Fear

49

I stared at the basement door long after it slammed shut.

Tyler had left angry once again — and this time I think I'd deserved it.

I waited for footsteps, for shouting, for something — but nothing. Just silence. 'He's probably heading to his office,' I thought.

As always, I was shaken. But this time, not angry at him. Angry at myself. Why did I say that? Did I even mean it? It kind of just slipped out. I wouldn't actually kill him... would I? So why had the words come out like I meant them?

Eventually, I moved. My body felt slow but deliberate as I walked into the kitchen. I made coffee without really tasting the steps. The mug warmed my fingers, grounding me slightly. I took a sip. Bitter. Sharp.

I leaned on the granite worktop, tracing the swirling grey patterns with my eyes. I didn't blink. Didn't think. After a few minutes, I pushed myself upright and drifted back into the living room.

The TV was still on — some cooking show droning in the background, its cheerful voices wildly out of place in this suffocating house.

I picked up the remote to turn it off, thumb hovering over the button, then paused.

The news intro music started playing.

I hadn't seen a weather map, or a traffic update, or any sign of outside civilisation in weeks. Months. Years? Time was funny here.

I lowered my hand. Maybe I could learn something.

The anchor's voice filled the room. Local stories, Seattle updates, politics that meant nothing to me now. My eyes flickered across the scrolling subtitles, searching for anything relevant. Nothing.

Then the weather came on.

A huge, heavy storm rolling in from the Pacific, the meteorologist said. The map changed to show pressure systems curling like a tiger's claws towards the coast.

But I wasn't actually looking at the storm.
I was studying the left side of the map.

Dense green. Rugged terrain. The edge of the Olympic National Forest. Lines and shadows marking mountains I didn't recognise.

My eyes narrowed.

If I had to guess — really guess, with everything I'd pieced together over two years — I'd say this place (the institution) sat somewhere west of Mount Olympus. Maybe deep, remote even by wilderness standards.

That made sense. Horrifying sense.

My throat tightened. And then the clarity hit. Hard. A kind of brutal rationality that sliced through months of emotional static.

No map.

No phone — hell, no signal even if I magically got my hands on one.

No money. No ID.

No personal belongings. Tyler stripped me of everything the day I arrived. Clothes, jewellery, my phone. Gone.

And then there was the problem of logistics.

Even if I did escape — how? Through a deadbolted front door? Through walls without windows? The house was practically a bunker disguised as a home. A cage dressed in drywall.

But let's pretend. Let's say I got out. The wilderness itself would kill me long before Tyler even needed to try. Bears, wolves, moose, creatures much bigger and stronger and hungrier than me. And the cold. Especially with a storm coming. The nights would drop below freezing in the deepest parts of the forest.

I'd have no food. No water. Nothing for shelter.

If I somehow found a road — by miracle or fate — what then? Hitchhiking? With no ID, no shoes sturdy enough for the terrain, and no guarantee the driver wouldn't be another predator or serial killer. I'd kiss goodbye to my life and regret ever leaving the relative safety of this place.

I'd be trading one captor for the roulette wheel of human evil.

And that spun me toward the conclusion I'd been avoiding. The one that made my stomach twist, slow and sick.

I wasn't leaving.
Not today.
Not next month.
Not ever.

This was it. This was my life for the rest of my days.

The thought of... ending things flickered in my head — only briefly — but it wasn't desire. Just an intrusive whisper of an option I'd never consider seriously. Not because I was brave. But because some stubborn spark in me still chose the pain of surviving over the relief of surrender.

The rest of the day passed in a dense fog. Metaphorically, in and around my head. I moved from room to room, not aimlessly but thoughtfully. Thinking. Absorbing. Trying to accept it.

By the time night pressed against the house like a heavy blanket, I'd settled into an unnerving stillness.

The basement door opened sometime after midnight.

I turned on my side from where I lay in bed.

Tyler appeared in the doorway, breathing harder than he ought to be. Blood smeared across his shirt and arms, dark patches drying near his collar. He froze when he saw my face.

I felt myself pale, but I didn't ask. And he didn't offer.

Some poor soul's Act, I thought numbly.

He looked exhausted. Maybe guilty. Maybe just worn down. His eyes flicked over me, as if expecting tears or trembling or some dramatic reaction.

But I shuffled out of the covers and made my way towards him, unhurried. "I'll run you a bath," I said quietly.

He exhaled, barely perceptible relief loosening his shoulders. I helped him undress without a word, fingers steady as they unbuttoned his ruined shirt and peeled it away. His skin was warm under the blood. His breath shaky. When he sank into the bath, he closed his eyes like he hadn't felt hot water in years.

He looked up at me. A question behind his eyes. Confusion. Searching.

I gave him a small, almost resigned look—neither acceptance nor resistance. Just... acknowledgment.

Then I walked out, leaving him to the water, and went to prepare for bed.

The walls felt quieter now.

Maybe it was me.

Because I'd finally stopped fighting the inevitable.

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