dollhouse [brahms heelshire]

11

The first room you visited was your own. You came through the gaping hole in your closet, stumbling out with a pained expression.

Your eyes still watered and you bite the inside of your cheek to contain the sobs that threaten to escape your throat. Everything burned, not just your hands.

Everything remains the same. Your open suitcase lays on the bed. Half of your belongings were neatly tucked away inside. You quickly slid off your dress and changed into a clean large T-shirt. Your cellphone should be downstairs. Last time you had it, you were talking to your brother in the kitchen.

This was a perfect opportunity to escape. You knew that. All you had to do was run down those stairs and get out that door. Perhaps you'd even have enough time to grab your phone. Call the police, and go home.

Shaking your head, you stalked towards the bathroom. You opened the cabinet and found a complimentary first aid kit. There wasn't much inside, just gauze, cotton, disinfectant, and a few bandaids. You sit on the tiled floor and lay everything out, unscrewing the disinfectant and opening packages with your teeth.

The wound on your hands was small, but it was open and you couldn't risk an infection. You take a good look at the opening in the flickering light, finding that the sight only brings you to dizziness.

Sinking against the bathtub, you closed your eyes and sighed. The world was spinning and you wish you could have came up with something smarter than breaking your thumbs to escape.

Better do it now. The pain isn't going to wear off.

Carefully, you pour disinfectant over the gashes. It stings so much you can't help but cry out, looking the other way to avoid witnessing the way your blood reacts. It bubbles up and makes a puddle under your station, inconveniently soaking your thighs. You clench your jaw and your entire body tenses until the burning pain wears off.

"What are you doing?"

His voice makes you jump. You nearly fling the roll of gauze in your hand, looking at Brahms with bewilderment.

The last time you saw him... he cradled you against his chest for a moment before sitting you on the bed. He was slow and quiet after that, and the last thing you heard him say was, "who do you belong to?" You told him you were his.

Then he tied your hands and ankles together.

Your brows pinched together in anger as you lowered your swollen hands into your lap. You could still make out red rings that the rope had left behind.

"I had to break my thumbs," you said it slowly, as if you thought maybe he wouldn't be able to comprehend. You were just frustrated with this entire situation. Your feelings, too.

He lowered himself so he was on his knees. You begin to wonder if he heard your cry, and that's how he found you.

He reached forward, picking up your limp hands and examining them.

"I don't actually know if they're broken." You corrected yourself. "I just know that it fucking hurts."

He flipped your hands multiple times, running his fingers over the bruises and swelling.

"Why did you do that?" He asks.

You dropped your chin, deadpanning. "You tied me up."

"I kept you safe."

"You kidnapped me. This is technically kidnapping." You tilted your head side to side.

"Kidnapping?" He repeated. He said the word like he didn't understand the meaning of it. Or, he at least didn't understand why you would use it.