My eyes have been closed for what feels like hours as I, in my restless state, try to force myself through the pattern of numbers that accompanied the tapping of my ring finger against my thumb. The nervous tick is hidden as my right arm dangles from the bed, the other tucked against me and aching as I wait for the arm that traps me to move. It doesn't. Even as he dozes in seeming peace, he occasionally shifts, waking only to pet my hair and tell me I'm his good boy. Each time I freeze and have to consciously relax my body with effort and breathe deep, counting to seven as I inhale and then again when I exhale. My foot swishes back and forth in the sheets, one of the few habits I'd been unable to hide or suppress. Luckily, he hadn't seemed to mind.
"You move your foot like a cat's tail flicking back and forth" His deep murmur was thunderous next to my ear. He knew I was awake and there was little use faking.
"It just happens..." I replied lamely. Yes, it happened. Just like the counting and the tapping, it happened but was becoming more frequent.
"You'll detox soon and feel better. My boy, my good boy." His sleepy whispers faded as his hand stroked the skin of my belly and side. After another excruciatingly long moment, he rolled onto his back and he fell into true sleep. It was always hard to tell. He was always such a light sleeper. I steeled my nerves and moved in slow increments, preparing excuses with each new shift. I was getting comfortable. My arm fell asleep. I need to use the bathroom. Then, I made it free of the bed and moved with my growing stealth, careful not to rattle the chain that scraped from the soft rug beneath the bed to the concrete floor and tiled bathroom.
There was no door, in effect was only a parrial wall against which the sink, mirror, and toilet were fixed. The other side of the bathroom was taken up by a large tub and flexible shower head visible from the doorway to the basement. Here, in this little meter square tile between the toilet and tub, is the only place in the room I can hide. I curl into myself, eyes wide, hands covering my ears as I rock back and forth, thankful for the bathmat cushioning the chain. I hold back the rising bile and hold back sobs as I stare at the stark white tiles.
It had been a week. Maybe not a full week, but about that. At first, I tried to rely on the meals he brought. The same meals came every day. Breakfast was oatmeal with apples and brown sugar. Lunch was a turkey sandwich and crisps. Dinner, though sometimes he granted me the reprieve when my stomach couldn't keep any food down, was a chicken breast with salad and rice. I was unable to eat the full meals at the best of times due to my nervous disposition and rapid stop of all my medications; something he called detox.
I shivered as my bare back tapped against the cold concrete wall. I couldn't stop rocking, couldn't close my eyes or mouth. My bottom lip trembled as my mind tumbled through the events of the past week and into the unbearable reality that I would be here for the foreseeable future. My stomach cramped again and I doubled over, forehead against the cold tile as I grit my teeth while folded in half. A cold sweat broke out over my skin and I shuddered as I waited for the cramps and waterfall of pain in my gut to pass.
My breath came out as an unhinged huffing laughter, only suppressed by the fear of waking him. I couldn't tell what pain I preferred as it cycled through varieties that flavored my hell here. I knew that this was the beginning. My mental health was bad before I was brought here, had been broken like this before and fell back into that shattered pattern so well. As the blood levels of my medications fell, I would start slipping further. I knew the patterns, had convinced myself it was worthwhile to go off my medications before and suffered dearly for it in the downward spiral that found me in this dungeon. More than this, I knew the pain would start soon. The sudden shattering lightning bolt of ice that would suddenly pierce my chest or hip, perhaps shoulder, and radiate down my limbs rendering me mostly immobile. This is what his detox would mean for me.
My ring finger tapped against the side of my head, my neurosis shifting its attention trying to relieve some of the taught anxiety that held me captive more so than the man in the bed.
How did I get here?
**
I'd been wracking my brain since I woke up several days ago. It felt odd, waking in the tub with the warm spray of the shower head pounding against my neck and chest as someone was washing my hair. I closed my eyes, leaned into it. It felt like a dream at first. The fuzzy edges, strange fluidity of motion, and the pull back to sleep. The water pooled in my lashes so I kept my eyes closed.
"You need to rinse with cold water." It was a mumbled afterthought, my voice small and seemingly far away.
He chuckled and I felt his large hand on my back, urging me forward. I melted beneath the warm spray of the shower head as he scrubbed my scalp and rivulets of acrid floral bubbles dripped down my face. I tried to hold my breath, lift my head, move away from the stench. I felt water enter my mouth and nostrils and began coughing. I felt the showerhead drop between my knees, only now realizing my thighs felt fuzzy and prickly as if they were asleep but my feet felt nothing even as they bumped into the sides of the tub.
Hands were on me immediately, pushing the water off my face and patting my back as he hushed me. "Shh, that's a good boy. Just breathe."
I gagged and coughed harder, my head swimming. I felt the saliva pooling in my mouth before my stomach dropped and I dry heaved. Saliva dripped from my bottom lip as my abdomen contracted, breath caught in my lungs as I shuddered. He stroked my soapy hair and, after a moment, slid into the tub behind me.
I whimpered as he pulled me back against him, his wide chest was bare as he tilted my chin up and once again began rinsing my hair. "You..dyed it?"
