Chapter Text
Damian stood outside, shaking, having not seen the sky in five-seven months. It has been seven months.
He didn't know why he wasn't moving, why his legs wouldn't will themselves to move from the front steps. Nothing was stopping him, no one was home-here.
This horrid place is not his home. This little Victorian house, with its peeling paint and creaky floorboards, was not his home. He was here, taken against his will, taken from his father, his sister, Pennyworth, his brothers, Grayson.
Grayson, his Batman, who loved him so dearly after knowing his history, knowing the blood on his hands.
But despite that, he only makes it to the edge of the first step.
He sways on his feet, the outside making him panic. He doesn't know why; he just picked the lock to the basement he was kept in. He normally would be upstairs, in the house that was alarmed and locked, the windows covered with black curtains so he couldn't see out and no one could see in.
But he was being punished.
He had dropped a plate, not meaning to, since he's been here he has been clumsy, struggling with the simplest tasks under the weight of constant surveillance and fear. The sound of shattering porcelain echoed through the house like a gunshot, followed by her swift anger and swift decision.
She grabbed a wooden spoon, the ones that he sees Pennyworth use to stir batter, that feels so long ago.
Her grip on the spoon was firm, fingers tight around the handle as she advanced toward him. Damian's heart raced; he knew what was coming next. He had learned quickly in these seven months how to read her moods, and how to anticipate her punishments. But no amount of preparation could dull the fear that clenched his stomach, the dread that filled every fiber of his being.
She pulled him roughly downstairs to the basement, a place he had stayed when he first arrived here, drugged out of his mind and starved for days at a time.
The basement was dimly lit, the air stale and musty with neglect. The walls seemed to close in around Damian as he stood there, his heart pounding in his chest like a trapped animal. She pushed him roughly against the cold stone wall, the rough texture biting into his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Seven months ago he would've laughed at this, Damian al Ghul, Wayne is being pushed around by some mere civilian.
But he is so tired, he barely eats and sleeps, his once lithe frame now gaunt and weary from constant deprivation.
She spanked him, hitting over wilts and wounds that reopened, probably will become infected for they never are given a chance to heal.
He tries his best not to squirm in her lap, Through gritted teeth, Damian suppresses the urge to cry out, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of his suffering.
It lasts for too long but eventually, she leaves him in the dimness of the basement, alone with his pain and exhaustion. His body feels heavy, every bruise and wound throbbing with a dull ache that matches the rhythm of his racing heart. She will come around eventually because, despite these punishments, she holds him, cradles him, and carries him and Damian hates himself for liking her hugs because except for Grayson, no one holds him, no one ever has held him with such care, such protectiveness, tenderness, everything that this woman is not but still shows him glimpses of what he craves.
He doesn't know how long he spends down there, again no windows, no clock, no calendar, just his estimations of how long it has been. The wounds on his bottom have stopped bleeding, but the dry scabs pull painfully with every movement and he desperately needs a bath, not sure how long it's been since he had one of those.
But when he finally picks the lock, finally steps outside...
For a while, he's just frozen...
He screams
It's all just too much.
He doesn't remember the sun being that bright, colors bursting in his vision after months of dimness. His hands shake uncontrollably as he clutches the railing, running back into the house, internally screaming at himself because this is his chance, he can run, and find help but he's paralyzed by fear. The world outside, so long forgotten and yearned for, now overwhelms him with its brightness and vastness. Damian's breath comes in short, panicked gasps as he retreats into the shadowy recesses of the house, his mind racing with the consequences of his fleeting moment of freedom.
The basement door slams shut behind him, sealing him once again in the suffocating embrace of captivity. He slides down against the cold stone wall, and he cries and cries his tears mingling with the sweat and grime on his face, accepting his fate.
He is too weak, too afraid to escape.
And no one is coming for him.
_~~_
Seven months earlier:
Drake turned out to be right, father was alive, trapped in the timestream and Damian didn't really know how to feel about it.
When Bruce came back everything changed. Grayson moved out, back to Bludhaven, and Damian sort of wishes that he took him with him.
Father wasn't terrible but he just couldn't be bothered with him, it was like just he and Pennyworth just lived in the manor, at least from Damian's perspective.
Their conversations were awkward, and their interactions stilted. Bruce tried, Damian could see that, but it was as if there was an invisible wall between them. The weight of Bruce's return, and the expectations that came with it, only seemed to widen the chasm.
Damian felt the loss of Grayson acutely. He missed the easy camaraderie, the understanding that needed no words. He missed the laughter, the rare moments of lightness that Grayson brought into their lives. Without him, the Manor felt colder, emptier.
So Damian threw himself into a distraction; This art competition at school.
It was rather a childish distraction, but a distraction all the same.
Damian immersed himself in his art, using it as an escape from the emptiness of the manor. The competition became a little bit of an obsession, using his recess and lunchtime to complete his pieces.
His favorite teacher Ms. Beaumont, the school's art teacher was away on maternity leave, expecting her first child. In her place, the school brought in Miss Carter, who wasn't quite the same, maybe he's just biased but Miss Carter let him stay inside and paint so she wasn't so bad and she kept tea and cookies in the room which was a small comfort.
"You are the only student who has started on this, the competition isn't until three months from now,"
Damian shrugged, not taking his eyes off his sketch,
"Well, that means I will win," The child declared,
"Winning isn't just about starting early, Damian," she gently reminded him, her tone carrying a blend of encouragement and caution.
He glanced up briefly, his expression serious. "I know. But it gives me an advantage,"
"It does," She agreed, pulling up a chair to sit beside him.
"You have a lot of sketches in here," She said, taking the book when the child put his pencil on the desk.
He watched her silently, his guarded demeanor softening slightly in her presence. She flipped through the pages of his sketchbook, her eyes lingering on each drawing with genuine interest.
"These are impressive, Damian," she commented, her tone sincere as she admired his skillful renderings of landscapes, animals, and everyday objects like mugs.
"You draw better than most high schoolers," She said handing it back to him.
He accepted the sketchbook back with a nod, a faint glimmer of pride touching his features despite his usual guarded demeanor. The compliment from Miss Carter felt genuine, and Damian found himself cautiously appreciating her words.
"Thank you," he replied softly,
No one other than Grayson and Pennyworth has taken an interest in his artistic talents before. It was a rare moment of validation, a flicker of recognition that warmed his heart in ways he hadn't expected.
So Damian found himself being in the art room more often, now drawing in there when his father was late picking him up from school, which was pretty often.
But he never should have let his guard down. He can't even trust his own mother, why on earth would he trust her?
The day began like any other but it was Miss Carter's last day at the school which made Damian feel quite sad to be honest and he didn't know why. But there was something about her leaving that left a void in the routine he had begrudgingly settled into. Miss Carter had been different from the other teachers, not just because she allowed him to stay in the art room longer or praised his drawings, but because she seemed to genuinely care—or so he thought.
Like he always did during recess, he sat in the art room to sketch, Miss Carter poured him some tea and chatted while he worked.
She seemed different today, more nervous but it wasn't Damian's business to pry. He focused on his sketches, the pencil gliding smoothly over the paper as he captured the intricate details of a blooming rose.
As the afternoon progressed, Damian began to feel strangely lightheaded. The world around him seemed to blur at the edges, colors blending together in a dizzying swirl. He blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the sensation, but his movements felt sluggish and uncoordinated.
"Are you feeling alright, Damian?" Miss Carter's voice sounded distant, as if coming from underwater. Damian tried to respond, but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth, the words refusing to form properly. Panic flickered in his chest, but he couldn't muster the strength to voice his concern.
"Damian, you need to sit down," Miss Carter urged, her voice now urgent as she guided him to a nearby chair. Damian's mind raced with a thousand thoughts, but none could break through the fog descending upon him. He fought against the overwhelming drowsiness, his eyelids drooping despite his efforts to stay awake.
The room spun around him, colors blending into a dizzying whirlpool. He clutched the edge of the chair, trying to anchor himself in reality as it slipped further and further away. A surge of panic gripped him, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
"No... no, what did you do?" Damian managed to mumble, his voice a weak whisper.
Because he isn't stupid, he was completely fine before he drank the tea.
But he didn't get an answer, his head hitting the table with a thud as consciousness abandoned him.
_~~_
He woke up, the dizziness ten times worse than before, his head pounding with an intensity that made it hard to think. His surroundings were blurry, his vision swimming in and out of focus. He blinked several times, trying to clear the fog from his mind, but the pain was relentless.
Damian tried to sit up, but his body felt heavy and uncooperative. Every movement sent waves of nausea rolling through him. He managed to prop himself up on one elbow, his head spinning as he took in his surroundings. The room was small and dimly lit, the air thick with a musty odor. He tried sitting up but his leg felt anchored and as he lifted his head slightly, he saw that his sock and shoe was replaced with a chain.
The cold metal was tightly fastened around his left ankle, biting into his skin. The other end of the chain was secured to a heavy metal ring bolted into the floor. Panic surged through him as he tugged at the chain weakly, but it held firm, the links clinking together with a hollow sound.
He collapsed on the mattress he was laying on just as the basement door opened, dim light spilling into the room. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the faint light. Damian's heart raced as he recognized the outline of the woman who had brought him here.
"Ah, you're awake," she said, her voice carrying a chilling calmness. She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her, carrying a tray.
If Damian wasn't so out of it, he would have given her a piece of his mind but all he could muster was small little whimpers.
She ran a hand through his hair, and it felt so... motherly, so gentle that it made his skin crawl. "Shh, it's alright," she cooed softly, setting the tray down beside him. "You're safe here."
She fed him some of the soup she had. He couldn't really taste any flavor but he knew it was drugged for the faint metallic aftertaste. His head grew heavier by the second, nausea so bad that he almost puked from the little he had consumed. His vision blurred even more, and his eyelids felt like lead. The woman's voice faded into the background as Damian fought to stay conscious, but it was a losing battle.
"Rest now, dear," she whispered, her words echoing eerily in his mind. "You'll feel better soon."
His thoughts grew disjointed, fragments of memories and fears swirling together in a chaotic haze. The pain in his head dulled, replaced by a heavy numbness that spread through his body. He tried to resist, to fight against the drug's effects, but his strength was sapped, and his eyelids finally fluttered shut.
In the darkness, a single thought persisted: He had to escape. He had to find a way back home. But for now, sleep claimed him, pulling him down into a deep, dreamless void.
He went in and out of consciousness for what felt like days, weeks even, his body weaker each time he woke up from the haze of drug-induced slumber to the point that opening up his eyes was a task he gave up on. It wasn't like he was missing anything, the room was pitch black save for the dim, eerie light filtering in through the basement door when it occasionally opened. Damian's senses were numbed by the persistent drug haze, leaving him trapped in a cycle of semi-awareness and deep lethargy.
Soon he just stopped trying to stay awake all together, succumbing to the inevitable pull of unconsciousness each time he regained a fleeting moment of awareness. His body, battered by the relentless effects of the drugs and the oppressive confinement, surrendered to the darkness more willingly with each passing day.
His body weakened further, muscles wasting away from lack of movement. The musty air hung heavy around him, mingling with the metallic taste of the drugged soup that sustained him and kept him docile.
One day though, it could have been a night, he doesn't know what time it was, Damian heard a faint clicking sound, the chain being pulled away from his ankle.
He blinked, finding Miss Carter manhandle him and lift him into her arms like the child he is, balancing him on her hip and carried him out of the room. Damian's head lolled weakly against her shoulder, his senses still dulled by the remnants of the drugs. As they moved through the corridors, he tried to gather his strength, to resist the haze that threatened to pull him back into unconsciousness.
She bathes him, he is still wearing his school uniform from weeks ago, his clothes soiled and ragged from days of captivity. The warm water felt comforting against his clammy skin, washing away the grime and the lingering scent of confinement. Miss Carter worked efficiently, her movements gentle yet purposeful as she cleaned Damian, careful not to agitate his weakened state.
When done she carries him to this room, it's a child's bedroom, one that hasn't been used in quite some time based on the pristine state of the linens on the bed.
"This is your room," She says almost excitedly like this was a fresh start, a new beginning. Damian's mind struggled to process the conflicting emotions—relief at being away from the basement, yet apprehension about what Miss Carter had planned for him next.
She laid him down on the bed with a tenderness that felt unsettlingly maternal, tucking him in as if he were a young child. Damian's muscles tensed involuntarily, his mind racing with thoughts of escape and survival. He needed a plan, but his body was still too weak, too drained from days of captivity and drugging.
He fell right to sleep exhausted beyond measure, feeling her warm hand gently brushing his bangs.
And he hates that he found comfort in it.
_~~_
Damian woke up and in the first time in...he doesn't know how long but his mind felt clearer than it had in ages. The heaviness that had weighed him down seemed to have lifted, though his body still felt achingly weak. He lay still for a moment, taking in the unfamiliar room around him. He noticed that the bedroom windows were covered with heavy blackout curtains and planks of wood, blocking out any hint of daylight.
His brow furrowed as he swung his legs over the bed, the action sending a sharp ache through his muscles, stiff from disuse. Damian sat on the edge of the bed, his senses alert despite the lingering weakness. The room's dimness added to his disorientation, but he focused on the immediate details—the sturdy bedframe, the plain walls devoid of decoration, and the faint scent of disinfectant that lingered in the air.
Behind him, he heard the door openwith a soft creak, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet room. Damian's heart skipped a beat as he turned swiftly, his senses on high alert. In the doorway stood Miss Carter, her figure silhouetted against the dim light filtering in from the hallway. Her presence filled the room with an unsettling calmness, contrasting sharply with Damian's tense state.
"Good morning, Damian," She greeted him with a gentle smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. "I hope you had a restful sleep."
Damian eyed her warily, his mind racing with questions and suspicions. Despite the clarity he felt, he knew better than to let his guard down around her. He remained seated on the edge of the bed, his posture rigid with apprehension.
"What do you want?" Damian demanded, his voice rough from disuse but firm with determination. He needed answers, and he needed to gauge Miss Carter's intentions more than ever.
Her smile widened slightly, a hint of amusement flickering across her features. "I brought you some breakfast," she said, holding up a tray with a small meal neatly arranged on it. "You must be hungry."
Damian's stomach growled in response, a reminder of his physical needs despite the tense situation. He eyed the tray cautiously, weighing his options. Accepting food from her meant acknowledging some form of dependence, but refusing could escalate the situation.
"Where am I?" Damian pressed, his voice sharper now, cutting through the polite facade the woman maintained.
She set the tray down on the table beside the bed, her movements deliberate yet unhurried. "You're safe, home,"
"This isn't my home,"
Miss Carter's smile faltered momentarily, but she composed herself quickly. "It is now,"
Her reply hung in the air, her tone carrying a weight that made Damian's unease deepen. He eyed her warily, a mixture of defiance and fear flickering in his eyes.
"This isn't home," Damian insisted, his voice firm despite the lingering weakness in his body. "You can't just keep me here against my will."
"You will learn to love it here," She says like she is so sure, like it's a fact.
Damian stays silent, not wanting to upset her. He's too weak to fight back effectively and he doesn't want to be back to square one, chained in a basement so he bites his tongue, masking his fear behind a mask of stoicism.
She hands him two white pills and Damian takes them wordlessly having no choice but to swallow them in front of her.
"You can join me downstairs when you are ready," She says, backing towards the door.
"You're not going to keep me here forever," Damian finally asserts, his voice steady despite the underlying fatigue. "My family will find me."
She just hums, her smile now unreadable. "Time will tell, Damian," she replies cryptically before leaving the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
He doesn't come downstairs for a long time, wishfully thinking that his father and the others would rescue him. However, as the days turned into weeks, Damian's hope began to wane. Each morning brought the same routine: Miss Carter would bring him meals, check on him, and remind him of the new life she claimed was his. The pills she gave him dulled his senses, making it harder for him to plan or resist effectively.
So eventually Damian just went downstairs, the windows there too were covered in the wood and the curtains but the lamps made the room dimly lit. Miss Carter was sitting at a small dining table, leafing through a book. She glanced up as Damian entered, her expression inscrutable.
"Good of you to join me," she remarked casually, gesturing to the chair opposite her.
Damian hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly took a seat.
Miss Carter pushed a plate of food towards him—a simple meal, yet strangely comforting in its familiarity. Damian eyed it warily, but hunger gnawed at his stomach, urging him to eat despite his misgivings.
"You're still resisting," she observed, her tone neutral yet tinged with a hint of disappointment. "But that's understandable. Change takes time, But I won't take anymore disrespect from you, or there will be consequences."
The woman then went on to explain a long list of rules he had to follow, which there were quite an amount. He could tell that this woman was going on a power trip.
"Rule number one," Miss Carter began, her voice firm and unwavering, "You must always ask permission before leaving your room."
Damian's jaw tightened, but he nodded subtly, committing the rule to memory.
"Rule number two," she continued, her gaze fixed on Damian, "You are not to attempt any form of communication with the outside world. No phone calls, no messages."
That was a typical kidnapper type rule, didn't really surprise Damian in the least.
"Rule number three," she pressed on, her tone growing colder, "You must take the medication I provide without question. It's for your own well-being."
Damian's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of the pills. They dulled his senses, making him feel sluggish and compliant. He despised how they weakened his resolve.
"And rule number four, you are not allowed outside or even look out of the windows," Again, typical kidnapper rule.
As she continued listing rules, Damian's mind drifted to escape plans. He scrutinized the layout of the house, the routines of Miss Carter, and the weaknesses he might exploit. But each plan was countered by the reality of his weakened state and her unwavering watchfulness.
"If you break any of these rules, you will be spanked. Am I clear?" Miss Carter concluded, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.
He nodded silently in response to Miss Carter's question, his jaw clenched tight. The threat of punishment hung heavy in the air, and Damian knew he had to bide his time, waiting for any opportunity to regain his freedom. The pills she forced upon him dulled his senses, making clear thinking and planning difficult, but he vowed silently to stay alert for any chance to break free.
As she gathered the plates and left him alone in the dimly lit room, Damian's mind raced. He needed to find weaknesses in Miss Carter's routine, in the house's security, anything that could tip the balance in his favor. His muscles still ached with weakness, but his determination burned brighter than ever.
Then shorty after it dimmed,
Because somehow Damian had done something wrong.
It was a stupid mistake, the whole plan right now was not to escalate anything, to be careful but he forgot to ask permission to leave his room.
And what Damian learned is that the woman can turn from maternal to postal with a flip of a switch.
With the league, Damian has been whipped, it was just a part of training. You get things wrong, you get whipped, so Damian hardly was hit and it wasn't a long drawn out thing.
Spankings however? They are quite the opposite.
He saw her in the living room with a large wooden paddle sitting on the sofa. It wasn't like a whip that was smaller, faster, and more precise in its pain. The paddle was large and blunt, meant to deliver a different kind of punishment—a more deliberate and drawn-out agony. Damian stood in the doorway, frozen in place as he watched Miss Carter pick up the paddle, her expression unreadable.
"Come here," she said calmly, her voice carrying an authority that brooked no argument.
Damian hesitated, his mind racing with defiance and fear. He knew refusing her would only escalate the situation, yet the idea of submitting to this form of punishment made his stomach churn with dread. His muscles tensed as he reluctantly obeyed, crossing the room to stand before her.
She laid him across her lap, pulling down his pants before delivering a sudden, stinging smack with the paddle against Damian's backside. The impact sent a shockwave of pain through him, making him gasp involuntarily. The sensation was unlike anything he had experienced before—blunt, forceful, and humiliating.
She didn't say anything, her blows slow and torturous. Damian clenched his jaw, determined not to give her the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. Each strike of the paddle sent waves of pain through him, but he refused to let her see his weakness.
Miss Carter's assault continued methodically, each impact leaving Damian feeling more helpless and angry. The pain was sharp and relentless, filling the room with the sound of each harsh slap against his skin. Despite his resolve, tears welled up in Damian's eyes, his pride wounded more deeply than his body.
When she finally stopped, Damian lay there, breathless and trembling, his body throbbing with pain. And then she...she hugged him?
"That hurt me more than it hurt you," She whispered, cradling him in her lap, wiping away the tears that she caused, her touch unexpectedly gentle despite the pain she had inflicted. Damian lay there, stunned by the sudden shift in Miss Carter's demeanor. He struggled to reconcile the harsh discipline with this brief moment of compassion.
His pants had been kicked off during his thrashing and Damian was keenly aware of how exposed and vulnerable he felt as he was held in her lap but made no move to put them on, it stung too much to try.
She stood up, still cradling him and Damian didn't know why he was accepting this comfort from her. He feels bruises forming, bruises that she caused, yet he couldn't deny the strange comfort in her embrace.
Eventually he removed himself, asking for permission this time to leave because he didn't want to experience her wrath again, and settled on the bed, wincing in pain as he laid down.
It has been more than two weeks probably since he disappeared and no one has found him, or maybe...
Maybe they are not even trying.
Father only kept him around because he was obligated to, he has no relationship with Todd, Drake is angry with him that he took the Robin mantle from him, probably taking it back because he's not there. He doesn't deserve now after that display of weakness. And Grayson and Pennyworth...
They love him, but they have known the others for longer and can get along fine without him.
'No one is looking for me,' The child thought, curling himself into a little ball.
'No one is looking for me, and it is all my fault,'
_~~_
It had been a month now, and Damian had given up hope that anyone was going to save him.
But the sad part was that he wasn't trying hard enough to save himself.
The days blurred together in a monotonous routine of enforced rules and stifling isolation. Damian moved through them mechanically, his spirit worn down by the ceaseless control Miss Carter wielded over him. The small acts of defiance he had once clung to had faded, replaced by a numb acceptance of his circumstances.
Each morning, he would wake in the dim room, the planks and blackout curtains sealing away any hint of the outside world. Miss Carter would bring him meals, her demeanor oscillating between cold authority and unsettling tenderness. The pills she administered kept him in a haze, his thoughts sluggish and his willpower sapped.
He tried not taking them, pretending to swallow them but she caught on to that soon enough and not only did she check his mouth to make sure that he swallowed it, she fed it to him herself and the spanking he received that morning for his deception was harsher than any before. From then on, he took the pills without resistance, the haze settling over him like a suffocating blanket.
He followed her rules without question now, too exhausted to resist. Asking permission to leave his room, avoiding any attempt at communication, taking the medication, and staying away from the windows had become second nature. The threat of punishment loomed large in his mind, a deterrent that kept him compliant.
And not even that worked; she still found reasons to hit him.
But her hugs held a strange kind of comfort, a twisted solace in the aftermath of pain. Damian found himself seeking those moments, even though he despised the dependency they created. Each embrace was a reminder of how far he had fallen. Yet, in his desperation for connection, he found himself grasping at any semblance of comfort, even if it came from an unlikely source.
Sometimes he would pretend it was Grayson holding him or try to imagine what a hug from his father would feel like. The man never had been very demonstrative in his affection, but Damian never felt this fear.
Although he was weak and drained, he tried his best to come up with an escape plan, spotting the spots where the cameras were—yes, there were cameras, the only piece of advanced technology she had in the place except for her cellphone that was always on her. There wasn't even a television, but there was an old landline that was set up in the kitchen. However, the woman really enjoyed baking, so she was always nearby, making any attempt to use it almost impossible. It never rang, so it was most likely useless.
But once a week, she would leave to go shopping for the week, leaving him alone for forty-five minutes, thirty seconds. He had counted every second, timing it in his head the first two times to make sure he knew exactly when she would come back, because if he were to get caught...
Damian shuddered at that thought, darting to the kitchen to pick up the landline, but just as he thought, it was utterly useless.
So he "snooped," as Brown used to call it, looking for a reason why he was here, why she had chosen him out of countless children at that school.
For the first time since he had been here, he saw her room. She was organized like Todd—meticulously neat and almost sterile. Every item had its place, and there was no room for personal touches that could hint at her true motives. Damian's eyes scanned the room, taking in the lack of character, the rigid orderliness that spoke volumes about Miss Carter's need for control.
As he sifted through her belongings, Damian found a dusty, old photo album tucked away in the back of a drawer. The leather cover was cracked and worn, the pages inside filled with neatly arranged photographs. As he flipped through the album, Damian realized he wasn't the first child she had kept.
The album was filled with photographs of another boy—brown-haired, brown-eyed, freckled. The pictures were arranged chronologically, ranging from infant to what looked like around the same age as he was, around nine or ten years old.
The child appeared to be happy, but Damian noticed bruises on the boy's arms and face, hidden beneath long sleeves or clever angles. In some photos, there were subtle signs of struggle—a strained smile, a distant look in his eyes.
He lost track of time looking through the photos, and before he knew it, she was back, the sound of the front door closing.
In a panic, he hastily threw the book back in the closet and rushed back to his room, picking up one of the toys that was in the room and began pretending to play with it.
"Damian," she said sweetly, leaning on the doorway.
"Just wanted to let you know that I'm back and dinner will be ready shortly."
"Thank you," Damian replied softly, his gaze fixed on the floor. He tried to keep his voice steady, to maintain the façade of compliance that had become his shield in this place.
Miss Carter stepped further into the room, her eyes scanning him with an unsettling mix of scrutiny and something that almost resembled fondness. "You've been a good boy today," she remarked, her tone a peculiar blend of approval and condescension.
She picked him up gently, kissing his cheek.
"That is why I bought dessert tonight, ice cream."
Miss Carter's gesture of affection sent a chill down Damian's spine, though he managed a faint smile in response. "Ice cream sounds nice," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
She carried him downstairs, placing him on a rug in the living room.
"You can play here until dinner is ready," she said, ruffling his hair.
Damian nodded silently, his eyes scanning the room for any opportunity. Miss Carter retreated to the kitchen, her footsteps fading into the background noise of clinking dishes and running water. As he sat on the rug, pretending to fiddle with a toy car, Damian's mind raced with questions. Who was that boy to her? Was he someone she had also taken like him? By dinner time, his curiosity got the better of him. He didn't ask her outright, but he asked:
"Why me?"
She didn't look up and just continued eating. "Why what, dear?"
Damian swallowed, unsure if he should keep going with this, but he needed answers.
"Why did you... Out of all the kids you could have chosen, why choose me?"
Miss Carter paused mid-bite, her fork hovering over her plate for a moment before she set it down with deliberate care. She regarded Damian with a calm demeanor that belied the turmoil swirling beneath the surface.
"You remind me of my son, Tommy. He was a smart boy, loved art and animals just like you."
Damian suspected such. The boy in the photos was a splitting image of her.
"What happened to him?" Because the date of those photos indicated the boy should now be in his mid-twenties, the same age as Grayson.
She paused for a long moment, her gaze distant.
"He was defiant," she said coldly.
"More so than you, so sadly, I had to get rid of him."
She said it so casually, so callously, as if discussing the disposal of an unwanted object. Damian's heart pounded in his chest. He felt dizzy, sick.
That boy wasn't like him, wasn't trained, wasn't as skilled. He was born into this; this was all he knew until he died, because although she didn't say it outright, her tone and her demeanor made it chillingly clear that she had killed her own son and felt no remorse.
"So, ice cream?" she offered, as if she hadn't revealed that she killed a child in this house, as if they were just in the art room at school and Damian was just sketching leisurely as he waited for his father to pick him up.
"Damian, I'm talking to you."
The tone snapped him back to reality. That tone always did. It was cold, authoritative, mostly used before she spanked him.
"Sorry." He hated how quickly that slipped out, how fearful it sounded.
Miss Carter's eyes narrowed slightly, her smile tightening. "Don't apologize, dear. Just pay attention when I'm speaking to you." Her voice was deceptively sweet, but the underlying threat was clear.
"Yes, ma'am," Damian replied softly, his gaze dropping to his plate.
Miss Carter's demeanor shifted again as she stood up and began clearing the table. "Finish your dinner, and then we'll have some ice cream," she said over her shoulder as she carried the dishes to the sink.
Damian nodded, mechanically picking up his fork and taking small bites of the meatloaf. He's vegetarian, and the taste of the meat made him nauseous, but he forced himself to eat it anyway. He couldn't afford to anger her. Not now.
She returned shortly with a small bowl of ice cream, vanilla. Damian remembered telling her that was his favorite flavor, but now, even the sight of it made him feel queasy. He forced himself to eat it, knowing that any hesitation or refusal could trigger her anger. He took small bites, the cold sweetness a stark contrast to the bitter fear that gnawed at him.
After finishing his ice cream, Miss Carter cleared the dishes and then returned, sitting across from Damian with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Now, wasn't that a nice treat?" she said, her voice laced with false cheerfulness.
Damian nodded, keeping his expression neutral. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you," he replied softly.
"Good boy," she said, patting his head before standing up. "It's time for bed now."
Despite being tired—he was always tired now—he knew he wouldn't sleep tonight, not after what was revealed.
She read him a bedtime story like she always has done, tucking him in and locking the bedroom door behind her as she left.
He was going to die here if he didn't try harder to escape but he isn't given very much to work with.
He can't pick the lock, no paper clips or sewing needles are in this room, he has no access to any technology and he doesn't even know where he is, doesn't even have an address and can't get one because that would mean he has to go outside, which means he has to get the key and...
Before he knew it he was crying, hugging his knees against his chest as he body shook with silent sobs.
Damian knew that crying wasn't going to fix the problem, sobbing like this will drain the last bit of energy he had. It wouldn't solve anything, wouldn't open that locked door or magically bring him freedom, bring him home.
But he couldn't stop himself, it was all he could do to release the anguish that weighed heavily on his young shoulders.