What the hell was Bob doing?

Bart, in his sleepy state, heard strange noises coming from the rest of the house. Noises he'd never heard in this house before. Whatever it was, it could never be good. He strained his ears, as he had trained himself to, and heard a door open. He tensed up and dared not open his eyes. A couple of footsteps, then the space of mattress right next to his body sank in slowly as the man sat down in his personal space. Bart recoiled violently, hands at the ready to protect himself from any harm.

"What are you-"

The tall blue hair of his mother came into view, along with her soft features. She was sitting there, her expression turning to that of worry at her son's reaction. Bart froze, his heart still beating insanely fast, and he had to exhale slowly as he tried to act natural in front of her.

"H-hey, Mom..."

"Hello, sweetie, are you okay?"

She didn't show much, but Bart knew his behavior didn't go unnoticed by her, especially since he was now curled up on his bed. He looked around, taking in the familiar environment of his own bedroom and forced himself to calm down. She placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, then cupped his face, a motherly touch he thought he'd never get to feel again.

"Yeah, I just... Yeah, I'm okay."

Marge smiled, relieved. "Good, sweetheart. Look, I brought you a little something to eat," she said, pointing at the tray next to her. A full plate of his mother's cooking was waiting for him, delicious-looking, mouth-watering, with steam coming out of it. She hesitated but couldn't hold back any longer. She pulled him into another hug and held back her sobs. "I'm so happy that you're back... Safe and sound... Oh, Bart... Tell me, what happened to you?"

"I'm sorry... I ran away..." he croaked, biting his bottom lip and cursing himself for lying to her in such a moment.

"Oh, sweetie, why would you do this?" she asked, her voice more raspy than usual. "I'm so sorry you felt the need to..."

"Sorry I did that to you guys... I won't do it again..." He pulled away from her as the guilt became unbearable. There was one question that was eating away at him, one to which he had never got the answer. "How long was I, uh... gone for?"

Marge looked puzzled, but understanding. "You were gone for over two months, but you're back home, now. That's all that matters."

Two months in that hell, that was what had happened to him. He couldn't even decide whether it was short, or if it was an insane amount of time. Two long months stuck in a room with Sideshow Bob terrorizing him, threatening him, torturing him, laughing at his misery, up until a few hours ago. His sadistic face was still pretty much vivid in his mind, every time he closed his eyes. A shudder ran down his spine, and his mother put her hand down on his shoulder again. It wasn't a tight grip, aimed at maintaining him down like Bob's claws. It was soft, supportive, and full of love.

"Are you alright, Bart?" she asked quietly.

He met Lisa's gaze. His sister was waiting right outside his bedroom door, listening intently to their conversation, expecting more explanation from him, but he didn't want to risk the truth being slipped out. He was just glad to wake up here at all.

"I'm fine, just... tired..."

"You should eat something, I'm sure you're hungry."

Bart gulped with difficulty as he grabbed his plate.

"Eat up, Bart, you do need the energy," Bob brought the bowl toward him with a little push, an evil smile on his thin lips.

"I'm not hungry..."

"I know you are. It has been two days, you can't lie to me."

He stared back at him defiantly, ignoring what was given to him."Well, I'm on a... hunger strike!" he declared, pushing the food away and crossing his arms decidedly.

"Are you, now?" Bob replied darkly, then stood up to his full height.

Bart recoiled nervously. The redhead took a large step toward him, grabbed the bowl, gripped his lower jaw, and before Bart had time to push him away, the thick stew was being poured down his throat. He was pinned to his chair, gargling and choking, the top rail digging into his shoulders. The pain and discomfort made the whole ordeal seem to last forever, as Bob made sure he would get it all, down to the last drop. When nothing was left, he was released, coughing, holding his chin in pain. Bob looked down at him with all his aversion.

"Don't make these rare instances of comfort I give you more difficult than they need to be. You don't get to decide anything, remember that."

He was brought back to reality by his mother, who planted a soft kiss on his forehead. He shook his head, chasing the nasty memory away in the process.

"Take your time."

"Thanks, Mom," he spoke, his heart filling with peace and joy at the occasion of uttering those words.

Lisa was ushered away along with a curious Maggie, probably to give him some space. He ate slowly, savoring the feeling of safety of his own bedroom. He had to anchor himself to reality if he wanted to fully realize it was all over. Time was all he needed, he knew that. Remembering his excruciating day, he shuffled through his pocket and pulled out the little key Bob had thrown at him. How could it have ended this way, he wondered. The last memory he had of Bob lingered in his mind, the conflicting apprehension he felt during that moment, torn between terror, mistrust, and pity. There might have even been some gratefulness in there, but he shook it off. He opened the small drawer at his side and pulled out a thin neckchain, one he had kept from long ago. He opened the clasp carefully, and slid the key along it, before putting it around his neck and imagining himself before Sideshow Bob.

"Who's holding the key, now?" he sneered at the empty room. But the feeling of control didn't last long. He hadn't stolen the key from Bob. Bob had given it to him.

"You don't get to decide anything. Remember that."

He pulled the collar of his dirty shirt and hid the key underneath. He had spent his whole day out on the streets, wandering until he was drained of his energy. He couldn't exactly say he enjoyed his first day outside, sadly, but he would make up for that later. For now, he just wanted to go back to sleep, until he heard unknown voices coming from downstairs, bringing the feeling of uneasiness back.

"Boy, there are some men here to see you," Homer called at his door.

"Some men?" he asked nervously. "What men?"

"Hello, Bart."

"Aah!" he screamed as he turned to the source of the voice. Chief of police Lou was standing in the doorway, in his police outfit, unaware of the scare he'd caused. Bart caught his breath, and braced himself for the unevitable line of questioning.

"I'm afraid I have to see him first, chief. Questions will have to wait, if you don't mind."

Another man hurried in, wearing a white coat and carrying a medical satchel. Bart barely had time to react before he found himself being examined with a stethoscope and a blood pressure monitor by the overzealous doctor. Being manipulated so suddenly made him flinch, but he let him do his thing.

"Mom? They're not gonna take me away, are they?" he asked in a shaky voice.

"If you're deemed fit, there will be no reason to, young man," the doctor replied matter-of-factly as he began checking his face. "Have you been involved in any accident, car-related or otherwise?"

"Uhh, no?"

"Have you had any sickness in the past two months?"

"Sick? No."

"Have you been bitten by a wild animal, or a pet?"

"No, I haven't," he repeated, his irritation building up with the assault of questions.

The doctor lingered on his forearms a little too close for Bart's comfort. He went back to his face, and examined his right eyebrow more closely, right where Bob had marked his victory on him. Bart winced in discomfort and turned his face away, afraid he would ask questions.

"How did these marks appear?" he asked, more quietly this time so as not to be heard by his family.

Bart looked up at him and noticed he no longer was in his check-up routine. So he opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. The truth wouldn't come out, as much as it pained him. He had to think of something.

"I f-fell into the river," he replied, remembering what Bob had told him once.

The doctor eyed him closely, with a look of disbelief to him. "When was that?"

Bart looked away, racking his brain to choose an answer, but he couldn't tell if he was supposed to pick an old or a recent moment. He hadn't prepared a story to back up his lies and now felt cornered with his back to the wall. He lowered his head and shut down, choosing to ignore the question.

"Do you think you might need psychological assistance?" he asked again, still quietly.

"...No."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded, feeling his eyes on him. The man kept staring at him insistently, expecting more answers, but by now Bart was used to not answering when provoked in any way. The doctor didn't insist and went to leave the room.

"He's quite undernourished, ma'am. He's got a few cuts and bruises, but beside all that your son will be just fine. He's going to need light meals first, and most of all a lot of rest."

Bart watched him leave his room as he was thanked warmly by his mother, but he knew the questions wouldn't end there. Sure enough, Lou walked past Homer standing right outside the door, and Lisa and Maggie who were watching as their brother was being peeled layer by layer. It was all very unnerving for Bart who just wanted to live his life as if nothing had happened at all.

"Hello, son," said Lou. "Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"Sure," he replied nonchalantly as the two were left alone in the room.

"Can you tell me exactly what happened two and a half months ago?"

Bart swallowed a hard lump. Now he would have to make up what he'd been up to for over eight whole weeks. Why couldn't he just tell the truth? It would get Bob locked up, probably for good. Whatever punishment he would get for it would have been completely deserved. But he had made a promise. Sure, it had just been a way for Bart to beg him to let him go, but Bob had reminded him at the last moment. Whether it was guilt, honor, or pity, Bart couldn't bring himself to break his promise.

"I climbed out the window that night. I wanted to get away, because..."

Slowly, and carefully choosing his words, he related the events that took place that night, up until his unfortunate encounter. He then simply told the officer that he wandered around from town to town, struggling to get food, until he wanted to go home and found his way back. Small parts of his tale was the complete truth, only he didn't develop the context. He only explained his struggles. He didn't need to know more. Lou wrote everything on a notepad, nodding occasionally and trying to decipher Bart's expressions as he was dodging most details.

"Is that all of it, then?"

"Yes."

"You do realize we looked for you everywhere from Springfield to nearly Capital City, don't you? How do you explain we didn't find you?"

"I was hiding very well," he replied without thinking.

Lou made an embarrassed face, but didn't insist on that point. He cleared his throat and moved on to his next point. "Can you tell me why you decided to run away, then? Was it because of your parents?"

Bart looked down, defeated by shame. The trouble he thought he had before he was captured sounded so stupid in his head, now. He had no reason to feel unappreciated, worried, stressed. His old life was precious, despite the hardships. As if a test for his guilty conscience, he now had to explain how bad he had it before he was tortured and starved. He was so angry with himself now, for climbing out his window that night.

"Well, my dad's an alcoholic," he began, struggling to get the words out. "And I'm a disappointment, you know. I'm just... Just trying to get by, but it's hard when you have two little sisters who are better than you in every way, and a mom who gives all her attention to them instead of you... I guess I didn't think I was the big brother they deserved."

"And your dad, has he ever hurt you?"

"Heh, he used to, but we're on better terms now. He's fine."

"Has another relative ever hurt you in any way?"

He stared at him. He knew what he was trying to find out. His family was a prime example of dysfonctionment, but that kind of thing had never happened. "No, no... My family's great," he replied, forcing out a smile.

"Look, son, being a teenager sucks," Lou said, in a lighter tone, trying to be reassuring. "We all went through it. You'll be fine, just give yourself time and everything will be sorted out. Is there anything else you'd like to tell me about?"

Bart gazed blankly at his bedroom wall, his thoughts screaming at him. 'You didn't search Sideshow Bob's house,' he thought with repressed anger. 'I was right there. I was right there and I didn't even know you were there at all. You could have arrested him on suspicions and you would have found me. You didn't do your fucking job.'

"No," he replied, clenching his fists.

.

His house. His home. So empty, as it had been for years. So lonely, as it had always felt.

Bob tried to tell himself that things were back to how they were before. But that was a lie. They were worse.

Bart was gone.

He had set him free.

He walked up to the basement and hit his forehead against the door.

Bart stood there in shock, right outside the kitchen. He looked like a rabbit, frozen by fear at the feet of a wolf. He could have done anything to him, Bob knew he wasn't going to run away any longer. He was amazed, with bitter pride, that Bart was so subdued that he had to chase him away by force. A little prey with no survival instinct. If he kept standing there for a moment longer, he would kill him. Gaining absolutely nothing. Bart had to go before they both regretted his choice.

He hit his head again, banging harder against the hard wood. But the pain felt dull, far away, disconnected from him.

He could no longer tell what the biggest mistake of his life was. There were so many of them. Setting Bart free was his latest, and arguably his most damaging.

Because he had him. He had owned him. He had broken him. He had got his revenge, years in the making, in the sweetest, most satisfying way imaginable.

Then there was nothing. The joy was gone, and nothing took its place.

He threw the door open and walked down those stairs. An empty bed. A loose chain. The absence of his revenge. He wanted to scream in rage. The old mattress was thrown off, landing sluggishly onto the floor. The little chair where Bart... It was kicked away, hard. If only he could throw it at him. In his face. Dismember him with everything at his disposal down here. But all that was left there to destroy was furniture.

Worthless.

Nothing was like Bart Simpson.

Nothing will ever be again.

He screamed into his hands and fell to his knees in the middle of his basement, alone, left with no purpose.

Not even regrets ate away at him, because deep down he knew he had none. None for what he had made Bart endure for seventy-three days, none for ruining his own vengeance. Because he knew. He knew what the last thing he hadn't done to Bart yet was. The last hope to rekindle the flame of his obsession, to make Bart suffer even more, to feel alive once again. But he couldn't bring himself to do to Bart what others had done to him. No matter how much it would destroy the brat, he couldn't lower himself to.

He had centered his entire life around a single boy. Now he was left with utter nothingness. And the lack of meaning was growing, weighing him down on the cold hard floor where Bart used to suffer.

A letter. Yes, a few words while he was still able to.