Free
Victor sat in his chair, wrapped up tight for the rest of the night.
He tested his arms and legs to wriggle out, but he couldn’t even shift them from side to side.
Resigned, he sat there quietly as Willem ate his own dinner, then cleaned up Victor’s dry things from the floor, stacking and folding them to be ready for him.
Willem swept the ashes from the fireplace, did what sounded like dishes and his nightly routine, and then went deeper into the house to sleep.
He left Victor in the dark.
Somehow it felt more like abandonment than if Victor had woken up tied and left to starve. He could still feel the ghosts of Willem’s hands on his neck and shoulders.
Victor let fall the tears he had been holding in all evening. He felt overwhelmed, guilty, and hurt. Terrified.
He wished he could run back to France and demand what had been demanded of him by Alain.
He wished he could see how that cruel man dealt with Willem’s gentle pointed questions.
Whether these tears were a weakness unique to him or if Willem was to blame.
What things would Willem say that could make Alain hang his head like this, full of shame?
Did Alain have things in his past that would make him feel the way Victor did now?
Victor wanted to scream that he was sorry, but who could hear him that mattered? What would his feelings of remorse do in the face of the finality of his actions? Was he actually sorry, or was he just scared and disappointed? A cry for forgiveness and a cry for mercy are two different things.
Thinking about this at all made his head hurt, pound to the beat of his heart, and there was terror at that, too.
He wept and grit his teeth in alternation late into the night until sleep took him, again.