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The worst part was not knowing what was coming.
Alan knelt next to the side of the dingy bathtub, his chest bent roughly over the porcelain barrier. He stared down into the crackling bottom, eyes focused on a large chip near the drain. The doctor longed to settle himself evenly over the rim of the tub, to put his hands down in front of him, but they had been tightly secured with plastic zip ties by his captor. “Can't have you doing anything stupid,” Sam had said simply. “It'll be okay. You'll see.”
The cold chill of fear settled uncomfortably with the race of adrenaline coursing through Alan's weakened, exhausted body. His knees ached, the grainy linoleum digging through the soft sleep pants he'd been gifted by his so-called 'patient,' a practical but hasty solution to the older man's hygienic dilemma. Chained to the basement floor as he had been and continued to be for what seemed like weeks now, Alan found he smelled worse than the refrigerator after the power had been out at his house for four days. There had been a storm, and by the time the power was restored everything had gone rancid.
“At least it was just a regular week,” Beth had said. “Imagine if it had been Passover.”
The memory made Alan smile, just a little. God, he missed his wife.
Suddenly a metallic creaking sound shrieked through the still air. Alan flinched. There was a pull around his neck as he felt the fine links of a chain collar tighten with the movement. The therapist stilled instantly, glaring as best he could at the other end of the lead, secured to a metal bar set into the wall. It looked as though it had been a handicap bar at one time. Alan moved closer to the spigot, the chain loosening infinitesimally as he did so. “Sam,” he asked, fighting to keep his voice calm and somewhat steady, “is all this really necessary?”
The sound of rubber scraping against vinyl greeted Alan's ears. Something plastic knocked against a hard surface. “Well, your hair needs a wash,” the younger man said simply. “I mean, it's pretty much standing up on its own. It's not good.”
“I agree,” Alan affirmed. “But, after all this time, I mean...it's not like I can outrun you, or...or overpower you. I would be a fool to try.”
“No. No, this is safer.” The doctor could imagine the shake of his captor's head and the look of set finality on the younger man's face. “Safer for both of us.” Alan startled as the disused knobs turned above him, sending a stream of chilled water plunging towards the tub drain. He felt Sam steady himself by placing a hand against the older man's shoulder, wincing as pressure built from taking on his patient's weight. Just as soon as it came, it disappeared, and the water began to build into a warm mist. “Duck your head under,” Sam ordered.
With a shiver, Alan complied. The temperature leveled off, and Alan almost moaned in pleasure at the feel of the pleasingly hot liquid coursing through his stiff, nearly brittle hair. He stayed under for what felt like several minutes, allowing himself to remember what it felt like to be clean. Sam had cautiously provided a couple of sponge bath setups in his prison corner, but even the hottest water in the small washtub grew cold after a few minutes. The fact that a sponge bath didn't allow for a person to have access to continuous hot water over a whole body at once didn't help either. Still, he was cleaner than he had been, and Alan thanked God for even that much.
A loud, wet squelching sound cut through the air, and Alan heard something plastic-like fall, possibly a bottle onto the sink or the floor. “Hold still,” Sam commanded, and a second later the young man's prisoner felt long, soft fingers scrubbing through his hair. Alan attempted to stay as still as possible, but the force of Sam's ministrations sometimes caused his head to try and overshoot the bounds of the chain collar. “Please, Sam,” he begged. “Not so hard.”
“I dunno,” Sam said. “I mean, your hair's really awful. I never should have let it get that bad.”
You never should have kidnapped me in the first place, the doctor thought. Out loud, he said, “It hurts. When you push too hard. The...the collar...it hurts, Sam.”
The fingers stopped moving. Thick waves of lather dripped from Alan's head. “Oh. Sorry.” Sam began again, this time a bit more gently. “Is...is this better?”
Well, “better” would be me standing in my own shower, washing my own hair. “Yes, Sam. Thank you.”
“Duck your head under again,” came the reply. “I gotta rinse you out.”
Thankfully, the water was still warm. Alan soaked it all in, taking a drink when he could manage it. It was hot water, but it still slaked his thirst. The collar of Alan's sleep shirt was soddened, but the doctor paid it little mind. It would dry. A metallic rattle clinked above him. “Pick your head up.”
Cautiously, Alan did. The collar had been removed from the bar, and in Sam's hands was a stiff but serviceable towel. “Hold still.” It was the only warning Alan got; moments before his head was enveloped in pressure and darkness. The pile of the towel was rough, and scratched in places, but soon Alan's hair was mostly dry.
“Stand up.” The towel slipped to the floor. Sam's hand firmly held the end of the chain collar. As one, the unlikely pair slowly rose to their feet.
A heaviness weighed on Alan as he inched his way back towards the prison he was forced to call 'home.' It grew heavier as Sam secured his ankle chain to its usual position on the floor. What I wouldn't give to go home, he thought as he sank down on the bed that was now the center of his world. What I wouldn't give...