[TOM'S POV]
The Next Day (Day 2)
I had been awake for only a few hours, consoled strangely by the predator before me. I was traumatized. I thought he was going to kill me, only for me to pass out and wake up in his bed as if nothing even happened. I knew I had to escape, but my brain felt like it was slowly dying on me. I didn't have a single rational thought, and I felt dizzy for a long time. He gave me some fruit and water, then let me wash myself up in the shower, though he always kept a close eye on me. I felt like everything I managed to do was done numbly. I couldn't stop fidgeting with my hands or drumming my fingers against every surface I rested near. I wanted to feel the repetitive movements and hear the sounds of things around me. It helps ground me when I'm stressed. I feel so lost. He definitely took note of this, probably frustrated with how depressed and dull I had become. He spent the entire day trying to get energy out of me. I thought all he wanted was for me to be passive. Turns out he enjoyed my spitfire too, but I'm so afraid that my entire system completely shuts down around him now. I'm not even going to fight back. I feel... empty.
Last night I could hardly fall asleep. He hadn't put me through much of anything today despite what he insisted prior. Maybe he paused my torture because he was genuinely concerned about me. Hah... what a laughable thought. He knows what he's doing. He didn't put me through trauma on accident last night. But still, he managed to surprise me. He suggested that we go to the bar we met at the other night. I hardly responded. In any other state of mind, I would've absolutely agreed and then tried to escape. But I know that even if I yelled out for help in front of everyone, he'd slit my throat then and there. At least that would get him caught, but it'd also mean I'd have to die. I pondered if that was worth it. My brain is in such an awful, neglected place right now. I struggled to get on the clothes of mine he had captured me in, but I washed my face and fixed my hair out of my eyes with success. I actually looked decent despite the abuse. I felt something stirring inside of me as I got into his car, looking at how nice and kempt it was. It felt like I was going out for a drink with a friend. As we left the site of my trauma, the air changed. The view of the bar felt tantalizing... was I really allowed to go in? Was he giving me freedom?
As we sat at the counter where we had once met, something felt right in the world. I had a strong sense of deja vu as though I was only just meeting him for the first time again and I was still completely free to go back home. Yet I stiffened, remembering that such wasn't the case. Tord was sitting at the barstool beside me, looking past me at the closest person over. A pretty regular looking guy was at the seat a meter from where I sat, minding his own business while sipping a drink. I considered a cry for help, but swiftly decided against it. While waiting for the bartender, I instead looked up at Tord for a moment. He continued to look past me in thought. I could tell by the way his eyes scanned the person next to me that he was preparing his actions against the man say he flirted with me or even tried to converse with us. I could actually read Tord fairly well here, and his tendency toward a violent solution concerned me. The mild, neutral expression he was making was familiar to me; the one he makes while calculating and predicting situations. It means he's so deep in thought that he's not bothering to force an expression to his face, that or he's trying to hide an expression. Clearly, in this case, he was just not mentally present.
I could tell he was in his imagination as I boldly put my hand in his and sighed, "Don't do that. If you get into any kind of trouble, you know you'll lose me." I explained, doing my best to appeal to his logical mind. He looked down at me, visible confusion written on his face. There were other emotions inside of it, but I wasn't quite capable of reading those. Maybe frustration, or even joy? Did I make a mistake? Was my assumption wrong, or perhaps too correct? Was it not my place to make that sort of statement? "I must really be off my game." He relaxed, letting out something of a nervous chuckle as the bartender came around to us finally. He put on a kind face and ordered us drinks, and I found myself continuing to analyze. I hated to admit that coming here was helping me take my mind off of things.
