In the Basement

By NekoLen and Tachigami

WARNING
Disturbing images and situations follow.
Psychological horror and torture scenes.
Strong language and mentality.

In his hands was a beautiful box. He made them all beautiful, never of cardboard but of thin wood, polished and sanded to shine in even the dimmest of light. And the box's insides were coated with soft velvet. It was topped nicely, bolted down with gold hinges and a silver lock, and topped with a hand-folded bow of dark green. Allan had worked hard on both the sculpture in the box and the box itself, and was sure his client would be more than happy with it. No doubt, in fact. The creation inside was an homage to her deceased husband, a man that had died after an intense battle with brain cancer. It just hadn't been his lucky day. This was a beautiful neighborhood, Allan thought to himself as he walked. He'd parked just outside the gated two-lane road so he could walk, and enjoyed the green yards and bright flowers, white fences, little playgrounds and in-ground pools. It was lovely, but too cookie-cutter. Too close for comfort. Allan preferred his neighborhood---large, sprawling houses on large, sprawling properties. His was surrounded by big, heavy-handed trees and ivy grew up the sides.

Coming to the address written on his palm, Allan gave a small smile as if he were with someone and speaking to them. Going through the gate, he approached a young woman in a light, white and green sundress and nodded to her to get her attention. She smiled, leaving the potted plant she had been working on and jumping down the stairs as if she had springs on her feet. "Hello, Allan! How've you been?"

"Pretty good, Jan. I've got your delivery right here." Allan lifted the box, and saw the young woman's eyes light up. She took the box, setting it on the porch and flipping open the top. A gasp was her first response and a hug her second, and she began thanking Allan, running into her house and coming back with a check. "I'm so glad I found you, it was a stroke of luck." She said, hugging Allan again and beaming. He pulled his brown hair back, smiling in turn, his dark, nearly-black eyes lightening slightly.

"I'm glad you like it. And if you need anything else from me you have my number, right?" When Jan nodded, Allan said his quick goodbye and started back down the sidewalk. He had some supplies to replenish at home, paints and wood, and needed more green ribbon after he went through the last several yards of it trying to perfect the bow he'd topped the box with. Sheets of velvet were running low as well, he thought, his gaze drifting as it stared at the sky until he nearly ran into his vehicle. With a light sigh, Allan opened the door and got in, turning the key and starting off toward town.

Julian Evans was a wholly unremarkable boy in many ways. Even he would tell you he looked plain, that was... if he could speak. Ever since he was a baby, the doctors couldn't understand why he was essentially a mute. He could make small noises, but had difficulty forming proper words. They ended up coming to the conclusion that his brain was damaged, or that his vocal cords hadn't formed correctly. In any case, each and every doctor they went to blamed his mother for smoking while he was in her womb. The guilt from potentially ruining her only son's life went to her head, and before they could get help for her depression, she had killed herself.

His father grew to resent Julian, who symbolised the cause of his wife's death, and whose eyes reminded him of her. He sent him away to live in a nursing home, never keeping contact with his disabled child. So Julian lived life with multiple carers and hardly any friends. He didn't feel too lonely, being a introvert anyway he didn't like to be too friendly around strangers.

Today his carer, whose name he never knew - they changed everyday anyway - took him for a walk to the local park. Even though he was pushed there on a wheelchair, he got out of it to sit on a bench near the lake. The carer told him to stay put, and that she would send someone to pick him up shortly. It seemed she was more into the man that ran the snack bar across the lake, than actually doing her job. Julian just nodded, watching the ducks swim across the water's surface.

Allan spoke kindly and evenly to the people he met. All the professional craft stores opened wide when he approached, and Allan talked freely with the employees as he gave them his usual order. Clay both ceramic and basic, paint, ribbon and velvet sheets, and replacement paintbrushes this time around. They produced two large bags full of equipment, which Allan paid for in full and stowed away in his car, covering it with an old, battered blanket and locked it. He didn't know who would steal it, but people stole stupider things before. Stretching, he looked around, spying the beginning path of the park just behind him. Looking up, he found a clear blue sky with no intention to rain, so he stepped onto the springy grass and started off.

He brushed his hands through his hair, pulling the curly brown stuff out of its ponytail and letting it hang free over his shoulders. The warm wind gathered it from time to time and flipped it. When he turned, following the path, Allan paused and his eyes lighted upon a rather small form sitting all alone. Narrowing his eyes, Allan studied the figure. Small. Was that red hair? He tilted his head, studying him and feeling the itchy, uncomfortable urge begin to bubble in his stomach. It was rare he felt it, and rarer still that he acted upon it. The last time he had, it hadn't lasted long. He twitched, shaking his head and moving forward, pocketing his hands and approaching the young man deftly.

"Hello." He said lightly, sitting on the bench alongside him. "I'm Allan Neil. Are you alone?" He looked around as if searching for someone, but hoping no one was near. The park was extremely quiet, but only because it was the middle of the day and school---along with work---was still active.

Julian was daydreaming, about swimming across the lake with the ducks and koi fish that lived beneath the gentle ripples. He started when he was talked to and tilted his head to nervously eye the man. He hadn't seen him before, though he couldn't remember faces that well. If he was a carer, he would be wearing uniform, though sometimes they wore whatever they felt like. He inclined his head slightly, unable to reply in a way that would make any sense. Instead, he handed the man his ID, a small piece of paper that had his name and other personal information on it, as well as how he had to be cared for.

Allan Neil had to be the person the woman was going to send for him. Perhaps a driver that hadn't been used to picking up patients yet.

He took the paper and laminated ID that was handed to him and studied them carefully. Julian Evans, from the nearby nursing home. He couldn't walk all that easily so he was usually wheeled about, and he was basically a mute. A twenty three year old that seemed to look a little younger than he was. Nodding, Allan suppressed a small smile. Somehow this was utterly perfect. Too perfect, in a way. He sighed lightly, nodding and giving the items back to Julian. "Very good then, Julian. You think you can walk with me?" He tilted his head, putting his hair back and standing up. "It's not too far away from my car and we can get back."

Of course not. They wouldn't be going anywhere near the nursing home. His papers didn't note any necessary hospital-based care beyond a carer that seemed to be able to leave him all alone, and the mutism that didn't seem to have any cause and was noted as 'unknown' on his papers. Maybe he could speak, but never had. Maybe he simply didn't want to, like a few, far between individuals.

Julian glanced across the lake. He couldn't see the woman now and guessed he really did have to go with Allan. He wished the man had thought to bring a wheelchair, but didn't complain. He slowly got to his feet, feeling slightly off-balanced and feeble. He had never learnt how to walk. It wasn't because his carers and doctors hadn't tried to teach him, he just found it difficult. Stumbling a bit, he reached out for Allan and grasped onto his arm to steady himself.

They slowly left the park together, Julian trying his best not too stumble too much or be a burden in anyway. Whenever he stumbled, he let out a small squeaking noise which he made when shocked. He was surprised when they got to Allan's vehicle. It looked nothing like what his carers usually drove. He looked up at Allan with a questioning gaze.

Allan was glad when Julian didn't seem to question him in any way. Only a curious glance at him, then otherwise he stood and came along, stumbled a little, and Allan offered a friendly hand to keep him upright and steady. He hid a smile at the small, squeaking noises he made when he thought he was going to fall. It kept Allan's hand tight around Julian's arm and led him to the vehicle, helping him in and closing the door before going around to the driver side and sliding into the seat beside Julian.

Now he didn't speak. His eyes were darker, as they got when he focused hard, and when he felt a gaze on him, Allan turned to stare Julian down an with a flick of a switch on the door, all four of them locked to the point where the locks couldn't be reingaged without his approval. "Listen to me and you may make it out of this. If you try to resist, you'll find your current predicament to become far, far worse." His voice had grown stony, cold, and full of calculation as he started the vehicle and pulled into the road.

Julian cringed at the look the man gave him. His eyes were so dark, like fathomless pools of shadow. His voice was so cold, and it made him nervous. Who was this man? What did he mean by what he had said? He eyed the locked doors nervously as they began to drive. He was used to carers locking the doors, as though afraid he'd be stupid enough to fall out of a moving vehicle, but something didn't bode well with Allan.

He gulped as they drove in the opposite direction of where he currently resided. That's when true panic took a hold of him. He had seen plenty of programmes on the CI channel to know what was happening to him. He just didn't think it had been possible. What would this man want with him? He was so plain and well... handicapped. Why would he be targeted? He just thought he would be safe from the perverts of the world. It seemed that this wasn't true. He started to cry, and make quiet sobbing noises, his heart beating painfully fast.

No, this isn't real. Just a joke... No, no, no... This can't be... Am I going to die? What can I do? What should I do?

Allan wrinkled his nose a little, annoyed at the noises coming from his otherwise quiet passenger. "Hush." He hissed, glaring Julian's way. "You mustn't be much of a mute if you can make enough noise to cry." It came out harsh, perhaps harsher than he meant it to, but Allan didn't want to this one to screw up. He had to kill the first one he had and that had been a terrible mess. This one was weaker, though, and if he lived at a nursing home instead of being cared for by his family, he no doubt had family that would care about his disappearance. And considering the fact that there was no relation between them, even in the past, no one would think to look at mild-mannered, calm, kind Allan as the suspect.

He turned onto a quiet road, passing two mossy, ivy-covered gates. This gated community was big and beautiful, and houses were stretched out over quite a ways. His was a mile in, a huge, three-story thing with a sprawling basement. Cracking the smallest of smiles, Allan turned into the driveway and pressed a button on his keys, and the attached garage. When he pulled in, he pressed the button again and the door closed swiftly, and he unlocked the doors. Without a glance toward the quietly crying form beside him, Allan got out and went around, opening the door on the passenger side. "Get. Out." His words were strong and curt. He didn't want a moment's defiance, not until they were inside at the very least.

He had frozen in his seat, cringing by the door as the man drove. He tried to stop crying, but he was so scared he couldn't. Maybe if he just listened to this stranger, he'd be able to go home? Even though he knew that there was no way he was leaving alive, he wanted to hold onto some sort of hope. There was no point getting too worked up, he could hyperventilate or blackout. And who knows how Allan would react to that.

Feeling weaker than ever, and with bile burning his throat, he stumbled out of the car. He staggered, flailing slightly and trying to grab onto Allan to steady himself. The man stepped to aside and let him fall, sneering at him coldly. Julian cried, trying his best to get back on to his feet, his knees and hands scrapped and slightly bleeding from falling onto the hard concrete floor. "Pl... pl... pl..." he begged, shaking and through tears.

Allan laughed, lifting Julian and pulling him close as if he were a simple oversized ragdoll. "P-p-p-pleaaaaase?" He sneered, petting Julian's head. "P-p-p-pleaaaase? Oh please oh please, help me! Help me, please! Is that what you meant, hmmmm? Oh no, sweetie, that's not what you meant, I'm sure. P-p-please don't hurt me, p-p-please let me go!" He laughed, raking his nails through Julian's hair. "Oh, you poor little thing, what can you do?" He laughed cruelly, spinning Julian around and directing him to the door nearby, opening it and basically lifting the young man up and into the hall beyond.

He directed the young man through the hall and to a new door, opening it and revealing a set of carpeted stairs. He held on to Julian so he wouldn't fall and hurt himself too soon, and led him into the basement. It was a series of rooms, and the first was his clay workroom. A small kiln, a wheel, a series of counters and storage areas. A spare painting easel was in the corner, piled with unused canvas. He directed Julian past this and down a small hallway, pausing halfway through and removing a panel from the wall that looked a lot like the rest. But a door rested behind this, and when he unlocked and opened it, he revealed a large room. It was a plain-looking bedroom, made up well, and two doors---one that led to a closet and one that led to a bathroom. The only thing that was odd was the chain and plate bolted into the wall. He moved Julian forward, picking up the thick leather and steel-plated collar and small padlock and cinching it around Julian's neck. "There. Now you stay there like a good boy." Allan patted Julian's head roughly, turning and leaving the room, slamming and locking the door behind him. He had supplies to put away, after all.

Julian was used to being mocked, but the way Allan did it made him terrified. He was tossed about like some sort of doll, led down some stairs and into a basement area. Every part of him was shaking and his eyes were wide with fear. What was this place? Was Allan a sort of artist? There were many tools of a sculptor down here, as well as hints of a painter. What sort of monster painted beautiful pictures while kidnapping defenceless people?

He was pushed into a strangely barren room, and chained to the wall. The collar was tight around his neck, but not so he couldn't breathe. He cried out in fright when the man closed the door. The room was plunged into darkness, as there didn't seem to be any source of light other than what came from the basement outside of the room. He cried and hugged himself, covering his face. He found himself incapable of moving, as his crippling fear of the dark outweighed his terror at being kidnapped. "Pl... pl... pl... no... no... no..." he moaned, realising that in his terror, he had wet himself.

Allan went back to his car, gathering his things and bringing them inside, taking them downstairs and pausing to listen. He knew he could hear something, and it was the faint crying of his new plaything. What to do with this one? So weak, so malleable... Allan could probably do anything with him. Anything at all. He smiled, piling his things into their containers and sealing the lids so the clays and paints didn't dry out. Turning, he made sure he had a good amount of canvas, and he did.

He went back to the room and opened the door, flicking the light on and staring at Julian. "You're a coward, aren't you?" He asked bluntly, and wrinkled his nose in half-disgust, half pity at the darkened area of Julian's pants. "Terrible. Afraid, are you? Poor thing. You can move around. Maybe. Change your clothes, there's a whole closetful behind you. A bathroom too, so don't go using your pants anymore, okay? And we'll be just fine. Now I'll be back soon, little Julian... Hmm... Yes..." He dug his nails into the door frame, shaking his head slightly. "You stop crying, now, you'll make yourself sick. And you don't have to worry---I won't hurt you right now." Tomorrow, however, was a different story. He wanted to calm himself down tonight. Wanted to see whether this little one would calm down at all. But most of all, he wanted to begin a new client's painting.

Julian didn't move, even after the light had turned on. He hated how Allan spoke to him, like he was a child who had done wrong. He hated being called a coward, even if his fear of the dark was childish. He couldn't stop crying, he was too afraid. What did Allan mean, he wasn't going to hurt him just now? He heaved a giant sob and went quiet, hoping that if he behaved, the man wouldn't hurt him. Yes. That's what Allan meant by what he said.

He moved once he was certain Allan wasn't watching him. He didn't want to give the cruel man any pleasure, seeing his orders be carried out. It was hard to move with the chain around his neck, but he found he could easily reach all corners of the room, including the closet and bathroom. But it was positioned in such a way that he couldn't reach the door or light switch. It seemed that if he wanted light, he'd have to behave for Allan.

He crawled to the closet and investigated the clothes within. Mostly plain shirts and pants, with only a few varying colours. He wondered how Allan had collected them and then pushed the thought from his mind. They were probably just old work clothes of his. He found clean underwear and pants and put them on, stashing his soiled clothes into a basket kept in his bathroom. He stood on his feet with the assistance of the bathroom sink and snooped around the drawers. Nothing was kept in them. Not even toothpaste. Allan wasn't giving Julian any options.

He stared at himself in the mirror. Pale skin, red hair, green eyes that were bloodshot from crying and large with fear. He splashed himself with some cool water and returned to the room, climbing onto the bed and glancing about. There was no windows and no other way to escape from. He found a shelf with a few books on it, and a pen with a blank journal. He wondered why that was there and didn't touch it, afraid that he'd get in trouble.

He got off the bed and curled up in the corner of the room, hugging himself and praying, praying that someone might come and rescue him.

Allan went back upstairs, though his heart was racing from his new acquisition. This one didn't scream at him, didn't rage and break things, didn't try to fight back so hard he broke his arm or leg. No---this one was quiet, though Allan was more than sure he could speak. He just didn't want to, the poor thing. Allan wanted to hear his voice. He wanted to hear Julian. Sighing and shaking himself, Allan went to his kitchen and pulled the paper from its magnet on the refrigerator door, studying the information given to him. He did want to start the painting---an homage to a toy-like puppy that had died mysteriously. The owner was truly sad, and had given him a picture of the animal, a sleeping puppy. Allan wasn't good with breeds, but didn't need to be to create a painting. Setting it on the center island of his kitchen, he started moving around, pulling food from the cupboard and refrigerator, beginning a heavy soup.

It didn't require much attention. He let it cook and went around to the basement, taking the picture with him. He used small amounts of paint---amateurs would mix huge cups of the stuff, wasting it as it dried and thickened in the air. But he only had an hour to begin the base, a dark background on a large, portrait-sized canvas and the base color for the dog's brown, black, and tan fur. He started with the lightest, and sped through a quick base painting to get the contours of the animal down. He checked his watch after a time, finding a little over an hour had passed, and hurried upstairs to check his stovetop work. Things had thickened into a dark, heavy stew and he shut the heat off, giving it a quick stir and pulling two bowls from the cabinet above him.

He filled only one, settling it in a cloth holder so it didn't burn his hands and set a spoon in it, taking it downstairs and opening the door. "Good, you're clean. Those pants look a little big on you... Huh, well, you're not exactly as big as the usual." He laughed, taking the bowl to the desk by the bookshelf and studying Julian. "There are a few journals up on the top of the bookshelf. Use those to talk if you really don't want to try that hard. Hell, write whatever you want." He nodded. "But make sure you eat. If you're good I'll give you some soaps and toothpaste, hm?" He smiled brightly, turning and leaving, keeping the warm light on and going upstairs to fix his own bowl.

He ignored the bowl and stayed curled up in the corner. He didn't feel like eating just yet, his stomach was still in knots. Besides, what if the man had poisoned his food? He glanced at the soup. It looked delicious, but he just couldn't bring himself to move. He covered his face, waiting for Allan to leave the room. Once the man was out of sight, he picked the bowl up and went to the toilet, flushing the soup and returning the empty bowl near the door. He knew that Allan might get mad if he didn't eat what was given to him, so he had to pretend he was eating it.

He returned to his corner and curled up again, crying quietly and slowly falling asleep.

He doubted Julian would actually eat anything. But it was worth a try. If he didn't want to eat he would have to be forced so he didn't grow even weaker, or starve himself to death. He smiled lightly to himself---Julian was weaker than usual, so he wouldn't fight back. It was a little unfortunate, really---Allan liked when they fought back a bit. He ignored that fact, however---focusing on cleaning his mess and pouring up the stew into a plastic bowl to save for tomorrow. Then he headed downstairs, going back to his painting and starting a new layer. When it came to his work Allan focused intently, grew entirely obsessive over his work. It was why he was so good, and so quick. Detailed, large paintings only took him four days, especially since he used thin layers of paint and a gentle fan to dry it. While it wasn't often he painted extremely realistically---capturing every hair or every sharp contour, or making sure every color was absolutely specific, this painting had to be perfect. He did love animals, after all---it would be a terrible idea to him.

Another layer was done, and he set a floor fan in front of it. Shutting down the overhead lights---which were often harsh on the eyes after a while---Allan went through the short hallway and to the normally hidden door---the panel was only really put back when someone else was in the house. Pushing open the door, he stepped in and studied the young man in the corner. With a sigh, he glanced at the bowl and narrowed his eyes. There was a dark track along one side as if it had been spilled, but there was nothing on the floor. Had he washed it down the drain? Flushed it? That could have produced a flood or clog. Allan's gaze grew hard, and his closed fist hit the wall beside him to wake the young man up.

Julian was floating, as he often did when he dreamt. He was with his family and it was as though nothing bad had happened in the world. He was glad he could escape his horrible situation in his dreams. Maybe a small smile was playing on his lips as he imagined his home, with a little pet dog. They would play together and his father would play ball with him as well. His mother would watch from the balcony, smiling and waiting for the cake she was baking to cool.

A loud thump made him start and glance around his surroundings, disorientated. It took him a full minute to remember where he was, trapped in a stranger's basement. He blinked and looked up at the man, quivering slightly. He looked mad. His eyes were black once again and the way he glared at Julian made him shake more. He cowered, whimpering.

With several long strides Allan crossed the room and pulled the chain attaching Julian to the wall, and brought him to his feet. "So you waste instead of telling me you don't want to eat. I'm sure plenty of young ones in the world would have loved to have what you got rid of." He pulled the chain tight, bringing Julian a little closer. "Are you a vegetarian? I'm sure you could have let me know instead of letting food go to waste. Or are you afraid I'd have poisoned it? Do you really think I'd kill you now? No, but I feel like it." He raked his nails over Julian's hair, digging deep and painfully. "I feel like it now, but I won't. But know that for the next two days you will get no food at all. I'm sure you understand me, even if you don't speak---you're no fool. But you're bad. Very, very bad. And bad young men get punished."

He pushed Julian onto the bed and glared at him. "Consider this your first and last warning. If you waste anything again, or if you've blocked the pipes with your idiotic acts, I won't hold back like I am now." He turned, picking up the bowl and shutting the light off before slamming the door. This time, he blocked the door with the panel so that not a shard of light made it through.

He cried in pain when the man manhandled him, scratching his scalp and then pushing him back onto the bed. He stormed from the room and turned off all the lights, making the room as dark as possible. Julian screamed and tried to run at the door, but he fell over onto the soft carpet. He curled up in the middle of the room, unable to move. The dark pressed in all around him and he could hear his own heart beating. Too dark... Too dark...

How had Allan known he had flushed it? He couldn't understand how the man knew. Maybe the room had cameras in it. Maybe the man was watching him, even right now. Julian sobbed and rocked, hugging his knees and burying his face in them. His head stung where the man's nails had dug into his skin and he was sure he was bleeding a bit. He tried to calm himself, but it was near impossible. He couldn't get back to sleep, not with this darkness and the fear of what might happen tomorrow. Hunger gnawed at his belly, as if laughing at his mistake. At least he had plenty of water... But it wasn't like he could get to the bathroom in this darkness anyway.

He crawled to a corner and curled up there, staring into the darkness and flinching at small noises. He cried quietly, yelling when he thought he saw monsters lurking. His stomach gurgled and he was sick, luckily leaning to a side so he didn't get it on him. He thought about Allan, and how he would react to seeing the vomit on his floor. He would get mad. The anxiety made him throw up more.

When the dishes were cleaned and put away neatly, Allan's harsh gaze had softened and lightened. He wasn't sure why his eyes grew pitch black when he was angry, but it intimidated, and that was what mattered. Glancing at the standing clock against the wall, he was surprised to see how late it was. There were no windows in his basement, after all, so he was never aware of how much time had passed until he looked at his watch or came upstairs. The windows were dark, nearly pitch black, and before going upstairs, he turned off all the lights downstairs and on the ground floor.

In the bathroom off his bedroom, Allan studied himself in the mirror. Rather dark skin, even darker eyes. Lightly brown hair, somewhere between curly and wavy---it was kept long because it was easier to keep out of his face while he worked on his sculptures, drawings, or paintings. Brushing it with a fine-toothed brush, Allan left it down and went to his bed, settling on the edge and recalling Julian. He was in the pitch black darkness downstairs, and it seemed he was afraid of the dark. It was small, but a good psychological battering for him. He would have to check back rather early tomorrow, now that he had a new one to watch out for. And once he got done with his painting and delivered it, he could have plenty of time with the man. He laid back, closing his eyes.

Who knows how much time had passed. In the absolute darkness of the basement room and the terror Julian was suffering, it could have easily been days, years, centuries. He blinked awake from a sleep he didn't expect, hearing noises coming from upstairs. Maybe Allan was awake now and moving to come torture him some more. He cried out, the smell of sick making him feel queasey. He panicked, feeling around in the darkness for something, anything.

He found the bathroom and a towel, bringing it back into the room and trying to clean the sick up. The man would know he vomitted. But maybe... Maybe he'd forgive him? Julian doubted it. At least he had made an attempt to clean it up.

Allan didn't often dream, and tonight wasn't different. If he did dream, it was forgotten by the time the sun came up and fell through the curtains, and he woke quickly. He didn't sleep heavily, but he slept well, and when he woke, it was immediate. Standing, stretching, and sliding the long shirt of his frame, Allan went to his bathroom and showered rather quickly. He only liked to waste time cleaning himself when it was evening and he had more than enough time for a bath, but he liked to get around quickly before noontime.

Dressing in dark colors, a green buttondown and black jeans, Allan put his hair back and went downstairs. It was barely seven in the morning, but he had plenty of time to cook, then get to work on his painting. He stepped into the kitchen, glancing through the arch to the door that led into the basement. He slid a knife from its block nearby, studying the blade and taking it along as he moved downstairs, removed the panel and set it against the wall, and opened the door and turned the light on. A foul smell hit his nose immediately, and Allan glared at the form in the corner near a pile that was a towel. "There is a light in your bathroom." Allan said sternly. "But you have to make a mess in your room?" He lifted the knife, sliding his thumb over the blade. "In the bathroom is a mild carpet cleaner and bucket. Use it. Clean up that mess by the time I'm back or you'll get far worse than I have planned already."

Turning, he slammed the door, leaving the main light on and going back upstairs. His mind was swirling with what he might be able to do with the knife, or various other blades. But he focused instead on cooking a small, quick breakfast.

Julian blinked in the light, but was pleased to be out of the darkness. He didn't like the ominous way Allan talked and held a knife. He cried as he crawled to the bathroom and found the light switch. It made him feel stupid and he mentally kicked himself for not thinking there would be one in the bathroom. Next time he was locked in the darkness, he could turn on the bathroom light and it would make the room more bearable for him.

He found the necessary items and cleaned up his mess, putting the dirty towel in the basket provided in the bathroom. He washed his face in the sink and rinsed his mouth out, before drinking some of the tap water to settle his stomach. He went back to the room, which thankfully smelt a bit better now he had cleaned up the sick. His nerves made his stomach bubble and he hugged himself, praying for someone to help him. What had the man planned? Was he going to be hurt? He made a distressed noise and took to rocking in the spot he sat.

There didn't seem to be a way out of this. Unless he could somehow break the chain around his neck, but even then... He wasn't a strong walker and he couldn't run at all. He had to practice, to become strong enough to run away, to fight back. He got to his feet and started to pace the room, occasionally stumbling and falling over. He did this for a few hours until he was tired. His stomach felt empty, so he went back to the bathroom to drink more water. As long as he had water, he wouldn't die, he kept telling himself.

He grabbed an empty journal from the shelf and a pen, and started to write down his thoughts. It seemed like a good way to keep a track of the days and also to keep him sane. If he had a clear mind, he could be strong enough to fight his way out of his situation. He recorded the events of last night and his dreams, and then hid the book under the bed's mattress. He didn't want Allan reading his notes.

Allan ate a quick breakfast of oatmeal and cleaned the pan and bowl, keeping things as orderly as he could. It was a somewhat obsessive tendency he had, to immediately wash dishes as they grew dirty and put them away. And when they were clean, he went downstairs to work on his art more. Another thin layer to the foreground, giving the animal a little more depth, and darken two areas in the face to identify where the eyes would go. Then he closed his mixed paints, and used a small, pointed rod to begin etching texture into the painting's wet layer to form the texture to the fur. Now and then he paused to clean the tip, and blew on the paint to make it slightly tacky before raking it into texture again.

He nodded to himself. Standing and stretching, Allan rolled his shoulders and sighed. Twenty six years old and from time to time, his joints liked to make the same noise as his grandmother's had. The doctor he visited had simply said it was loose joints, that they sounded the way they did because it was just natural for him. Stepping out of his painting studio, Allan went down the hall and paused, feeling the knife in his belt loop before pulling open the door. This time instead of meeting a foul scent, it was cut by a lighter, cleaner one. Julian was still in a corner, but this time it was opposite the one he'd dirtied. His red hair was wild and unkept, his green eyes bloodshot and reddened.

"Stand up." Allan said simply. He closed the door behind him, turning a lock and sliding the key onto the chain hooked to his pants.