Bart brought the glass to his lips and drank it all. That leftover wine from last time was all that was available to him, since his abductor had once again left him to rot down here, without so much as a bowl of water this time. The taste didn't do much for him, but it was something in his stomach. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to make him drunk, not even tipsy. If only he could have some beers to get wasted, to drown everything into a numb state, but no. He had to live with raw pain and despair.

Starving to death didn't seem so bad anymore. If he could gather the energy to, he would struggle more. And beat up Sideshow Bob to death, or stab him with his own weapon, or shoot him with his own gun. The psychopath would lie dead there in his own basement, and the torture would be over, only to leave room for another problem entirely. For days, the corpse would rot away face down, while Bart's stomach would grow hungrier with each passing hour. Three days without water, if he recalled correctly, and he would start fading away, slowly losing the energy to even live. This was as good as suicide, only longer and far more painful. But at least the sadistic maniac would be dead, never to hurt him or anyone else ever again. For a crazy moment alone with his thoughts, he considered sawing his own leg off to free it from its chain. But he couldn't even imagine himself doing that. He didn't want to suffer any more than he already had to.

After years of poking holes into Bob's various revenge plots, Bart could find nothing this time around. He was furious at his perfect plan.

The metallic sound of a key unlocking a door led to a sudden outburst of anger within him. As soon as the door opened, revealing the tall silhouette of his tormentor, Bart grabbed the first thing within his reach – the chair he sat on to eat the little food he was given – and threw the piece of furniture as hard as he could toward the door on top of the stairs. It tumbled down every step after missing its target, causing a useless racket as Bob watched the futile attempt with disdain.

"I'll just ignore that..." he declared as he walked down the stairs and effortlessly kicked the chair out of the way.

The young Simpson sat back down on the bed, tired and sheepish, wondering what had come over him. It was probably for the best that he had missed, since it would have brought him nothing but far more trouble than he needed. He noticed that Bob was carrying a large towel in his hands as he closed the distance between them, and Bart tried to figure out what sort of torture was in store for him next. The man handed the object to him, with no expression on his face whatsoever.

"Here. Clean yourself up."

Bart grabbed the wet towel in confusion. It smelled of nice shower product, and he knew he desperately needed to feel clean and fresh after all the experiences he'd gone through. Bob was standing next to him expectantly, and he realized he meant for him to wash himself right here, right now.

"Are you for real, man?" he asked in consternation.

The criminal's only answer was a death glare that managed to shut him right up. He got the message. He gulped and got up awkwardly, feeling his eyes on him.

"Could you at least turn around?" he asked as politely as he could manage.

"You just attacked me with a chair. I'm not turning my back on you, you uncontrollable little brat."

Bart winced at his sharp tone. He decided not to insist, and proceeded to wipe his face with the towel. He turned around and tried to scrub every inch of his skin without taking his clothes off, bending uncomfortably to reach private places. It wasn't nearly as effective as a nice, warm shower, but he was pretty sure he wouldn't get that privilege again in a long time. After he was done, or at least felt somewhat cleaner, he turned back to find Bob unpacking what looked like a sandwich, next to a bottle of water. The dangerous man then stepped away to sit in his usual spot, but not before picking up the empty glass Bart had left.

"I hope you enjoyed your first taste of alcohol. It was your last."

"It wasn't my first taste of booze, what do you think?" Bart sneered, remembering the many parties he had gone to, in what now felt like another lifetime.

He brought the wooden chair back, sat down, and picked up the still-warm sandwich. He was transfixed by the size of it. He had become so accustomed to getting half-solid food in minimal quantities that he thought he was dreaming when he inspected it, finding proper meat, salad, tomatoes and eggs. It truly felt like a blessing, one he almost believed he didn't deserve.

"I suppose not," Bob replied with a sly smile. "Given your oaf of a father, I'm quite certain you have been drunk a couple of times by age thirteen."

"A couple of times, heh," Bart laughed to himself, ignoring the condescending remark.

His smile faded as he hesitated. He remembered the first time he ate here, wondering if he would get poisoned. What he was holding in his hands seemed far too good to be true. But now, he had nothing to lose, it didn't even matter to him if he died. All he wanted was no pain. He took the first bite, tasting all kinds of flavors he didn't know he had been missing. At that moment, he could almost feel happy. But he knew damn well that that positive feeling was only made possible by the contrast with the rest of his pathetic situation. It was a very small thing, but he would enjoy the hell out of it nonetheless.

Bob let him feast on his food in silence. Ever the creep, he was watching his every move, even as he reached for the nearby water and gulped it down almost in one go.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked flatly, his voice oddly apathetic.

The blond teen looked up. His nemesis wasn't acting as cocky this time around, he even graced him with decent food for once, as well as some sort of comfort. Sitting in the armchair, Bob immediately averted his eyes to the side, avoiding his gaze. It was usually his favorite time of the day, as he would remind Bart so frequently, his very special moment to torment him, mistreat him, watch his optimism grow dimmer with each passing day. Everything he wanted to do to him, he always did with malicious glee. He was acting out of the ordinary, and Bart felt something strange was going on. Good or bad, that was what he was afraid of.

"Bob..."

"What is it?" he replied gravely.

"Could you... let me go...?"

Bob raised his eyebrows. He was obviously taken aback by the question, but he didn't laugh him off, or punish him for the request. He didn't even reply at all, instead he let his question hang in the air, probably undeserving of a proper answer.

"Look, I'm sorry about the chair... I don't even know why I did that. I won't do it again..."

"You are apologizing, now? This is interesting. Do you really think it changes anything?"

Bart shrugged. He knew it was useless to ask, but he wanted to at least try. It was worth a shot, without much risk of harmful retaliation.

"I just want to go home..." he mumbled, his eyes glued to the table.

"How pathetic. It's simple, really. Just consider this place your home, and everything will be fine." Bart huffed crudely but Bob sighed, and his features softened, just a little. "I'll inform you, your family is devastated."

Bart looked up - any mention of his family from Sideshow Bob was a faint spark of light in the darkness, one he would take any time. But when he imagined them all at his funeral in tears, his mother, his sisters, even Homer, and then going home without their son and brother, his heart tightened painfully. But he couldn't show it. Not to him.

"They are...?" he swallowed dryly. "So they really think... That I'm-"

"That is all I will tell you."

Bart was stunned, wondering why Bob was even telling him this, all without laughing like a maniac – a strange tone for a conversation down here. Perhaps he was surprised by his lack of emotions, buried deep down whenever the sadist was with him.

"What about the police? Do they-"

"What about them? Mh?" Bob snapped. "I haven't been bothered in weeks. Their case is closed. I am an honest man, living an honest life. They have no reason to be involved anymore."

Bob's tone dropped dangerously at those last words, and he was smiling comfortably once again. He looked so proud of his plot to ruin Bart's life, and not the least bit disturbed by mentions of law enforcement. What was going on in the criminal's mind was a complete mystery, one that left his victim perplexed and unsure of his next move. Tired, Bart stood up and walked toward his unmade bed, aware that eyes were following him along the way, then climbed onto the mattress.

"When you kill me..." he began weakly as he seized the newspaper clipping of his own disappearance.

"Stupid boy, have you listened to what-"

"If you kill me," he interrupted carelessly, "just... Please make it quick. Like, a bullet to the head, I don't care. I just don't want to suffer anymore. Please."

"You're a fool if you think I'll grant you your wish," he replied, slowly but firmly.

"Whatever..." he sighed as he turned his back to Bob, his eyes glued to the article, losing himself in his own mind, his every thought focused on his friends and family.