II
Greta awoke in Brahms' bed. He blankets were pulled up around her snugly. It was still dark, the curtains pulled tightly, blocking he harsh rays of the surprisingly sunny day outside from bursting in through the glass and illuminating the room.
For a long moment she was frighteningly disoriented. She looked for Brahms to her left and right, but the little doll with the cloth body and porcelain face and limbs was nowhere to be seen. There was a few terrible moments of panic. Her concern took hold of her heart and it fluttered painfully in her chest.
She just had the blankets thrown off her when yesterday's events began to come back to her. She froze and looked to the door. Her ears listened intently for any sound of movement.
Cole was dead. Malcolm she knew not. And Brahms… Brahms was alive. She swallowed and looked along the walls. Her eyes lingered on vent in the corner.
"Brahms?" she asked softly. She was greeted with nothing but silence. She swallowed and moved toward the door. She stepped into the hallway and waited. She had to move slowly so Brahms did not think she was going to try and escape. If he did, both she and Malcolm were in terrible danger.
And you promised him kisses.
She moved to the stair case. Flashes of the chase the night before came to mind. The feeling of seeing him, Brahms, her sweet little boy, standing there before her… a man, could not be adequately described.
"Brahms?" she called softly again. She put her hand on the railing and listened. There was not a single sound in the house. She set the kitchen for her destination. She was hungry, despite her anxiety, and she knew Brahms would be hungry as well.
She paused in the room where Cole had died. She stared where the body had lain. Only a large smudge of blood remained as evidence of the violent murder. She would have to see what she could do about getting that out of the carpet. If she could not at least make it manageable, she did not think she could ever bring herself to use that room again.
"Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy," she murmured. She hated herself for thinking it but was even angrier she voiced it. Voicing it made it real.
You asked him for help, she reminded herself. She moved back on toward the kitchen. He did not try to kill him initially.
"Brahms?" she called again. She received no answer and stepped into the kitchen. She remained in the doorway, looking around silently for what felt like a long time. She took the screwdriver from her back pocket and tossed it on the table.
She had prepared herself to kill him when she picked it up last night. This man, this thing… it was not Brahms. At least, not the Brahms she had believed him to be. This was not the lost soul of a poor little boy lost too soon. It was a man, a man that grew out of a warped little child wanted for a vicious murder of a little girl.
She moved over to the fridge and opened the door. She retrieved the eggs, the sausage, and then grabbed the bread. She set about making a breakfast she thought would make Brahms happy.
She had almost done it too. But when she looked down into those eyes she could not bring herself to reach for her weapon. Those feelings she had developed for that little boy came rushing back to her. She looked down at him and felt an intense amount of pity.
Terror, oh yes, terror remained. Her brain screamed at her to act. This was not her little Brahms. This was an entirely different animal. But her heart held her hand still. If she obeyed him, another time would present itself.
She sighed and made up a plate for Brahms. She set up her own plate and nibbled on it slowly. She leaned against the counter as she brought a spoonful of eggs to her lips and gazed around. Brahms had moved the doll once in this kitchen. She wondered where he had come from. The hall maybe? Or had he an exit in here?
Clean clothes, she thought as she brought up a sausage with her fingers. Shave that terrible beard. A bath… alone. Read to him. Listen to music. Find Malcolm.
She let out a sigh and dropped the sausage onto the plate. She could not eat anymore. She was sick to her stomach. Already she could feel bile rising up in her throat.
Slowly she walked over to the sink, stared down at it a moment, and threw up everything in her stomach. Even afterward, she heaved, bile rising painfully up her throat. She spit, rinsed her mouth, and began to clean the sink.
"Brahms?" she called. She spoke more loudly now. Her courage was slowly building. She left the kitchen and moved through the lower floors. If she obeyed Brahms she did not think he would kill her. He had proven as much. He wanted her to follow the rules and care for him. If she could do that long enough, she could find Malcolm and get the hell away from here.
He won't be here. Brahms will have moved him. You'll need to get into the walls to find him. Tunnels… compartments… secret chambers maybe? Ask for proof he is alive. You don't even know if he's dead or not.
He heart ached painfully at the thought. Sweet, kind Malcolm.
"Brahms?" she called. She went into the billiard room and stood before the hole in the shattered mirror. "Brahmsy?"
She once again heard no response. She sighed and brought up a hand to her aching head.
A phone. Maybe a phone would work?
She moved across the hall into the nearest room and picked up the phone. She felt foolish as she put it back down. No dial tone. Brahms might have been sheltered from the world, but he was not stupid. She had reason to believe he had been educated. After all, his parents read literature to him. Why would they have not have given him, through that little doll, a sort of basic education.
She walked back up to the kitchen to grab the plate. She would bring it up to his room. She could look for Malcolm and if she was found by Brahms say she simply got lost looking for him.
She also needed to figure out exactly what she was dealing with. His behavior in the hallway, that perverted doll he had constructed of her, the way he wanted to expand the kiss she had placed to his mask, suggested that in many ways, he was very much a man. What he might want for her in addition to the rules he would require her to follow, was not that difficult to imagine. But he had obeyed her commands of going to bed. He got under the covers as instructed. He had promised her to be good before he left.
Was it just a ruse to keep her. A means of manipulation. Or did Brahms truly believe he was this little boy. Was he sort of trapped in two different worlds? Possessing the mind that was not quite that of a man's, yet no longer that of a child. She felt a stab of remorse, pity. His parents had done something terrible to him. They might have done it to protect both him and the world. Locking him away from those he might hurt, but keeping him from a cold existence in a juvenile ward outside these walls.
He was eight. At most he'd have served until he was eighteen. They robbed from him the chance at a life.
They knew, another voice added. They knew that if he ever got out he'd do it again. They were protecting him. And everyone else.
A shudder ran through her. But to what extent was he still that boy? How much interaction did he actually have with his parents? Did they only ever speak to him through the doll? He did so well throwing his voice, maybe they made themselves pretend that the doll was truly their little boy. In their minds, Brahms never died. They forced themselves to forget their real son, crawling through the walls, alone. But Mrs. Heelshire made sure to keep the rats from getting into the walls. They stored the extra food for him. They were well aware he was there.
"What a mess," she whispered. But it was vital information she desperately needed. How did you know how to deal with him if you did not know if it was a child, a man, or some combination of both that was going to respond?
She walked into the kitchen, ready to retrieve Brahms plate and begin her first expedition into the walls, but she froze. The plate was gone. She fought the scowl off of her face and looked around the kitchen.
"Brahms!" she called. She looked around, opening cupboards and exploring pantries. He had to have come from within the kitchen that day he moved the doll for her. When she had asked for the sign. She could not find it, despite how hard she looked.
"Fuck me," she whispered and straightened. She slammed a cupboard door shut and turned. Arms crossed, she leaned against the counter, ready to plan out her next course of action. But a cry left her and she jerked to the side. A breathless cry of "Brahms!" left her. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen was Brahms, an empty plate in his hands. She let out a deep breath.
"Was it good, Brahms?"
He looked at the plate, holding it in his hands. He had large hands. Definitely not the hands of a little boy. He looked back up and nodded.
The mask was the most unsettling part of it all. Taking away the ability for her to read his face made everything far more challenging and what was more, was that emotionless, porcelain face of a young boy stared out from the tall, looming, and aggressive body. Chest hair coating his chest, the beard on his face, the cords of muscle that flexed along his neck and shoulders. It completely captured the enigma of Brahms.
What are you, she thought as she looked at him.
"Give me that so I can clean the plate," she said and held out a hand. He hesitated but then came forward again, shoulders slightly rolled. She forced herself to remember the way he attacked Malcolm and Cole, the sound of his voice as he had called after her when she tried to flee. The more she remembered it, the more she began to believe this was just a good act used to manipulate her. But the more she began to believe it, the more frightened she became.
If he wants to be a little boy, treat him like a little boy, she told herself. Make him break first.
She took the plate from him and turned. She could feel his presence behind her as she began to clean out the plates. He lingered, close. She swallowed and forced herself to remain calm. She had to. Otherwise, all was lost and Malcolm was dead.
His breath was suddenly there on the back of her neck. It was hot and slow. Long deep breaths escaping his nose as he came to stand behind her. She could smell him. It was not overpowering or particularly bad, but it was the smell of sweat and dirt. Then there was a slow ghosting of air. Soft, gentle, and cool. He was blowing on the neck. Her body turned rigid and he gently pushed her hair to the side. He stepped up behind her. Their bodies were touching. She turned abruptly.
"Brahms!" she scolded. He stepped back slowly. "Brahms I have a lot to do right now."
Her stomach sank as his head tilted. His shoulders straightened and he grew taller.
Yes, the rules were there to keep her in line.
"Brahms," she said more gently. She just needed to find Malcolm. If she could do that, they could find a way to get out of here. She stepped toward him and touched his chest. "I have to clean the rug in there. I have to call Malcolm's store."
He stepped toward her violently and she raised her hands.
"Brahms, they will come looking for him," she informed him hurriedly. "I need to call and cancel the deliveries from them. Tell them that we are angry with the service because Malcolm never showed up with the delivery. The car needs to be hidden. If we don't do that, then the police will come and I will be taken away from you.
And Malcolm will die somewhere in this house, locked and hidden away. Either by starvation, or Brahms own violent hand.
His eyes moved down her body. His mind was on one thing and one thing only. He stepped toward her. In no time at all it seemed his hands were wrapped around her wrists and she was pressed up against the sink. His eyes were on her mouth.
"Brahms," she whispered softly. She was amazed at the gentleness in her voice, despite the terror that had seized her. "Brahmsy. We have to do our work first. Our chores."
Her hands touched his chest and gently slid up to his shoulders. He paused, alert and wide eyes locked on hers.
"Then, later, we can play," she promised. He moved his head back, as if to get a better look at her. He was clearly trying to figure out if he could believe her. "And you and I, we are so dirty. We both have to bathe and change. Look at your shirt."
He looked down.
"We have to get our chores done, and then," she wrapped her arms around his neck. His eyes widened further. The wonder in them spurred her on. She pressed her breasts to his chest. She might not know what was going on in that head all the time, but right now, she could see it clearly enough. This was a man who knew what he wanted, but had never experienced such a thing, he could not put it into context, he could not fully understand it. His eyes remained locked on her, wide, both void, and full of feeling. "Then tonight I will take care of you. The way I'm supposed to. Do you understand?"
He nodded slowly. His adam's apple bobbed beneath the hair on his neck.
"So why don't you go turn the phones on," he tensed. He stoked behind his ear and he crooked his neck. He was ticklish. "And I can make the phone call terminating our services with Malcolm. Then you can hide the car past those back gardens, in the woods." Hikers might find it there. "And I can clean the rug. Make lunch and then we can both get cleaned up, we'll listen to music, I will read to you, and then, after I make you a nice, hot dinner…" She pressed herself to him more firmly. His hands released her wrists and held onto her hips. Simultaneously they were both hesitant and bruising. "We will spend some time together."
He tilted his head and she felt foolish. Of course he would not understand the euphemism.
"You can do what you like."
It was a bold promise. A frightening prospect, but with the force in which he forced her against the sink she knew one thing. He was going to have her at some point. Unless she was willing to kill him, which right now, oddly enough, she was not, his taking of her only depended upon how long she could distract him. She might as well put her into a position where she was going to get out of it with as little discomfort and pain as possible. All the while, getting herself in a good position to save Malcolm and get them both rescued.
"I'll take good care of you," she whispered. He looked over the porcelain face. So prefect and boyish, pristine and emotionless. His eyes were huge. She pressed on his chest, gently pushing him away. He stepped back, breathing heavily. "Go on now, Brahms. Get me a phone I can use."
He hesitated. He blinked. He looked over his shoulder. She forced a smile.
"I will walk up to my bedroom, and I will stand in the hallway until you come back to get me. Then you can sit right beside me while I make the call. Fair?"
He gave a nod and was gone. She did as she promised. She walked slowly up the stairs, legs quivering nervously. He met her as agreed and she made the phone call. She did not say a thing that could be a warning. She did not make a single cry for help. She needed to build trust. If she slipped up now, they'd both be dead before anyone could arrive to save them.
Once finished, and they severed ties with the market, claiming Malcolm stopped making his deliveries, he once again cut the lines. She went about scrubbing the blood from the rug as best she could, and Brahms disappeared for a few hours. When she looked out the window on the way to her room, Malcolm's car was gone. Where he might have put it and how, she did not know.
She walked back up to her bedroom, exhausted and sore. She had to bathe and change, but the idea gave her pause. She had no idea where Brahms might be. Despite the fact that she might very well need to have sex with him in the coming hours, the thought of him watching her gave her the creeps. Still, she got unto the shower, making sure that the towel was wrapped around her tightly until she was safely within the steamed up shower.
The shower itself felt heavenly but she could not truly enjoy it. Her muscles ached and there was a constant feeling of fear. She could think of only what was to come in the coming hours. She scrubbed herself clean, forcing herself to step from the hot steaming shower and into the cooling air.
You don't have a choice. Take the one bit of power you hold over him and use it. It's not like you're a goddamned virgin.
Still, she shuddered slightly. She wrapped the towel around herself tightly. With deep, slow breaths she attempted to slow her pounding heart. She wondered what she might have done to handle the situation in the kitchen differently, but nothing came to mind.
You did what you had to. Now be strong. For you. For Malcolm. He's counting on you.
She stepped out into her bedroom, still wrapped in the towel. She tried not to think about where Brahms might be. That he might be watching her change.
He might be inside of you later. So he might see you naked. Grow up. Get over it. The words in her brain were rather viciously aimed at herself. It was how she used to survive Cole's abuse. She would force herself to grow up. To stop being a baby. It was eventually how she convinced herself to leave. Now, she hoped it would see her through this.
She closed the door to her bathroom and froze. Draped over her bed was her coral dress. On the night stand, a glass of red wine, accompanied by the opened bottle. She nodded slowly to herself.
Take care of him, she thought as she nodded. At the very least, the beginnings of understanding was beginning to form slowly in her brain.
A/N: Let me know what you think. I have my own understanding of Brahms psyche, but it is so complicated, I am trying to work through it in this story, as Greta would no doubt be doing. So we will often be going into Brahms POV (probably every other chapter. That's my hope anyway.) If at any point it seems unclear (and not because Greta herself does not understand but because I am, as the author, being contradictory) please let me know so I can give that section more attention and more clearly articulate the idea.
And just a heads up. I work full time, I'm about to move to a new city, and I'll be starting law school in the fall. I am incredibly busy. Please, if I don't update for a week or so, be patient. There might be stretches of quick updates and there might be stretches with a bit longer waits. I will write when I can. I promise. But I am not going to force out a chapter that I am unhappy with.
Thank you all for the feedback about the chapter. It is very much appreciated.