Captive (Joe Goldberg x Rhys Montrose)

4

To his credit, Rhys isn't so bad a host. I might be trapped in a cage but he doesn't want to treat me like a total animal. He assures me it's for a few days while he figures out what to do with me. The thought is concerning, to say the least so I try to get some words out of him whenever he comes down to hand me a change of clothes or food, make myself look a bit less like a threat. His clothes smell like him. It's a mix of cologne, naturally earthy tones trying to fight off the rich-people-stink of the former and lastly, that part I couldn't place. The pheromones of a predator lurking in the shadows.

He's got two sides to him and now I know both. I can only imagine how much more is hidden beneath those eyes, that smile. His mask is much better than mine. I find it so hard to deal with people. He makes it look so easy, being a normal member of society. Pretending to be a good, righteous man. I don't know which I am, anymore. Good. Bad. Dead, maybe. Cos he's going to kill me soon and I haven't figured out a way out. There is none, honestly.

Even if he got close and I killed him, what then? How do I find the key? Do I try to dig through his flesh and tissue till I can pull out his bone and sharpen it enough to unlock my cage? Is there a reason why I'm imagining such vile things when I'm supposed to be smiling at him, right now?

My murderous grimace isn't impressive. He looks at me, amused as always, and ruffles my hair. I feel like a pet. He's just as bad as the rest were...

I was so wrong about you, Rhys Montrose.

"You're quiet, today. What are you thinking about?"

It was Kate that could tell when I was lost in my head. No one else tended to notice. And now... He can, too? It makes me uncomfortable that he really can read me that well. He sizes me up and smiles again, much calmer.

"Is this about Kate? I heard you break up with your girlfriend for me. I'm touched."

"It wasn't all for you. I'm not exactly boyfriend material... Besides. I need to finish this above all else. I've said it before and I will, again. I'm in a relationship with you right now, Montrose. Leaves no room for a third party."

"Oh... Oh. God, Joseph. Why would you make my mind flicker to a thought like that?"

"I... I wasn't trying to-"

"But now, there I am. It's a lovely fantasy. You. Me. Bodies behind and in front of us. Ready to take on the world, one neck or chest at a time." You smirk at me and I try to smile back. What the fuck kind of homoerotic fantasy is this meant to be? What is with this guy? I can never get a read on him. He's always got that Conservative little smile on his face, the one that I saw become real only as he revealed himself to be the Eat-The-Rich killer, laying himself bare before me. It's so hard to tell if he's joking or not.

There's a light in your eyes I wish I could watch fade away slowly, hands wrapped round that pretty pink neck. I hate you. I despise you. I loathe you. I can't wait to end your life, you piece of shi-

"Are you playing a game with me, Rhys?"

"Well... I've been alone a long, long time. Can you blame me for being a little curious about what you and me would look like? Even with past... Partners... I could never have shared this side with them. But with you... I could tell you everything. And you wouldn't budge. Because you'd know. You'd understand. Perhaps only a killer could love- I- umm. Sorry. Never mind me. The bizarre raving of a loner. I had to be to make covering my tracks easier unlike you who manages to get yourself in and out of the strangest emotional connections with such creativity. I admire your madness, your quest and hunger for a someone. I wish I had that skill. I wish I cared enough to even try but people have always meant so little to me. They prove me right every time I do give them a chance."

...what is happening right now? Why do I feel bad for him? Shit. Fuck. No, Joe, don't.

"Joseph..." why is he saying my name so... Like that? Fuck this guy. Fuck him and his stupid hot British accent. Why couldn't you have been ugly and less decent? The kind of killer I'd want to kill? You're not even a bad guy. I want to call you one but you're just... Fucked up. Like me.

You're like me.

Oh. Shit. No. I'm defending him.

Shut up. Just shut up.

"Hey. Are you okay?" I only glare at him silently. He chuckles a bit and reaches in to poke me, taking a step back when I stretch my hand out to take a swipe at him before he can. "Fine. Be that way. See if I care."

Then a sigh. He runs his hands through his hair. I imagine him doing so after killing Malcolm, Simon, Gemma; blood sprayed across his cheek and hands, eyes raving over their empty shells like a true predator, lips quivering from the sweet taste of satisfaction as gentle pants leave them. I stare at this image of him in my mind, pushing a gasp down my throat when the man in my head suddenly raises his gaze to me, his true wild wicked smile filling his face with light.

They soften at the sight of me, yet the same glow still fills them. No longer predatorial, it seems more of a beckoning, like he's asking me to... Join him.

I can't help but flinch when he calls my name again, shaking me out of our little dance behind my eyes. I don't want to think about him, anymore. I don't want to look at him. I've spent too damned long being fed and doted over by him, trapped in this giant, human-sized cage underneath his house. It's beginning to make me crazy. Crazier than I am, anyhow.

Is this what the beginning of Stockholm Syndrome feels like?

I refuse to engage, anymore. I won't. I can't. He seems to understand that I'm done for the day because he turns on his heel and leaves, whistling softly. And I am thankful. Beyond thankful. I spend as much time before sleep takes over me as I can reminding myself of the many reasons Rhys Montrose is a man I need to kill and dispose of. Sooner rather than later.