His own blood was running down his arms. He was starting to lose too much, but he knew he wouldn't die. Bob was enjoying himself far too much with his machete as he brought the large blade in close to examine the liquid so precious to him. Bart wanted to insult him. He wanted to punch him. He wanted to spit in his stupid face. But it would only make the torture worse for him. The red-haired maniac seemed delighted, but Bart didn't want to look at him. He knew crossing his gaze would earn him a snarky remark. So he turned his eyes away from him, and away from the wounds that were inflicted upon him.
"Imagine this, day after day. Oh, such excitement to look forward to," the deep voice murmured eagerly close to him. "Try. Just try to escape, Bart. It'll be my pleasure to show you there's no getting away from me. Not even death can save you."
The edge of the weapon was almost dancing near his face, threatening to take his eyeball out. He couldn't move his head, maintained in a vice-like grip, and he couldn't look away anymore. He wanted to scream, to yell, to say something, but all he managed to produce was a deranged whistling sound coming from the back of his throat. As the blade was slowly inching closer to his very life, he felt something warm run down his right leg. Moving his limbs around, he realized with horror it wasn't blood, but that his bladder had emptied by itself. Completely mortified, he looked up at his oppressor and a whimper escaped him. Bob stopped, wondering what his sudden change of expression meant. He looked down, and of course noticed the growing dark spot on his pants. His smile told him everything he didn't want to hear. He grabbed his shoulder in a sickenly sweet gesture and spoke softly to him.
"There it is... Relieving yourself, yet still no tears. That's more than good enough for me. Don't you fret, when it comes to you, I have the most vivid imagination. And I have much in store for you."
Bob's words resonated in his mind still, even after the facts.
Just a tight embrace. Just a little tighter, and just a little longer, and Sideshow Bob would lose again, one final time. He felt tears stream down his face. He wondered if they were caused by fear, sadness, pain to come - in any case he struggled to keep them from falling. He wanted out of this hell. At least he was alone to do this. One nice pull was all he needed to do.
Pictures flashed in his mind. Not his whole life, as the myth went, but his most recent moments, his disappointment in life, what little there was waiting for him in his broken household. It was not much, but his crappy life seemed so bright during the moment his throat became constricted more and more by the cold metal, the links digging into his neck.
But Bob was right, he couldn't do it. He dropped his chain onto the floor in an audible clank - it was an act of desperation he couldn't go through with. He couldn't even be brought to hurt himself, as he had known enough pain already, so ending it all was out of the question. It was only a matter of time before Bob got bored and ended him for good. He kept checking on his wounds, hoping they would heal. He didn't want to keep scars forever. He didn't deserve any of that, no matter how much wrong he'd done to other people. Sometimes he liked to imagine grabbing the necklace around the criminal's neck and strangling him with it, seeing him breathe his last breath and just collapse dead. Sideshow Bob deserved to die, not him.
The sound of unlocking reached the bottom of the basement once again. It broke the oppressive silence, announcing another visit from his host. Bart clenched the cover of his bed and felt like a child again, waiting for the Boogeyman to strike.
"To the table, Bart," the deep voice said cheerfully.
Bart let go of the breath he had been holding. That greeting usually meant a meal was coming. Which was odd, he thought, as it hadn't even been that long since the last visit, as far as he could tell. And he was getting food so soon? He figured it couldn't be good. But he did as told and sat down as Bob put down two plates on the table. Unsurprisingly, the other plate looked much more appetizing than his own. Lucky for him, everything tasted amazing now, when that was all he had to eat.
"I... Uh..." he began, hesitant to question something that was given to him.
"Go ahead. I feel you have something to say," Bob pressed on as he sat down across from him.
"It's just... I wasn't expecting all that now, after what happened..."
"Water under the bridge, Bart. Eat up."
The young man was unsure about his sincerity, but decided to let it go nonetheless. As he dove into his food he glanced up just in case, and noticed a strange expression on Bob's face. He was staring straight at his neck, and Bart suddenly felt very self-conscious. He must have noticed marks or bruises after what he'd done. Bob narrowed his eyes and looked like he was about to say something, but when Bart turned away to hide it, his tormentor didn't make any snide comment. It was time for him to change the subject.
"Err... I wanted to ask. Why didn't you shoot me when I was trying to, uh... run away?"
Bob turned his attention back to him and chuckled lightly. "The gun was merely a dissuasion. There was no need to raise suspicions with a loud gunshot. You were still inside the house, so everything was fine."
"You thought of everything, didn't you?" he asked bitterly, to which the man eating comfortably across from him nodded. "So then, how much electricity do you have to pay to leave the light on constantly down here?" he added with a smirk.
"I believe it is none of your concern."
"I hope I'm expensive."
Bob scoffed. "You're not worth as much as you think."
"Yeah, it's not like I'm getting three meals a day, right?"
"If you're not happy with this, I will gladly take it back," he replied, reaching for Bart's food.
But the teen quickly grabbed it and brought it closer to him. "No, it's... fine," he murmured gingerly.
"Then I think a 'thank you' is in order."
Bart couldn't believe it. The bastard didn't seem to be joking either, he had the nerve to ask for his gratitude. He was about to tell him right off, the words almost escaped him, but he eventually let go.
"Thank... you," he uttered slowly. It was hard to get the words out, but he knew he had to make some effort to satisfy him.
"You're quite welcome," Bob grinned. "Did you like it?" he asked once they were both done eating their respective plates.
Bart only replied with a curt "Mh", but that seemed to be enough for him. Bob left his seat and headed to the wine rack. He took a bottle from his supply, blew dust off the surface and came back with two wine glasses. He began filling them up, all the while humming to himself, under the young one's confused watch.
"What's the occasion?" he asked, not looking forward to the answer.
"You are."
Bob produced a knife from behind his back and approached him with a smile and an odd glint in his eyes. Bart grabbed his seat and gulped, eyeing the ornate-looking dagger. It wasn't anything Bob had used in the past, and, coupled with the smug expression on his attempted-murderer's face, it all made his fear reach new uncomfortable heights. It was going to happen now. Bob was about to kill him. The police were probably onto him, and he was now going to end it all, getting all the satisfaction he had ever dreamed of.
"Mph!"
Bob grabbed his spiky hair, holding his head in place, and brought the knife to the blond's face. Bart's heartrate stepped up in an instant, and he struggled a bit, but Bob tried to soothe him, to hush him quietly. He felt a sharp point pierce the skin at the base of his forehead, and trace a line right above his eyebrow. A few drops of blood seeped out and dropped past his right eye, only to land into the glass held at the ready below. Bart blinked rapidly to hold back any possible tear and was relieved when it seemed to be over for this time.
"Taken straight from the source. One of reasons why I keep you alive," Bob said before raising his glass. "To your... good health."
Bart watched with disgust as he took a sip, clearly delighted. There was no room for happiness within those walls. It was either dread or loathing. After that short fear, the hatred in Bart's heart came back in full force. He imagined with all his might the police barging in at this very moment, with all the evidence laid out for them, cuffing him on the spot and putting him on the electric chair. Only that vision brought him joy. Not that pretentious psychopath in all his victorious pride.
"You know, after they arrest you and fry your ass, I'll be dancing on your grave," Bart spat, gathering all the confidence he had left as he wiped the blood off his eye.
"Sadly, I can't say the same for you. This house is your tomb. Your final resting place. For the rest of the world, you are now... dead." That last word was articulated so clearly, almost sung out by Bob, that he knew it had to mean something special.
"D-dead? What do you mean, dea-"
"The search party came back successful, all thanks to me. They finally found your backpack next to a riverbank a few towns away. They concluded that you fell into the river, by stupidly tripping to your death, your body carried over to the ocean. How anti-climactic for the legend that was Bart Simpson."
"So they think I'm... dead?"
"You are, now. Let us celebrate, Bart. To your new life here," he said as he raised his glass again, toasting to his success.
Bob started laughing. His usual, self-congratulatory evil laugh the young Simpson was so used to hear. It resonated in the entire room and ingrained itself in Bart's mind. But he was barely listening anymore. His vision became blurry. He had no idea how long they had been searching for him, probably weeks by now, and it seemed a decision had been made. And now he would never be found. Everyone thought he was dead. Breaking out of here seemed more difficult as time went on. He barely ate, didn't sleep well, he was getting weaker by the day, whatever days even were. And now all hope for a rescue was reduced to meaningless pieces. He started to feel weird inside, like he was about to puke. But not out of disgust, or sickness. He turned around to grab the back of his chair, away from that man, and breathed slowly through his nose.
"Your family will be devastated for a while, but trust me, they will grow stronger from the experience," he heard Bob resume. "Your funeral is next week. My apologies, I'm afraid I won't be attending."
"A funeral..." Bart turned back to him in disbelief right as he was downing the rest of his glass. "But... What are they gonna do? Bury an empty coffin?"
The maniac pondered a moment, obviously happy to have this unusual conversation. "You're right, I suppose I should bring your actual corpse so they may have something to mourn."
Bart stared at him wide-eyed and retreated, just a little.
"It was a joke, Bart. Lighten up."
"Well, it's not funny."
Bob's smile widened slowly, but he wasn't even looking at him. Bart could only guess the madman was picturing the scene just fine as he poured himself another glass of wine. He instinctively put his hand on his forehead to protect his wound, but his tormentor seemed to have other plans. Bob took the newspaper clipping from the nearby wall and proceeded to crumple it up.
"I suppose you won't be needing this anymore."
"No, wait!"
He stopped in his track and looked at him in stupor. "Excuse me?"
"I uh-" Bart replied hesitantly. "Please, don't... take it."
The redhead stared at him from afar, as though he was trying to read him, and seemed to understand his request, as insignificant as it may have seemed. "Fine. Here."
He handed the paper to him, not thinking much of it. Bart unraveled the precious article, flattening it as best he could, and decided he would keep it with him when he would go back to get some sleep later on. He only wished there was a picture of his family instead of his own face, but at least it was proof that they missed him. He only hoped they still did.
"Thanks," he murmured, much more sincerely than earlier.
"You are welcome," Bob replied simply, with what looked like some form of sympathy on his face.
Bart left the table to lay the piece of paper on his pillow and admired this new possession of his. It felt bittersweet to be able to read the few lines of his description and what his mother said to the journalists. She must have sounded so heartbroken then, he couldn't even bring himself to imagine his family now. His new situation sank in, and once again his mind turned to dark thoughts. A new development might have meant new plans, Bart figured.
"So, what... You're gonna kill me, now?" he asked solemnly, turning back to his kidnapper.
Bob rolled his eyes and tapped his fingers on the wine glass. "And ruin everything I've worked for up to this point? In your dreams."
"Then, please let me go..." he urged him. "You had your fun, everyone thinks I'm dead, you won..."
"Yes, I did win. Which is why you are staying down here. Have you understood nothing?" he began with a smidge of irritation in his voice. "Had I killed you, even with the perfect crime, I wouldn't be content, because I wouldn't be having you over for our special one-on-ones. That is worth every death sentence I didn't serve. Be glad I decided not to commit murder. It serves us both well."
"You're a fucking coward, Bob. You know you'll never be able to kill me, and now you won't even try because you know you'll just fail, just like pretty much everything else in your life."
Bob laughed again. A loud, nasty cackle that sent fear crawling in Bart's body. For that the teen received a back-handed slap, with a vivid sound that seemed to persist in the thick air of the basement.
"Keep running your filthy mouth," Bob warned sharply. "It gives me more reasons to keep you down here."
Bart didn't care anymore. His cheek still stang a bit, but that sadist had done far worse to him at this point. "Why aren't you blaming Krusty for everything? He's the one who hurt you, and humiliated you for years! He's the one who called you Sideshow and abused you live on air, isn't he?"
The former performer sent him a death glare. "Krusty is a soulless businessman who only ever thinks about his ratings," he replied through gritted teeth. "You, on the other hand, think yourself a hero for preventing me from giving children a better future, and for insidiously crawling back into my life to wreck it endlessly."
"Doesn't even matter, all you ever did was wrong. I called you out then and I'll keep calling you out! You'll never be half the man Krusty is, ever!"
"BE QUIET, BART!"
He had gone too far with his provocation this time. He had really struck a nerve there, comparing Bob to Krusty, reminding him of his past failed attempts at anything. But mocking him was the only entertainment he had left. It was either that or letting him get to his mental well-being. Bob lunged at him, making him crash backward and hit his head onto the floor hard. His neck was forcefully pinned down and hands coiled around it, pressing hard. Bart was reminded of his father for a moment, of all the times he'd been strangled to vent Homer's frustration. But this was entirely different. Bob's eyes were filled with pure rage, his breathing was heavy, everything about him exuded the intention to kill. Bart had never seen him like that, with such raw violence. He grabbed the strangling hands, scratching away at them as he tried his best to breathe in some precious air. He tried kicking, turning away, but his head was swimming with the lack of oxygen and he began to panic. Sheer fear took over him once again. This was his final moment.
After the longest seconds of his life, the fingers pressing down on his throat slowly started letting go. Bob's breathing calmed down and he stood back up to his full height. Bart was left to catch his breath on the floor, coughing hard through a veil of pain. He wiped the tears off his eyes and the spit off his chin and turned away to his side, unable to contain the sobs of shock. He didn't want to look at him. He didn't want to see him. He wanted to go home.
He heard a quiet huff coming from the other man, and without another word, footsteps climbed up the stairs, swiftly followed by a door being slammed shut and a locking sound.