Page 70 of Left In The Dark

“He only treats me how I act.” His body slumps. “That’s what he says at least.”

I seeth. “Sounds like he’s projecting.”

“That or he might be on to something.”

“You seem pretty adult to me right now.”

“Even sitting next to coloring books with chocolate on my face?” His forehead lifts and I wipe a crumb from the corner of his mouth.

“Even then.”

He reaches for another brownie, keeping his eyes on me, and I start reading where I left off. His head falls on my shoulder as his eyes grow heavier and move from side to side, following my finger as I slide it over each line I read.

“Want to read some too?”

He lets out a soft breath and lazily shakes his head. “No. You’re doing a much better job than I would, and talking is taking too much out of me right now.”

“Then take a break from it.”

“For the rest of the night?” He side-eyes me.

“For as long as you want.”

He nods and points at the sentence I stopped at, and I laugh, continuing from where I last was. He falls asleep before I do this time, and I watch him for a while. I tuck him in when I struggle to keep my eyes open, and leave the book behind before retreating to the house. I don’t plan on coming back for a few days. Not while he’s awake. I’ll drop off food here and there, but I want to see how many days he can go talking to only shadows and bugs again before his eyes are reaching for the door.

Twenty-One

Blake

I’m scratching off a third day that he doesn’t read to me. It’s Saturday, and before I came here, I would have spent it planning to go to some party or the bar my friends would hang out at. Do they wonder where I am? Is anyone looking for me?

I sag in the beanbag chair, wrapping the blanket around me, and I look at my half-eaten yogurt cup. Every time I wake up there’s something new in the fridge or on the table. He brought me two People magazines and an MP3 player with over thirty songs. Some I’ve heard and others are new to me. I’ve listened to all of them at least twice, trying to keep my mind busy and not wonder where he is or if he’s grown bored of me.

Such a stupid thought that is too. That would imply he enjoyed being around me to begin with. He kidnapped me to teach me a lesson, or save me or whatever, and though I have no clue why he feels he needs to do any of that, I know it’s not because he likes having me here.

He’s keeping me here anyway. But how am I supposed to learn when he’s not here showing me anything? I tug at my hair, looking back at my markings on the wall. He said he’d bring me a planner. He also said we’d read a book together, but then he left it here as if I’m supposed to continue on my own.

I’ve picked it up twice, reading some of it in my head and then out loud. I’m so tired, though, and everything I do takes so much out of me. The book is too heavy when I hold it and my mouth cramps when I move it too much, so I’ve been mostly staying still today. I’ve been lying around, looking at the blue space between the cracks of the ceiling and watching birds fly by the window too far away.

I’m trying to keep track of the changes of the sky so I can better guess what time it is, and that’s also why I listen for the sound of his car to pull up. It’s not because I’m waiting for him. I’m not. If anything, it’s better that I’m sleeping while he’s here. Less time I have to deal with him and less time I have to pretend to be a farm animal.

Except being his piglet isn’t really the same thing is it? I scrub at my face, letting out a groan, and pound at my head. I’m not his piglet. I’m not a fucking piglet at all. I’m Blake. I’m a person who needs to return back to the real world and leave this strange reality I’ve accidentally allowed myself to get used to.

My eyes stay on a crawling beetle as I try to ignore the shaking doors. It’s the wind. It’s not him. I don’t want it to be him. I don’t.

“I don’t,” I say out loud, my eyes aching to go to the door whenever the chains rattle.

They stop and I close my eyes, pushing built-up tears I didn’t even know were there down my cheeks.

“I don’t,” I say again with my heart and mind being tugged in different directions.

Monday comes, then Tuesday and Wednesday. Finally, on Wednesday, I catch a glimpse of him sneaking out of the barn and I try to call out but my throat tightens too much for me to let out more than a low whimper.

I turn around and a black notebook with a pencil on top rests beside me. I run my fingers over it, and when I pick it up, a small hand‑sized planner is lying underneath. He was right about writing on paper being better than wooden beams in a barn. It takes me a while to gather my thoughts and write about what’s around me, describing each thing I see in complete detail.

Then I scribble some pictures of what I imagine the barn looks like on the outside and everything around it. When sheep baa around me, I draw them too. One white and another red with white spots. I lift the pencil and then press it to the paper again. I keep my eyes on my moving hand and the pig I’m supposed to be drawing turns into a tall man dressed in all black with a mask covering his face.

I want to say I don’t think about him all the time. I really wish I could. I also want to say I don’t miss him reading to me or running his fingers through my hair. They felt like pure magic when he scrubbed my scalp in the tub, which reminds me, I’m not smelling my best these days. I sniff at my armpits and my stomach coils. Will I be getting another bath soon? I look between my legs and my cock hardens when the way he washed my body pops into my head.