Decisions (this chapter replaces the previous (revoltingly detailed) chapter 13)
Why did she have to ruin everything?
Hans Landa sat up in bed, the third solid day he'd been chained up like this, the level of light outside his window his only guide to how much time had passed. His nose had grown accustomed to the reeking odor wafting from the sickening trash can of shit and piss on the floor next to him, and yet he had no way to empty it. Rather, he had to continue contributing to it, unable to do anything else, no matter how loudly he complained. The houseflies had since arrived, buzzing around the disgusting substance and then boldly landing on his skin as he slapped at them in vain.
She has to pay for this.
They could have been quite the conventional couple, blending in with their likeminded neighbors, a good-looking German pair undergoing all the usual trials and tribulations of a cohabiting couple. He would have been perfectly content to spend his days sitting in an easy chair, listening to Bridget's excellent German radio while she went out to auditions and cooked hearty meals for them, a big smile on his face as he then signed each and every one of his pension checks over to her. His smile would only widen as he watched her belly get larger each day—perhaps he'd even get to touch it sometimes, to feel the baby kick.
And yet an idyllic existence had not been Bridget's goal. She wanted him to suffer, needlessly, it seemed. Had he not had a swastika carved into his forehead? Had he not had his right leg amputated? How much more did she expect him to endure?!
He would not easily forget her standing in the doorway, smugly observing his very lowest point so far, his moan of disgust as he was forced to use the trash can as a toilet. The fact that she had seen that, had in fact instigated it, would be her undoing. His fists clenched with rage.
She hadn't even felt guilty about what she had seen! In fact, her treatment of him seemed to be getting worse by the day. He had not showered or brushed his teeth since the day he'd left the hospital, which also happened to be the same day he'd last used an actual toilet. Since then, he'd become a sweaty, malodorous mess in an increasingly disgusting room, most of the circulation and feeling cut off from his right hand, his forehead scar seeming to throb with fresh pain.
Not only were his conditions worsening, but so was his food. What he seemed to be left with now for his two meals each day were leftovers, not from that day, but from the day before. The food was always cold and half-congealed, a far cry from Bridget's tasty cheese casserole she'd baked several days ago.
This was torture, plain and simple. Upon hearing the front door shut this morning at Bridget's departure, he'd spent hours vainly attempting to free his chained wrist from its restraint, if only to chuck the putrid soup of shit and piss out the window.
Now that he heard the door opening, Bridget apparently returning from some shopping spree or audition, it was the time to address his suffering.
"Fraulein!" he called out, as soon as the storm door had shut. "Fraulein, I need to clean my toilet!"
Predictably, he heard no acknowledgement of his plea, no footfalls approaching his door. Instead, he heard the rustling sound of bags being laid down, the jangling of keys being placed on a hard surface.
"Fraulein, my toilet."
He waited in complete stillness, hoping she would finally relent and open his door. Surely the smell was filling the entire house. Surely she had to smell it when she first entered the house.
His heart beat wildly as he heard the chain lock slide and door inch open, revealing his captor, a knife in her hand, her makeup and hair impeccable.
"Ugh," she groaned as she fully opened the door, quickly covering her mouth with her free hand. He could only stare as she retched twice.
"May I please empty my toilet now?" he muttered through gritted teeth. "Of course, I can always stay here while you do the hon—"
"You do it," she said, scowling. "Disgusting animal."
"Might I also get a shower?" he added. "I certainly do not intend to be a disgusting animal…"
Her face was green now. Finally the stench had gotten to her as well.
"Only if you swear that you will return to your room and restraint without a fight."
A sickeningly sweet smile crept onto his face betraying the rage within.
"Of course… Bridget."
Hans Landa stood in the hot shower, lathering his body up with a foamy handful of soap. He shut his eyes in bliss at his return to cleanliness once more, running Bridget's razor down his stubble-covered chin with a big smile. Why did Bridget have to make things so damn difficult for him? Here he was, offering her his pension checks and his help and she had sullied that by chaining him to a bed and locking him away for days with cold food and a trash can full of vile excrement.
Emptying the trash can into the toilet had almost caused him to vomit several times; cleaning it out with soap was truly the stuff of nightmares. At least he could free himself of that horror with a long cleaning. He had to relish every moment of this shower; who knew when his next chance would come?
Landa finished shaving his face, his hair slicked straight back as he stood face-first in the shower stream. His single leg required that he keep a firm hand on the wall of the enclosure all the while, lest he slip and fall. Perhaps next time, he could drag a chair into the shower stall to allow him to relax a bit. His good leg had significantly weakened from days of disuse and he found it increasingly difficult to maintain a standing position without the damn leg trembling and half-buckling beneath him.
He thought about what would happen when he was instructed to return to his room, to the sweat-soaked sheets, the lingering odor of his own shit in the air. He'd certainly bowed enough to her will, in saving her from his assassination attempt in her yard that day, in allowing her to survive shooting him in the leg, in agreeing to hand over his pension to her. And what had he gotten from these kindnesses—more anguish and humiliation than he could bear! She had certainly watched Landa with glee as he painfully sat himself on the trash can that first time, had not bothered to help him fetch the can or the toilet paper. Bridget had seen far too much of him and most likely thought far less of him now. And yet he was a man, innately stronger and more powerful than she could ever hope to be, and he had to remind her of that.
After finishing a long, languid shower, Landa hopped out of the shower stall feeling completely refreshed, happily grabbing a towel from a rack and quickly wrapping it around his waist. He then reached for the damnable crutch, wiping the padding of it before thrusting it under his now clean armpit.
Yes, Bridget had to be firmly put in her place. Contingency plan or no, he was not to be fucked with.
Landa strode out into the living room in only a towel, his hair wet and slicked down, face once again clean-shaven. His hairstyle made the crudely carved swastika in his forehead quite apparent, and at his entrance to the main living space, Bridget turned her head towards him, her eyes immediately gravitating to the swastika.
He smiled at her then, unashamed of his state of undress.
"Why are you wearing that?" she asked him, peering in confusion at his towel, at his bare chest. "Why did you not put your clothes back—"
"Those clothes are disgusting," he muttered, attempting to stay positive. "I have been wearing them continually since I left the hospital."
"Well, that's all you have."
"You mean, in all your countless shopping sprees, you never thought to pick up a shirt for me, anything at all?" he asked, sticking out his lower lip in a pout. "I see you've covered chains and sleeping pills in your trips, but nothing that might, let's say, improve my stay here?"
"Why would I want to improve your stay? You are forcing me to let you stay here. You should have bought clothes for yourself—"
"I did bring clothes," he interrupted. "And yet, I presume you burned them or threw them away. I saw no sign of my suitcases in the car that day we went to the post office."
"That's right. I did burn them, in a lovely little bonfire," she admitted with a little smile. "Perhaps you shouldn't have started your visit with attempted murder, and I may have been kinder to your possessions."
"Point taken," he muttered, defeated. "With that being said, might we take a little shopping trip for clothes? Surely a lady like yourself could always use a new pair of shoes."
Bridget made a face at him.
"I'm not entirely certain why you scowl at the suggestion," he added, pouting again. "It'll give me a chance to get some fresh air, and you can be assured that I'm going to be on my best behavior. I can't imagine you'd be terribly disappointed if I made a break for it, escaped your clutches…"
Bridget scowled. She didn't have the means or the setup to successfully dispose of Landa's dead body, and his room had quite the stomach-turning stench as it was, so perhaps they'd reached the end of their impasse. She'd push him out the door and lock it, and being as he couldn't really drive with one leg, he'd go back to Nantucket Island in a cab. She could then trade in his car for a cheaper one and pocket the difference. Just yesterday she'd driven by a rather reasonably priced little bungalow deeper in the valley. She could change her name yet again and lie low, never to be found again.
Yes, expenses would be tight, and yes, she would not have enough time to do auditions and find consistent work, but she'd be free of him.
And that's all that mattered.
"I have an even better suggestion," Bridget said, smiling.
"What's that?"
"That you walk out that door and never come back. It's your chance to escape my clutches, as you call it. Go ahead; I won't stop you."
Landa blinked several times in a row. He hadn't expected Bridget to forget her selfishness and greed so quickly. The pension checks hadn't even begun to arrive. If he walked out that door, Bridget would truly disappear this time and he'd never get a chance to meet his progeny. Not to mention, she'd humiliated him and she needed to pay for her maltreatment of him.
"You can't be serious," he replied. "I don't understand how you can go from chaining me to a bed to opening your door and freeing me—"
"I don't trust you in my house," Bridget growled. "This is your chance to leave. If you opt to stay, then you opt to stay chained up."
"…but all the time?" Landa said, innocently raising his eyebrows. "Surely you can't be happy—or healthy—smelling the odors from my makeshift toilet. How scary can I be, with a single leg?"
"Just go back to Nantucket and live your life," she said. "I don't want you here." She stepped out of the way, gesturing for Landa, still clad in little more than a towel, to go. He eyed her suspiciously, knowing full well that she planned to disappear the moment he was really gone.
"As you can see, I'm not dressed to set foot outside a house as I am right now," Landa replied, balking. "Not to mention, the clothes I have are utterly revolting. Why don't we go on that shopping trip first, and then I can decide?"