The Devil In Disguise

CHAPTER 38: Emotionless

Sorrow blocks my mind as I walk on the grass,

Dewy decorations shine like shards of glass,

Sunlight bathes their world in light but why is mine so dark?

Because again and again you get ahold of my heart,

And over and over you rip it apart,

And the shadows and the demons drag me further from the stars.

— deainlustris

You know that feeling? The one that comes when you realise you took something for granted? Whether it be a holiday, or sleep, or something more emotional... It was an eye-opening, regret-inducing emotion.

That was how I felt now, staring at the new cellar ceiling beneath the new, innocent bungalow in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere.

I'd taken sunlight for granted. Fresh air for granted. Family for granted. Friends for granted.

Granted, I'd believed I was going to die the previous two times I'd been captured; but this time was different. This time, I knew that he had taken extra steps to ensure my safety — how ironic, because safe was the last word I'd use to describe my situation — and he wouldn't make the same mistakes as last time. He was impatient now; enough of playing hide and seek.

The ceiling was clean; no blood splatters from gunshots, no dents from struggles... he must have bought this place just for me. Oh, how honoured I was.

A chill seeped through the thin layer of my clothes, and I saw that I was lying on a metal table which was narrow enough for one person. Only then I noticed the persevering sting at the top of my arm. Straining my neck, I turned it and lifted a heavy arm, folding back the fabric on my shoulder — which wasn't the fabric of the clothes I was wearing when I got shot, meaning he'd changed me — and stared.

The bullet wound had been cleaned, disinfected, and sewn. Neat stitches wove in and out of the cavity in my shoulder and all blood had been wiped away.

It still hurt like a bitch, though.

With effort, I sat up, a dull ache coursing through me. How sad was it that I was used to the feeling?

The metal table's four legs had left scratches on the wooden floor, as if they'd been dragged — he must have brought this table from another room. His designated operation room, I assumed, where he dissected or embalmed people and whatnot.

The cellar smelled clean, and looked friendly. I glared around with mistrust; I knew, first hand, that appearances could be deceiving. The cupboards along the opposite wall had polished brown doors and beneath them was a fixed, long countertop, along which flowerpots and books were lined neatly.

I subconsciously slid off the metal table, trying not to put any pressure on the arm with the bullet hole in it. I walked around the room now, observing, noting, looking for any weapons or ways to escape.

However, the cupboards were empty. The books and flowerpots were useless; unless the flowers had thorns or the books told me how to escape from a murderer's cellar. I did consider breaking the flowerpot and using the sharp shard to pierce his neck — but he'd know before I even tried. The first thing he noticed in rooms were the messes, how things were placed, where everything was. If he saw a broken flowerpot, he'd know — similarly, if I hid the broken flowerpot, he'd notice it was gone, add two and two, and still know.