Gilded Cage

eat

The house above the basement is like any other, albeit more grand than most. It's a house that could be a home. It once was. In a way, it still is.

In the centre of a spacious dining room sits a long ornate glass-top dining table, its mahogany legs carved into artistically-warped tree trunks wound with roses and vines. Atop the glass sits a plain porcelain vase housing marigolds, laburnum and a couple of de-thorned yellow roses. Near it is a woven fruit basket holding an assortment of apples, peaches, plumbs and red grapes. All the flowers and fruit are fresh, bought shortly before he caught the New One. He often goes shopping before. Not always — he won't do anything to create a pattern of behaviour, but he likes to stock up on food before bringing someone new to the basement so he doesn't have to risk being out of the house while they're here.

I trust you, Lilah. Just not them.

They sit opposite one another, at one end of the table. Atop gold-coloured placemats formed of the outlines of hundreds of small leaves sit fine china plates and the appropriate silverware for the meal —a basic bolognaise. It's one of the tens of portions of homemade dishes batch-cooked and stored in Tupperware containers within the chest freezer in the pantry. One of the plates is near cleared, it's pastel-floral print streaked with leftover sauce, used knife and fork placed together at the centre of the plate. The other meal is untouched.

"Eat, Lilah."

She doesn't respond. Refuses to even look at him or the plate she is yet to acknowledge. Near their respective plates, he and she have plastic tumblers — the kind meant for family picnics or garden parties, their bright yellow colour meant to be reminiscent of the sunlight but all she sees is the bulb in the basement. At the start of the meal both were filled half-way. She's drank about a third of hers, swills the remainder around in the tumbler for something to do.

"Lilah, you can't starve yourself."

"Can't I?"

He sighs, short and sharp, exasperation palpable as his patience wears thin. "You can. But for my sake, please don't."

"And what about doing something 'for my sake'?"

"For yours, too."

"You know I'm not talking about the food."

He watches her fork, unmoved from where he laid it on the placemat prior to bringing her upstairs and dishing up their dinner. She sets her tumbler down. Inches her hand closer towards the utensil he so desperately wants her to pick up, that she comes so close to lifting...

But doesn't.

Won't.

Her hands drop to her lap. Though she raises her chin, imperious and just a little gloating at her own pettiness, her stomach rumbles, its growl violent enough to be audible from afar let alone the other side of the table. She rubs her sleeve.

"Eat."

She picks up the fork. Looks him directly in the eye; it's as though they're big cats, eye contact constituting a challenge. She can't just fake it and focus on a nearby spot of his face, a trick she's employed often to avoid true eye contact with others but not him. He's been wise to it for a while and besides, she can't help but look at the marred mess the New One made of him, ripe purple and black bruises circling his eyes and dotting his cheeks and chin, the scratches having crusted over and darkened.

Part of her wants —needs— to ask if he cleaned the wounds. Worries about infection. Wants to tend—

No.

The New One down below surfaces in her mind.

He promised longer. His word is his vow, yet he always finds a loophole in the wording.

Then I'll give him no choice.

"She'll need food soon." Lilah says, voice flat.

"Who?"

Luce.

The New One.

"Lucille." The name he gave her, the one he wants her to use. Not too personal —not a 'pet name' like Lilah— yet not too distant. He always has her acknowledge who they are before they meet their ends, ensures she knows their names as well as their faces.

He sits back in his seat, folded hands coming to rest before him in the space between his place setting and the edge of the table. These dining chairs are not the most comfortable; their cream cushioned seats and backs go so well with the off-white wainscot walls and polished hardwood floors, yet their lovely appearance doesn't off-set the ache that forms in her back whenever she's made to use them. She won't mention it – he will just blame it on her time downstairs, use it as a reason she should spend more time up here.

She twirls her fork, keeps its spotless tines hovering above the chilled spaghetti.

His lip curls. "She's been sick."

"Then she'll have toast."

"No."

Lilah throws her fork. Not at him, but not exactly avoiding his general direction. It careens past his shoulder to clatter across the floor behind him, skidding to a stop a few inches from the wall.

He doesn't blink, only reaction a slight twitch of his left eye.

Chair legs scrape over hardwood as he pushes his chair back from the table. Stands.

Lilah looks up at him, then at the fork, mouth pressed in a stubborn line. She says nothing as he walks around the end of the table. Gives him no reaction whatsoever when he lays a hand on her shoulder as he passes behind her, taking a long route round the entire length of the dining table to retrieve her discarded fork. He leaves the room.

His footfalls fade away. For a heart-stuttering moment, she thinks he's heading downstairs. But the sound of a running tap carries through the archway that leads to the kitchen, quelling her fear and allowing her to retain her impassive façade.

He sets down her fork, freshly cleaned, beside her plate before sitting opposite her once more.

Her fingers tingle, whole being just itching to throw it again to see him stoop to pick it up once more.

"Don't."

A laugh bubbles up her throat. She doesn't restrain it. "Why not?"

"Eat."

"Only if–"

"She can have food when the floor has been cleaned. After you eat."

Another situation fit for a smile; she makes sure to show her teeth this time. It remains, tugging at the corners of her lips long after she takes the first bite of her cold meal.