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“I get that you're upset...”
Alan barely breathed as he struggled to process his captor's latest threat. No, Sam...you wouldn't...
“...and I promise, I promise, I won't ever go near your family again, ever.”
The psychotherapist remained motionless, his grip firm on his admittedly flimsy, last-ditch weapon. Honestly, it was a miracle Alan even had it at all. Pure, dumb luck coupled with desperation, a ghost of a chance at regaining what he had lost – what had been stolen from him. The makeshift blade still pressed snugly against what the older man hoped was his jugular. Something fluttered near the peripheral of his eye, and Alan had trouble making it out.
“But, I need therapy.” The fact that Sam was inching closer niggled in Alan's frazzled, exhausted mind. Alan's breaths became more and more shallow, more frantic. The sharp corner of his blade began to waver, catching slightly on a small fold of skin. Tired eyelids began to droop, and Alan fought to keep his tormentor in his field of view. Sam was now leaning over the bed now, one knee balancing the younger man as he gently reached for the sharpened metal tube. “And I'll get it. Whether you're willing to be my therapist, or not.”
Sam's threat resounded in Alan's ears. “...one of the other therapists works from an office. Has a wife and little kids. Makes it harder to take him without people noticing, not to mention I'd feel like an absolute shithead about splitting up another family...”
Alan shook slightly. The sharpened edge drove a fraction deeper into the shallow groove it had begun to create. “...but the other guy, he lives alone. Works from home. Not as experienced as you or the first guy; he's only about five, ten years older than me. It's why it wasn't working with him, but I liked him well enough. And since he'd be handling my therapy for the rest of my life, he'd have plenty of practice perfecting his technique.”
The thought of sentencing someone else to his nightmare, this living Hell-on-Earth, this admittedly somewhat cleaner, better fed version of a death camp, wasn't something Alan could live with. Not that he'd live long, mind – just one quick shove and his misery would end – but it wasn't something he wished on anyone else.
The mattress dipped a little as Sam stretched his weight across, a long arm balanced against a balled fist. “You've spent a lot of time trying to get me to put myself in other people's shoes,” Alan heard the younger man say, the gentleness of Sam's voice masking the very potent threat he posed. The captive felt fingers brush against his straining wrist. “Are you really going to force someone else into yours?”
At that, Alan capitulated. He felt, rather than saw, Sam move his weapon away from his throat. He felt, rather than saw, Sam pluck the sharpened metal from his aching hand.
“Fuck. You really did get this thing sharp.”
Alan finally, finally dares to throw his captor a brief glance. “That was the point.” As worn and sore as his throat is from his panic attack last night, the therapist is amazed those few words come out as clear as they do, for as faint as they are.
An uncomfortable pause lingers. Then Sam turned back to his work, safely discarding Alan's last best hope of taking his freedom back. The younger man was once again a whirlwind; shelves and drawers clattering, boxes filled, furniture stacked haphazardly inside the bed of the pickup.
Alan felt the spare remnants of his energy rapidly waning. His tired mind fought determinedly to catch up. Ezra is alive, Alan realized. My son is alive. And he's warned everyone he could.
Relief coursed through Alan's battered, broken frame. Before he knew it, the sounds of soft sobs wrenched from his throat. Tears coursed freely down a sun-reddened, barely kept face. I'm doomed, he thought, the idea tugging at his emotions further. I'm doomed to spend the rest of my life in this miserable Hell...please, God, let me be the last one. Let me be the last one Sam tortures. Let me be the last one he destroys.
Please, please... let me be the last one.