10. Ash

Chapter Ten

ASH

T he walls were spinning and not in a fun way. My head throbbed to the beat of a drum, and my body carried the vibration. My hands were fists around the sheets, curled over onto my knees, pressing my damp skin into the softness of the bed, willing with all my power for it to just stop.

It was worse than any hangover I had ever experienced; not because of the pain or the effects, but from knowing that it would only get worse. It could all be solved with a single, simple solution.

A bottle. A glass. Even a mouthful would be enough to stave off part of the effects. I would not even beg for more than that; I just wanted enough to have a moment of peace, of numbness, of calm.

“Please,” I moaned, rubbing my head harder into the sheets, not caring if my newly unknotted hair got ruined. “Just one sip.”

Silence answered my prayers.

I groaned, rolling over onto my side, scanning the room. A clock ticked by in the distance, and even if I could read it, I knew it would not be time. Seconds had grown into hours, and hours into days.

I could not tell if the sun was up or down, or if even the seasons had changed while I had been trapped in my new eternal prison. Waking up from one nightmare was bad enough, but my thirst had grown before I had passed out, and now I had become a desert in summer.

I had to find something—anything.

I took a deep breath, using the strength and courage I had in short supply, and straightened. Through bleary, burning eyes, my raw and sensitive skin stung. It had no doubt been damaged during my episode . Darkness shrouded the room, with not a single peek of light from the gap in the blinds, or the gap beneath the door.

It took me a moment to get orientated with nothing to guide my way. My vision was already poor, and my brain debilitating it further made the sense useless.

I paused to take breaths, fighting the urge to vomit as the throbbing pounding away at my skull with each motion.

“I can do this …” I whispered. “I can.”

I reached forwards, a firm, hard surface slamming into my palm.

The side table.

I clung to the edge, a landmark at long last in my vast black world, and dragged my body towards it. Plush carpet cushioned my feet as I swung them off the edge of the bed, and a wave of determination pushed through me.

It was but a small feat to find the correct side of the bed, but I took the win, nonetheless.

I pushed myself to stand and—

Cold brushed my finger, and I jerked.

Thunk.

Something landed beside my feet, and cold splashed against my leg, an earthy, sweet smell rising.

“What did I—” I stopped as realization throbbed in my chest.

I dropped to my knees, hands scrambling across the floor as the liquid sunk into the thick carpet. My fingers butted against the glass, and I almost threw it away whilst trying to scoop it up into my shaking hands. I lifted it to my mouth with trembling fingers, the sweet aroma of the whiskey like an adrenaline shot to my nose. I stretched out my tongue, waiting for the sweet drops of its nectar.

None came.

“No, no, no, no, no!” I cried, tossing the glass aside and reaching down to the carpet as the panic raced to the surface. I pushed with all my weight into the plush material, desperately trying to squeeze what it had stolen from me, but the porous material was stubborn and only a mild dampness coated my fingers.

I pressed it to my mouth, sucking the skin so hard I threatened to leave bruises, but the lingering, minute taste did not last.

The drink was lost.

“Fuck!” I hissed, slamming my fist into the floor. My head pounded and beat like an iron drum. I didn’t care. I mourned for the relief that had slipped out of my fingers as my body swayed on its tender perch of control and sanity. “Fuck that bastard!”

Lamb’s face plundered through my mind. It was his sick game that had put me here; never giving me enough to quench my thirst but only providing the necessary amount to not die of withdrawal. He was taking too much joy toeing the line, each step this way or that had my body dancing to his tune. Stealing a kiss or a peck, or something a little more before handing over the glass each time was a new form of torture.

Whatever Pavlov’s dog he was trying to pull over me would not work. If it were not for the dying urge to drink the poison he offered, I would be more than willing to bite his lips straight from his face at this point.

Strengthened by the raging fire inside, I used the edge of the bed and the side table to pull myself up onto tender footing. I bit down on my lip, urging the nausea to stay at bay, staggering my way towards the door.

Next to the door, a little table lamp stood proudly on the sideboard. I propped my body against the wall, quaking hands making quick work of screwing off the lamp shade before tearing it apart without mercy. Two wires, one from the top and one from the bottom, were now in my hands, the material thin and malleable, not meant for anything more than holding the lampshade taut.

It did not take long to fashion two long prongs resembling lock-picking tools. Often, hair grips, bra wires, and hangers could make good impromptu substitutes when the situation called for it.

I had debated escaping from the room a few times before, after figuring out it was a relatively simple drop pin lock. But each time I had, I often thought about what awaited me outside. I had spent months wandering about; little places were welcoming to those who perhaps hadn’t showered for days, wore clothes with a few holes too many, and a grime that no public bathroom sink could wipe away. For the price of a warm bed, shelter, and safety, playing along with Lamb’s antics hadn’t been too big of an ask.

Until now.

I took a breath, jamming the two wires into the lock. It rattled as my shaking hands pried the pins in further, using more will than strength to control my limbs and delicate, precise gestures.

It took a few too many tries, and frustration built rapidly in my chest. I was a few moments from exploding when I heard that sweet, sweet click .

I calmed myself, making sure to hold the pins in place as I gave the handle a steady twist, and with a little pull, the door swung open.

I was free.

I had no time to feel excited as caution was thrown to the wind. I tossed myself out the door, staggering and slamming into the hallway wall as I struggled to hold onto my balance. It slowed me down, but it did not stop me.

I thundered forwards with more momentum than control, heading towards the stairs, remembering the few stolen peeks I had gotten from the hallway on my way to and from the bathroom.

They wrapped tightly to one side, and I did not slow on my approach. Clinging to the singular railing with strength powered by pure adrenaline, I rushed the stairs. I skipped half the steps as I ran down, the steps seeming to continue for far longer than they should have until the carpet vanished from underneath me and ice-cold tile slammed against my feet.

It was a shock to my system that froze all operations. Unable to stop my pace, my knees buckled, and I slammed hard into the ground, a dull flash of pain radiating up one side. My stomach churned, and bile rushed up my throat, threatening to explode onto the cold floor. Slapping my hand over my mouth, I fought to swallow it, my nose stinging and eyes watering.

Forced to take a few seconds, and a few deep breaths, I waited until the floor stopped moving and I’d successfully managed to contain and return the meagre contents of my stomach.

Daylight was sharp and harsh, bouncing off the bleach-white walls and white tiled floor as I pulled myself up. I had no doubt been bruised, the panging ache already spreading across my side, but it was easily drowned by the drum beat of my brain.

In the bright, blinding daylight, my eyes screamed to close, and my vision was bleary. That and everything around me was a sea of white.

I had died.

This is what heaven was like, right? Just an endless bright white room all around?

I struggled to believe that heaven was in Lamb’s house, of all peoples. Hell, perhaps. But I would be severely disappointed to find that the pearly white gates led here.

I turned, and turned, and turned, slow and steady, with a hand on my belly, as if it might persuade it to stay calm.

Not a single ounce of colour stood in the endless ocean of nothingness .

Huge, expansive windows seemed to pour light into the room, reflected off every possible surface, like a spotlight being shot at my face.

I raised a hand to my brow, trying to shield some of the light from my eyes, but it did little to ease my suffering. With my other hand, I reached out for anything—an object, material, a body—anything to provide a clue to what surrounded me. My stolen glances had only gotten me this far, and unless I had developed x-ray vision at some point during my capture, there had not been much more for me to find.

Something firm butted against my hand, and soft suede brushed against my knuckles.

A couch?

I tried once more to get a better look, but the thing was just as white as the room around me, not a single stain or fingerprint suggested it had even been touched, never mind sat on.

This man was living in a simulation. There was no other explanation.

“I do not need this.” I shook my head, abandoning the couch as my guide as I began to move away from the light, deeper into the room. “Kitchen, kitchen, kitchen …” I chanted repeatedly, as if it might suddenly appear right in front of me and—

A shiny black surface cut through the white. I closed in on it like a moth to a flame, like a portal cutting through the void, offering me a sweet escape from the blankness.

My fingers ran over the ice-cold marble, and relief washed over me.

“Kitchen!” I breathed, the only word I was capable of speaking.

If this was a countertop, then …

My hands slid towards and then underneath the edge, the glossy white surface giving with a little push. The door pushed back, and the cupboard swung open.

I almost cried when I saw the pots and pans staring back at me. Not only were they not white but black, but it also meant Lamb had things in his kitchen. Like a normal human did. His dedication to his disguise paid off … for me, at least.

I wasted no time pushing and popping open every cupboard I could. From cutlery to tins to spices, Lamb’s kitchen was fully stocked, even with fresh vegetables and products.

What a waste of resources; robots didn’t eat human food.

In his farce of a kitchen, I just prayed he did not forget the one important detail. The single thread of hope I was clinging to, the one thing that would stop my head from beating, my stomach from sinking, and my mind from reeling.

“Please, please …” I begged, rifling through anything and everything. “Why has he got so many cupboards!” I snapped, my irritation growing each time a cupboard turned up empty.

My hope began to dwindle, and the panic I had kept at bay was crawling back up.

I should leave. Instead of digging through his shit, I should take the chance to escape, and if I kept walking, I was sure there would be a store around here somewhere, or an open back door, or—

Clunk.

My heart soared.

No longer caring if I threw up or not, I heaved my body up onto the counter, scrambling like a mad animal onto my knees, pulling and throwing the packets, jars, and tins onto the floor. I heard things break and smash, but I did not care. I heard it move. It was glass. It had to be.

There was no way he didn’t have a single bottle.

I was right.

Just as I was about to reach the back of the cupboard, I saw the tall, thin-necked bottle tipped onto one side where it had fallen, hidden behind a wayward packet of pasta.

I lunged.

My fingers wrapped snugly around its neck, and I pulled.

My feet hit the floor, a mess of broken food, glass, and plastic littering around me. I did not care. The clear bottle and bright red label stared back up at me, confirming exactly what I had thought it was.

With shaking hands, I gripped tight around the cap, spinning it off with a single-jerked motion, bringing it up to my trembling lips. The cold, sweet liquid hit the back of my throat, rushing into my stomach with a hot, burning heat. The vodka was sharp through my senses, and my stomach both screamed and revelled as it settled inside.

Home sweet home.

T he harsh sting shooting across my skin jarred me awake.

Darkness’s sweet embrace flushed from my vision as a familiar ceiling stared down at me—a white, bleached ceiling. I squinted at it, the light bouncing off its surface harsh on my tender eyes.

My head still ached, but it had moved to the background, enough for me to ignore. Something bitter and harsh sat on my tongue, and my mouth felt dry, as if I had swallowed a hundred cotton balls the night before. But that had not been the case. My state was familiar to me, and the taste was that of an old friend, vodka. It had never been my drink of choice, but it had been a drink, nonetheless.

I moved to stretch, feeling more settled than I had in a long while. Or I tried to.

My leg was trapped in a vice, and with my movement, I was rewarded with a sharp pain rushing up the nerves in my leg.

“Fuck!” I hissed.

I looked down to investigate, and that was when I noticed it. Noticed him . The body heat that swam through my leg, the soft, gentle material pinning my ankle still, and the broad back, a dark black cloud in the bright sea of white.

His silk ebony shirt pinched as it moved, tugging over his shoulder as he worked, hunched over my foot, eyes sharp and focused.

“What are you— fuck !” I hissed again, a singing burn following each stab of pain. “Stop!” I hissed. “Whatever you are doing, stop it.”

Another sting.

“Okay, okay, I get it.” I tugged at my ankle, but his grip refused to budge. “I should not have broken out of my room, okay? I will go back just—”

Another.

“Fine!” I snapped. “I should not have drank your vod—”

Another.

“ Lamb !”

The repetitive pain ceased.

I stilled as a mix of caution and relief made a terrible concoction inside of me.

Lamb had not moved a muscle, and I sat on the edge of anticipation, waiting for punishment or release. It took a few moments, but soon enough, the black silk shifted, and Lamb began moving once more.

I had not been released, however.

“You got cut.”

“What?” I frowned, missing his words.

A soft sigh weighed on his shoulders. “Your feet got cut on the broken glass,” Lamb repeated with practised patience. “I need to bandage it.”

“Oh,” I said, because what else could I?

Silence descended as I mentally focused on his actions. The softness of the bandage pressed against the raw underneath of my foot. Small, irritated nips tingled across my skin, but compared to whatever he was doing before—disinfecting, perhaps?—there was not much to complain about.

Feeling only the briefest of touches, he wound the material over and around my foot and ankle. His movements were efficient, and though it had felt a yearlong with each tingling graze of his fingers, it had only taken him a minute or so to have completed my first aid.

With care, he lifted my foot, allowing himself to slip from the couch, and set it down on a cushion before walking past me.

Woodsy cedar washed over me as he passed so close to me that I could have grabbed him if I wanted to. Part of me did. Part of me was rapidly questioning the bizarre behaviour. Part of me wanted to apologize for what I had done, despite being the kidnapped victim. Part of me wanted to stop him just because I could. Because I knew he would stop. Knew he would look at me.

His gaze had unsettled me for a long time, and I had slowly begun to learn why.

Lamb looked at me .

My formative years had been spent living as a ghost, and even though many seasons had passed, I had evolved no further than a shadow, moving from one place to the next, never finding solid standing anywhere.

For Lamb, though, no light shone through me. I had cause and effect on the things I touched. There was evidence of where I had been. I left footsteps on this man who had no reason to treat me as anything other than dust passing in an autumn breeze.

“It scares me,” I whispered, the words slipping out of my mouth. I stared into the white void of the room, the bright light seeping into the room, curtains stagnant and still.

I heard Lamb’s feet pause, his steps freezing just past my head, just out of sight. If I focused, I would see his lingering form in the corner of my eye, but I did not. I could not.

“What does?” Lamb’s voice was soft and neutral.

“The way you look at me.”

“And how …?” Lamb paused. “How do I look at you?”

“Like I exist.” My gaze shifted to my foot, the phantom touch of his fingers still roaming over my skin.

I waited, wondering what his response would be, mind wandering far and wide.

Lamb’s footsteps continued, not a single word spoken as his steps disappeared behind me. I tipped my head back, closing my eyes as a breath escaped my chest, silence descending like a veil over my mind for a small, peaceful moment.

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”