Daily Fandom Drabbles

#26; Fyodor Dostoevsky [BSD]

[Prompt: I know you can't feel it, but I promise I'm holding your hand.]

[Warning: Hinted yandere/abusive relationship.]

The monitor's beeps are steady – like tick-tock of a clock. Each new second gives birth to a new beat of your heart. It matches the steps outside the door. His heeled shoes are clacking against the tiled floor. The echo is eerie. Apathy runs too deep for you to feel scared. Fear now, too, just another thing he ripped from you.

The snow keeps falling outside. Soon children will be making snowmen.

The door opens. There's no nurse accompanying him. They all know better by now, doctors too. Everyone, really. It's your private wing of the hospital. All they can do is watch you through the cameras, their computers recording all your vitals. He's always watching too. You feel his gaze on your skin even if he's half a world away. He's home much more often since the "accident" though.

Glass is carefully set down on a table to your right. You hear a splash of water; the scent of lilies is faint, but it will grow strong. And before it fades away, he'll be back.

He sits in the chair in your line of sight. You don't have the will power to turn away. He's pleased, extending his arm to take your hand into his. He kisses the back of it. Your eyes are hyperfixated on the gesture. They begin to water. With horror? Pain? You can't place the hollow emotion.

He notices; brief shadow of worry flashes across his face. Then he realizes and smiles, tenderly. His look is so soft you feel like crying all the more. He sets your hand back next to your side and shuffles closer to you.

"Don't cry, little one," he comforts. His hand is cold against your cheek, thumb softly caressing just under your eye. You wonder if it'd hurt if he tried to tear it out. There seems to be no malice in his look. Perhaps you're safe tonight.

When your expression stays blank and timid, he sighs slowly. His eyes are calm; you see his hand find yours again. It hurts all the same.

"You know why I had to do it," he tells you, patiently. You nod; automatic response – or a survival instinct at this point? "Are you angry with me?" You shake your head weakly, barely more than a jerk to a side. He smiles again.

"We'll get through this," he leans over you. His lips are even colder than his hands as he plants a kiss on your forehead. You close your eyes to stop the tears from spilling. "Be good from now on. You know I hate to have to hurt you."

You keep your eyes closed, lips pressed together. The lump in your throat is suffocating you. Only when he moves away does your body relax. You keep your eyes closed anyway.

"I know you can't feel it, but I promise I'm holding your hand."