personally?
He had to do it. He'd sat with her to do something about how she was feeling, and he couldn't just stop simply because he was feeling a little bit uncomfortable.
"I can assure you that it's the truth, Miss Babcock. Not every man you meet is going to set out simply to use you for his own gains."
Miss Babcock still said nothing. Briefly, Niles wondered if she was even listening to him – she seemed too preoccupied with the last little sip of wine nestled at the bottom of her glass. She was twirling the stem between her fingers, eyes on the remaining liquid and mind seemingly elsewhere.
He didn't want to say it, but it bothered him. The fact that he was virtually being ignored bothered him more than he dared to admit. He hadn't been expecting her to pour her heart out to him, but at least she could have the decency to look at him, couldn't she?
Still, he was very much aware he did not have a leg to stand on when it came to mutual respect. And yet, part of him (call it habit or routine) wanted to poke the proverbial sleeping bear with a stick. He was aware it could end horribly, but he just couldn't help himself. It was a dynamic deeply ingrained in his system – they were like cat and dog, constantly going after each other. It was their thing. Their way of communicating and relating to one another.
Right?
Well, he'd tested the waters and it had clearly done something. But the reaction hadn't been as bad as he'd been expecting...
Perhaps even the crying was a good thing? There was a chance it was simply her body reacting to being told the truth that she kept wanting to deny! Maybe he could try probing a little further, and see where that led him?
"There is more than one type of person in the world, you know," he said.
Again, Miss Babcock was silent. Niles took that as a good sign – if she'd snapped then, he'd definitely have taken things too far. But he had to have been on safe ground. The producer didn't like being told that she was wrong, but the fact that she hadn't had an outburst over him telling her that she was made everything seem just that little bit safer...
"Most people out there aren't the manipulative creeps that you seem to suggest every man–"
"Shut the fuck up, Niles!"
The shouted snap came so suddenly that the butler nearly jolted out of his seat, some of his wine lapping out over the rim of his glass as it swayed. And Miss Babcock's glare made him wish that he'd fallen on the floor and had just crawled away.
He'd been wrong to poke the bear. He'd been wrong to think that she hadn't minded what he'd just said...
"You don't know men like I do," she said. "I've seen too many of them, been charmed and used and humiliated by all of them, and while they get to go off to their next little piece on the side, basking in the thought that they're God's gift to women, I get to sit here and be told that I'm clearly just not looking hard enough because I obviously only go for the douchebags!"
Niles felt a pang of hurt at that, and it forced him to speak up.
"That isn't true!" he cried out. "You can't know what a person is fully like all of the time, and I'm not suggesting that you don't know the men you've met better than I do! What I'm saying is that there are billions of people out there, Miss Babcock! Can you be completely sure that all of them are going to be awful to you, all of the time?"
It was enough to stop her from shouting back, but the producer still looked like she might huff or snort in contempt.
"Odds are already on my side in that regard," she said bitterly. "And I'm not expecting them to change."
With that said, she pushed out her chair and tried to march away from the table. Tried to, because Niles had felt his stomach drop as she'd walked past and had automatically reached out to grab her hand and hold her there, shouting out as he did.
"Miss Babcock, wait!"
The producer's eyes widened at their current position, but before she could obviously demand to know what the hell he thought he was doing, he spoke before she could.
She needed to understand. She couldn't keep on going thinking that every man on Earth was just out there for himself, and would offer her nothing. Especially when the exact opposite was talking to her right then and there.
"You have...clearly been hurt a lot, but not everybody out there is going to continue that hurt."
He hoped all of that might get her to stop and at least consider what he was saying. He hoped it might get her to stay, and to not try and snatch her hand back from his. But he held his breath while he waited for her to speak, or to do something, all the same.
When her reply eventually came, it was not exactly what he wanted (she did yank her hand away from his), but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Knowing her, she could very well have told him to stick his empty comforting words where the sun don't shine and then stormed off, probably towards the exit. She could have delivered a hard, swift slap to boot, but somehow fate had seemed fit to smile his way and keep the producer from blowing up at him.
All in all, he had to count his blessings…
"Funny that you say that," she grumbled at him, fixing him with an icy look, "The one man who practically lives to make me miserable, taking one for the team and pathetically attempting to redeem his sex."
Almost as if to punctuate her vitriolic statement (or, perhaps, becauseof it) she swooped a hand down and clutched at the half-empty bottle of fine wine they'd both been drinking from. She downed the remaining liquid in a few big gulps before setting it back down on the coffee table, the bottle making a dangerous plinking sound as the glass impacted against the cold metal of the coffee table.
"You are a real treat, Niles-y buddy," she cooed maliciously.
Niles couldn't help wincing at that. As comments by itself went, it was...bizarre, but not out of bounds for someone who'd had as much alcohol as she had. But as observations based on their conversation went, it was, perhaps, the sharpest thing anybody could possibly have said to him in that moment.
He was a "real treat", as she'd put it. He hadn't had the right to even try getting her to change her mind about things which didn't concern him, and yet what had he insisted on doing?
He'd called it "poking the bear". The name even made it sound like it was deliberate! And, maybe at first it had been, because he hadn't been able to stand her ignoring him, but that had changed when he'd seen just how upset it was all making her. Just when he'd realised how much she was hurting, and how much he really and truly wasn't helping.
Usually all of his comments were meant to poke fun. But today, of all days, with that last comment that he'd made, he'd switched it around and hoped to try and comfort.
Some attempt. Some birthday...!
He hated his birthday, he'd grown to hate it ever since coming to America, but this one took the cake for the worst birthday in the history of ever. Usually, it was his boss' insistence on throwing lavish Halloween parties that took weeks to plan, days to prepare and, more importantly, turned a day that was supposed to be joyful and relaxed into a candy-fuelled pain in the ass, what ruined everything, but not this time.
The only beacon of joy was the considerably hefty cheque he'd get at the end of the month – however thoughtless Mr Sheffield might have been, he was a generous employer, and October meant a doubled salary plus a birthday bonus.
Miss Babcock would always tease him about it when she gave him his cheque – being Mr Sheffield's business-partner-slash-financial-assistant, she was the one who doled out the wages at the end of the month. He couldn't see that happening now. At best, she'd hand the thing over to him without so much as a word. The silence would not be golden, but at least she would be there and giving him his money. He'd take that blow and hope that maybe it meant that things would go back to normal at some stage. At worst, she'd either not give him the cheque in some fashion, or make Maxwell hand out the money.
Niles didn't know which was worse – not getting the little money he normally received, or Miss Babcock refusing to have anything to do with him.
On one hand, he'd have to delve into his limited savings just to pay for things for the rest of the month, but on the other...well, he'd be met with a stony silence each morning that might never go away.
It was hell. And it was knotting up his stomach just thinking about either scenario.
"Screw you," she spat, giving one last poisonous glare in his direction, "And screw this stupid party – I'm going home."
With that, she turned on her heels and staggered back into the office, occasionally cursing under her breath when she bumped into things and finally leaving Niles alone.
The visual was pathetic – anyone who'd seen it would have called it so. There he was, a defeated and humiliated man, watching his heart's desire – the one desire he couldn't bring himself to admit – stumble away.
October the 31st had rolled in sooner than Niles would have liked. Usually, the godforsaken holiday would mean that he'd be rushing around, going over every last little detail to ensure Mr Sheffield's annual Halloween party was an absolute success. Baking, cooking, cleaning, polishing cutlery, those were his usual birthday activities.
Activities that, given the situation, had been swiftly cancelled.
No one was in the mood to celebrate when C.C. was still missing.
So, perhaps for the first time in almost twenty years, he'd been given the day off. He had asked everyone in the family not to plan any sort of celebration or even to congratulate him – he wanted to be alone, and as such he'd left the house early in the morning.
He'd spent the day walking around the city, stopping from time to time to have coffee or nibble on a treat bought from a street vendor. Central Park had been his final destination, and for the past two hours he'd been sitting on one of the benches in front of the Alice In Wonderland Statue, thinking about his last birthday and how different it had been to his current one.
Last year, he'd believed his birthday had been a bitter travesty – probably the worst birthday he'd ever experienced.
He'd been wrong.
This birthday took the cake for the worst birthday in history. The worst, most painful birthday in history. He'd behaved like a pig towards Miss Babcock on many an occasion, his last birthday being yet another example of how much of a shitbag he could be, if he so chose. And, even if Stewart had repeated time and time again that he was not to blame for Miss Babcock's disappearance, on days like this he simply couldn't believe it.
He wouldn't believe it.
Last year, his behaviour had cost him the opportunity of comforting (and, perhaps, bonding with) Miss Babcock. This year, his behaviour might have cost the woman her very life.
He really was the worst person alive, wasn't he?
Letting out a sigh, he crushed the little paper bag that had held one of his food purchases not long before. It was about as much as he felt like gifting himself anything this year – he wouldn't even have a cake. Usually, either the Sheffields or Miss Fine would buy him a small one, or if he had the ingredients to hand and the time, he might consider making one himself.
Now all he could think about was how he'd created the biggest mess imaginable. The kind that saw people hurt, when they didn't deserve it...
He dropped his eyes away from where they'd been boring holes into the statue and let out another sigh. It was almost as though he was hoping the heaviness in his chest would lift if he kept trying to breathe it out. Not that it would. The heaviness was sorrowful guilt, and he knew that he would carry it for the rest of his long, lonely days.
They deserved to be long and lonely, for all that he'd done.
Last year's had been a horrible birthday, but at least Miss Babcock had been at home – she'd been angry and disappointed, but home at least. He had no idea what she was going through right then, and his mind kept coming up with the most terrible images and ideas of what was being done to her.
At first, he'd tried to keep himself from going down that dark rabbit hole, but it had become impossible to keep those thoughts at bay. He was trapped in his own real-life nightmare, envisioning Miss Babcock being hurt over and over again in his mind's eye.
It followed him everywhere he went, even after he'd stopped looking at the statue to try and switch the focus. He supposed that was the main component of the curse he was fated to bear for the rest of his days – perhaps it could count as an unwarranted but expected birthday gift? He knew for certain that he'd always wear it and bear it, even if he wasn't grateful to receive it.
He'd trade every birthday gift he'd ever gotten, just to see Miss Babcock back where she belonged...
But at this stage, he didn't know if that would ever happen. He could live in hope, of course, but what if all that hoping had truly come down to nothing?
The further away they got, the less chance it had. And Niles could feel his heart start to shatter into pieces so small they could either form a small beach or blow away on the wind. He wished that he could blow away on the wind, too, but it would be too difficult for him to achieve, especially whilst feeling so caught up in his own crushing guilt...
It was all he could do to get off the streets, back to somewhere he could truly be alone and didn't feel like being surrounded by people. The rest of the day was still his, but he knew he had to crawl into bed and wait it out when he got to the mansion.
Sooner or later, it would no longer be the worst birthday he'd ever had.
Smooth jazz notes were flowing out of the CD player and swirling around the small cellar, seamlessly melting into the air. The deep sound of the sax echoed in the small room, deep as an old soul and sweet as honeysuckle, and the trumpet sang its nostalgic tune along it, as did the piano and the clarinet. If you had closed your eyes, there in the darkness, you would have felt the world fading away around you; only the music existed. It was the air to be breathed, the ground to stand on – it was everything.
That was, perhaps, why C.C. found such pleasure in it. It helped her escape the bleak, unforgiving reality she was in.
Throughout her five months in captivity, her cellar had become (paradoxically enough) her sanctuary. She'd made it her own with the little things her captor had given her over the months, and she was fastidious about keeping it impeccable. She was, more often than not, alone within those four walls, and being alone was a luxury she had learnt to appreciate in her current situation.
Nowadays she was forced to spend a lot of her time upstairs, alongside her captor. She'd do chores around the house, cook his meals or…
…or warm his bed.
The mere thought was always enough to send a shiver running down her spine.
He hadn't lied when he'd told her she was to behave as his "wife" (or, his backward and misogynistic idea of how a wife should be like, at any rate). He'd been true to his word, and expected her to act as the archetypal homemaker, something she'd initially failed miserably at. She'd grown up without having to bother herself with menial house chores, so suddenly having to perform them all to perfection hadn't exactly worked out. This had, unsurprisingly, gotten her beaten up and starved practically daily, but she'd slowly started getting better at it, which in turn served to quell Thomas' fury for brief intervals of time.
They were never long, but since learning to keep the home and cook, her life had…well…she wouldn't say gotten better, but it certainly wasn't as crappy anymore. It had been well over a week since her last beating, and he'd even congratulated her on her progress, gifting her a few Jazz CD's by way of reward for her improved behaviour.
It wasn't ideal, but it was the best she could do.
He'd never leave her alone when she was upstairs (lest she should try to escape), so all her chores were done under his watchful eye. As of late, however, he'd started to let her move to nearby rooms without him following behind, which was, in some regard, a step forward. She could hardly stand having him breathing down her neck at all times as it was. She remembered that the first time he'd allowed her some freedom upstairs was when he'd asked her to go get his mail. At the time, he'd been in the living room, sprawled on the sofa as he snacked on one of her homemade cakes and watched a football match. She'd expected him to follow her, but when he hadn't it had surprised her greatly.
Still, she hadn't been naïve – everything Thomas did, served a purpose, and she'd been certain he was testing her. Seeing if he could loosen up the leash a little. C.C. hadn't been about to waste the opportunity, so she'd quickly scampered to the foyer and retrieved the small pile of letters that had been pushed through the door's mail slot. They had been a few bills, a few leaflets advertising some thing or another, and a postcard from Thomas' sister – she'd been in Paris, apparently.
It was thanks to this very postcard that C.C. had realised that Thomas had actually taken her out of the state. The address scribbled on the "addressee" slot was in New Jersey. In a very exclusive part of New Jersey, mind you. She'd been thoroughly surprised by the evident wealth Thomas possessed, but in no way that had changed her opinion on him or had caused her desire to flee to waver.
Still, she'd had to force herself not to scream at the realisation that she'd been taken all the way across the Hudson River!
She'd been terrified at the thought of the police giving up any search conducted outside New York, once they'd finished making individual inquiries. But to stop her from being completely crushed, the voice had reminded her that the police would've passed all details on to neighbouring states, and that just because one search had happened to turn up nothing, it didn't automatically rule Thomas out.
It was a thought that still kept her going, even right that minute as she "dolled herself up", as her captor put it.
He wanted it to be a "special occasion" (those words now sent a wave of nausea through C.C. every time), considering it was Halloween, so he'd ordered takeout food and had allowed her to take a bath (again, there was nausea, mixed with fear and trepidation). Now, he was most likely waiting for her to finish getting her hair, heels, makeup and dress ready, so that she looked "presentable" in his eyes when she went upstairs.
She was having to wear Thomas' favourite outfit of hers. A light blue dress with a pleated skirt, a button-up front that matched the white collar and turned-over sleeves. She also had to style her hair back, and slip on a pair of matching heels as well. C.C. saw the thinness of her cheeks and bitterly thought that "undead 1950s housewife" was probably a perfect niche costume for the night.
Not that they were going anywhere – he knew damn well that she'd make a break for it if possible, and even if she didn't, there was a chance that she'd be recognised. So, they were to have dinner inside, with a bowl of candy left outside as far away from the house as Thomas could make it so that trick-or-treaters didn't even try knocking, and he had insisted that they watch a horror movie that night.
C.C. had thought about suggesting The Stepford Wives, but the voice had replied that the irony would be lost on someone like Thomas.
The bastard probably wanted something with a lot of jumpy scenes to it. Something that had things leaping out at every turn, with no telling when or where it would happen. Something so scary, his twisted mind was probably telling him, that it would make her practically leap right up and into his arms, so that he got to be the strong, in-control one, and she was the helpless little woman, who couldn't live without her man or the safety he provided.
He wanted her to feel hopelessly small, and like she'd be nothing without him.
He wanted her to need him, and that was the last thing C.C. would ever do on this Earth.
She had to tolerate him to survive, but she would never run to him for help. He would never be the first person in her thoughts if she ever wondered about how to solve a problem, or get out of a situation. He wasn't the voice in her head, guiding her to make good (or, at least, right) decisions.
No, he was a bully and an abuser. One that she had to keep happy and content if she wanted to live another crappy day.
With a sigh, C.C. gave herself one last look in the "mirror" (which actually was a polished metal slate that had been screwed to the wall – clearly, he didn't want her to be in the vicinity of anything sharp, like glass) and finally deemed herself ready. She only needed to apply some lipstick on and that would be it.
She hadn't been told what colour to use, but she knew he'd be expecting her to use the red one. He always did. The only time she'd chosen to use pink instead of red, she'd been beaten up, and she was not looking for a repeat experience.
Carefully, while enjoying the last track of her Jazz CD, she applied the lipstick, making sure that not even the slightest bit of the red material got past the edge of her lips. Once it was on, she puckered her lips a few times to properly smear the lipstick and then put some perfume on.
It sickened her to have to do this, but what other option did she have? It was this, or being beaten up. And frankly, she'd gotten sick of being in pain. She had enough bruises as it was to keep adding more to the collection.
None of it had killed her yet, and she'd be lying if she said she'd never once wished it would, but now she was choosing to simply do as much as possible to keep it from happening in the first place.
It would result in a much happier ending for her.
Although, not immediately, as she heard the trapdoor unlocking and the ladder scraping a little on the floor as it was lowered into the cellar.
"Time's up!" Thomas yelled down into the hole, before he started to make his way down.
He'd probably been hoping to make an entrance that would startle her, or make her afraid because she'd been running out of time to get ready, just to remind her "who was in charge" around there. But because C.C. had just stopped on time, she wasn't as worried as she would've been as if she hadn't been finished. She'd have gotten a beating for it, for certain. And probably starved for a couple of days, for "rudeness by being late" and "ruining the evening", but she wasn't about to add to her last beating tonight.
Seeing the surprised expression on his face gave her a somewhat sick sense of accomplishment – like she'd taken the excuse to beat her away from him. Part of her was faintly aware that she should not be happy about being compliant, but at the same time it made her feel as if she had some control.
To an outsider it might have been a little confusing, but not being beaten because she'd behaved was, in a way, having the upper hand. He loved to beat her; it was probably his second favourite thing to do to her (the first being…well… doing the thing), so taking it away from him was infinitely satisfying.
Either way, she was still treading on eggshells. It took little to nothing for Thomas' temper to flare, so she couldn't get too confident. Not when a predator was around.
She was certainly feeling like prey, as it was – Thomas was circling her, eyes scrutinising and taking in every inch of her appearance, almost as if he were judging what he'd probably deem a creation of his. She stayed still as he did so, praying to God that he found nothing to be angry about, and at the same time wishing she could just strike him across the face.
He'd more than deserve it, and it would feel so satisfying to cause him even an ounce of the pain that he'd caused her...
But she'd be as good as dead if she even tried. She doubted he'd actually go so far as to kill her (cleaning up afterwards and finding another victim he could get down there would be too much trouble), but she didn't want to test his limits. But the beating she'd get would probably be worse than any she'd had before, and she might end up with broken bones again.
And if she didn't want bruises, then she really didn't want those, either...
It felt like forever before Thomas finally let out a quiet hmph, like he was sourly conceding something that he hadn't wanted to admit.
"Not bad, I suppose," he said with a hint of insulting sharpness, probably fully aware that there wasn't actually a thing out of place but hating the thought of praising her. "Now, we will go upstairs. Tonight's dinner is in its containers in the kitchen. You will serve these on the good plates from the cupboard. Don't get the wrong ones."
Of course she'd serve the food on the good plates. She didn't need him to say so again. He'd already drilled it into her by way of beating her over and over again whenever she'd gotten the wrong plates back when she'd just started doing chores for him.
Not that she'd dare to say that to him. Instead, she nodded politely at his words. She had to keep her head down and bite the proverbial bullet. She had to do whatever it took to survive.
With a grunt, Thomas roughly pushed her towards the stairs – it was his charming Neanderthal-like way of letting her know that she had to get moving. In his eyes, she was not even deserving of words; she was just like a dog on a leash. But it didn't hurt anymore. She'd gotten used to being treated as an animal or an object. It didn't really matter to her, either. Not when there were much deeper (and still open) wounds that he'd caused.
The road up wasn't easy, given that crawling and wearing a dress didn't exactly go hand in hand (not to mention Thomas' near-constant pushing from behind her), but eventually both she and her captor had crawled through the hidden door in the fireplace and into the basement. She wasn't surprised when she found it prepared for the evening – Thomas was nothing if not meticulous when it came to occasions he deemed "important" or "note-worthy".
He'd actually "set the table", and by that she meant that he'd set up a TV tray for each of them, atop of which were a place mat, a knife (plastic for her, obviously) and a fork, and a glass. There also were a big, fluffy blanket and two pillows on top of the sofa, and a huge bowl full of candy lay on the small coffee table directly ahead of the sofa.
Wonderful. He really – and clearly, at that – expected the evening to go as though she was there of her own free will, when just seeing the blanket he was obviously intending to share with her made her want to run for the hills.
And she wasn't going to touch that candy. At least, not before he did. And if he told her to eat anything specific that he hadn't already, then she'd just have to find some way of fake-eating it that meant she could spit it out when he wasn't looking.
She'd have to be careful about that, though. If he even suspected that she was doing that, it'd probably earn her yet another beating...
She knew it should be raising alarm bells in her head just how many things got her beaten up. An outsider looking in, who didn't have to just buckle down and put up with it, would have them all going off in their head, too.
But it was just another part of C.C.'s continued fight for existence.
"Get the food," Thomas told her, slapping her hard on the behind as he went to go lounge on the sofa. "I want dinner and I want it to be hot."
C.C. flinched at the contact, not caring about any physical mark it might have left but feeling what had been done to her linger on her skin and crawl deep inside, until it instilled itself as a sort of a flesh memory.
She knew now that she'd feel that again, whenever that memory chose to appear, and there'd be nothing that she could do about it. Just like Thomas slapping her in the first place, as though he thought her a well-aged, prime haunch of meat, or beating her whenever she did anything to prove that she was not the delusion he had going on in his head.
But, as always, she was just going to put her head down and keep going. In this case, that was partly literal, as she ducked her head so as not to look at Thomas reclining there like a decadent Roman emperor, as she scurried away to the kitchen. The food was in the exact same spot that he would always leave it, whenever he left takeout to be unpacked. It was...almost like it was designated to go precisely half a foot away from the hob of the range cooker, on the counter to the left, all boxes stacked and turned so they were wider than they were tall.
The plates were where they always were, too. She had no chance of getting it wrong that time.
Almost on autopilot, she piled the Chinese take out on their plates (a full plate for him and only half for her, as per what he'd always instruct), retrieved a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from his wine cellar and then took their meal back to the basement, remembering to bring a corkscrew along, too.
Thomas was already under the covers by the time she came back, and the movie was already on. He'd chosen Stephen King's "IT". She didn't really pay much attention to it as she lowered the plates on their corresponding TV trays — she'd never liked horror movies to begin with.
She then handed the wine and the corkscrew to Thomas, who proceeded to uncork it and then poured two generous glasses of wine for them.
"Bring both trays over," he demanded, taking a swig of wine, "You are sitting next to me and you'd better cuddle up, if you know what's good for you — oh, and by the way, loosen the shirt. I want to see some cleavage."
It took C.C. all her willpower to not throw up right then and there into the food. His demands often got lewd and disgusting, but she still hated hearing each one as much as the last. They physically repulsed her, knowing that he got gratification from something she neither wanted nor consented to.
This was duress. She knew she'd be beaten senseless if she didn't obey, so she had no choice...
As much as she hated the thought of drinking too much wine around Thomas, one glass might take a little bit of the edge off, in this case...
So, before she even attempted to sit down, she knew what she had to do. As much as it made her want to weep to have to do it, she undid the first few buttons on the top of her dress, parting it as much as she could get away with.
And Thomas of course basically drank in the sight with his eyes as she sat down, "cuddling up", just like she'd been told to.
"Good girl," he said it as though he were talking to a dog he was fond of, and he put his arm around her, pulling her roughly against him. "Now, eat and watch the movie. But don't chew loudly – I want to be able to hear it and enjoy it without your disgusting sounds distracting me."
She almost replied that, if he didn't want to hear her, then perhaps he should lock her back up and enjoy the movie by himself, but she knew better. Being a smart mouth wouldn't get her anywhere.
She had to focus on eating. She didn't know when she'd eat again, so stuffing herself full had to be her priority. She could only hope filling her stomach would distract her from Thomas' slimy hand creeping into her cleavage and settling on her breast. It wasn't easy, considering she was wearing no bra and that this was his sick way of establishing dominance, but she eventually found it in her to slowly lift forkful after forkful of rice to her mouth.
"Have you seen this movie before?" he suddenly asked her, roughly squeezing her breast in an attempt at both getting her attention and making her jump.
C.C. had to suppress a small cry — if he thought for a moment she was "denying" his touch or "rejecting" it, things could get ugly real fast.
"No," she eventually choked out, "I haven't."
Thomas picked up on her discomfort, and he found it incredibly amusing. That's why he squeezed her breast again, being as rough as he could be and digging his nails into her flesh.
"Oh, good," he grinned horribly. "Then you're a virgin and this'll be your first time...!"
Everything about those words made C.C. want to rip his hand out of her dress (and just physically off his wrist, for good measure). His hand gripped tight over her breast, practically crushing it in his hand, his nails sharp against her skin, and it made her want to cry out so he'd stop, but knew that if she made a sound in that regard he'd just do it more...
She couldn't even fight back a little bit, if she wanted to remain unhurt. Mostly. She was praying to God he'd let go of her breast so she could move it up to "entirely"...
She didn't exactly want to reply to his comment, either, but she knew she had to in some form. He'd take it as her being rude and not speaking when she was spoken to if she didn't...
"Tact, Babcock," the voice encouraged in her head. "Come on; think. You can solve this, and find a way around it..."
It was hard to think much with Thomas still rummaging around in there like he owned her, but she knew the voice was right. She could come up with something that meant she didn't have to answer the awful thing Thomas had said.
Anything was better than getting a beating.
"I'm not really into horror movies," she said carefully. "But Halloween is the time of year for them..."
"Damn right," Thomas said, feeling a sense of pride beginning to take hold of him. He knew she was uncomfortable, he was purposefully making her uncomfortable, and yet his bitch stayed in place, letting him do with her as he pleased.
This was exactly what he'd been after, and he owed his success to his own genius self.
She had understood her place at last. Now the uphill battle was over, and if she was smart enough and continued to behave, she'd soon be the happiest she'd ever been. The one thing his wife had needed, was a good man to guide her and shape her into a better version of herself. He was and would always be that man.
He'd won.
So, perhaps, considering the fact that she was behaving as she should, he could both give her some respite and, at long last, share both his story and the reasoning behind his relentless dedication to disciplining her. After all, a wife deserves to know her husband, doesn't she? He knew everything there was to know about her; it was time they got even.
Besides, he couldn't help but talk about himself whenever presented with an opportunity. Why wouldn't he? Anybody could see that he had it completely made – a comfortable house, an easy job, more money than he knew what to do with, and now he also had a wife who saw to his every whim.
He should be the envy of every man. And any man with any sense should want to listen to him, to hear what he had to say. And the movie was the perfect way to bring it up. Not that he needed an excuse.
"I really do see where these kids are coming from," he announced loudly, without taking his eyes off the screen. "I was born in a little town in Maine as well - just as dull and boring as Derry."
He only checked briefly to make sure he had her attention, but he was pleased when he noticed her eyes were on him.
He continued, proud as a peacock, "I was born in 1952. Not a lot to do in small-town Maine in those days and we didn't have a lot. My real dad's last name was Russel; he drank most of what we did have. Nearly got the better of me, too, when I was about six. Not much in the way of CPS back then. But I got taken out after one too many trips to the ER."
C.C. blinked at his words. Taken out? Did that mean taken out of the house...?
She nearly hit herself for being stupid. Of course it did – he'd said his dad's last name was Russel! He'd obviously been adopted out of state!
He'd come from a horrible place, too...and C.C. really didn't know how to feel about that. Well, apart from maybe thinking that someone really did know what they were saying when coming up with the phrase "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree".
He'd grown into an abuser, just like the man who'd put a six year old in the hospital. She couldn't say what his adoptive parents were like, but adopting and apparently giving him a new, wealthy lifestyle (family money was the only way a theatre production assistant could afford all this) had clearly done nothing.
Done nothing, apart from make him into a spoiled, immature, arrogant nightmare, who only really loved himself and was deluding himself into thinking he had the life he deserved. Not that she tried to speak – as if Thomas would've even listened. He was too busy letting the corners of his mouth twitch up, thinking about how far he'd come and how he'd made it all happen.
"I'm just like this Loser club. I wasn't liked, and I saw horror. But now, I'm a success. And nobody can take that away from me."
Almost as if to stress what he'd said, he wrapped both his arms around C.C. and pulled her frail body onto his lap, almost as if she were a ragdoll. She tried not to flinch or show any discomfort, but being in his "embrace" only made her want to scream. To him she was just a possession, something he'd gotten and was determined to never let go.
He genuinely believed he owned her – he genuinely thought that he deserved having her as he did.
The notion would have made her cry, had she been on her own, but again, with Thomas around it was always best to keep her feelings to herself. Still, the knowledge of what he'd gone through and the view he had of himself only confirmed her worst suspicions – he was an outstandingly disturbed man, and he would not let her go. Not alive, at least.
She was some God-given reward. A retribution for his own fucked up childhood. She was not a person and would never be one, in his eyes. Her desires, her dreams, her opinions… none of those mattered to him. She was his toy, and that was that.
This realisation came as his filthy hands moved to rip open her dress.
"Now you're gonna do your trick to give me my treat!" he said, pushing back both of their trays and rolling them over so he was on top.
And as the awful, terrifying moment – endless and painful, as it always was, started all over again, C.C. felt her heart shatter. And this time had to be for the last time. She had no heart left to put back together – not when Thomas just kept on forcing her back down, determined to break her any time she tried to build herself back up.
She wasn't strong enough to keep going...
"Now, wait right there just one moment!" the voice shouted, distracting her from where...other things were happening. "You've come all this way and you're giving in?!"
"What else am I supposed to do?!" she asked bitterly, letting her thoughts drown out screams and cries of pain. "I can't keep doing this!"
"Not even to survive?!" the voice snapped. She didn't think it had ever sounded quite so angry. "The longer you endure it, the better chance you have of getting out!"
"Do I?!" C.C. cried out to him. "How am I supposed to get out of this?! With the police's help?! They couldn't find me when they were here!"
"But they didn't stop looking! You know they won't have stopped!" the voice argued back. Angrier than ever, at this stage. "And the fact that you're willing to throw away the hard work they're doing and just give up like it's not worth it makes me wonder if you really are the Babcock I knew!"
C.C. felt a pain in her heart at that, spreading out over her into panic. What was the voice saying?!
It sounded like—
"You know damn well what I'm saying. If the Babcock I knew is gone, then there's no point in me being here, is there?"
But there was a point. There had to be! She'd heard him so that she didn't have to be alone in that place! Was he really just going to leave her there?!
"I'm not here to help the weak give up."
C.C. had nothing to say to that, but it wouldn't have mattered if she did – she knew he was gone. She knew this was her mind's way of telling her it was finally done. That it was game over.
Everything in her life was over.
She had no choice but to give up.
Why bother fighting, when you know you're dead already?