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The first thing you felt when you returned to waking consciousness was the kiss of light upon your face. You were toasty warm, but not too much. Just the right temperature. The blankets hugged your body, which you realized was a little cramped up from remaining so still as you slept.
Your face scrunched up as you stuck out your legs, pointing your toes until your feet trembled with the stretch and you were satisfied. Then, your body went lax, your expression softening with absolute content.
You were at peace--for a good, solid minute.
Then, you felt something else on you--something other than light: His gaze.
And once you acknowledged His presence in your mind, it somehow became looming, thick, heavy, all-consuming--casting a dark shadow over all that the sun exposed; over you on the bed. It reminded you of your circumstances and the one who kept you here. An uneasiness stirred within you and your lips pursed in consideration. Did He think you were still sleeping, or could He tell that your breathing had become less steady? You then tied to control your heavily thumping heart, but it was impossible. The more you attempted to feign your sleep, the more you understood that you could never deceive Him in such silly ways.
Still, He said nothing. He made not a single sound.
You took a deep breath, anticipating whatever was to come of today, unsure of the torture He might have had in store for you. Whether it would be the anguish of loneliness and neglect, or the threat of death, you would have no choice, either way.
So you finally opened your eyes.
He was right where you thought He'd be--at your bedside, in front of the window where he always stood in the mornings. The brightness all around him seemed to stain your vision, and when your gaze so much as wavered, you could see neon lights wherever you looked with a Septem-shaped hole in the middle. But you didn't dare let your eyes wander too far from Him, even if you did have to reach up and rub some of the sleep out from the corners.
"Good morning," you force out, despite the dryness of your throat--quickly, too, so that He knows you weren't purposely trying to delay your acknowledgement of Him.
"Good morning."
He smiled, seemingly content with your greeting. How sinfully beautiful He was, illuminated by the holy light that surrounded Him. Relief washed over you like a heavy wave and you couldn't help but sigh. Finally realizing what He liked had helped immensely in keeping you alive: obedience, acknowledgment, respect. Lately, you'd become desperate for His approval, too, for it was a promise of more time.
You knew He expected you to get up and sit at the table for breakfast just as you did every morning, so that's what you did: you kicked off the covers. The sudden chill you felt over the lower half of your body was as unsettling as His stare, which motivated you to move more briskly, swinging your legs over the side of the bed and pushing yourself up with your hand with a small grunt of exertion--leaving your back to Him.
For a moment, you considered that; how vulnerable you were in this very moment. And you considered how you had instinctively trusted Him with such an opportunity.
Best not to let the moment linger too long.
Though it was an effort this soon upon waking, you rose to your feet and turned back to face Him as fast as you could, stumbling pathetically in your attempt--you shouldn't have gotten up so fast! The room spun around you in circles and you tripped on your own feet, catching yourself on the mattress but not before your knees slammed against the marble floor. Your face contorted as you let out a yelp of pain.
Through your wince, you could see His face, and the way it looked as if He truly pitied you--His brow upturned and His smile faltered.
You felt like an absolute fool and, woeful as you were, you simply remained like that--knelt on the ground, knees throbbing as bruises were sure to now soon blossom over them--hands braced on the bed. Your mind was too caught up in thinking of all the ways He could kill you for this.
Yet, despite the many scenarios you'd envisioned, you hadn't anticipated Him to calmly round the bed. You followed Him with your eyes, too terrified to break your shared stare. You had to turn, at one point, and ended up slumping on the floor, back against the bed's side. He then held out His hand to you, though His words were not as kind as His action:
"I know your puppet's body is functioning just fine, so it must be you that's so awfully pathetic."
You looked at His offering with skepticism. Was this a trap? It was then that you realized you second-guessed absolutely everything with Him and that was why you were so helpless! It was His fault! All His damn fault!
'It's your fault,' you wanted so desperately to snap, 'You make me so nervous!'
Still, having no other choice, you took His hand, but, for some reason, didn't make an immediate effort to get back up. Because the hair on the back of your neck was standing up straight, and you realized something in the air had shifted. It was now brimming with tension. In the long, torturous moment that followed, you realized you hadn't just thought the words: They'd actually poured out from your mouth.
You'd actually said them aloud...
...
...
"Is that so?" He asked, and you didn't like the newfound glimmer in His eyes. Not at all. The grip on your hand tightened. It tightened, and tightened--was he going to break it?--and tightened, and you were sure you were about to say goodbye to your working fingers for good--but before you could, you felt a tug on your arm that you couldn't ignore.
He pulled you up from the bed into a standing position, and then let go. You stabilized yourself on your feet, making it your top priority to ensure you weren't going to fall again.
Somehow, your hand miraculously wasn't crushed or misshapen! It tingled with the remnants of His special touch, but that was about it. You couldn't say the same for your heart, though, which was beating so hard and fast, you could barely hear your own thoughts atop its drumming. But you did hear Him:
"Let's discuss these nerves of yours over breakfast."
...
ᗯEᒪᒪ, TᕼᗩT ᔕᑌᖇE ᔕOᑌᑎᗪᔕ ᒪIKE ᗩ ᗰIᑎEᖴIEᒪᗪ Oᖴ ᗩ ᑕOᑎᐯEᖇᔕᗩTIOᑎ.
GOOᗪ ᒪᑌᑕK.