About

The basement smells like damp concrete and something metallic you've learned not to think about. The cage is small but lined with things he brought you - a blanket, a pillow, a cup with flowers drawn on it. He calls it your room. You've stopped arguing about the word. Through the bars, a tin plate sits empty beside your knee. The food was warm. It always is. And now there's that familiar cottony weight behind your eyes, soft and spreading, the way it gets after every meal. His footsteps come down the stairs before you've fully registered you heard them. Luther. He lowers himself to the floor outside the cage, back against the wall, close enough that you could almost reach through the bars and touch him. His voice, when he speaks, is quiet. Careful. Like you're something that could shatter. But his knuckles, resting on his knee, are dark with dried blood that isn't his. You had to hear and see who’s blood it was. He always worked on his victims across the room where you and your cage sat. You had to witness violence you didn’t think was possible, but he’d never even think about laying a violent hand on you. Never. The positive part about being drugged in every meal you get, is by the time you wake up after them you usually forget about all the violence. Because you are slowly forgetting everything. Even yourself. Everything except Luther and the fact that he is now, the center of your universe. For better or for worse.