Switch Blade Romance

Talking in your sleep

And The sky was all violet......

The basement smelled like old pennies and wet earth, the kind of smell that got into your clothes and stayed there, no matter how many times you washed them. Andrew had been humming-some tuneless little thing from childhood, maybe "Camptown Races" or whatever junk his brain dredged up when it didn't want to think about the real stuff-for an hour and a half now, maybe longer. Time got slippery down here, like trying to hold water in your cupped hands. It was February 9th, or so his body clock told him, though the single bulb dangling from its frayed cord gave no help with calendars. Two weeks since Charles Grady had brought him to this cabin in the Maine woods (or maybe New Hampshire; Andrew couldn't be sure anymore, the trees all looked the same when you were running blind through them at night). A week since the night Charles had put the knife in Andrew's hand and made him finish Micha. A week since the almost-escape, the door left unlocked just a crack, the cold air hitting his face like a promise, and then Charles's hand clamping down on his shoulder like a vise made of bone.
Andrew had screamed then-Aiden, please, no, don't!-as Charles hauled him back through the kitchen, boots scraping linoleum worn smooth by years of other people's lives. Charles had stopped dead, turned, and those eyes-wild, flat, the pupils blown wide like a cat's in the dark-locked on him.
"Don't call me that fucking name again," Charles said, voice low and reasonable, the way a man might tell you the sky was blue. "My name is Charles Thomas Grady. Do you understand me?"
Andrew had stammered yes, and Charles had gone back to dragging him, one arm twisted behind like a broken wing. Andrew half-walked, half-crawled, amazed at the strength in that grip. He'd read about it in magazines, how crazy people could lift cars off trapped kids or snap bones like dry twigs. Now he believed every word. The cellar door banged open like a gunshot, and down they went, Andrew clawing at the top steps, nails splintering wood, one thumbnail tearing free in a bright hot burst of pain. He howled.
"Shut up, you fucking pussy crybaby," Charles hissed, yanking harder on Andrew's right leg. "Or I'll give you something to cry about."
They reached bottom. Charles let go. Andrew sprawled on the cold concrete, tasting blood where he'd bitten his lip. Charles walked off into the gloom, then stopped, turned, knelt. His hand closed around Andrew's throat-not hard enough to kill, just enough to remind him how easy it would be.
"I swear to God," Charles said, breath hot and sour against Andrew's face, "if you even think about running again, I'll cut one of your feet off. Maybe the whole leg. And down here? In this dark, damp hole? That stump won't heal. It'll go bad, gangrene slow and black, eating you from the inside out. Painful. Real painful. We clear?"
Andrew nodded, slow, careful. Charles released him. Air rushed back in, sweet and ragged. Andrew's throat throbbed like a second heartbeat.
He heard Charles rummaging through boxes, the clink of metal, the rustle of old newspapers. To his left, Micha still hung from the ceiling in that makeshift harness, naked and blue, eyes open and staring at nothing. The sight hit Andrew like a punch to the gut-disgust, grief, a sick twist of something he didn't want to name. Then came the rattle of chains.
Charles stepped back into the weak light, two sets of heavy links dangling from his fists like dead snakes.
"Charles," Andrew croaked, throat raw, "what are you-"
"Shut up. I'm still mad at you." Charles's voice cracked a little, almost hurt. "I love you. I try to protect you, try to make you see how good we could be, and you pull this shit. Try to run. I ought to just kill you now. Save myself the heartache."
Andrew started to sob-quiet, hopeless sounds. "Charles, please, I'm sorry-"
The chain came down fast, a heavy thonk against Andrew's left side. Pain exploded, white-hot, like someone had driven a sledgehammer into his ribs. He screamed.
"I said shut up." Charles's voice was flat now, businesslike. "I'm not playing. I'm gonna chain you here for a while. Let you think things over. I'll come down, talk to you, feed you, wash you. Maybe fuck you if you're good. But you don't come out. Not till I say."
He snapped cuffs around Andrew's wrists-cold steel, not too tight, just enough slack to keep circulation. Then he dragged him across the floor to what had once been a rumpus room: faded paneling, a sagging cot, a toilet bolted to the concrete, a sink with a single dripping faucet. Four heavy hooks studded the wall above the cot like iron warts. Charles shoved Andrew down, hooked the wrist chain to one set, then cuffed the left ankle and secured that chain to another hook.
"Make yourself at home, baby," Charles said. "This is home for a while."
Andrew cried again, soft and broken. Charles walked out, into the main cellar. He unhooked Micha, slung the body over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Andrew stared, stunned again by the casual power in that frame-thin, almost boyish, but strong as a machine.
Charles stripped the clothes off the corpse, methodical. Then he went to the big stone fireplace at the far end-the one that doubled as a crematorium, gas jets and all. He twisted the valve. Struck a match. The fire whooped to life, orange and hungry.
Andrew understood then, and the horror rose up in his throat like bile.
"Oh God, no-Charles, don't burn him. Please."
Charles glanced over, amused. "Why not? You sweet on your little dead boyfriend? Want me to leave him be so you can fuck him later?"
"No, it's just-the smell." Andrew choked on the words.
Charles chuckled, low and mean. "You'll get used to it, bitch. Anyway, I got to do this. Then I'm moving their car. After that, I'll come back and you and me we'll play a little. Okay, kitten?"
Andrew just sat on the cot, tears cutting tracks through the basement grime on his face.
Charles laughed again-genuine this time, almost fond-and dragged Micha to the fire's mouth. Rolled him in headfirst. The flames roared, greedy. Black smoke boiled up, thick and greasy. Andrew saw some of it curl toward Charles, almost deliberate, sliding into his nostrils, his open mouth. Charles made a small, strangled sound, like a man tasting something exquisite. Then he turned away from the blaze.
"Please, Charles," Andrew cried. "Don't leave me down here. Please."
Charles didn't answer. He just kept walking toward the stairs.
"Next time," he called back as he started up, "it'll be you in the fireplace."
The door slammed. The lock clicked.
Andrew was alone with the smell-burning hair, roasting meat, something underneath like sweet rot. The fire snapped and popped. The bulb swung gently, throwing shadows that moved like things with intent. And somewhere in the dark, the chains clinked softly, as if they were settling in for a long wait.