It's yours, although there's no comfort in that thought. Its very familiarity makes it dismal now; almost no light shines on the rich furnishings or the plush carpets. The windows have been boarded up sometime in the long months of your "illness." No light comes in -- and you can't get out. You've tried until your hands bled.
You aren't trying today, because you've been left tied, hands and feet. It's too tight, because Aimee has the careless cruelty of someone who's never experienced a moment of hardship herself. And you're too weak to tear yourself free. You've never been strong, but you're emaciated now; it's laughably easy to count each of your ribs, and at times she has, her soft fingers tapping gently and then clawing, gouging.
Her footsteps approaching set your heart racing with panic and rage. You know they're hers because no one else comes here. Not your mother. Certainly neither of your brothers. At this point, you would maybe welcome even your father. But it's her, smiling sweetly from the doorway as she lets herself in and sets the tray down on the floor.
"...What's the matter, Michel? Your food's right there. It's going to get cold. Go on, eat. But no using your hands. Crawl over and use your mouth."
She's smiling even now. She believes you'll do it. (And of course she believes this; she's seen you lap water from the ground in desperation, after a week without it. She's already seen how fragile your humanity is, and you despise her for it.)
You've never wanted to hurt anyone before, wanted them dead before. You do now. If she wants to make a dog of you, then so be it. You lurch for her and your teeth close around her wrist until the taste of her blood floods your mouth. Revolting. You want to vomit, but you won't let yourself let go. You'll bite down harder, gnaw through to the bone, rip the hand from her wrist...
"Let go!"
The first kick lands in your gut, knocking you free. The second, before you can recover. Then one after another as you try to curl yourself up, unable to shield your chest, your legs, your face, anything at all. Until despite yourself, you can hear your choked voice trying to ask her to stop, pain overcoming loathing in the haze of your desperation. It doesn't stop. It never stops. And even unconsciousness is only the most temporary reprieve. ]
1/2 cw: violence, captivity, dehumanization
It's yours, although there's no comfort in that thought. Its very familiarity makes it dismal now; almost no light shines on the rich furnishings or the plush carpets. The windows have been boarded up sometime in the long months of your "illness." No light comes in -- and you can't get out. You've tried until your hands bled.
You aren't trying today, because you've been left tied, hands and feet. It's too tight, because Aimee has the careless cruelty of someone who's never experienced a moment of hardship herself. And you're too weak to tear yourself free. You've never been strong, but you're emaciated now; it's laughably easy to count each of your ribs, and at times she has, her soft fingers tapping gently and then clawing, gouging.
Her footsteps approaching set your heart racing with panic and rage. You know they're hers because no one else comes here. Not your mother. Certainly neither of your brothers. At this point, you would maybe welcome even your father. But it's her, smiling sweetly from the doorway as she lets herself in and sets the tray down on the floor.
"...What's the matter, Michel? Your food's right there. It's going to get cold. Go on, eat. But no using your hands. Crawl over and use your mouth."
She's smiling even now. She believes you'll do it. (And of course she believes this; she's seen you lap water from the ground in desperation, after a week without it. She's already seen how fragile your humanity is, and you despise her for it.)
You've never wanted to hurt anyone before, wanted them dead before. You do now. If she wants to make a dog of you, then so be it. You lurch for her and your teeth close around her wrist until the taste of her blood floods your mouth. Revolting. You want to vomit, but you won't let yourself let go. You'll bite down harder, gnaw through to the bone, rip the hand from her wrist...
"Let go!"
The first kick lands in your gut, knocking you free. The second, before you can recover. Then one after another as you try to curl yourself up, unable to shield your chest, your legs, your face, anything at all. Until despite yourself, you can hear your choked voice trying to ask her to stop, pain overcoming loathing in the haze of your desperation. It doesn't stop. It never stops. And even unconsciousness is only the most temporary reprieve. ]