You Belong To Me

Chapter ten:

Scott woke up eventually, his head pounding as though his brain were trying to expand beyond its boney confines. A low groan emanated from his throat as he groggily sat up. Sunlight shown through his window, casting warm orange rays across the comforter of the bed and the walls of the room he was in. The sound of cicadas singing their afternoon song just before the sun would set behind the horizon. After several long seconds staring at one of the sunbeams, he went to rub his dazzled eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into their sockets. Something with a rough texture rubbed against his forehead and he frowned, pulling his hands away and squinting at them. Without his glasses, it was a little hard to see what exactly he was staring at, but he eventually registered the white blob encasing half of his hand and wrist, was banaging. It seemed to be woven between his ring finger as well.

Scott's eyes widened in fear as he held his hands as far from his face as possible, as if maybe that would make the wrapping go away but it didn't work, of course. It made them blurrier, but not nonexistent. His breathing quickened as he quickly looked to the doorway, heart slamming in his chest as though he were about to board a rollercoaster. He felt something stirring in his stomach and quickly leaned over the side of the bed to vomit. It was black and goopy and it only made Scott retch harder. He was panting, hunched over his bent knees with his hands braced on the wooden frame of the bed.

He whined softly, tears slipping down his cheeks and mixing with the bile that lingered on his chin when he neglected to wipe them. A broken sob of fear wracked his burning throat and he scrubbed his face with his arm, the warmth spreading up it. He looked with disgust at the pale gray contents of his stomach on his arm. He felt like blacking out, little spots of light swarmed his vision, not caused by staring into the sun.

"Not having very much fun, are you?" A voice scolded from the doorway behind Scott. It was daunting, as if it wanted a reply, but Scott knew it was rhetorical. He kept panting, the vile scent of the vomit beneath him made his head swim. That couldn't be normal. The color was all wrong. The voice belonged to what Scott had deemed as The Man. It was silky smooth and filled with the teasing tone of a monster who knew he'd won. "That's what happens when you try and leave me. When you scare me like that. You made me do that to you, you know?" The man continued, his voice was drawing closer as he neared Scott. The mattress squeaked and shifted as he sat down on the opposite side of Scott.

Something soft tapped his shoulder and Scott looked warily to his right. There was a roll of paper towels hovering just above his arm. With a shaking left hand, he ripped off a few, scrubbing at the mess on his forearm and his face.

"You cut my finger off." He mumbled, barely loud enough for the man to hear beside him. The shock was yet to settle in and he sounded almost nonchalant about it.

"Yes, but I reattached it. I might not be so nice if there's a next time." He sounded as if he were genuinely convinced that what he did was comparable to compassionate.

"Y-you whu-what...?" Scott stammered, turning around slowly to look at the man with wide shocked eyes.

"I sewed your finger back to your perfect little hands. I realized, after my momentary rage had passed, that I had ruined your perfect little hands and I needed to fix it." The man said, softly rubbing Scott's back, his voice was nearly in his ear. Scott held his left hand up, staring at the bandage and noticing a rust colored ring near the base of the wrapping. "Ah, it needs to be changed."

"No, what did you say after that?" Scott pressed, feeling another bout of sickness churning in his stomach, sealing his throat.

"I might not be so nice next time, Scotty." The man repeated, growled darkly, his voice right in Scott's ear, practically vibrating though his skull.

"You think..." Scott had to pause to take a breath, "that cutting my finger off was nice?" The word 'repulsed' didn't seem to encompass the severity of the situation.

"I'm saying I could have done much worse to you, my dear. Be grateful that this was the mere extent of my controlled punishment." Scott practically threw himself off the bed to hurl up another sticky pile of blackness. "Let me redo your bandaids."

"You aren't redoing shit, you're going to let me the fuck go! So help me God you won't be touching me again." Scott said, his voice was wet with the foul taste of the sour.

"Fine. Fine. Bleed to death." The man said, his voice going cold. "I'll leave you in this room to fucking rot and maybe then you'll see I was right." The mattress shifted again, there were footsteps and then the walls shook with the force of the bedroom door being slammed.

"Let me go!" Scott screamed reusing the nasty paper towels to wipe his face, feeling dizzy. He needed water. Bad. "Let me go..." he mumbled, a little weaker as he remained in the same place on the bed, head bowed in defeat. A choked sob ripped from his throat and he yelled. He didn't yell words, he just yelled. Screaming into the glistening puddle feet from his face on the floor. He screamed until darkness began creeping at the peripheral's of his vision.

——-

I told myself that I wasn't going to get involved in his little temper tantrum and so I'll stay strong to that. He's just acting like a little brat who just got grounded. He'll get over it. I tell myself this, but still, I'm not sure if he will. I want him to get over this whole 'freedom' fad. Obviously he isn't going into public for the foreseeable future, not with this attitude, but I don't want him to think this as prison. I know what's good for him, I do. He just doesn't know it yet.

They've all failed before. They were all too... defiant. Too set on running away and one nearly made it, but I made sure the little birdy wouldn't sing. Oh but this bird can fucking sing and he's loud too. This is why this isolated house is so perfect for this. He will be mine; I know he is different despite the fact that he doesn't seem that way just yet. I just need to hold on to the hope that he'll adapt. I'm beginning to wonder if cutting his finger off was too much, but the last little parakeet didn't make it, the finger was the safest option I could think of.

He's screaming again.

He'll adapt, I'm certain. He will learn to love me. He will love me.

I've learned from my mistakes.

He isn't the first, after all. He is the one.