Chapter 15 Shay
Shay
I stopped speaking to him after that day.
It was petty, maybe. Childish, definitely. But silence had become the only currency I still possessed, the only form of power left in my empty hands. My words, my attention, my cooperation—all of it was mine to withhold.
The first day, Tom seemed to accept it with the patience of someone who’d expected as much. He brought my meals, said what he needed to say, and left when I didn’t respond, slow and reluctant, like he was hoping I’d call him back.
I didn’t.
By the second day, I could see the cracks forming.
“Silent treatment? Really?” He set the breakfast plate down, the sharp crack of ceramic against the folding table echoing through the basement. “Isn’t that a bit childish?”
I looked through him like he was made of glass, focusing on the wall behind his shoulder until he became just another object in my peripheral vision.
He sighed, a sound heavy with frustration and something that might have been hurt. He lingered for a few more minutes, hovering in that uncertain space between staying and leaving, before finally climbing the stairs, each footstep heavier than the last.
The silence felt good. It was the only thing in this concrete tomb that belonged entirely to me, that wasn’t twisted or contaminated by his presence.
By the third day, I’d stopped tracking his visits as carefully. I’d found a spot on the wall where the concrete had cracked in a pattern that resembled a gnarled oak tree, and I studied it like a scholar examining ancient texts.
I heard him come down the stairs. Heard the careful placement of a plate and the scrape of that chair he always pulled over, positioning it like we were going to have a civilized conversation.
We didn’t speak.
I kept my eyes on my tree, tracing its branches with my gaze over and over until I’d memorized every line, every shadow, every variation in the texture of the concrete. Until I could close my eyes and still see it perfectly rendered against my eyelids.
After what felt like an hour, he left. I didn’t acknowledge his departure with so much as a glance.
The fourth day—or was it the fifth? Time was becoming increasingly abstract—I broke the silence.
But not for him. For me.
“Can I have a shower?”
He’d been setting down the lunch tray when I spoke. His hands froze mid-motion, and he looked at me like I’d just performed a miracle.
I hated that look. Hated the hope that flared in his eyes, bright and desperate.
I didn’t like that I’d given him anything at all, but I needed this more than I needed to punish him with silence. The need for cleanliness had become overwhelming, almost a physical ache.
There was a bathroom in the basement, though calling it that felt generous.
It was basically a closet with plumbing.
It contained a toilet and a rust-stained sink, both ancient and barely functional.
There was no shower. Not even a mirror. My chains allowed me just enough range to reach it, to use the facilities with what little dignity that remained of me.
But I wanted to feel clean. The grime had built up on my skin like a second layer, and my hair felt greasy against my scalp. Every once in a while, I’d catch a whiff of myself that made me scrunch my nose in distaste, made me feel more animal than human.
Tom’s expression didn’t remain happy for too long, unfortunately. The hope flickered and died, replaced by wariness. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
While there were many things he could be called—arrogant, psychotic, delusional, just to name a few—stupid wasn’t one of them.
He knew I’d attack him the moment he released these restraints. He was aware that I wasn’t afraid of him hurting me—wasn’t afraid of dying, even—which meant that there was nothing stopping me from clawing his eyes out the second I had the chance.
“I could…” he trailed off, and something uneasy flickered across his face, a shadow of discomfort. “I could give you something to make you more… compliant. Just for a little while.”
Compliant? What did that even mean?
It took a moment for it to click, for the meaning to settle into place.
“You want to fucking roofie me?”
“That’s not—” He stopped, rubbed his hand over his face in that familiar gesture of frustration.
When he looked at me again, there was something tired and worn in his eyes.
Something that might have been genuine regret if I were foolish enough to believe him capable of it.
“I just don’t want you getting any ideas.
Please don’t make me hurt you any more than I already have. ”
The irony of that statement would have been funny if it weren’t so fucking tragic. As if there was a limit to the hurt he’d already inflicted. As if he hadn’t already crossed every possible line.
But I did want that shower. I needed it with an intensity that surprised even myself. And he wasn’t going to let me have it any other way. This was the price.
“Fine,” I said finally, each word costing me something precious. “Just get it over with.”
Tom looked relieved and guilty in equal measure, an expression I was becoming intimately familiar with.
He disappeared upstairs, and I heard his footsteps cross the floor above my head, cabinets opening and closing.
When he returned a few minutes later, he was carrying a small black case, the kind doctors used for house calls.
From it, he withdrew a syringe and a small vial of clear liquid.
I watched him prepare the injection. He tapped the syringe with his finger and pushed the plunger slightly to expel any air bubbles. His movements were confident, like he’d done this a thousand times before.
I wondered how many people he had drugged before killing them? How many had felt a pinch in their arm, just like I was about to feel, before everything went dark?
“It’ll work fast,” Tom said, moving closer with the syringe held carefully in his hand. “You’ll feel relaxed. Your inhibitions will be lowered, but you’ll still be conscious. Still aware of what’s happening.”
He knelt beside me on the cold concrete, and I felt his fingers on my arm, the needle pinching a bit when it went in.
He was right.
Within minutes, I felt the tension in my muscles begin to dissolve.
The constant vigilance that had kept me rigid and alert started to soften, melting away like snow in the sun.
My limbs grew heavy but not unpleasantly so.
Everything felt… distant. Muffled, like someone had wrapped up my consciousness in cotton.
“How do you feel?” Tom’s voice came from somewhere far away, even though he was standing right beside me, close enough to touch.
“Floaty,” I heard myself say, my voice disconnected from my body like a recording played back to me. “It’s like I’m made of clouds.”
He chuckled.
I used to love it when he made that sound. Used to try to make him laugh just so I could hear it again.
He produced a key from his pocket and uncuffed the restraints from my wrists. I lifted my hands to my face to examine them. The skin was raw and angry, marked with deep grooves where the metal had cut in over days of wear, blood crusting in some places.
I should probably feel some kind of way about that.
Tom helped me stand, and my legs nearly gave out. He caught me, his arm around my waist, supporting my weight. I leaned into him without meaning to. His body was solid and warm, and mine didn’t remember why it was a bad thing to seek comfort in his arms.
We slowly made our way across the basement toward the stairs, each step taking conscious effort.
My feet felt disconnected from my body, like they belonged to someone else and I was just borrowing them.
Like I was a puppeteer with tangled strings, trying to make the marionette walk.
Actually, no—I was the marionette, and Tom was the one with the strings, pulling and guiding.
We entered the bathroom—the real one, upstairs—and the bright light made me squint and flinch, too harsh after days in the basement’s dim glow. I saw myself in the mirror for the first time in weeks.
I looked like hell.
My hair was matted and dull. My face was pale and drawn, cheekbones too prominent, skin stretching tight over bone.
There were dark circles under my eyes, shadows that made me look haunted.
The marks on my neck had faded from angry purple to a sickly yellow-green.
It was as if someone else was wearing my skin, as if I’d been replaced by this hollow-eyed stranger staring at me in the mirror.
“Come on,” Tom said softly, his voice gentle as he guided me toward the bathtub. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Right. Shower. That’s why we were here.
I reached for the hem of my shirt with clumsy fingers and started to pull it up. Got it halfway over my head, my arms tangled in fabric, before I remembered.
“Turn around.”
Tom paused, his hand hovering near my elbow. “Why? It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
The comment sparked something in me—a flicker of the anger that had been my constant companion.
“It’s nothing you’ll ever fucking see again.”
The vehemence in my voice seemed to surprise us both. The words came out sharp and clear, cutting through the drug-induced haze. My anger was a lifeline, a tether to reality, reminding me that we weren’t just bantering, that this wasn’t normal.
This was captivity. Assault. A violation of everything I was.
“Right,” Tom said quietly, something that looked like shame crossing his features. “I apologize.”
He turned around, facing the door with rigid posture.
This was what he was sorry about? Not the kidnapping. Not the imprisonment. Not the drugs coursing through my system right now. Just this small invasion of privacy, this tiny boundary he was suddenly willing to respect.
The absurdity of it made me want to laugh and scream in equal measure.