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The calvary wasn’t coming.
Alan sat back against the wall behind his bed, staring through the glass window opposite him. The night had fallen quickly, as though shrouding him.
Shroud. The therapist chuffed a bit. That’s an apt word.
From the moment Sam dropped his bombshell on him, Alan felt as though he, too, was buried wherever poor Elias was carelessly laid to rest. The moment he woke up in this basement, weight simply kept being piled higher and higher on top of him – serial killer patient, enabling mother of said patient, loss of freedom, loss of autonomy, fear…
A small sigh floated into the ether. The fear.
Because of that fear, Alan found he had no choices. He’d always imagined that even in the bleakest of situations, people had a choice, even if it was to continue breathing or not.
He’d been wrong. There were no fucking choices.
Sam chose where Alan could stay.
Sam chose where Alan could go.
Sam chose who Alan could speak to.
Sam chose what Alan ate.
Sam chose whether or not to allow Alan the means to wash, change clothes or take a piss.
Hell, Sam chose whether or not Alan could even fucking sleep. If Sam wanted a session at two in the goddamned morning, Alan could either provide the session or face Sam’s consequences.
Okay, so maybe I do have some choices, the therapist corrected mentally. Just not very good ones.
Alan closed his eyes. The image of the concentration camp barracks swam over his mind, pale breathing skeletons staring at him with dead, drawn faces. In the midst of the pile of starved, sick men, a new face jumped out at him: a young face, with deep bloody gouges near his right temple. A pair of clouded eyes felt as though they were boring into Alan’s very soul. “Why?” he heard the raspy voice cry softly. “Why did you let him kill me?”
“I didn’t! I tried, I tried so hard…”
“You could move. You could see,” the visage of Elias’s corpse insisted. “You could’ve stopped him…could have ended him…”
The vision swam, and suddenly Alan saw a specter of Ezra standing before him, dressed in full Orthodox vestments. “Why did you let him die?” it said in his son’s voice. “Killing is a sin in the eyes of God.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t kill him.” Alan could feel his corporeal eyes roll slightly. “I did everything I could possibly do to save Elias.”
“And yet, he’s still dead,” the image of Ezra chided. “My people could have done far better.”
“Your people? You mean your in-laws? The Jewish community? Or only the Orthodox, the sacrificially devout?” A snort of derision worked through Alan’s nose. “Yes, I’m sure you could have stopped the fucking serial killer by sacrificing yourself to save his victim’s life.”
The specter of Ezra quieted at that. “I mean, let’s get real here,” Alan thought, continuing the internal emotional rant he would likely never get to unleash on his wayward child. “Do you even know I’m missing? Have you checked up on me? Do you even care that I might starve, or be strangled to death, or be dumped where my body can’t be found, or worse?”
“Should I?” not-Ezra spat back.
Alan sighed. “No. I suppose not. Shoshanna might. You only see what you want to see. You only believe what you want to believe. I am being held prisoner by a confessed serial killer, chained to a floor in a fucking basement, mere inches from fresh air and sunlight and fucking goddamn choices, and the sad thing is? The serial killer, the guy with actual zero empathy and next to no conscience, is more concerned about me than my own son. The honest-to-God murderer at least wants to speak to me, wants some sort of fucking relationship with me, as screwed up as that is. I suppose the real question is, given what I’ve just said, what does all that say about you?”
At that, the visage of Ezra vanished. A second later, Alan heard the glass door slide open. “Hi,” his captor said, shaking a leaf out of his scraggly mop of hair.
“Hello, Sam,” Alan greeted, his calm façade slipping back into place.
“Sorry I’m so late.” Plastic rustled, and Alan’s eyes fell on the sizable bags in Sam’s hands. “Dinner,” the younger man said hastily, nearly tossing the parcels onto the coffee table. “I got seafood tonight – there’s this place near the county line, does the best garlic shrimp and salmon in dill butter…you’re, you’re not allergic to seafood, are you?” Sam’s expressive eyes glanced up towards the therapist, as though trying desperately to please his prisoner.
“No, Sam,” Alan assured him. “I mean, not that I know of. I haven’t had any reactions.”
“Oh, good, that’s good.” Take out boxes littered the small table space. Another large bag sat on the floor near the space where Alan’s chain was affixed to the floor. Following the older man’s gaze, Sam added, “Uh, I stopped for a few things. ‘S why I was late.” He handed the bag to Alan. Cautiously, Alan pulled a pair of gray sleep pants, a matching gray sleep shirt, a pair of fuzzy gray socks, a single pair of underwear and an oversized blue cable-knit cardigan. He noticed the small colored stickers that brightened each price tag. “There’s a really good thrift store near the seafood place,” Sam said. “They get the like-new stuff. Is it…is it okay? I mean, I thought about it…if those work for you, I could get your clothes washed up for you. Might have to just get by with a sponge bath for now, though.”
The thought of a shower really appealed to Alan. He’d long since stopped counting how many days he’d been kept in this plain but relatively comfortable prison, but he was sure it had been at least a couple of weeks. At the words ‘sponge bath,’ his small smile dimmed a little, but the smell of the secondhand soap and the gift of a small white washcloth and hand towel seemed priceless.
“Th-thank you, Sam,” Alan stammered, trying not to show how pathetically grateful he was. “I had wondered…” he continued, then shook his head. “I really appreciate this.”
Sam simply nodded once and then tucked into his food. “I’ll keep thinking on how to make a shower safe,” he promised between bites of buttered shrimp and pungent garlic. “Your hair could use the help.”
“Thank you.” Alan gingerly lifted the lid off of a large filet of salmon, covered in wilted dill and swimming in butter. It was surprisingly good. “This is pretty good.”
“See? Madriano’s, best in seafood three years running. Mary and I used to go there a lot, before…well, before.”
The bite of fish tumbled jerkily down the doctor’s throat. He coughed harshly, trying to force the food back up. Alarmed, Sam immediately crossed towards his captive and started pounding on Alan’s back. The offending flakes of fish finally came up, and Alan fought to catch his breath.
“Here,” Sam said, handing the older man a cup of water. Alan sipped at the cool liquid slowly, allowing the water to soothe his irritated throat. “You okay?”
“Yes, Sam, I’m fine,” Alan rasped, his voice rough and low. “Just a little too much at once, I think.”
Sam nodded, seemingly pleased with the outcome before him. “Once we finish up I’ll bring you a bucket of water to wash up. If you put your clothes on the table I’ll throw them through the wash.”
Alan nodded, trying to smile. His whirlwind of conflicting emotions made it difficult. Plus, there was the fish-abused throat to consider.
The two men silently finished their meal, and the bucket was brought in as promised. Alan worried that Sam would choose to stay and watch Alan undress, but he merely stepped into the adjoining bathroom to give his prisoner a modicum of privacy. The shirt, socks, and cardigan were folded neatly and put on the small table, but Alan’s pants and underwear were forced to slide down his shackles and onto the floor. The doctor washed up as best he could, feeling a little more refreshed and certainly more like a human being rather than a filthy creature.
“Finished?” Sam called from behind the door.
Alan hurried to redress himself. He pulled his old pants and underwear back on, not wanting to be half-naked in front of his patient/kidnapper. “Yes.”
Sam reached for the folded clothes. “You didn’t like the pants?”
“I, uh…I couldn’t put them on.” A weathered leg shook the chain attached to it, the links clinking soundly.
“Oh, shit. Forgot.” Sam stood straight. “Stand by the wall. Face it.”
Alan complied. He heard the rustle of chain, the click of the lock, and felt movement. Though there was no shovel in Sam’s hand, nor sharp object, Alan didn’t dare move. He’d seen firsthand what the younger man could do with his size and his bare hands.
“Dress. Face the wall.”
Mortified, Alan slowly pulled down his pants and underwear. Thankfully, the cable-knit cardigan was oversized, so it acted more as a robe than a sweater. He hurried to put on the fresh clothing Sam provided and then stood up. Alan never dared to face his keeper. He’d hardly dared to breathe, both from shame and embarrassment. Soon the chain dropped to the carpet with a shuffle and the lock clicked home, securing him to the floor once more.
“I’ll run these through the wash tomorrow,” Sam said, tucking his head down as he scurried through the door. “We can have a session tomorrow before work, okay?”
Dumbly, Alan nodded. “Good night, then,” he heard Sam call as the bathroom door closed behind him.
Alan exhaled slowly as he crawled onto his bed. In the darkness, he swore he could hear his son laughing at him. Let’s see you do better, when you’re the one dealing with a compulsive killer who might be on the spectrum,” he thought irritably. I’m sure Orthodox teachings prepare you for just such an occasion. Perhaps you can chant him to death, or whatever. Cultist.