Married to the Devil

2

Pavel wakes up with a banging headache. Groaning, he rubs his eyes and checks the time. It's almost 3 PM. With a heavy sigh, he turns around to see the bed is empty, as usual. He knew Pooh had already left him for work. He slowly tries to get up, feeling every bit of soreness in his body. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his reflection a painful reminder of today's morning. Bite marks and blood stains are painted across his pale skin.

As he gingerly traces his fingers over a particularly large bite mark on his neck, he winces. The pain is sharp, still fresh. With a resigned sigh, he lets his slender, pale feet touch the cold floor. Holding onto the edge of the bed for support, Pavel begins his slow journey to the bathroom. His legs tremble and he stumbles, falling to the floor with a loud "thud."

"Dammit," he mutters under his breath, his voice a mix of frustration and fatigue.

He stares at his battered body sprawled on the floor, feeling a wave of helplessness wash over him. Pavel slowly rests his head against the three-drawer wardrobe, closing his eyes and sighing deeply. The silence of the room is deafening, a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind.

 Pavel's chest tightens with a mix of anger and sorrow as he reminicise the morning's activity.

"Why do you always leave me like this, Pooh?" he whispers to the empty room, his voice trembling. "Why do you always use me and then disappear?"

The silence offers no answer, only amplifying his sense of loneliness. Pavel's eyes brim with unshed tears. He feels the weight of his isolation more acutely than ever.

"You never stay," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not even for a moment of comfort. Am I really just a toy to you?"

He knows there won't be a reply, but speaking his thoughts out loud provides a small, bitter solace. Pavel forces himself to sit up, leaning heavily against the wardrobe for support. The pain is almost too much to bear, but he knows he needs to move.

"I need to get up," he tells himself, his voice firmer now. "I can't just lie here forever."

Slowly, painstakingly, Pavel gets to his feet. His body protests with every movement, but he manages to stand. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself.

"One step at a time," he murmurs. "Just one step at a time."

.

.

Pavel rests in the bathtub, his body submerged in lukewarm water. Exhaustion overcomes him, and he unconsciously falls asleep. His stomach growls in protest, having gone without food for the entire day. Hours pass unnoticed until Pooh arrives home from his meeting, looking to grab some homemade lunch. Despite never expressing it, Pooh always loved Pavel's cooking.

Entering the kitchen, Pooh's eyes fall on the empty dining table. His face contorts in anger, and he slams his palms onto the table, the sound reverberating through the quiet house.

"Where the hell is he?" he mutters to himself, his frustration growing.

Pooh strides toward their bedroom, ready to shout at Pavel for not preparing lunch. He flings the door open, but the room is empty.

"Where the fuck are you?" he growls, storming through the house until he reaches the bathroom.

The sight of Pavel, almost passed out and unconscious in the bathtub, stops Pooh in his tracks.

"Wake up," Pooh says, his voice laced with forced calm. "Quit playing games with me."

There's no response. Pavel's pale face remains motionless, his breathing shallow.

"I said wake up, you little piece of shit!" Pooh's voice cracks with a mix of anger and worry.

Still, there is no response. Pooh's frustration melts into concern as he moves closer, kneeling down beside the tub. He gently caresses Pavel's cheeks, calling his name softly.

"Pavel, can you hear me? Please, wake up."

Realizing the severity of the situation, Pooh quickly lifts Pavel out of the tub, wrapping him in bath towels to keep him warm. His heart races with fear as he reaches for his phone, dialing his personal doctor's number.

"I need you to come over immediately," Pooh says, his voice shaking. "Pavel's unconscious. Please, hurry."

He sits on the bathroom floor, cradling Pavel's limp body in his arms, his mind racing with worry and regret. He strokes Pavel's wet hair, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Minutes feel like hours until the doctor arrives, quickly assessing Pavel's condition. Pooh watches anxiously, his tough exterior cracked by genuine fear.

"Will he be okay?" Pooh asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor looks up, offering a reassuring nod. "He needs rest and nourishment. And you need to  take good care of him."

Pooh sighs in relief, his eyes never leaving Pavel's face. He gently squeezes Pavel's hand.

"I'll make this right," Pooh whispers to himself, determination hardening his resolve.