Captive To Captivated

Part 8

I didn't say anything, I just tried to keep my breaths even as they came out shaky. I willed myself not to cry or show him my fear, but when he came closer to the bed my eyes couldn't help but water up again. He noticed and furrowed his eyebrows.

"Hey, it's okay," he assured soothingly, but something about his voice didn't feel so soothing. 

His words had no positive effect on me. He sat on the bed in front of me, causing my heart rate to spike up. Too close. He was too close.

Tears fell from my eyes before I could stop them, I was shaking my head, "please don't hurt me," I whispered. 

I hated feeling so vulnerable. I hated sounding so weak. This was not like me. I don't cry and beg. I shout and fight. But I was too intimidated. Too worried for my safety. My life. If I spoke back to Jason and received a blow to my face, I couldn't imagine what Tim would do to me − the one who murdered a man in broad daylight without even thinking twice.

He continued looking at me with a calm expression, unlike Jason's. His hand reached up to my face and I flinched before his calloused thumb wiped a tear away. I looked back at him in confusion, not understanding why he was trying to be so nice. "Don't cry."

This only caused me to cry more for some reason. I felt him place a hand behind my shoulder and move a little bit closer, making me more anxious just from his touch. "Hey," he whispered, "everything's going to be fine, okay? You don't need to worry."

I looked up at him with anticipation. Did that mean he was going to let me go? "What are you going to do with me?" My voice unintentionally wavered at the end as I held back my cries.

He wiped my face, pressing on the bruise on my cheek, making me gasp. His eyes were hard. I couldn't tell if he meant to do that intentionally or not as he completely ignored my question. "Pretty girls like you shouldn't cry."

I stared into his dark blue eyes, mixed with a cold grey, trying not to feel so sick from his closeness. I noticed spots of paint through his jet black hair. I sniffled and looked back down, spotting more blue paint covering his grubby jacket and pants. It reminded me of the colour of the walls in our rumpus room back home.

"I want to go home."

He didn't say anything for a moment. "Are you scared?" he asked, but not so much in a considerate manner. I wasn't sure if he was patronizing me.

I glanced at him without replying before the tears came back. He took the opportunity to comfort me again and I couldn't comprehend why. "Don't be scared, love. It's going to be alright, you shouldn't stress."

My fear barely budged but now it was overpowered by sadness, not to mention discomfort. I didn't want to be here; to have a murderers hands touch me, with his face looking down at mine so closely. I just wanted to go back home. To go to work. Serve Darrell his usual burger and fries with no pickles, extra mustard with his diet cola every Thursday. I wanted to see my dad, even though he was dead on the inside. I needed to see him and be around him. Have that brief four-second conversation with him at the dinner table about the weather, or how I accidently overcooked the chicken again. I wanted to see Ollie even though I know I shouldn't. What would he be thinking if he knew where I was? If he knew what happened to me.

I managed to stop myself from crying any more when I felt Tim move even closer placing a hand on my thigh. I looked up and he wiped my face once more, pressing on my bruise again. I recoiled my head and tried to move away as much as I could, but it was useless with my hands tied to the headboard.

His knee was now touching mine and he'd gotten far too close for comfort. I started feeling more uneasy under his stare. I cleared my throat and looked away just as we heard tyres driving onto rubble and coming to a stop. He noticed too and looked at the curtained window. 

"Jason's back. I better go help him."

I nodded quietly and waited impatiently for him to leave, unable to face him. I wanted to ask him to untie me, loosen the ropes around my burning wrists, but I didn't want him in the room for a second longer. When he finally left the room and locked the door I let out a disturbed breath, feeling anxious yet much safer. I wasn't sure what had just happened. If that was his actual attempt to comfort me, that was atrocious.

Nothing he said felt assuring. I still had no idea what was going on. He avoided answering my questions and wouldn't tell me what they were planning on doing with me. The way he kept saying 'don't worry' only made me feel like I should be worrying more. His eerie touch still lingered over me, sending an unpleasant shiver down my spine.

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