Summary: Elora Larkin, a young, charismatic baker with magical abilities, is kidnapped by a man with far too much interest in her skills. She is forced to undergo harsh experimentation and cruel punishments. Her friends and family search tirelessly for her, but when all hope is lost, someone unlikely may just be her saving grace.
main story
One
We meet Elora and Demetrios. She walks home and bad things happen.
Two
More information is revealed about Eloraâs kidnapper, Clyde. She wakes up to find herself chained in his bathroom.
Three
Clyde sets down some ground rules. Knowing of her magic, he asks her to grow a plant. She refuses and the punishment is harsh.
Four
Clyde brings Elora food. She attacks him and he does not respond kindly.
Five
Eloraâs disappearance is finally discovered. Meanwhile, sheâs still having a bad time.
Six-Harmful Healing
Elora is forced to painfully heal herself.
Seven-This is for your Own Good
Elora is branded for her disobedience.
Eight-Grabbed by the Hair
Clyde and Elora watch some T.V. Guess whatâs on the news? Her missing persons report.
Nine-Fingore
Elora attempts escape. It goes poorly.
Ten-Tears of Fear
Eloraâs escape attempt, continued. Mallets and ankles donât mix very well.
Eleven-Bruises
Post-torture angst and creepiness.
Shorts
These are pieces of writing I wrote prior to turning Apartment 307 into an official story. They are not canon to the main story, though some may fit in to the timeline. They feature Elora and Clyde at various points in her captivity. Note-some characters, such as Wren and Cain, either are not present in the main story or have not been introduced yet.
Stay
Based on a roleplay with @whump-my-dude. Eloraâs best friend, Cain, comforts her through nightmares after her captivity.
Run
Another way Eloraâs escape attempt could have gone, written before I created the main story. Not canon to the story; her actual attempt is in chapter 9.
Scars
Elora examines-and is saddened by-her scars in the mirror. Clyde is a bastard about it.
Trapped
Clyde brings Elora to his bedroom and forces her to cuddle with him. She spends the night unnerved and sleepless.
Cry
Elora is badly whipped and in unimaginable pain. Clyde steps in as the so-called good guy and creepily comforts her before putting her to bed.
Night
Elora sobs over the hopelessness of her captivity and how exhausted she is with it all. I wrote this as an experimentation with using present tense.
Listen
Clyde beats and berates Elora for not following his instructions. Based on a doodle @burtlederp did for me.
Sanguine
Annalise has been held captive and used as a living bloodbag by her captor, a cruel vampire named Cillian, for nearly two years. She is perfectly conditioned and used to her life in the cold, dark basement, loving nothing more in life than her master. But one day, Cillian decides to host a party and introduce Annalise to several of his vampiric friends. Unfortunately for him, not all of his acquaintances agree with his treatment of Annalise, and one valiantly attempts to save her. A wild goose chase ensues.
(I havenât updated this story in a while but may one day!)
One
Introduction to Annalise and Cillian as well as some lore. Cillian is creepy.
Two
Cillian readies Annalise for the party. Sheâs uncertain, but excited.
I also have a separate masterlist for it here
Other
Spotless
AU of a roleplay I had with @whump-my-dude in which Cain is a whumper. He cuts Elora deeply then forces her to clean up the blood.
Vince Whump
Vince, a lowly associate, is badly beaten by fellow members of his mafia for so-called betrayal.
I need help, Iâve been looking for a piece for forever and canât temper what the series is called. All I can remember is that some dude kidnaps this lady to study powers and keeps her in his bathtub and when she tries to escape he smashes her hand and foot with a hammerâŠ. HELP I WANNA READ IT AGAIN
Hmmmmm I'm not familiar, but I'm sure someone is.
-HEY NERDS-
Anyone know what scene this is?? if so, drop a link please and thank you!! <3
literally bawling my eyes out that someone was looking for my stuff i feel so honored đ anon who asked this ily and i hope you have the best day ever and your pillow is always cold and i pinky promise iâm updating my story soon. also i love âall i can remember is that some dude kidnaps this lady to study powers and keeps her in his bathtubâ YUP that about sums it up lmaoooo
Sorry for the delay my friends!! I hope the wait was worth it, I really enjoyed writing this chapter!! and i threw in some clyde POV to âš spice it up âš
ââ
The man had wordlessly stormed out of his room with Elora slung over his shoulder, his anger and her fear palpable in the air. As he opened the familiar, stained door that separated her personal prison from the rest of the apartment, Elora almost let herself hope that heâd set her down gently, that he wouldnât be so brutal as to slam her body down into the ceramic like he usually did. Heâd just been going on about not being a bad person; it didnât seem unreasonable to let herself hope that heâd set her down gently.
Elora was wrong, though, both in her assumption and for letting herself hope. He abruptly dropped her into the tub and she let out a sharp cry as her mangled ankle slammed against the side of the tub, igniting a burning agony that emanated through her whole leg.
The man turned and didnât say a word to her, didnât even acknowledge her pain. He was either too angry or too numb to care. It was becoming increasingly difficult to tell what exact mood he was in, which was proving to be very dangerous. Elora needed to know how he felt to appeal to him, to save herself from the pain as much as she could, and his emotions were muddying.
He approached the door and his fingers rose to the lightswitch, hovering over it when Eloraâs meek voice sounded from the bathtub.
âWill-will you leave the light on? I-Iâm scared,â her voice cracked, trembling along with the rest of her body.
That was the first time sheâd admitted to it-her fear. Of course, it wasnât the first time she felt it, sheâd been terrified nonstop for the past two weeks, but it was the first time those words had ever slipped from her mouth in front of him. Iâm scared. A whirlwind of emotions swept through her as the phrase escaped her lips; shame that made her cheeks warm and red, and chilling desperation that balanced the heat. It wasnât truly the darkness that she feared; though the creaking sounds that filled the apartment at night and the occasional scurrying of a rat or a roach unnerved her in the darkness, it wasnât the dark that she feared itself. It was merely placebo, an outlet to dump her fears so that she wouldnât quake quite so violently every time the man walked into the room. And in a way, more than anything else, she craved control. The lights were so simple, yet she wanted so deeply to control them. She wanted there to be something in her life that she was in charge of and he wasnât. She wanted a say in something, no matter how arbitrary.
The man paused. His hand hovered the switch for a few seconds, as if debating whether or not heâd humor her request. Elora swallowed hard, the sound filling her ears as the room was otherwise silent. His fingers began to drift away from the switch, and for a moment she thought heâd shown her a fleeting moment of kindness and given in to her request.
But as soon as theyâd wandered away, they found the switch once again and he silently plunged Elora into darkness then left the room.
Elora didnât notice, but his footsteps didnât wander far. He sat with his back against the wall, his neck craned and his ear pressed to the door, listening to Eloraâs muffled cries as she tried desperately to find sleep that always seemed to evade her and leave her constantly awake and wallowing in her pain.
There was just something about her, Clyde Anderson thought. Something about the sound of the tears she thought he couldnât hear her shed throughout the night. Something about the way she tried so very hard to be brave and stone-faced in spite of how much pain and fear she was enduring. Something about the way she went from a strong, fighting spirit to a sobbing shell of herself by his own hands.
He left once her cries had quieted down and were replaced with the sweet sound of her rhythmic breathing. While it was relaxing in its uniformity, it simply wasnât as enticing to listen to as her cries. It couldâve taken anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours for Elora to finally give in to sleep; Clyde couldnât tell. He was entranced by her sobs, drawn in deep by the hitching sound her throat made every time she uselessly tried to stifle them.
What he did know that night was that he wandered to his bed a very contented man.
Elora awoke several hours later, disoriented as she always was. The near total lack of natural light in her life sent her circadian rhythm haywire, leaving her painfully confused the majority of the time. She had some basic hints that helped her deduce the time and day, like where the man was and how cold the apartment was, but other than that, she was clueless.
She heard his footsteps down the hall that led to his bedroom. She knew those steps, she heard them every morning, but they still managed to inspire a tightness in her chest and a hitch in her throat that she was almost certain would never fade.
Elora looked down and stared at her beaten legs, afraid to look the man in the eyes. Sheâd been so quick to glare him down in the beginning, so eager to retaliate however she could, physically or verbally or both. Now, she hardly ever worked up the courage to resist, saving it for only the most necessary situations. It scared her to think that her resolve had crumbled so heavily so soon-she still had her internal resistance, the anger that bubbled up in her body every time he spoke, but would he take that away, too? When? What would happen to her in another week or another month, if she even made it that long?
He opened the door, and though she flinched, she didnât otherwise react. Even as he stepped forward so close that there were only a few inches between her slumped shoulders and his legs, she was quiet and still, save for her shaky breaths.
âHow did you sleep?â He asked her, his body towering over hers as her chains and battered ankle kept her sitting in place. The question might have seemed genuine or caring had anyone else in the world posed it, but Elora could tell that the man didnât care at all about the quality of her sleep. He was only trying to intimidate her, and so she inhaled deeply, her voice strained as she replied with a mere, âFine.â
He scoffed loudly, continuing his caring farce. âMhm, Iâm sure you did. You want some breakfast?â
Elora tried not to let herself hope. Never before had he offered that, and he sure didnât have any reason to be inclined to do so now, not after everything that happened two days ago. Still, she didnât want to anger him by calling him out on his bluff, so she simply nodded. âSure.â
Her voice was quiet and perhaps a little curt, which must have been the cause of his sudden anger. Elora tried not to let herself run with the what ifs, but as he grabbed her tangled hair and jerked her neck backwards to look at him, she couldnât help but wonder if a softer voice couldâve prevented this.
His face was red as his dark brown eyes bore into her. She tried to avoid them, instead staring at his graying hair, but that wasnât enough; he gripped her jaw with his other hands and twisted her head so that she was forced to stare right into his eyes.
âWhy are you being so cold with me, Elora?â He dropped the hand on her jaw, presumably to allow her to speak. He expected an answer to the question. All she could muster was a faint âWhat?â
That only seemed to infuriate him, as his eyebrows furrowed even deeper in rage. âWhat do you mean, âwhat?â Youâre being cold to me. Acting like Iâm not here, like I never do nice things for you.â
Elora was speechless, for a moment. She didnât think sheâd been acting any different than before-hell, sheâd been on her best behavior the past few days out of fear of him worsening her broken fingers or ankle. âI donât know. I-Iâm sorry.â
Evidently, the man didnât like her response. He abruptly let go of her hair and pushed her shoulders so that she fell back in the tub, leaving her vulnerable as only her head stuck out above its walls.
âYou donât seem to know what I mean. Or maybe you do, hmm? And you just donât care about your behavior? Thatâs fine. Iâll show you cold, then, Elora.â
She was confused at first, until he reached for the faucet and turned it on. It was December in New England, and so both the pipes and the water tank were near-frozen, the water that flowed out of them much the same. She shivered as the icy water began to lap at her toes, the man shoving her aside to place the plug in the drain. She tried to sit up and curl away from the freezing water, but the man merely pulled her chains tighter, forcing her to lie still with no solace from the cold. The sound of rushing water filled the room as the tub rapidly filled, each additional inch of cold water around her body making Elora shiver more and more violently. She called out to the man, apologizing and begging him to turn the water off and unplug the drain, but he either couldnât hear her over the running water, or he chose not to.
Elora was used to cold winters, but this was a different kind of hell. She could wrap herself in a warm coat when the air was biting and dry outside, but there was no escape from the water. This cold was different than the one outside. It seemed to seep into her very bones, lighting every inch of her skin it touched with sharp, cool pain.
He didnât turn off the faucet until the water was up to her neck, about to spill over the sides of the tub. Elora immediately opened her mouth to speak, to beg him not to leave her here, but he silenced her before she even had the chance to speak.
âQuiet,â he said sharply as he turned away and walked off, nearly exiting before something stopped him and he turned around in the doorway. Anger seemed to run off of him in waves that Elora could feel across the room. She wanted to shrink into the corner, to hide away and not have to face his wrath.
âAnd there better not be any fucking water on my floor when I come back, do you hear me?â
Elora could hardly bring herself to respond, panic constricting her mind and body, but she managed a small nod.
âGood.â
And with that, he was gone. He slammed the bathroom door closed behind him, stormed through the apartment, and pulled the front door closed after that. Now it didnât matter how much she screamed or begged; there was no one there to save her. She was alone.
That was the scariest part, more unnerving than the chilling pain that had already begun to rise. Goosebumps covered her skin and she desperately tried to stifle her shaking to avoid spilling the water in the tub, but as time passed, her trembling got more and more violent and the water began to spill. Hot tears of frustration rolled down her cheeks, and she didnât know if she should hope the man wouldnât be back soon so she wouldnât have to face his anger or if she should pray heâd return soon to save her.
Elora stared at the yellowing ceiling and tried to not to focus on the cold enveloping her or how utterly scared she was of her swiftly-reddening skin and intense trembling. She tried to imagine herself somewhere else, somewhere warm, though she only found success in partially zoning out.
Eventually, she stopped feeling the cold. She wasnât sure how long it had been, but the cold was there, shrouding her in its miserable grasp, and then it was just gone, leaving her body feeling airy and numb. It was a strange sensation, to go from miserably frigid to somewhat peaceful, and though she was scared, she tried to count her blessings. Numbness was easier to bear than icy pain that felt like thousands of needles stabbing her over and over. Soon after the cold went away, her shaking, too, subsided, the water in the tub finally settling, no longer spilling over onto the floor with every quake. The water had turned a light copper color as with time as it washed blood both old and new from her various wounds. The puddles of water on the ground were scarily reminiscent of her blood itself. Would that be what became of her? An empty body with blood on the floor? A crime scene?
Elora tried to shake the thought from her head, which came surprisingly easily, as her mind began to fog over. Her consciousness was slipping from her, and deep down, she knew that she should be scared, that this wasnât a good sign, but she couldnât find the strength within herself to care. Her chin began to fall forward into the water as her body went lax, and she tipped her head back as one last attempt at self-preservation before fading into the nothingness.
She didnât fall asleep, not completely. Her eyes remained open, but she wasnât there behind them, her mind and body falling victim to the drop in temperature. Elora remained there for nearly an hour, not hearing the front door open or the loud steps heading towards her.
Shit. That client had been a pain in the ass. What was meant to be a short talk at the coffee shop turned into a long conversation and it had been an hour and a half by the time Clyde got back to his apartment. He hesitated to open the bathroom door, afraid of what he might find. Heâd done his research, like he always did-he had no intent on killing her any time soon-and heâd only ever meant to leave her for a few minutes, maybe half an hour, just to teach her something. But this? This was dangerous.
He gulped as he opened the door and saw her, passed out in blood-tinged water, her face pale, her eyes half-lidded, and her lips blue. Water covered the bathroom floor, soaked into the bath mat and standing in puddles on the floor. He mightâve been angry at her for that if heâd been back when he meant to, but he didnât care now. Heâd messed up, and he knew it. Not only did he need her, he didnât know what to do with a body. He didnât want to figure out how to deal with a corpse.
Elora didnât acknowledge the figure in the room with her, no matter how many times he called her name and how close he got to her. She didnât notice anyone was even there until she felt two rough hands on her cheeks, gently pulling her head from the water. They were warm, so blissfully warm, and she leaned against them, her head lolling right into her torturerâs hands. She was dimly aware of who he was and the fact that those hands could so easily twist and snap her neck or bash her head into the wall, but she couldnât find the energy within her to care. The hands stood still on her face for a moment as she basked in their warmth, but they soon fell away and she began to hear the water noisily slipping down the drain. Elora knew that the man was speaking to her; she could see his lips move as his face contorted into confusion, rage, and what could have been mistaken for sympathy, but wasnât quite. She couldnât make out any individual words, only hearing the dull hum of speech against her ears.
He unlocked her chains and lifted her out of the bathtub, her head rolling back and falling against his shoulder as the rest of her body was limp against him. The air was cold, but it was much warmer than the water in the bathtub had been, the temperature difference sending a sharp shiver down Eloraâs spine. Her wet clothes clung to her body and made her feel even colder, water dripping off of her and all over the room and the man. He didnât seem phased, which relieved her, because heâd ordinarily be furious about the mess. He quietly carried through the door, out of the bathroom and into the small living area.
Elora never went out here much. He didnât let her very often because she was still clinging to the last parts of herself, to the parts that threw herself at the TV just to break it, the parts that smeared blood across the carpet and the walls just to make a mess, the parts that bit and clawed and screamed and fought for freedom.
The man set her down on the carpet next to the unlit fireplace. She laid still, flat on her back, her eyes focused on the ceiling again. If she werenât so cold and utterly incapable of moving her frozen body, she wouldâve reached for one of the fire pokers and stabbed him through the eye. She smiled at the thought, bringing about an internal warmth which was blissful given the severe lack of warmth she felt on the outside.
The man stood and lit a match beside her. The sound and smell of burning wood pulled Elora out of her happy daze, as she flinched, her mind too exhausted to acknowledge it but her instincts fully aware that the matches almost always meant that she would be burned. She could almost feel the small, circular cigarette burns covering her shoulders and arms lighting up with pain, warning her of the danger to come. Someone should buy you an ashtray for Christmas, she thought dimly. Sheâd told him that, once. Heâd slapped her across the face, but she was still proud of herself in the moment.
The man saw her flinch and their eyes locked for a moment as he threw the match into the fireplace, lighting up the timber inside.
His expression was tumultuous. He almost looked sad.
He left the room and she found herself afraid. The fire was helping rewarm her, but she knew she needed more help, more care she couldnât provide herself no matter how much she hated him. A mixture of frustration and gratitude filled her as he returned with a few towels and a fresh set of clothes and sat down beside her, carefully avoiding the wet puddle that had formed beneath her.
The fire emitted a warm glow, one Elora wanted to be embraced in forever. She watched as embers flew from the flames and fizzled out in the air, disappearing just like that. Just like her.
She let the man pull off her wet clothes and towel off the freezing water from her body as tears rolled down her cheeks. He helped her get a new set on, a long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants that provided much-appreciated warmth. The room felt solemn and the air stale, neither Elora nor the man saying a word, though she was pretty sure sheâd come back enough to hear him now.
She laid still for a moment, trying to process everything that had just occurred. It was so cold. She couldâve died. She was awake and alive, but not really there, for god knows how long. And she was weak. He was the one to hurt her, but she let him help her anyway instead of handling it herself.Elora rolled over onto her side and curled into a ball, now just a few inches away from the fire that bathed her in its heat, blissful warmth enveloping her.
âYouâve got to stop acting like that,â Clyde muttered as he watched over her pitiful form. All Elora could manage to give in reply was a quiet grunt.
TWs: Gore, brief mention of emeto, creepy and unstable whumper
Morning didnât come for a long time. Eloraâs body clung to sleep as it fought desperately to even begin to heal the severe wounds that had been inflicted the day prior. Merely surviving was beginning to become much harder of a task then sheâd ever hoped it would be; waiting around for someone to save her wasnât quite working out, and neither was saving herself. She was having to fight tooth and nail just to live, which was both exhausting and incredibly depressing.
She finally opened her eyes as she felt a hand roughly shaking her shoulder, jerking her body around until she begrudgingly awoke. She pushed stray hairs away from her face and tried to roll over, but the manâs voice was booming with its volume and closeness to her ear.
âElora. Get up. Itâs almost two oâclock.â
She wanted to tell him to fuck off, that if he was going to torture her, she had every right to sleep however much she wanted to, but she knew it was irresponsible to be causing any trouble in the state she was in. Her body had withstood so much abuse in the days sheâd been there already, she feared that without time to heal, anything else major could easily tip her over the edge of life and death, make her pass out and not wake back up.
And hell if she was ready to die.
âIâm awake,â she said in a dull, monotone voice, her eyes still adjusting to the light streaming into the room through the opened blinds. She sat herself up, slowly, cringing at the pain of her ankle dragging along the sheets.
âGood,â she heard him mutter, and she resisted the urge to scowl at him. The last thing she cared about was his approval, and yet here she was, walking on eggshells to avoid setting him off. What a mess sheâd gotten herself into.
âIâm not going to do anything today,â he told her. For some odd reason, it wasnât very reassuring. âIâm not stupid. Iâm not trying to kill you.â
Her lips moved much faster than her mind. âGee, thanks.â
He shot her a glare. It made her skin crawl, just the pure intensity in his eyes.
âWatch it.â
She did. She didnât want to, but something about his tone and expression made her deeply uncomfortable to the point that she feared doing anything but precisely what he wanted.
âYou wanna take a shower? You need it,â he said plainly. God, he couldnât even extend a kind gesture without being a douche about it. Elora wanted to spit back that she wondered why she needed a shower. Maybe it was the layers of dried blood coating her skin, or the dirt from being mercilessly dragged along the ground the night of her kidnapping. She kept her words to herself, though, responding only with a nod.
She could already imagine it, the warm water running down her body, washing away the blood and the sweat and the dirt and the fear she was certain he could smell. How she craved it, the simple pleasure of being clean-something sheâd already lost.
âOkay. Up we go, then.â The man lifted her up from the bed, an arm tucked beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She hated every minute of being so close to him. His breath smelled like cigarettes and his shirt was scratchy. Every bit of her body screamed at her to get out of his grip, but she was stuck, without another choice in the matter. A bitter horror fell upon her at the realization that this was her new reality whenever she had to move around the apartment. It wasnât like she could get up and walk around. The persistent throbbing in her ankle was a painful reminder of that.
At the very least, the walk was short. He just carried her into the master bathroom and set her down in the tub. It was slightly roomier than the one she was usually kept in, but clearly much more used. A couple bottles of mensâ 3-and-1 wash lined the ledges and the floor was damp.
âMight be weird not standing up, but youâre smart. Iâm sure youâll figure it out.â
Elora nodded, but the man just stood there, leaving the air stale with the silence in the room. She looked up at him for a moment, trying to gauge what he was doing, what he was thinking. She hoped heâd leave. While she knew he probably had a difficult time trusting her alone after the mishap yesterday, privacy was still a much-appreciated commodity. He stared at the wall for a second, not looking her in the eyes, before muttering about grabbing something and walking out. Elora froze, fearing he was going to bring back some awful instrument of torture, but instead, he merely returned with a pile of items in his arms. An old, worn towel and washcloth made the base, with a haphazardly-folded set of clothes atop it, and faded, half-used bottles of drugstore shampoo, conditioner, and body wash over that.
He set the stack down next to her, on the floor by the tub. âYell when youâre done,â he told her. And that was it. He left.
There was no catch, no earning her prize or cruel tricks. He just left her alone to shower. It was like he felt bad. He should feel bad. But she shook the thought of vengeance from her mind, deciding to just focus on the mercy sheâd been shown. She knew she should savor it while she had it, as she doubted it would last long.
Awkwardly twisting her body to avoid using her broken hand, she grabbed the bottles and set them on the ledge of the bathtub, then carefully removed her clothes, grimacing as she had to stretch the cuts lining her arms and drag fabric along her broken ankle. Once she finished, she finally turned on the shower, tensing as cold water rained upon her, but practically melting once it ran warm. It was soothing, though it did slightly sting the wounds it hit. Still, the benefits far outweighed the harm and she shut her eyes to fully take in the comfort, wishing she could stay right in this moment until she was found. Enveloped by the warmth, the man only a passing thought in her mind.
She began with the shampoo, taking her time to work it into her scalp, washing away the dirt, blood, and oil that had built up over the last few days. It felt so nice to be clean, to be free of the filth coating her body. She savored every moment as she washed and conditioned her hair, then took painstaking attention and care as she scrubbed her body with the washcloth, carefully avoiding or only gently dabbing at the wounds littering her body. And even when she had long been done, she remained on the floor of the tub, letting the hot water soothe her aching body as she stared ahead at the wall. She feared that taking too long, though, would make the man suspicious-or worse, angry. So, despite not wanting to and not having a clue when sheâd be given this privilege again, she turned off the water and began to dry off with the towel. She didnât want to get the clothes sheâd been given all wet, so she awkwardly and rather maneuvered herself up to sit on the side of the tub. She quickly found that getting dressed was just as much of a struggle as getting undressed-especially as her skin was still damp. Pulling on the plain undershirt and blue sweatpants earned quite a few hisses of pain, and she was more than relieved when the task was over.
There was a sort of longing ache in her heart at the fact that the clothes werenât hers. It was just another thing that had been stripped from her, another bit taken away. At the very least, though, they were clean. It didnât seem like theyâd been washed, just taken straight from a cheap bulk package. That was probably what they were. Elora didnât mind, though. At the very least, they were comfortable, and clean. Both fit her relatively well, too, though the legs of the pants were short on her.
She was about to mournfully call for the man as sheâd been instructed to do when she looked over herself, just one last time, and found her staring down at the massive bruises covering her fingers and ankle. Sheâd been preoccupied with getting clean earlier, so her eyes had just skimmed over them, but now that she took the time to really look, she was horrified. They were so much clearer now that the blood was washed away, looking almost cartoonish as she stared in disbelief. Deep shades of blue and purple wrapped her entire ankle joint as it stuck painfully out to the right. She knew that she should set it, but she didnât have the slightest clue how, and it was far too severe to heal magically. All she could do was look on in shock at how misshapen it looked, how it almost seemed like a watercolor painting, colors coating and speckling the skin. Her fingers, too, were a horrific sight, curled in on themselves, swollen and multicolored. She couldnât look away from her mangled hand and foot, feeling sick at how mortifyingly intense they were. She wanted to vomit at the mere sight of them, at the thought of the logistics. How many surgeries would it take to fix this when she got out?
If she got out.
Tears slipped down her cheeks and she abandoned the thought of calling for the man at all, just gawking at her injuries, letting the severity seep in, and bawling. Time slipped by quickly and soon sheâd been in the bathroom for almost an hour, which prompted the man to come in and check on her. He knocked on the door and called her name, and she startled, her shoulders trembling. She didnât respond, just sat there until he burst in, swung the door open himself. Their eyes locked and he saw the redness around her eyes, the puffiness of her cheeks. His brow furrowed for a moment. He hadnât done anything wrong to her, what was her deal? But his gaze followed hers back to her broken limbs, and he gave a knowing sigh.
An awful guilt crept up in him and his expression was stone cold.
âIâm not a bad person, Elora.â His voice was firm, but thick, with a sense of sadness to it. Elora looked up at him from her spot perched on the side of the tub, shocked by his sudden entrance. Her eyes were still teary, threatening to spill more at any moment.
âIâm not.â
The girl still didnât say a word and Clyde felt his guilt start to turn to anger. âStop looking at me like that. Like a-like a sad fucking puppy.â
Eloraâs bottom lip shook. She sensed it, his rage. She knew that, no matter what she did now, things werenât going to end well for her. They never did, when he got mad like this.
âIâm not t-trying to-â
âShut up,â he shouted, and her mouth suddenly closed, her eyes still wide as they stared up at him.
âIâm not a bad person,â he affirmed. âI did what I had to. You-you never fucking listen.â
Elora had no clue what to say, what to do, so she merely nodded in agreement. Sure. Whatever he wanted to believe. Whatever he needed to hear to not hurt her even more when she was already-when she couldnât handle any more.
The man advanced towards her and she nearly screamed in pure terror. She wanted to back away but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to run. He bent over and gripped her chin and she inhaled sharply, eyes watery.
âSay it,â he seethed. âSay it. Iâm not a bad person.â
She was forced to look in his eyes, their faces just inches apart as he jerked her chin up. Her voice shook as she spoke. âYouâre-youâre not a b-b-bad person.â A sharp inhale ended her sentence, petrified that it wasnât right. That it wouldnât be enough.â
He released her chin and she felt relief flood her for all but a second before he shoved her off of the ledge of the tub. She landed flat on her back on the tile floor, the air knocked out of her lungs by the force of the fall. She wheezed and tried to sit up, but he was upon her in a second, kneeling on her chest with his hands around her throat to restrict her breathing even further.
âSay it like you mean it,â he insisted. There was nothing but anger in his eyes.
Gasping and sputtering, Elora wheezed, âYouâre not a bad person!â Her tone was desperate. She felt like she was dying. But that was all the man needed to hear. He eased off of her and stood, brushed himself off, then simply picked her up from the ground and slung her over a shoulder, a far cry from the gentle way heâd carried her to the bathroom in the first place.
He was grinning. Relief washed over him. A cool, calm feeling.
âYouâre right, Elora. Iâm not. Iâm not a bad person.â
Day 11: Who's your favorite whumpee, or favorite traits in a whumpee?
Who is your favorite whumpee lately? Take a moment to gush about them! They could be from a tv show or movie, a book, someone's original writing on tumblr, or even the vague character who's been starring in all your whumpy daydreams!
Aside from your current favorite, what are some of your favorite traits in a whumpee? Fighty and defiant? Soft and scared? Maybe there are some physical traits you lean towards, or maybe a certain actor you like seeing whumped again and again? Maybe you love all whumpees named Daniel. Tell us some of your favorite whumpee tropes, and see if there's any patterns you've noticed cropping up in your favorites!
So my favorite whumpee to write...you all know. It's Felicia. She's just so much fun to hurt đ„° She's fun when she's all beaten up and bruised, and she's fun when she's having big emotions and refusing to feel them! That's my girl!
Some of my other favorite whumpees to read about...well as you all know, I am obsessed with @whumpopology Ivy. My messy messy defiant queen đ„° Mac hurts very pretty too though, ngl!! We love a soft medic getting cocky and smiling with blood on his teeth! I also love @no-whump-on-main Elora. Cute healer girls who get kidnapped and tortured đ€đ€ love Felyse being regulars at her magic store someday. And of course I will always be weak for @whump-tr0pes Vera and Tori (my girlsssss my otp) and @evermetnotforgotten Lev (god I love his emotions so much)!
As for the general traits...lady whumpees I love all sorts of different personalities, but I think I'm drawn to the quietly defiant whumpees above all. Not the smarmy sarcastic defiance or the endless feral fighting (although I enjoy that a lot too!) but the sort that, on the surface, seems to "accept" things or go along with them, but is really fighting to keep who they are intact deep inside. Idk it's the dynamic I like to explore a lot with Felicia and I just think there's so much good emotional content there! But obvs based on my list of faves above, that is far from the only type of whumpee I like. Above all the most important thing for me is just...grounded reactions, I guess? It doesn't have to be 100% realism, but I like it when a character feels human and not just a one-note trope. I like the fighty defiant whumpees to have their moments of vulnerabilities, and the quiet passive whumpees to have their moments of strength. Because even the strongest person is going to have a moment where they fall, and even the most scared person can be pushed to act bravely. I just love exploring all those different dynamics!
TWs: Like the last, this is a very heavy chapter. Overall TW for gore and graphic descriptions of the breaking and dislocation of bones. You are welcome to DM me for a chapter summary if this one isnât your thing!
Elora wasnât somewhere familiar when she awoke.
She didnât open her eyes to yellowing tile and fluorescent light, but to a messy bedroom, with an unmade bed and beer cans scattered across the floor. Chains didnât hold her to the faucet of a bathtub, rather, ropes bound her securely to an office chair. Each of her wrists were tied to the arms of the chair, though the right was much looser than the left. Mercy. Her hand was throbbing horribly enough on its own-she didnât need the additional pressure of tight ropes. She wouldnât dare move it even if it werenât secured, too afraid sheâd injure it further. Her chest was bound to the back of the chair and her right leg was tied to a bottom leg, but the left one was free. Why did he leave it free? She wriggled to test the ropes, but there was no hope of slipping out of them.
She tried to be as quiet as she could; if he didnât know she was awake, he wouldnât come in and hurt her. In the first few days, sheâd always wake up screaming and thrashing, demanding her freedom-but now, she just wanted him to stay away. She was in so much pain between the throbbing of her hand, which was starting to swell and turn purple, and the aching of her head, she didnât know if she could handle anything more without crumbling entirely. And this seemed awfully sinister; nothing good was going to come from her being tied up in an unfamiliar room.
As much as she tried to silence herself, she couldnât help but let a few groans escape her lips when sudden waves of pain or nausea hit her. She never knew when theyâd come, but when they did, it was awful; her hand would suddenly start feeling like itâd implode, and her stomach twisted in knots, all at random intervals. The man must have heard one of her pained cries, because a few moments later, he waltzed into the room, a menacing look in his eyes and the familiar mallet looking heavy in his hands.
Her expression fell immediately as she began to shake her head rapidly. Her heart was hammering inside her chest; out of everything heâd done, all of the pain heâd caused her, sheâd take anything over the agony of her bones being smashed to pieces by the heavy tool. She didnât know if she could take any more hits on her hand- it looked sickening enough as it was-but what else could he want from her?
Her leg. Her free leg. He didnât make a mistake. It was untied for a reason. He broke her fingers for stealing, heâd-for running-he would-
Tears began to well in her eyes as she realized what was going to happen and how helpless she was to it all. She was terrified, her vision blurring with tears of pure fear as he started walking towards her.
âIâm sorry,â she told him. He didnât stop advancing. âIâmsorryIâmsorryIâmsorry, I learned, you donât have to-â
She felt a rough-skinned finger at her lips and let out a weak, broken sob, tears falling down her face and dripping on his hand.
âHow could you possibly have learned? I didnât punish you for running. Only for stealing.â The manâs voice was matter-of-fact, showing little sympathy for her plight. Fear so potent it made her chest feel tight ran through Elora as she continued to shake her head, breathing unevenly. Her hand hurt so badly. So, so badly already. But her ankle? That was bigger-that would be-heâd have to do more-hit it harder-
She began to cry even more, wailing, not holding on to even a shred of dignity in her terror. âPlease. Please, it hurts. I canât-I learned-I canât do-again-â her words were choppy as she inhaled and sobbed between each one, desperately pleading for her safety. âIâm scared,â she whispered, her shoulders shaking as she cried.
The man paused for a moment, like he was thinking. She started to let relief seep into her, but then he uttered one word that made her go stone cold.
âGood.â
He spun the chair around, so she was facing the wall and an old wooden desk. Elora began to scream, but he ignored her as if he couldnât hear her, going scarily calm like he did when he broke her fingers. He ducked beneath the chair and pulled the lever to lift it up high, until her hips were almost level with the desk. At that point, he reached for her free leg. She kicked it wildly, trying to escape his grasp, even managing to nail him in the chin at one point. The terrifying glare and intimidating donât that came after stopped her in clear her tracks, long enough for him to grab her leg with a tight grip.
âYou donât have to,â she pleaded as he set her left foot on the desk. âI learned. I know-I wonât try it again. Ever. I promise.â She was lying through her teeth, but god, sheâd do anything to save herself.
âI donât give a shit,â he replied coolly, standing at her side and lining up the mallet with her ankle. He lifted it up above his head and Elora squeezed her eyes shut, preparing for a world of pain.
But nothing could have prepared her. Not any deep breaths, not any shut eyes, not even knowing the agony from her hand. The pain was explosive even from the first strike as the man brought the mallet down with as much force as it seemed was humanly possible. And her ankle, of course, was much less fragile than her fingers-it would take much more force to shatter it, more hits, more pain-none of which she was equipped to handle.
She screamed even with the first hit, dissolving into hiccuping sobs. âYou d-donât have to,â she pleaded, making the man stop for just a moment, staring intently at her. His gaze felt like fire and she wanted nothing more than to dissolve into the floor and never come back..
âYes, I do,â he chided firmly. âShut up.â
Her words must have had the opposite effect of what she wanted, because the second strike felt even more violent, as did the third and fourth as he picked up the pace, with little care for her ear-piercing screams and fervent thrashing. At first, the bones merely fractured, but with each strike they splintered and cracked further until sharp shards of bone poked dangerously close to the surface of her skin. And like the last time, the man seemed barely cognizant of what he was doing-he just kept going, with absolutely no awareness of her reactions.
Her vision was beginning to blur and darken as time went on and the pain continued to skyrocket with every hit, her mind spinning as the brutality of it all was just too much for her to handle. Just when she thought she might pass out, a loud crack resounded through the room. At first, she feared the worst, thinking it had been the sound of one of her own bones breaking. But when she blinked the floaters out of her vision and grounded herself, looking ahead, she saw that the desk had begun to split and splinter from the mere force of the mallet coming down on it. It was thick-it looked sturdy, but even the wood couldnât withstand the force of the missed strikes of the mallet. The man, of course, paid no attention, continuing to strike at her mangled ankle.
He hit her again and again, missing her ankle half of the time in his daze until the desk finally gave out, the wooden surface simply splitting in half and caving in with an even louder crack. Her leg fell in an instant and her butchered ankle hit the floor with so much force from the sudden drop that the shattered bones slipped out of the joint, leaving it now both badly broken and dislocated.
Elora couldnât even scream as the horrific pain exploded all up and down her leg. The noise that came from her throat sounded like inhuman-she let out a strangled, animalistic gasp as all the air pushed out of her lungs with the force. Her vision instantly blackened to the point of total darkness with the intense pain, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as her body went limp and lax against the ropes binding her to the chair. The man must have realized the gravity of the situation-his mistake- at that point, because in an instant, she heard the mallet hit the floor and felt rough hands against her face, grabbing and stabilizing her head from either side.
âHey now,â she heard his voice call. âAlright, all done. Wake up.â
But she didn't. Her hearing, too, slipped, as she let her eyelids shut, not unconscious but not quite awake, either. She was swimming in blackness, the pain so immense it was too much to bear. She was relieved to finally just rest, but moments later, she felt cold water splash across her face and run down her chest, soaking her shirt. She shivered and her eyes opened, seeing the man standing in front of the broken desk, staring down at her like some kind of giant.
âWelcome back,â he grumbled. âCome on, now, weâre done. Itâs over.â
Elora looked up at him, making eye contact for all but a moment before her chin dropped down and she brokenly sobbed. She trembled, shutting her eyes tightly as bitter terror ran through her veins.
The man sighed heavily and she felt the ropes around her chest loosen. They fell to the floor and she slumped forward, but he was there in an instant to catch her, supporting her with his shoulder as he turned to the side to untie the ropes around her wrists. She wanted to move away from him, a faint feeling of disgust clouding her mind as her body rested against his, but she was too exhausted, too drunk on pain and fear to do anything about it.
âAlmost done,â he muttered, crouching down to untie her left leg. She bitterly thought that she should kick him again, but she didnât have the energy to even move her leg. She didnât protest as he lifted her out of the chair, lifting her over a shoulder before carrying her to the bed. He set her down with a surprising amount of caution, careful to support her head and not jostle her hand or her ankle on the way down. Elora was only dimly aware of what was going on, lost to the pain as he tucked the blankets around her and slipped a pillow underneath her head.
She wanted to be comforted by the bed-she hadnât slept anywhere comfortable in a week, it should have felt like sweet relief-but she couldnât. Something felt so viscerally wrong-the bed smelled like cigarettes and old sweat, the sheets were scratchy, and she could feel his gaze on her. It didnât feel right. And something about the fact that it wasnât just a bed, but his, sparked a fear so potent she was afraid to even sleep.
But he didnât join her, rather settling down on the floor beside her with his back against the wall.
âI wish it didnât have to be this way,â he said. âI really do. But you never learn. Thatâs the problem with you, Elora. I keep trying to reach you better, but you never learn.â
She felt a lump form in her throat. There were so many things she wanted to say, so much anger, so much hate, but she knew stepping out of line was the last thing she should do.
âI know,â she mumbled. âIâm sorry.â
She wasnât really sorry.
âIf you just did what I asked, it wouldnât be this way.â
She thought about that for a moment, but in the end, she knew he was lying. This wasnât about her. It never had been. It was always about him. She stayed silent.
âIf you canât learn not to steal, not to run yourself, I just have to take away the option. Thatâs how it is.â
Elora turned on her side and curled up into a tight ball, facing away from him. âStop,â she mumbled. Her voice and her eyes were teary.
âItâs been a hard day, hasn't it?â the man asked, getting up from the ground to sit beside her on the bed. She cringed as his hands began to comb through her hair, painfully catching on knots several times before he sighed and gave up on the endeavor.
âYou should clean yourself up soon. Brush through your hair, get some fresh clothes. Maybe we could do that tomorrow, if youâre good.â
She shook her head. She didnât want any of that. She just wanted to sleep.
âItâs hard now, but think about it. In a few weeks, months, youâll be so well-behaved. We wonât have to do anything like this ever again. Look at you now. Youâre already breaking and weâve hardly done a thing. Just imagine it.â
The mere thought made Elora press her face into the pillow and bawl.
The man sighed and stood. âAlright, alright. Iâll give you some space. Get some rest.â
He left for the door and Elora heard it shut behind him as he walked off. It didnât take long before sheâd cried herself to sleep.
I cannot :/// beeleave:/// you would do this :/// like :/// take responsibility for your actions :/// or I'll take deez nuts :/// like :/// ur so problematic:///
guys iâm so problematic đ iâm cancelled đ„Č
TWs: This is a heavy chapter. Fingore, obviously. Nothing with the nails but fingers are broken pretty badly. Proceed with caution, youâre welcome to DM me for a summary instead of reading if gore isnât your cup of tea :) Head wounds and death threats are also present.
~
The man made a mistake.
Two days after he showed Elora that awful news report, he made a mistake.
Heâd cleared his pockets out earlier while looking for his pocket knife, leaving behind a pen, a keyring, a wallet, a pack of cigarettes, and some lint on the lid of the toilet. And when he left after slashing her shoulders for disobeying him, he forgot to put everything back. It all laid within her reach. And while most of it was junk, one thing was her saving grace. The keys. They were so close she could grab them. A small, silver key sheâd seen before and knew unlocked the handcuffs around her wrists was visible on the ring.
It felt like it was a trap; it was just too easy. But something in her gut told her it wasnât. Something told her that he genuinely just forgot. A simple mistake, yet one that was so crucial for her.
It was almost night time. He had gone to work for the day, spent a few hours with her, and cooked a meal. It was the end of his routine. He would go to bed soon. Heâd fall asleep and she could simply grab the keys, get out of the handcuffs and leave. It felt surreal, unimaginable that it was just that simple. It had been nearly a week, and still, no one had come for her. Maybe she was just meant to save herself. And she would.
Waiting around for the lights in the apartment to dim, signifying that he had finally gone off to bed felt like eternity. Her heart was racing with anxiety as she sat there, feeling useless; what if he remembered, and she lost her chance? But it would be too dangerous to try to escape while he was awake. Sheâd only consider it as a last ditch effort, if all else went wrong. For now, she had to be safe. She had to wait.
After thirty minutes that felt much more like several hours, the lights were off. The small bit of light that streamed underneath the crack between the ground and the door disappeared. Elora waited even longer still, just to make sure that he was really asleep. Only after she had nearly fallen asleep herself with boredom did she carefully reach over to her side in the dark, feeling around for the keys the best she could in the darkness. The chain attached to her handcuffs was just barely long enough for her to reach the keyring. She sighed with relief when her fingers finally found the keys in the blackness, clutching them tightly before bringing them over into the bathtub with her. She had been able to make out the small handcuff key from the bit of light that came in through the gap earlier while the man was still awake and the lights were on, but now she couldnât see a thing, and had to resort to feeling around for the smallest key. After painstakingly surveying them all, she felt it-a small key with a rounded top. What she had seen earlier. Maneuvering it into the lock with her hands bound was another hardship, but she grinned as she figured it out after a few tries, disbelief still clouding her mind. Wow. She was doing this.
She was hasty to turn the key, removing the handcuffs from her red, achy wrists. But in her rush, she dropped the keys as she wiggled her hand loose from the right cuff.
There was a loud CLANG! as they hit the metal plug of the tub, reverberating so loudly it sounded like a huge, ringing bell in the dead silent room. Eloraâs heart began to pound all over again. She sat completely still for a moment, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up, petrified that she had woken the man up.
And her worst fear was confirmed as she heard stirring in the room down the hall. Shit! Abandoning all caution, she stood as fast as she could, climbed out of the bathtub, and dashed to the bathroom door. Agony lit up along her leg as several of the sloppy stitches in the large gash on her thigh split with the sudden movement. She suppressed a scream as she slapped a hand over her mouth and applied pressure to the wound with her other, costing valuable time. Just get out the door. You just have to get out of the door. She hurriedly swung open the bathroom door, running into the hallway.
She made it all but a step until a heavy figure slammed into her in the dark, tackling her to the ground. She hit the old carpet with a thud, groaning as she cried. What had been her only chance was completely foiled. She knew heâd never mess up like this again. âNO!â She shouted, wriggling desperately as she sobbed. âNO, GET OFF OF ME!â Her voice was shrill as she screamed.
âOh, you bitch,â the manâs voice grumbled. All of the sudden, Elora felt a cold blade at her throat and she panicked, going limp in an instant.
The lights in the hallway turned on after his hand felt around the wall for the switch, revealing an enraged face she knew sheâd have nightmares of for a long time staring down at her.
He was almost bright red, scowling as he held the knife to her throat.
âDo you want to die?â he asked, pressing the blade in just enough to form a small line of blood. Elora shook her head just slightly, her eyes wide as she was too scared even to speak.
âThen stay right here.â
The man eased off of her slowly, leaving her on the floor. For a moment, she considered getting up and continuing to run, but a second glare stifled that thought quickly. He had a knife. He had the upper hand. She laid on the floor, dejected, shaking in fear and anticipation of what was going to come next as the man stomped off into the living room. He was unpredictable when he was angry. All she knew was that pain would come.
She heard him rifling through one of the old boxes. He pulled something out-she could hear the displacement of the other items, clanking into each other-and then there was a click, more rifling, and another click. The noise stopped and his footsteps pounded back towards her.
A mallet rested in his hands. The wooden handle and metal head looked impossibly massive from where she laid on the ground. She knew what was happening the moment she saw it, yet still, she was in disbelief, denying the inevitable. She shook her head rapidly, sitting up, even scooting backwards until she hit the wall at the end of the hallway.
âWhich hand did you grab them with?â
Elora looked up at him, her eyes watery and confused. Her voice was a tiny, crackled whisper when she replied. âWhat?â
âThe keys. Which hand did you grab them with? Tell me or Iâll break them both.â His voice was firmer, rougher this time. She had a feeling that refusing to answer might end her up with her head smashed in rather than her fingers. And sheâd grabbed the keys with her right, purely based on how she was positioned. Had the faucet she was chained to been on the opposite wall, it wouldâve been her left. Her dominant hand, crushed to bits. It was a bit of mercy, perhaps, from the universe.
Still, she found it hard to answer. Her shoulders shook and she inhaled sharply twice before forcing the word right out, then dissolving into sobs.
The man was scarily unemotional, showing no anger, no fury towards her. He was the calmest sheâd ever seen him, standing there with the mallet in his hands. He abandoned all his rage when he dug out the toolkit and retrieved the mallet from it.
âYou stole the keys. I have to do this. You have to learn.â
In a way, it sounded more like he was rationalizing with himself rather than her, excusing his actions like he felt bad about them. Like he had to reassure himself. It was sickening.
And with that he descended upon her, shoving her down the wall with a heavy foot on her shoulder. She screamed as she slid down until her head was back on the carpet, and then he dropped, kneeling on her stomach with one leg to pin her down, the other balancing himself. A rough hand wrapped around her right wrist and pinned her hand flat to the ground while the other held the mallet high, above his head, and brought it down.
The first wave of pain was nauseating. There was a sharp cracking that worsened by the second before turning to a deep throb. She screamed until she was coughing and the man held the mallet above her, staring into her eyes. He paused, hesitating until she looked back at him. There was a spacey look in his eyes.
Then he brought it down on her fingers again, then up, then down, rapidly, again and again and again until Elora lost count. She was screaming so loudly her ears were ringing, thrashing and groaning as the pain intensified each time he hit her fingers. They were done for, wholly broken after the second hit, but the man just kept going. It was like he was entranced, no rhyme or reason to his actions other than pain. Any time she wiggled he simply increased the pressure on her torso until it was hard to breathe, deaf to her screams as he kept striking with the mallet.
He didnât snap out of it until twenty or thirty strikes later when her screams died out and turned to choked, gasping inhales with each hit, which apparently was concerning enough for him to ease off of her chest and let the mallet drop to the floor. He exhaled heavily and wiped his hand across his forehead, genuinely extenuated from the effort.
Elora immediately gasped for air and curled onto her side, closing her eyes and clutching her right hand tightly to her chest. She wailed loudly, throbbing pain shooting through her hand, pulsating every second with no relief. she wasnât looking at it, only focusing on protecting herself, but her hand was a sorry sight. The fragile bones of her fingers were pulverized practically to dust, and while he hadnât been aiming for her hand, just the fingers, it still took quite a beating from slipped strikes, several bones cracked or fractured. Her fingers were bent in several unnatural directions, and had an almost flattened appearance, crushed beyond anything easily repairable. She refused to look, but the pain, the intense, throbbing agony, told her enough.
She opened her squeezed-shut eyes for a moment and saw the man stand up and dust himself off, leaving the mallet behind on the floor, just beside her. His back was to her, about to walk off, when she had a revelation.
It doesnât have to be over yet.
She was still unchained. The front door was still right there. She had the upper hand.
And sheâd be damned if she didnât at least try to save herself while she still had a fighting chance.
She rolled over onto her back, seconding guessing herself for a moment before shaking the thought off. She grabbed the mallet with her good hand, sat herself up, then stood quietly behind him.
Then, she hit him as hard as she could in the back of the head.
He crumbled to the ground immediately, falling to his hands and knees as he groaned, shouting a few swears and rubbing futilely at the wound.
But Elora didnât stay to watch him. She didnât even see him fall as she turned and sprinted for the door, the mallet still in her hand.
She was doing it. Sheâd be free.
But something was odd. She didnât hear footsteps chasing behind her. She only heard him get up. And as she reached the front door after dashing through the apartment, she heard laughing. Loud, throaty cackling.
She turned her head and saw the man standing there, staring at her, laughing. She turned back to the door, and she saw the reason for laughter.
Two padlocks held the door closed, one with a keyhole and the other with a numerical keypad. Additionally, across the middle was a huge bar she was far too weak to lift up, especially with one hand. No. No no no no nonononononono she was right here, she did it, she had to get out, she needed to get out now-
There was no getting out. Heâd told her that, hadnât he?
She screamed as the man started to walk forward, towards her. She pressed her back to the door, extended her good hand and tried to keep him back, but there was nowhere else to go.
He was still laughing. âYou really fucked up, didnât you?â
Her eyes were shut tightly in fear and defeat as he reached her, pried the mallet from her hand, and seized her by the neck before smashing her head into the wall until her body fell limply to the floor.
