"I don't understand."
They furrowed their eyebrows, pityingly asking, "What's not clear about this to you?"
"You promised."
"Aww," They cooed condescendingly, "And you still think, in all your delusions," They ruffled your hair, "That people keep their promises? That's cute."
You scrunched your face up angrily, hating his words, "I want to see her."
"Well, that's not going to happen."
You fought the tears stinging your eyes and nose, wiping at your face before peering up at the man in front of you, "Why not?"
"Because your little friends are already gone," He chuckled, not even looking at you now, but he kept your small hand in his as he trained his attention on the screen in front of him, the blindingly white room filled with other screens and machines that you didn't wholly understand, "And you'll never see them again."
But you were stubborn and determined, muttering with a frown, "I will see her again. Soon."
"What do you know?" He scoffed a quiet laugh, amused, but still didn't look down at you as you gazed up at him with a deeper frown, "You're just a child."
And then you were thrown back into the basement of a home that wasn't a real home and it was only technically a basement. But from the programs you've seen on television your free time, homes were warm and safe, filled with love and laughter, while this one was cold and empty and only had your heart hammering in your chest out of sheer panic, not knowing what you'd find around every corner.
The ticking of the clocks, the beeping and whirring from the machines that were sometimes hot to touch, and the running of freezing cold water was what this house was filled with. And this house that was never a home had a dark staircase that led down to the part of it that was underground where nothing but your screams would be heard. That's all you associated with the basement anyway – the sharp pains of thicker than necessary needles plunging into your arms or neck or legs, the heavy helmet that smelt like pennies on your head that would make you tense with so much unbearable pain until you couldn't feel anymore, and the tough leather straps that made your wrists and ankles red and sore.
Then the blood that would trickle to the floor whenever they took those sharp blades to your skin, carving into you like they either wanted to dig for something or bury it. Sometimes it was both – but those were on Thursdays. You hated Thursdays.
Every Thursday, at exactly nine in the morning, The Butcher would show up. You called this woman The Butcher because she would treat you like butchers treated the meat on the programs you've seen. Sometimes you would think about the programs you watched the night before as you cried yourself to sleep, knowing what was to come in the morning, while she cut into you. You'd whimper and scream and cry and beg her to stop, but no matter what you said, she'd act as if she was alone in the room. Didn't even flinch when you spit blood on her in a nasty attempt to get her attention or so she'd stop, even for a second, to give you a moment to breathe, but she wouldn't. She just. Kept. Going.
But that was years ago. When you were just a kid, growing up in a...different type of household compared to most. Now, you see things differently. For one, you moved out of that town and you're just outside of New York City, so you can quite literally see a whole different world.
Different is a funny word.
The air was thick with a tension, you could see him physically sweating under your scrutiny, and you didn't let it be known, but you relished in the way you could play completely still – not letting anyone detect your next move and drive someone positively insane.
