There was too much light. His eyes stung from it even before he tried to open them. What was the point of eyelids again?
"Oh, my God. Thank God."
There was too much light, and once his eyes were slitted they weren't interpreting it into anything that made sense. His face was half mashed into the pillow. "Carlos?"
Maybe it was because of the tears he could feel dampening his cheeks, and probably still streaming out. He sneezed.
"Yeah, sweetie. Sorry, let me dim the lamp." Carlos moved, and then it was darker. "Is there anything I can get you?" He was sitting next to him on the bed again.
"You're back." He reached over and felt for Carlos' hand. Carlos took his and squeezed lightly.
"Things wrapped up early. Looks like you picked up a bug while l was gone."
"What's that smell?" Now that he noticed it, it permeated everything. It was vaguely familiar, like a snatch of an unpleasant dream, turning his stomach.
"What smell?" Carlos lifted his hand and kissed his palm. Cecil retched.
When he surfaced again, the tears had dried, crusting up the corners of his eyes. His body felt less like an extension of the bed and more like an independent unit with moveable parts. Carlos hadn't moved, or else was back.
He wiped at the crust in his eyes and sat up. Now that he could see better, one thing became alarmingly clear.
"This isn't our house."
The bedroom was set up in a similar configuration to theirs, but it was larger and the furniture was not their own. The walls were red and looked almost damp. As he looked around, tendrils of unease snaked their way up from his gut, through his chest, to the inside of his throat.
"Yeah," Carlos frowned, like a package he had ordered online turned out not to be quite what he'd hoped. "It was just like this when I got home. You didn't do this?"
Cecil stared at him. "No–Carlos, how could I have done this? It's an entirely different room. It's bigger, for God's sake."
"Huh," Carlos shrugged. "Well, you know Night Vale. Maybe it was time for a new house." He seemed impassive, like it didn't really matter how it had happened, like he wasn't at all curious to get to the bottom of it. Slick dread slid into Cecil's limbs. He looked at the man slouched against the headboard next to him, really looked at him, at the casual sprawl of his legs across the blanket and the lazy curve of his mouth.
"Where's Carlos?" He didn't mean for it to come out as a whisper.
"Are you sure I can't get you anything, Cecil? How's your stomach feeling?" He turned to Cecil like he hadn't spoken.
Cecil crawled backwards on the bed, fumbling over the edge of it. "Where am I?" He couldn't get enough air to his lungs, but every breath he did manage brought that smell, that rotting smell. He knew where he was.
"You're in our house."
"No, stop–" His mouth felt like Styrofoam and he had to pause to try and produce some saliva before he could get anything else out. "I-I know you're not him, stop it, who are you?"
"Well, as far as you're concerned," he shrugged and met Cecil's stare with an almost bored one of his own, "I'm Carlos."
Cecil dreaded from the completely unbothered look on the man's face that dashing to the bedroom door and yanking at the handle might not do any good, but he had to try anyway. When it didn't budge, his legs nearly gave out on him. The panic was clawing at his throat, squeezing his lungs.
"Sorry about the pretense," the man was saying. "I thought it might help to ease you into it."
"Into…?" Cecil's voice was just on the right side of functioning. "What–what is this, what are you doing?"
The man might have looked like Carlos, but he didn't really sound like him now that he didn't care to. His voice had dropped to something harder, though somehow not unfriendly. "I'm keeping you here."
There was a stretch of silence before Cecil gave in and asked the only question. "Why?"
"I have a plan," he said, and the first notes of defensiveness crept into his voice.
Maybe it was the temporary illusion of safety that the physical distance currently between the two of them provided that allowed frustration to begin to mingle with Cecil's anxiety. "Care to share with the cl...woah, nevermind, nevermind, I don't need to know!"
The man who wasn't Carlos had pulled a long knife from the top drawer of the nightstand and was holding it casually on his thigh. He stood up.
" Please, I won't ask any questions, just please don't hurt me!" As insane as the situation had been, he hadn't fully believed the claim of his intention to keep him here until now. He felt suddenly weak and painfully regretful of his lack of any kind of fight training.
"I'm not going to hurt you," the man said, as if that was a strange and amusing conclusion to come to. He placed the knife on the nightstand and then glanced between it and Cecil. "Don't get any ideas. You don't touch that. I don't even touch that."
Cecil glanced doubtfully at the hand that had been wielding it not a moment ago.
"Well I don't usually. I thought it would be a good idea to bring it out now, just in case."
Cecil crossed his arms over his chest. A moment passed where neither of them moved. "So is it not your kni–" The man curled his fingers around the hilt and he quieted, clearing his throat. The air was so heavily silent, no signs of any traffic or activity from outside, that he began to worry that the whole place had been soundproofed.
"Are you hungry?" The man asked, tucking the knife into a deep pocket of his pants.
He realized he was, a hollowness in his stomach now screaming to make itself known. Was he allowed to be? If he said yes, was he about to be fed his own pinky finger?
Apparently the man didn't require an answer, because he continued. "I've got some soup I can heat up." As he came nearer to the door, Cecil inched farther away from it. There was a key in his hand, and Cecil immediately regretted not noticing where it had come from. He'd be sure to watch where it went.
Once the door was unlocked, his jailer turned back, waiting in the hall. "Come on." Cecil hesitated, his eyes glued to that key. "Come on. " He pictured the knife plunging deep into his collarbone, and went, the man following close behind him.
He seemed to be reasonably well-off judging by his house and furnishings, though the surfaces seemed unusually bare. Perhaps he'd locked away the usual decorative knick-knacks so that Cecil wouldn't have anything he could use as a weapon. It was cleaner than he expected it to be based on the stench, which was both a relief and a bit disconcerting considering it still left him to wonder where exactly that was coming from.
The kitchen was an open area that bled into the living room, with only a counter dividing them. "Sit," he said, gesturing to a barstool. Cecil sat.
He watched the man pull a covered bowl out of the fridge and tried to think of a conversation starter that wasn't, so, you're a little bit out of your mind, huh?
"So," he started cautiously, folding his hands on the counter and hoping this wasn't his life now, "is your name really Carlos?"
"Yes," he answered immediately, before shaking his head a little like he'd forgotten for a moment he wasn't playing pretend anymore. He pressed the start button on the microwave and the hum filled the room, jarringly loud. "No."
There was a question that obviously followed, but Cecil hesitated to press it. He felt a bit like he was playing Russian roulette, and just because he hadn't found the bullet yet didn't mean he wouldn't this time.
He watched the microwave timer count all the way down to zero but still jumped when it went off. The man who might be named anything but Carlos took out the bowl and opened a drawer under the counter, producing a spoon. Cecil wondered if there were knives in there.
The bowl was pushed toward him with the spoon in it and Cecil looked inside. It appeared to be broccoli cheese soup. He licked his lips and decided on what was hopefully the lesser of two risky actions by asking, "Is there any chance I can get you to try a spoon of this first?"
Not-Carlos chuckled, pulling the bowl back toward himself and bringing a spoonful to his lips. Cecil watched him swallow. "I just had this for dinner last night, haven't gotten around to poisoning it."
I. Singular. There were a few things Cecil had noticed about the house that suggested he didn't live alone. Two pillows side by side. Two nightstands. Two barstools. Probably two people who weren't used to much company. He didn't know if this was a good thing or not, if he should be worried that the other person was worse than this one or if there'd be a chance of making an appeal to them.
Or maybe the other pillow, the other nightstand, was for him. He liked that idea less.
He burned his tongue on the first spoonful. His captor hadn't even blown on it to cool it, but then again, neither had Cecil. He ate quickly despite the fact that it was too hot and without much regard for politeness. The man chuckled at him. Cecil thought about throwing the hot soup in his face, but he was so hungry.
"You don't have to thank me."
His stomach soured. "I wasn't going to."
It was quiet while he finished the rest of the bowl. What he really wanted now was water. He didn't ask for it.
The man leaned back against the refrigerator, staring at his own shoes. "It's Diego."
Cecil sat there, holding his spoon, unsure what to do. "Oh."
Diego pushed off from the fridge, surveying the room before announcing, "I'm going to go to the bathroom."
He sat up a little straighter. Oh please don't make me go in there with you, please– "O-okay."
Diego gave him a look. "Don't try anything." Cecil's head jerked in a tiny nod, eyes wide.
His heart began to pound as soon as he heard the door close. Surely he was being tested, but what if this was his only chance? He slid silently off the barstool, legs trembling as he rounded the counter and pulled open the silverware drawer. His hands were shaking so bad he had to do it at a sloth-like pace so he wouldn't rattle everything inside. There were no knives. No forks. Only spoons. He pocketed one and pushed it shut.
He tried the front door just in case of a miracle, unsurprised when it didn't give. Then he crept back toward the hallway and listened. He could hear Diego, still relieving himself. He had a few moments at least.
There was a tall window next to the TV in the living room. He made his way toward it, grateful for his socked feet. It was a normal kind of window with a crank at the bottom to open it, but on closer inspection he found that the frame had been nailed shut. A pitiful whine of despair left his throat unbidden accompanied by a chill down his spine at the obvious forethought, and he pulled uselessly at first the crank then the frame.
The toilet flushed. Desperate, he looked around for anything he could possibly throw at the window to break it. Even if Diego came out before he could get away, it might make enough noise to alert the neighbors.
There was a lamp on a table by the couch. He pulled aside the curtain and hesitated. He couldn't see out the window. Diego might not have any neighbors. They might be in a rural area, with nothing for miles but fields or desert sands. He imagined Diego chasing him down on a sand dune and stabbing him repeatedly.
The bathroom door opened. Cecil was trembling head to toe, paralyzed by the window. He wasn't even able to tell if his fears were rational anymore. His hand snaked into his pocket, closing over cool metal. "Please let me go," he begged. "Whatever your plan is, I'm sure it can be done some other way."
Diego was approaching, the light from the kitchen casting his face in shadow, a soft halo shining through the outline of his hair and giving him the appearance of some kind of angel of death. "I could kill you," he conceded, completing the effect. "That would be efficient."
Cecil wished he could make out his expression better, to see if he meant it. His tone told him nothing. When Diego got close enough, he panicked, curling in on himself and striking out artlessly with the handle of the spoon. He barely made contact. Diego pressed his palm to Cecil's forehead and slammed his head into the wall. Blinding pain vibrated out from his skull and darkened his vision. He slid down the wall, tears springing to his eyes. "Please–" Before he could even try to string another word to that he was struck again. His head snapped to the side.