Stockholm syndrome

The man pushed his hair back again, a gesture that seemed to be a habit of his. He looked ridiculously handsome doing it and I found myself staring at him. The ink on his arms created such beautiful, swirling patterns I felt like I could get lost in them. For reasons unknown to me I wanted to know more about this man and the stories behind the pictures marking his skin.

“What’s your name?” I asked, not really expecting him to tell me

“Jack. No need to tell me yours.”

He looked at me for a long time, regarding me with a strange expression. I could have sworn it was pity in his eyes. Why would he pity me? In less than a couple of days I would be back living my old life, a life that looked perfect and glamourous to an outsider looking in

“I would love a cigarette Jack”

“I don’t have any”

“That’s a lie”

He blinked at me, taken aback by the way I was speaking to him with such disrespect

“Is it now” he said, his lips curling into a disbelieving little smile

“You’re a smoker. Figures you have cigarettes somewhere”

I smelt the smoke on him every time he came down here and it made me desperate for a drag

“I am not going back upstairs to get you one”

“Well I was going to ask for a blanket as well but I’m guessing that would involve you having to go all the way back upstairs.”

“The way I see it; it will do you good to not have everything you want handed to you for once” He spat back, grimacing in disgust.

This man hated me, really hated me. If I wasn’t worth billions of pounds he’s have bludgeoned me to death by now. The way his finger had twitched over that trigger. I suddenly felt rage building inside me and tumbling out of my mouth

“You don’t know shit about my life”

“I know enough” He said, standing up and beginning to walk away.

“Can you at least lengthen chains so I can go to the bathroom?”

He stood for a few minutes, I could see the cog wheels turning in his head. Eventually he reached down and unlocked the cuffs completely. They fell to the floor with a clunk and my arms and legs suddenly felt as light as air.

“Attack me again and I will cut off your hands” he said looking me in the eye. It was clear he meant it

“Why would I attack you when you’re letting me go tomorrow?”

“Good to see you finally thinking logically” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

He got up and made his second attempt to leave and it filled me with dread. I couldn’t stand being alone down here anymore. I was through the worst of the withdrawal now. Without the shakes and the vomiting, I had nothing to distract me. All I could do was sit down here and think about how lonely I was, being tortured by increasingly persistent intrusive thoughts. How do you shut out voices that live in your own head? I’d asked myself that question for years before I’d found the answer; you alter your consciousness with a many drugs and as much booze as you can get your hands on. I couldn’t stand being alone down here unable to drink or snort, I couldn’t do anything to dull the voices.

“Wait…” I shouted, the panic was audible in my voice

He turned back to look at me, there it was again, pity.

“What do your tattoos mean?” I asked

What I really wanted to say was please talk to me, don’t leave me down here, I can’t take it anymore

“Why?” He asked, his brow furrowed with confusion

“Because they’re beautiful”

Jack, that was his name, opened his mouth to say something then quickly closed it again. What was he going to say?

He turned away refusing to look back at me as he left the room. The door slammed, the bolts slid and the locks clicked. Then I was alone in the dark once more.