Good Girl

Chapter Part 9

Due to some now-deleted comments, I have received on this fic I want to address a few issues. I completely acknowledge how sexual Sangwoo is, but there is a stark difference between what he does and true attraction. Sangwoo is a psychologically fucked up person, who lacks the ability to entirely differentiate pleasure from torture. Due to this, he treats all of his victims in an aggressively sexual nature, but his intent is never to truly pleasure them. Someone who's better at psychology than I am could explain it better, but what I'm trying to say is that Sangwoo's actions are not intended to be sexy or kinky in any way.

This fic is meant to be a deep dive into Sangwoo's psychological issues, the concept of safety, and simply what would happen if a third person were to stumble into Sangwoo and Yoonbum's complex dynamic. I in no way am attempting to romanticize this sort of abuse, and I deeply apologize if I have. Fanfiction is a method for us to explore the canon in ways not previously expected, and I truly appreciate everyone's support on this fic, as it means a lot to me. Thank you for reading.

Also trigger warning this chapter does contain lots of sexual abuse, with the added flavor of Sangwoo's mommy issues.

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It was like the screech of a cat, loud and irritated and squeaky as if the cat in question was grouchy and old and screaming at some kittens to get off his lawn. It would only take 5 minutes to fix the screech that the hinges let out, but fixing things clearly doesn't matter to him. If anything, he prefers them broken and helpless, giving their all to bend to his will until they scream their lungs out, unable to take anymore.

The door opening sent a shiver down my spine, even though my spine is no longer in contact with the concrete ice of the basement. What I had failed to realize in my shock and panic and mental numbness was that the basement wasn't just a location, but a feeling, an energy that could penetrate any room it wanted, any room with him in it.

Initially, I flinch, hiding my head in the crook in my shoulder and my upper arm that only appears when my wrists are restrained above me. I unmeaningly take in a wif of the thin-bed I have been given the privilege of lying on and wrinkle my nose at the musty scent. The scent of dust and sweat and the orange fungus that grew on the basement walls. The one eye that was still exposed fluttered shut and squeezed harder once the LED light was flicked on, flooding the room as if the sun itself had been kidnapped as well, and was forced to be the devil's personal surgical lamp.

As the vibration of his footsteps shakes the hardwood, the thin-bed trembles as if it was the one that the monster was after, painful memories interwoven in its fibers. My handcuffs tremor as well, causing the long-chain they are connected to the jingle. The makeshift bells go almost all the way to the ceiling, where it meets an industrial pulley. The pulley itself is attached to the ceiling by a white iron hook, the sort that grandmas have their sons install to hang plants off of.

"You're lively this morning." Sangwoo greeted, squatting down to me, like an elementary schooler at recess who's found a bug under a rock. "Enjoying your new room?"

"Yea." I gulp back, my heart pounding so hard it could jump out of my chest.

"As you damn well should. This shit isn't cheap." He scoffed, standing back up, grabbing the bit of chain that's threaded through the pulley but not attached to me.

My wrists are yanked up into the air like a marionette, pulling my arms and chest along with it, jerking me around until I'm sitting straight up, wrists dangling above me.

"Much better." Grinns Sangwoo, stepping back to admire his portrait as if he were Dorian Gray himself.

Better for him, yes, but now I can't hide my sight. I am forced to take in his massive figure, overly illuminated by the lights. Required to gaze upon my legs that are perpendicular to the wall, but small enough that they don't go off the edge of the bed, covered by a black skirt and bandages dotted in stains, as if they were bruised by the basement. There's only one thing I want to look at, and that's what is beyond the colossal man. I can barely make out a desk, but there is no computer, no pens, no files, not even a chair to sit on, just a collection of books that were coated in a thin layer of dust.