A Kidnapper's Dream (Unedited)

-Chapter 2: A Sleepless Night-

@Copyright all rights reserved 2013

-Written By: LovableMonster-

(Also dedication to @FireGoesDown for that amazing side banner, round of applause for her people!)

-Chapter 2: A Sleepless Night-

When I wake from my unconsciousness, I blink a few times. I feel myself wish that I was back home in South Carolina, instead of this god awful place. I've never known this kind of treatment; I don't know to respond to it. It's not a prisoner situation I'm in, but I'm still locked up in a place I'd rather not be.

I look around, the room hasn't changed a bit, besides the man who crouches before me, painting something on a canvas that's sitting on an old easel. He has a brush in his hand, the same brush he'd held before. He paints delicate lines on the canvas, dabbing color where he sees fit. I jump up, scared at the sight of him.

He starts to yell as I move upward, "No! You've ruined it!" He places his hooded head in his hands. I still can't see what's underneath...

He hasn't changed from earlier, but he doesn't seem concerned about ruining his clothing with paint. Dabs of yellow and blue decorate his hooded cloak. He grabs the painting and throws it far across the room. It lands on tile; spraying paint like blood from a body. It reminds me of the man who killed Anthony, killing without a second thought. I watch the color soak from the painting and run over to pick it up.

It was supposed to be a painting of me, but now it's nothing but a smudged nightgown and a brown set of hair. I lay the painting down on the floor and walk over to the man. I look at this artist who's pained by the slightest rejection or movement while he's crafting his heart into his work. He drops the paintbrush to the floor, and approaches me.

Why would anyone want to paint me? Only beautiful things should be painted.

The man looks down at me without saying a word. I wish I didn't trust this man, but there's something about him that I just don't understand. It's not the curiosity of why he kidnapped me, but why he knows so much about me, and why he loves me without knowing me.

"You said you have dreams about me," I say, as if I'm trying to realize something simple, yet I cannot grasp it.

He reaches out a hand and sets it on my shoulder. I don't shake it off, not at first. His hand is surprisingly warm, not nearly as cold and bony as it looked. I might have misjudged him, but I rarely ever doubt myself.

"Who wouldn't dream of you?" he murmurs, but it still doesn't answer my question. "I don't know why my sweet, but it's brought us closer. Can't you see it?" he says, his voice lifting.

This man is insane, beyond my helping. He's a crazy, psychopathic, abductor, and murderer. I shake his hand off of me, he won't touch me again.

I back away slowly, "No, I don't see it, I won't...I...I don't know you..."

I trip over the painting and land in the paint that is splattered on the floor. He tries to help me, but for some reason he can't. I struggle to get up and start to kick at the air. My dress is covered in the tragic disaster, my hair colored with yellow, and my breath escaping me as I fall.

I make it to my feet, and wonder why he was unable to help me. There's something hidden under those cloaks he wears. There's not just a man underneath; there's much more.There's more to him then his madness and his artistic ways of life. He's much more and I can sense it.

I reach out to pull off his cloak but he grabs my wrist and yells in my face, "I would not be foolish enough to do that!"

He drops me to the floor and he removes the painting from the floor, and leans down at it like he's inspecting it underneath his hood. I think he wants to ruin it, as he turns his head towards the fireplace, but drops it instead.

I pick myself off of the floor, which is covered in paint, and watch the man that is now standing before me. I look over at the ruined painting. Maybe it was beautiful once upon a time.

"Why would you paint something so hideous?" I wonder aloud.

The canvas might have been beautiful, but not the subject painted. I look at the hood, wishing I could see what was underneath. A warm face with brown eyes and a crooked smile. A pale face with blue eyes and a skinny nose. Anything to end my curiosity.

He laughs his bitter laugh again, "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever gazed upon, Jessalyn. That's why I need you, to save me from myself."

He takes my hand, rubbing his fingers over it. I jerk my hand back, turning away from him. Does he expect me to touch him in return when I barely know this man?

"How can you talk that way of something so hideous?" I ask, my voice quiet and soft.

My brown eyes stare down at the floor of his madhouse. The man walks up behind me and breathes down my neck again. This man has a cold breath; bitter and jutting out at me.

"Why are you so foolish, Jessalyn? Why are you such a stupid girl? Why are you abandoning the night for what it is? You hate starless nights, but what about the beauty of the dark? Why do you refuse to trust in what is so right?" He moans, placing his hand on my waist and gripping my side, his nails biting at it. He feels at the material of the dress and then removes his hand.

He then places a hand on my back, turning me around. I look up at his dreaded hood. I tell myself that the man disguised by it is nothing more than a man.

So why am I afraid of what lies beneath?

I barely know this man, who claims to know so much about me. I refuse my other thoughts and reach up to the string that ties his cloak. If he lets me see him, will I be in a different situation? I try to snap the strings apart as quick as I can. I want to see why he hides from me. That was my only thought ever since I got here, and I've always been somewhat curious my whole life.

He feels my tug, his fury growing. He tries to thrust me away and manages to retie the strings.

"Why would you try to do something like that?" he yells, throwing me towards the wall, his body pressed against me. He pins me to the brick wall and drags his hand against a scar by my lip. He sighs,'' I'm sorry...Forgive me...'' He says, apologizes for throwing me. I try to move myself from under him the best I can. He seems to be frustrated at my emotions and actions towards him.

His fingers trace the scar and then he touches a burn mark. "Jessalyn, your beauty is my weakness."

He drops me to the floor and I sit, hugging my knees. Im not beautiful, however I am scared of how he thinks of me. He watches over me, like a hawk watches its food from a distance. He bends down, hovering over me.

"I have some rules here Jessalyn; unfamiliar to you. There's only a few and if you obey them you might come to like this place one day.'"

I stare at him, feeling my heart begin to race. "Rules..?" I wonder. He nods and continues, but the tone of his voice isn't harsh or threatening in any way.

"Rule number one, if you do not obey what I say, I'll have to punish you, and I would hate to have to do that," he explains, flinching at the idea, he obviously does not like the thought of the one bit. He seems to be regretting his harsh words.

I nod, still afraid of what punishment he has in mind for breaking rule number one. He starts to get up, "Rule number two, never...never try to escape," he demands, walking away. This rule seems to make his attitude towards me change.

Well if it's really that simple...

I watch him and I get up to follow. I'm not sure why I feel the urge to do so. He picks up the discarded painting and stares at it, "What an awful waste of paint," he mutters and throws it into the fireplace.

Maybe that old thing is the only thing keeping me warm in such a cold place. I stare at the flames, burning away the paint and crafting ashes out of the canvas. I turn away, I don't care much for fire anymore...

The man looks at me, "Go to bed. I have work I need to do and you're only a distraction."

When he notices I have no intention of leaving he grabs me by my wrist and walks me back into the bedroom I had woken up in. "Have you forgotten the rules already?" he asks me, reminding me that I must obey what he commands.

I walk over to the bed and lay down, not bothering to change. I feel myself letting out tears that burn my eyes and wet my cheeks. When I hear the door open, I shoot up like a bullet. The man is back, but only for a moment.

"Goodnight my angel...I'm sorry."

---------------------

I finally get up from the bed, dried tears lie on my cheeks. I don't know why I should be afraid of this man, when he's not afraid of me. I grab the dress that sits on the dresser and exchange it for my disgusting rags. I figure it will be a nice change. I drop the other dress to the floor and leave the room, expecting to find the man at his desk or painting. He isn't there, so I let my breathing return to normal.

I walk over to his desk and sit in his chair; it's comfy yet sturdy. I pick up a nearby canvas and examine it. It's another picture of me, but I'm in a blue summer dress this time. I sigh and put it back where I found it. I look down at the paper on his desk, trying to find something that might help me. Most of them are receipts for paints and flutes, though some are bills. I'm interrupted when a hand braces down on my back. I turn around and find myself looking up at yet another, this time yellow, hooded face.

"What is this place you've brought me to?" I ask, turning the chair to face him. My curiosity is always changing from subject to subject.

He looks at me and sighs, "I wish I could tell you, Jessalyn. Oh how I wish you would understand," he sighs. Maybe I would understand, but this man doesn't believe in me the way he could.

"Can you at least tell me your name now?" I ask, my voice breaking again.

I haven't been so confused, hurt, and loved all in one day before. It's an unsettling thing; probably not healthy either. Knowing his name would give me more reassurance that he's not going to hurt me.

He places his hand on mine, "My name is Luca, now you know. I said I would tell you when you have come to accept me, have you my sweet?" He asks this with a hint of fear in his voice.

He is not the beast I thought he was; not entirely. I can tell he doesn't like to open up to people, that he usually doesn't even spare them his name.

I slowly shake my head, not believing I'm sure in my decision.

He removes his hands and asks me something angrily, "How could you have left with that boy to the Circus? Didn't you know that love is never kind? That love cannot be real because it always dies?"

He turns away from me, I can hear him sobbing, but he stops himself. He's wearing nothing but a hooded cloak, a silk white shirt, black pants, and nothing on his feet. They don't have claws like I thought they would, they don't resemble those of a gargoyle or a monster. I'm being silly, there's no way he could be such a monster. Then again, how would I know?

I've never seen a grown man cry before. He is probably in his late twenties. He's still strong enough to cry, but he's not weak. He walks out of the room and down into another, one that I sense is similar to a dungeon. I hear the door close loudly behind him as he enters. I made a stupid decision, I never think before I act, that is my downfall. I can't believe I've ignored my fears and tears to do something so stupid.

I feel my body rise from the delicate chair and lead me to the dungeon, one step at a time. I don't know what I'm doing, or what I'm telling myself to do. I don't know what will happen when I enter, or when he looks upon me. I won't know what to feel or what to say. I'll be like an empty shell.

I grasp the handle of the door and slowly walk in, taking the steps without help of a hand rail. I manage to get to the end and scream. Not because of him, but because of all of the torture devices laid across small, wooden tables and brick walls. For some reason, I don't feel the urge to run. It's strange; standing in the face of death and wanting to be near it.

A hand grasps mine and gives it a shake, "Have you come to accept me? Have you come to show me real compassion? Have you come to say you're sorry, Jessalyn?" I look at the hood concealing him and feel fear grow inside me again, unaware of how I feel or what to accept anymore. He's full of so many flooding emotions.

I ignore his question, responding instead with my own.

"What are all these?" I ask, looking around the room at the ropes and chains that are hung carelessly.

He looks down at our hands together and he looks back up, "They're for the scoundrels who could come and harm you," he explains, "and the rope is for me if I decide to hang myself."

He begins rubbing his fingers across my knuckles. I move away, removing my hand from his. I look at the cloth that surrounds his body. What am I letting myself do with this man?

"Why would you do such a thing to yourself?" I ask, sitting up on the table in the room. The dress making me feel lighter.

I put out my hand to try to comfort him; to let him see reason with his irrationality. He catches it, "Jessalyn, why have you decided to treat me like this?" he asks, waiting for an answer to a question for which I have no answer.

I shake my head. I've robbed myself of any dignity left, anything that indicated that I was once smart, is now gone.

His voice grows unsteady, "When you are like me, you are not loved. It is better to be dead and to forget the pain then to be alive and feel it. But Jessalyn, I have you now, and you can save me from my pain," he explains, gripping my hand harder.

I don't know what type of pain he goes through, maybe he brings it on himself. Maybe it's something darker.

"Is that why you paint me? To forget your pain?" I ask, accepting his company at last. It's all I have for now. I don't love this man, I don't even care for him that much, but it almost burns not to show him at least a sign of compassion. I feel this connection, showing me that we are both the same.

I don't like the thought of it, caring for my kidnapper...

He loosens his grip, "That is a reason, yes, but each and every one of your scars is beautiful to me. I feel your pain, Jessalyn, I feel it every day. We are so much alike, you and I, but you are a truly beautiful creature. I am nothing but a man who's been left broken."

He brings me to a table and we sit on it. I sigh and watch him play with a stray chain, something so deadly when used in the wrong hands.

How can we be alike though?

He's nothing like me. There's nothing that makes us compatible. A man like him, tortured and abused, unloved, but so crazy inside. He yells without a thought, he tortures without a glance, and he loves without a beat.

He grips my shoulders and changes the subject abruptly,"Would you like me to get you something to eat? You must be starving. Come, let us return upstairs."

He hops off the table and helps me down, grasping my hands. He can't keep his hands off of me, he can't and won't; I don't know why.

I grab his outstretched hand and we exit the dungeon with my stomach growling for food. I hadn't realized I was so hungry until he mentioned it. I watch him as he sits me down at the table and walks away, hopefully getting food.

I stare at the table, lined with a satin tablecloth, it's very pretty indeed. I think of my grandparents, wondering where I am and what happened to me. I already miss them.

I let a single tear drop from my eye and with it away with the tablecloth.

I've done enough crying for today, I won't cry in front of Luca. He'll think differently, and he'll never tell me anything about him. If I don't accept him or this place, he'll think I've been lying. I need him to think I understand, that I care about him, that I love him.