Misguided Comforts
Thirty-eight. Thirty nine. Forty.
Adelais was sitting on the floor between the two cots, her back to the door as she looked at the stone wall opposite their locked escape. Her butt was beginning to hurt from sitting on the concrete floor and the feeling in her legs was growing fuzzy with lack of proper blood flow, but she remained where she was. Claire and Marcia were going between their cot and the bathroom, checking for when Marcia's clothes would be dry and she'd washed them. Casey hadn't moved much, remaining on the other cot as she kept her knees up and her chin down.
She didn't really know how longer it had been since Marcia was thrown back into the room, but Adelais had spent most of that time counting the imperfection in the wall cement that bound the stones together. Bubbles, cracks, chips; anything that her eye found to be an imperfection was counted in her mind.
Forty-one. Forty-two.
The other girls thought she was just staring blankly at the wall, sitting in the middle of the room like a lunatic as she just gazed forward. Almost unblinking. Her expression lacked emotion and she was sitting perfectly straight, without a single flaw in her posture. Claire was mildly unnerved by the woman; she knew that she was weird. She had ever since she'd seen her emerge from the house with her father, but this was something else.
The door behind her opened so suddenly that none of them were prepared; Marcia shrieked and dove back into the bathroom—even though there was no lock on the door—and Claire stepped back so suddenly that she knocked her knees on the edge of the cot and fell to sit. Casey barely moved, only ducking her head back down suddenly.
Adelais twisted her torso slightly so that she could see over her shoulder, watching with surprised green eyes as the man marched into the room. This time, he was not carrying the chair with him and therefore had free hands. She barely had time to look at him before he was behind her, wrapping his arms around her unprotected torso and lifting her from the floor with terrifying strength. A gasp of surprise was the only sound that came from her as her butt left the ground, her heels dragging for a moment, and then she was being carried across the room and out the open door.
"Adelais!" Claire screamed suddenly once she had overcome her shock, but the door was already closed before she had even gotten off the bed. The older blonde was tossed into the open space of the adjoining room, her feet stumbling beneath her as she tried to catch her balance on her small heels.
She stopped to face the door across from the room he had pulled her from, reinforced and most likely locked. Her attention shifted in a quick circle as she took in the long coatrack to her left, a table and computer to her right, and a whole lot of clutter throughout the rest of the room.
For someone who seemed so neat, this room was distinctly messy and cluttered.
Turning around to face the man that had so suddenly carried her from the others, Adelais's body went instinctively lax as she fell into the familiar routine of her mother's critical eye. The man was standing in front of the door; Claire's shouting and banging from the other side prompted no reaction from him. He stood still, gaze firmly fixed on Adelais.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, a new sensation when she was being inspected. However, it wasn't altogether a sensation of fear. Not like she had assumed it would be. This man wasn't looking at her with intent to hurt, and he wasn't looking at her with the strange fascination that he had with Marcia when he had picked her.
His expression pinched slightly as he looked at her for a long moment. "Close your eyes," he ordered in a deep, gravelly voice. It shocked her for a moment, not having expected that particular order, before her body responded instinctively and did as he was ordered. Once her eyes were closed, Adelais was left to stand in darkness.
She heard his approach, the sound of his carefully cleaned shoes tapping against the floor as he approached her, circled her.
His fingertips ghosted her cheek, brushing the hair from her face as he looked at her, eyes closed and expression submissively lax. She was different; different than the other three. Two were afraid, unexperienced when it came to difficulties and fear in their lives; the third was quiet, timid and withdrawn, making herself appear non-existent. This woman, however, acted as though her body knew what to do.
She followed his directions without complaint or argument; she had allowed him to blind her and bind her, walking with him through his home until she was safe behind locked doors. Lowering his hand from her cheek, he instead left it to rest at the base of her throat—his palm pressing to her prominent collar bone through her sweater. Her breathing hitched the faintest bit when his hand landed over her collar, but she remained perfectly still eyes closed.
Was this trust? Fear?
No, this was something different.
Adelais was fighting very hard not to move; the hand on her throat was straying terrifyingly close to old wounds and it made her heart race in her chest. Could he feel it? Did he know the terror that was settled in her chest at that moment, brought about by a simply placement of a hand? It made her think of her father, hand on her throat with her lungs burning—desperate—for air.
Don't touch me.
Almost as though he heard her thoughts, his hand drew away from her as he walked around her once more. She felt like a possession being viewed at auction. One of his hands came to her left side, showing just how thin she was by the way his large hand cradled her thin waist, just below her ribs. Soon, he was standing before her again and his other hand came to her mirror the first, cradling her waist like they were to dance.
She knew that if he squeezed, his fingers would most likely meet as they completely encircled her thin torso.
"Don't move," he ordered; it was much as he had hours before when he was bringing her down to the other girls. Again, she did as he was told. He had been gentle the first time, and he was gentle again. With timid touches, he held her waist for a moment—hesitation?—before he suddenly leaned in closer and pressed his front against hers as his hands drifted to her back.
He was…holding her.
There was no malice, no pain or threat. He was just holding her, the embrace somewhat awkward and loose, but an embrace none the less. Adelais remained frozen in place, her arms at her sides as his forearms brushed her elbows while he held onto her. With her eyes closed, she couldn't be certain where he was looking or how close his face was, but she guessed from the faint brush of air near her jawbone that he was not directly in front of her face—he was slightly toward her shoulder, with his head bowed.
Adelais could feel the uncomfortable, almost terrifying tightening in her stomach that came with uncertainty. When was the last time she had been gently held? When was the last time a man had laid hands on her without the intent to harm?
Keeping her eyes closed was a simple task, but holding still was proving to be a challenge.
However, it was not that she wanted to flee or fight him off—no, fight or flight was not a problem—it was that she wished to embrace him in return. There was a hesitancy and loneliness in this man's actions that caused familiar pain to curl in Adelais's stomach. Rejection, alienation, loneliness. It was a pain almost worse than physical.
Her hands flexed just slightly, wishing there was something that she could hold onto. Something she could touch.
He had taken her and the other girls, left Claire's father abandoned in a parking lot, and yet she only wished to hold him. Where was the malice? Wasn't that the normal reaction to being kidnapped and held against ones will?
She was right. I'm such a freak.
The man seemed to gain more confidence then, his arms tightening around her body until they were pressed front to front, no space between. He was as strong as she already assumed, the hard plains of his torso proving that he was physically fit and capable of stopping any of them from trying to escape. He smelled of fresh laundry and hand sanitizer, with a subtle undertone that she assumed was some kind of tea.
A sudden pressure on her shoulder, accompanied with the hot rush of breath at her chest, told her that he had laid his forehead down on her thin frame.
What has been done to you? She wondered dazedly, beginning to fight the urge to open her eyes.
As suddenly as he had embraced her, the man pulled back and stepped away so that he was invisible to her closed eyes once more. She knew not where he was, how far he stood or if he was even facing her. The warmth from his embrace lingered and left her wanting. Her hand twitched as though to reach for him, but she stopped herself before her arm could lift from her side.
Close your eyes. Don't move.
"Can you…do you know how to dance?" he asked suddenly. He was still so close, his words causing his breath to caress her face—peppermint.
"No," she answered quietly, barely more than whispering the word. "I was never allowed to," she added on a moment later, fearing that denying him may lead to angering him.
He was silent after her answer, leaving her in suspense as she waited for what his reaction may be. She couldn't supress her jump of surprise when his hands suddenly took hers, the warmth of his fingers surrounding her chilled palms as he gently tugged her one step forward. "Open your eyes," he ordered a moment later. When she did, she was left looking at the serious line of his lips—not quite a frown but still lacking any positive emotion.
Looking up, her eyes met with his dark blue irises as he watched her with that same blank expression. She wasn't sure what she had been expecting, but the way that he had held her made her feel as though some of his seriousness would have bled away. When he stepped in toward her, she shakily moved back on instinct. He followed, then stepped away again and pulled her after him. It took her a moment to realize that he was very awkwardly showing her how to dance.
Nodding her head without actually saying anything, she carefully followed his movements in their awkward, broken dance. It was a strange mixture of ballroom steps and regular slow dance that she had vaguely seen on television before. The man's shoulders relaxed just slightly as they turned and stepped again, the movements seemed to aid the dissipation of tension. Adelais couldn't quite bring herself to relax in the same way, but she wasn't as jerky and halting as she followed his steps and let him draw her in slightly closer to him.
Soon, his arms were around her waist again, her hands abandoned to rest on his biceps—where else was she to put them?—and his temple pressed to hers. Was this how it was when other people danced? Was this actually what it felt like?
It made her wish she had something to compare it to, but that was a pointless desire.
The man suddenly halted; the action was so abrupt that Adelais's hands gripped his biceps tightly when she nearly tripped on her small heels. He was shockingly rigid and pulled back suddenly, disconnecting her hands from his person—they automatically fell to her sides as she awaited his next command. He just looked at her, the same cold expression on his face. However, his eyes were not nearly as steel and gunmetal as they had been before.
The appearance helped to soothe her somewhat, but there was a lingering feeling of confusion and anxiety in the pit of her stomach. He turned and walked to the door she had been pulled through short minutes before, barely looking at her again as he motioned her over to where he stood.
Following the silent instruction, Adelais moved to stand in front of the door as he unlocked it and opened it just enough for her to step back inside. She didn't look at him as she passed, letting the door close and lock behind her as they ignored one another and the events that had, strangely, taken place. Claire, who had been sitting on the end of her cot while nervously playing with her shirt sleeves, rose abruptly and rushed toward Adelais.
The older blonde flinched slightly—even the man hadn't approached her so suddenly.
"Are you alright? He…he didn't touch you, did he?"
"Did he make you dance?" Marcia asked shakily, standing in the entrance to the washroom as she wrapped her arms around herself in fear.
Adelais thought of their combined movements, awkward and unknowing, and lied, "No." Stepping passed Claire, she moved over to where she had been sitting before, this time with her back to the wall as Casey carefully gauged her expressions. "He…held me. He told me to close my eyes and just held me."
Claire and Marcia both stared in disgust, Adelais's words sounding much worse than the experience had actually been. "Held you?" Claire repeated in a coarse voice.
"Yes, though barely. He seemed afraid to touch me. Like I would try to hurt him," Adelais answered thoughtfully, tipping her head back until it was resting on the stone wall and she was able to stare at the ceiling above her.
"Why didn't you?" Marcia demanded as she marched from the bathroom, finally, and stood next to Claire. Both teens held judgement in their gaze; they couldn't comprehend why someone would play along with a kidnapper—why she had just let him play her like an instrument.
"He's too strong," Casey answered for her, looking away from Adelais's thoughtful expression. "I saw him carry one you in here. It was like you weighed nothing," she explained quietly.
Adelais thought back to the muscle definition she had felt. When he had held her, the strong expanse of his torso was extremely notable. When she had nearly tripped, grabbing tightly to his arms, she's been able to feel the strong presence of well-worked biceps. "He's very strong. Fighting back isn't going to do any good," she continued for Casey. "And he has a temper; Marcia proved that. He's…trying to control himself against something, and it's hard for him." The other three stared at her in shock and confusion, not sure where this was coming from. "If we push him…it may just get one of us hurt."
"Or killed," Claire muttered, her face paling at the thought.
"Or that," Adelais confirmed with a nod. "We don't know what he wants, but I think that it would benefit for us to play along, even just slightly."
Then, Adelais closed her eyes and just listened to the other girls as they conversed, mostly between Marcia and Claire. Casey was looking over at Adelais discretely, watching the older woman as she breathed and relaxed, her expression hiding anything that she may have been thinking. Her blonde hair was messed and wavy from being removed from her braid, some of the curls and waves obscuring her face.
She was a beautiful woman; her skin was starkly pale, like untouched snow, and her eyes were the most beautiful green. The dark of her lashes ghosted pale cheeks, the barest hint of makeup that she had placed on her skin that morning beginning to fade away and leave only natural beauty behind. She was long and thin, shockingly graceful in her movements. Her posture was a strange combination of tense and at ease, like she was accustomed to standing so rigidly that she made it look natural.
However, Casey could see the signs that Claire and Marcia didn't even think to look for.
They were signs that she had seen on herself, in the mirror every day. The long sweater covered all of her neck and arms, her hair having been meticulous and perfect when they were at the restaurant. Like someone was always watching. There was a lingering behaviour behind everything she did, something that had been trained into her subconscious from a young age. It was the same one that Casey had developed, although she felt that it was for very different reasons. She strove to hide herself, to be as unnoticeable as possible; Adelais made herself as pliable and perfect as a watchful eye could see.
She was submissive to someone, and it made Casey wonder what life this woman had left until that point.
Adelais was lost in her own thoughts as she rested against the cold wall, her attention wavering between the piece of rock jabbing the back of her head and the memory of the way she had been held by the man in grey.
In her breaking heart, she realized that his was one of the only times she had ever been held for more than a brief, awkward hug. Before, it was always for show because her mother or father stood right there, but this time it had been simply because someone wanted to hold her. Someone wanted to hold another and be held in return. Swallowing against the sudden lump in her throat, Adelais closed her eyes and took a calming breath.
Is this what comfort feels like? Affection, so misplaced in a stranger that should not be drawing forth such feelings?
I am so sorry for the wait, everyone. I was in my first-and hopefully last-car accident. Fortunately, I walked away with only a broken arm; unfortunately, it was my right, dominant arm so my typing ability has been slowed to a crawl. I had more finished on this story than on Whiskey Eyes so I was able to get this chapter out sooner, but I will try my best to get the next chapter of Whiskey Eyes out very soon! Thank you all for your patience, and I hope all of my readers from the States are safe as well after the storms.