Where There is Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

Chapter 15: Wandering the Halls

Everything was so... white.

And soft.

And... warm.

The warm he'd missed most of all. He'd hungered for it and now, given this taste, he wanted more. It wouldn't last. None of it would last but whatever twisted brain chemistry had led to his kidnapping seemed to now have granted him mercy for a time. He'd be obedient to keep it as long as he could. He'd already damned himself for one comfort so what difference would it make now?

What difference would anything make?

The devil owned his soul and he'd been so quick to let him take it too.

He fanned out his fingers on the softness beneath them – wincing at the pull of knitting wounds before noticing the freedom of being able to move at all. He wasn't tied. He wasn't chained. He...

Something more urgent than his mobility started seeping back.

He closed his eyes to capture it.

His only warning were steps, soft against the floor. When the touch brushed his hair he flinched before stiffening. He'd taken to his training like a good little pup but he still slipped sometimes. He desperately didn't want to be punished so he held back his tremors with will stronger than he imagined remained in him and let the caress move over his forehead.

He heard a voice speaking but to his ears, it came from a place beneath the water. He knew the words anyhow – didn't need their timbre to know what was spoken.

“Dobre, dobre...” Good. He was being good so he might not be struck. Might not be hurt. He could risk the benevolence of his keeper for his one plea. His only plea.

“Vo... voda. Voda...”

The hand left him and he almost reached for it. He felt loss at its absence much as the need for it ground glass though his belly.

Something icy pushed at his lips – trickled down his jaw. It wasn't the lip of a bottle but the curved bowl of a spoon. Ice. His teeth clacked on the spoon, splitting the plastic to suck in those few fragments of relief. It was taken away for only a moment – the rustle of thin plastic tearing – and then the spoon returned. A new spoon, filled again. He was more careful, not wanting to set off the big man beside him who, so far, was showing a rare patience.

Five times the spoon pushed frozen refreshment past his teeth before he turned his head and sank back against the softness. The hand was at his head again but it was easier not to flinch now. It was the exchange for staving off dehydration. The petting stopped in the next few moments. Another surprise as, instead, the hands tugged a blanket up his chest.

Whispered words again – still that soft tone. He waited. It would change soon. It wouldn't stay this way. This was just part of the game. Soon enough the blanket would be taken away, the cold and darkness replace the warmth and light. The hands would turn brutal.