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I feel his eyes on me, so intensely watching my every move, and I try to suppress the need to look up, to look at him. I'm too scared, I do not want to know what he looks like. I do not want his features to match his warm, deep voice. I do not want to like it.
Most of all, I do not want to look into his eyes.
No matter what the tongue speaks, no matter how the body moves, the eyes will always tell the truth. I never fail to see the monster lurking behind them.
Too bad the last time I saw the monster, it was too late.
I drink from the mug of tea and it’s surprisingly good. Chamomile sweetened with honey. It’s delicious. I cannot taste anything foreign in it, no hidden substance.
“Drink, then lay down and go to sleep. It’s still the middle of the night.”
I look around me, eyes low on the floor. I am still in the living area, where am I supposed to sleep?
“Here?” I whisper. My voice comes out surprisingly rough, like I have not spoken in weeks.
“Yes. In front of the fire. You need the warmth.”
I look behind me at the fireplace and I suppose this would not be the worst thing. My last dungeon felt like a cave, cold and damp stone walls surrounding me. This dungeon is different, warm and cozy. Rather idyllic.
But it is still a dungeon. I must not forget—it is still a dungeon.
HIM
I look at her, really look at her, even though she’s cowering away from me. She hasn’t looked up once, she doesn't dare to meet my eyes and I can't help but wonder why. Is it submission? Or is it fear?
But even if I haven’t seen her eyes yet, I still know that she's beautiful. Dirty and cold, battered and bruised, but beautiful. She has round, high cheeks, pale skin, beautifully defined lips and dark brown hair, almost black, matted from the cold and snow. She looks… innocent, but her response to my touch in the woods tells me she’s anything but.
Now, every little sound makes her twitch. The ticking of the wall clock, the wind outside the windows, even if I take a deeper breath. What happened to her? What did that motherfucker do to transform her into this meek little girl? Or has she always been this way? Somehow, I doubt that.
I find myself angry and I can’t quite understand why. I doubt I’m better than that man, I doubt I’m gentler, but somehow I feel a pull to her that makes me want to avenge her.
“What happened to you?”
She twitches yet again.
I wait, but she says nothing. She looks like she’s pondering the question, but it’s not cryptic, no underlying fucking messages. It's a simple goddamn question.
“Little siren, tell me what happened to you.” My tone of voice gets more demanding, but she doesn’t seem to have any intention to open her pretty little mouth.
Fuck this!
I get up and in two long strides I’m right in front of her. She drops the empty mug and scrambles backwards, shifting fast from the sheepskin to the rough wooden floor, all clumsy and scared, until she hits the wall, the blanket now long gone.
She pulls her knees to her chest, shaking violently, and as I watch her with an annoyance that I can't suppress, I know one thing for certain—I’m gonna rip that motherfucker’s head off with my bare hands.
HER
I hate myself. I hate myself for being this frail, terrified version of the person I used to be.
I used to feed on this. Feed on the fear that made my blood boil with need and desire, but that monster turned me into this—a shadow of my former self.
I got used to staying silent, afraid that if I said even a hushed, little word my nightmare would grow bigger, the torture would grow stronger, and I would finally give up.
I want to tell him. I do. Every fiber of my being is screaming at me to open my damn mouth and tell him everything.
But I’m petrified. And he is not my goddamn hero.
My twisted little mind has rationalized that if I do tell him, one monster will inspire the other with innovative ideas.
