Page 39 of Fear No Hell
He sends me one last longing look before walking out of the room, giving the door a light tap as he walks through it, so it stays open wide behind him. A subtle gesture of freedom, but one that matters more than I can say.
The familiar sounds of him getting ready to leave make their way up the stairs to where I’m resting on the second floor, and then the front door slams shut, and the familiar sense of solitude slips over the house.
Even with Arthur imprisoned downstairs, I feel like I’m the only person here when Sam isn’t home.
It’s not a bad or unwelcome feeling, merely an unexpected one that tells me how much this man has made his way into my very being.
Surrounded by sheets that smell like Sam, it takes me a while after he leaves to motivate myself out of bed to get dressed.
Instead of pulling on the shirt I came up here wearing, I make my way to his dresser and steal another one of his.
The soft fabric settles around my body, bringing with it a whiff of his scent.
Even with my height, he’s tall and broad enough that the shirt falls to mid-thigh, swaying rhythmically with me as I dance my way down the stairs to the fridge.
The meal he prepped for me—one he never would have made for himself since his idea of eating well is grabbing a sleeve of Ritz crackers on his way to work—is sitting front and center with a note stuck to it:
The domesticity of the gesture has me giggling and reaching for the cell phone Sam got me shortly after I moved in.
Nine times out of ten, it’s sitting on the counter, plugged in and charging.
The only time I really use it is to text him throughout the night, silly little messages meant to let him know that I’m thinking about him.
Tonight’s message is a photo of me—a selfie—holding the oats and smiling at the camera.
I’m almost done with breakfast when the phone pings at me. Sam’s response is short and sweet:
I wish I was home with you instead of putting this guy who fucked around and found out with a chainsaw back together again.
I slip the final spoonful of oats into my mouth, texting back quickly.
Only a few more hours.
He sends back a moving picture—no, a gif—of a cartoon starfish with hearts for eyes kicking its feet. Although I'm not familiar with what I assume is a pop culture reference, I answer with a heart emoji before setting the phone down, cleaning up the kitchen, and heading towards the basement stairs.
I end up paused at the door, my heart going ten times too fast and sweat popping up along my forehead.
No matter how many times I go into the partially subterranean space, no matter that I was imprisoned in an attic with a window rather than a dark basement, every time I stand at the top of this staircase I have an internal battle to believe that I’m actually free and this isn’t some long-term trick being played on me.
I inhale deeply and, on the exhale, force my foot over the threshold, stepping down the stairs carefully until I’m standing at the bottom.
Pathetic, bloodied, and naked, Arthur hangs from the rafters in the corner.
His limbs have atrophied, leaving the skin bulging over slack tissue that was once muscle.
Open wounds—thoroughly cleaned each morning by Sam to make sure they don’t get infected—pepper his body.
Crisscrossing every inch of flesh are newly-formed scars of all lengths, widths, and shapes, all carefully hand carved for maximum pain and minimum blood loss.
The stale scent of human suffering fills my nostrils, although it’s easy to shake off after all of my time down here and with how thoroughly Sam and I clean out the basement.
Close to Arthur but far enough away that he can’t kick it over is a small pop-up table.
Knives of various shapes and sizes range across its top, alongside several bags of intravenous fluid and nutrition formula.
Enough to survive, not enough to thrive.
My feet scuff along the ground. Arthur’s eyes pop open, going almost comically wide over the fresh layer of duct tape slapped on top of the gag stuffed in his mouth.
He tries to speak, nothing more than a garbled whisper when it finally makes its way to me, thanks to his dry throat and the layers covering his mouth.
I tilt my head, lifting my eyebrows mockingly at the attempt. “I didn’t hear you. Try saying it again.” More mumbles leak through his gag. “I’m sorry, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
Tears fill his eyes, slip down his cheeks, but the look he’s giving me tells me they’re tears of hatred rather than fear.
“Do you hate that you’re speechless?” I step towards him, ignoring the blades on the table, instead taking a seat in the lone chair in the room.
“Does it drive you mad that you’re powerless?
That you’re this inconsequential, barely human plaything for me to destroy?
” Tonight’s game is one of my favorites—one that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with mental anguish.
Tonight, I’m going to talk to him, let my words inspire him, and watch as his brain is overcome by ideas that he can’t write down or speak into existence and tears itself apart because of it.