His Daughter

Chapter 18

Greg's head felt heavy. Surrounded by darkness he floated in the oceans of oblivion. In the back of his mind he remembered something. Something horrifying. Something so terrible he never wanted to wake up...

Greg scrunched his nose, the scent of mould and old water overwhelming his senses. He tried opening his eyes, but the brightness of the room made his eyes itch. Greg tried lifting his arm to rub the irritated orbs, but soon had found that his limbs restrained. He snapped his eyes open, squinting unwillingly to the yellowish light of the celling lightbulb. Greg was sitting in an old wooden chair rocking back and forth slightly; his arms and legs secured to the wooden construction with layers of duct tape. His heartbeat speed up immediately, having his mind caught up with the situation. The man let out a sharp inhale, struggling against the restrains. He tried pulling his limbs out, fining little to no wriggle room. No amount of writhing or moving seemed to loosen the tape, rendering Greg ultimately powerless against the situation.

- Can't get out... I made sure it's secure.- a female voice announced from somewhere behind him. He knew the voice so well, having heard it whisper sweet nothings into his ear at night and greet him in the mornings.

-Gabbie?- Greg tried to free himself, pulling his hands forcefully. He tried turning around, however his neck was not stretchy enough, allowing him to only glance at Gabbie's bending over the desk before having to turn back; his muscles aching from being strained.

-Gabbie? Gabbie, what the fuck? What the hell is this?- he rasped out, fighting the silver plastic covering his forearms to no avail. He could hear Gabbie rustling through the papers scattered across the desk. He couldn't see anything, the only thing in sight being the empty staircase, now illuminated with the lights upstairs.

-Gabbie!- he yelled, panic raising in his voice. He had done bad thigs, really bad things, but was this the treatment he truly deserved. How could she be so quiet and calm behind him? Was she preparing something? The distant memory of being stung with a needle making him shiver.

Gabbie sighed behind him.

-Give me a minute, ok? You made a mess on the desk.- she answered colourlessly, refusing to elaborate on the situation. He sat there, dumbstruck by her reaction. How could she be this calm? What even was this? What was happening? Why was it happening? He didn't know what he was expecting.... A messy divorce maybe? Not this.

"What the fuck...."

He tried freeing himself once more, stubbornly refusing to give up hope. He didn't know what was going to happen to him and he was not going to find out. As long as he can move, he will try to get out of here.

Gabbie closed the desk drawer with a quiet thud, her footsteps sure, as she marched around him heading towards the stairs before sitting down on one of the steps. She looked different. Greg had always associated Gabbie with floral patterns, flowing hair and the adorable glam of her happy personality. She had her highs and lows, but even in the deepest parts of her own despair Gabbie always looked and felt different. She had always felt small to him, like a wounded bunny in need of Greg's care. No matter how greasy her hair would get or how underdressed she would be, she always felt beautifully fragile... too delicate. But now? Greg was not sure who was he even looking at. Gabbie seemed paler, more thinned out than before with the eyebags under her eyes more prominent than ever. Her usually flowing hair was tied up in a ponytail, swaying over her shoulders as she walked. Even her clothing was different than usual, the feminine lose shirts and sweaters swapped for cargo pants and a black technical shirt. She wore an expression of neutral concentration, sitting down on the steps and looking right at her husband.

-I am sorry.... For how it turned out....- she started. Greg looked at her incredulously.

-Sorry? What the fuck is this?! Untie me, now! -Gabbie sent him an undecipherable look, her eyes dark and glassy. She smiled for a spilt second, yet it was a joyless smile of guilty conscience.