He wants to know if asking him for something is a form of manipulation, and maybe it is. If the man is willing to help me with something as simple as regulating my body temperature and being comfortable, maybe he’ll be more willing to let me go.
I’ve seen more than one interview with people trying to prepare you for different situations, and the one thing that sticks out in my mind is hearing one of them say to make yourself more human.
“I’m c-cold,” I say, my stammer more from fear than the chill in the room.
“I think a warm shower would warm you up much better.”
My head instantly shakes at the suggestion. “I’m not that cold.”
His chuckle is low and menacing and speaks of his intent.
“I never thought I’d have a use for these when I bought the house,” he says as he crouches and works the combination on the lock holding my chain to the eye bolt in the floor.
I’m shaking by this point, an uncontrollable tremor working its way up my spine until it’s difficult for me to hold my hands steady.
I’m in a constant state of questions, wondering if doing exactly what he wants will be what’s best for me. Is that what he expects? Will cooperating help me or will it piss him off?
Begging to be set free is on the tip of my tongue as he stands with the free end of the chain dangling from his fingers.
He changed his clothes while he was gone. Sweats instead of dress pants cover his legs. His button down has been replaced with a non-descript, plain t-shirt. This way he looks like a college guy, and I’m floored by how much his style of clothes makes a difference in how I see him.
The guy standing in front of me would’ve grabbed my attention on the video calls I attended when I was in college. I probably would’ve seen him and spent hours wondering who he was, what his personality was like. I would’ve crushed on this guy.
What a difference certain situations make.
“You’ll shower?” he prompts, giving the chain a little tug but not pulling it enough to jerk me forward.
Getting up isn’t a suggestion. He fully expects me to stand and walk across the room.
“Do I have to remind you of the rules?”
I shake my head but not because I’m answering him. I don’t recall him giving me any rules.
“Do it yourself, or I’ll do it for you.”
I swallow again, and the urge to beg is a physical thing growing inside of me.
I can only hope my understanding of his words are correct, that he won’t touch me or hurt me if I shower on my own.
He begins to walk toward a closed door on the far side of the room, not pausing as I stand to follow him.
I’m unsteady on my feet as I cross the room, and I know it has less to do with the drugs still in my system and more to do with the fear that’s threatening to take over my entire body.
Any chance of escape fades away as he bends down to relock the chain on yet another eye bolt in the floor of the shower.
We rotate positions as he steps closer because I can’t stomach the idea of him touching me. The brush of his fingers along my cheek when I first woke up was bad enough.
He doesn’t leave the room, and I don’t even know why I considered that he might.
“Go ahead,” he urges as if I need to be coddled and convinced like a small child.
It irritates me, but I’m not foolish enough to snap back at him. I know asking for privacy won’t get me anywhere, so I don’t waste the effort in doing so.
I keep my eyes on him as I blindly reach into the shower to turn the water on, fully expecting to get sprayed with an artic blast. I find myself shocked at the water already being warm when it hits my arm.
I have no excuse about being unable to get undressed because my gown is strapless, but I don’t reach behind my back to attempt to unzip it. I take a chance and step under the shower still fully dressed, watching his face as he leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t demand I strip and shower properly.