It was hard for me to figure out the unsaid rules; he never gave a facial indication when I broke one of them. I only knew I did when he lashed out, punished me. With my mouth still numb, my nose barely finished dripping blood, I fished my pack of cigarettes out of my coat pocket. I had yet to ignite my lighter, cigarette loose on my lips, when he was in front of me. Silently, he had moved from his spot on the opposite couch, leaned down so he was eye level with me. He forced the lighter out of my hand, and I cowered under his gaze, waiting for him to speak.

Twice, I asked him to repeat himself as his words never registered in my head. Twice, he told me to eat the cigarette. I swallowed whatever sugary, bloody spit was still lingering in my mouth before I protested that I couldn’t physically eat a cigarette. He dug around my jacket pockets until he pulled out the pack again. He counted the remaining ones, then gave me a decision: eat the cigarette, or he’d light the rest of the cigarettes and put them out on my skin. 

He sparked the lighter, showing he was serious in his threat. He raised his eyebrows, as if this were all a game to him. I pushed the cigarette into my mouth, ready to face whatever adverse effects to come about from it. He let the flame die out, a smile on his face. Under different circumstances, I would have thought he’d pat me on the shoulder. I tried not to gag as the overbearing taste of paper and tobacco hit my tongue. I chewed it into a paste and forced it down, only for it to start to come back up. 

I was dragged into the bathroom. Thrown in front of the toilet. The blood I had swallowed from the cut mixing with the nicotine was a recipe I wished to never experience again. It all came back up through heavy breathing and groans of pain. The cut in my lip stung from the acidity, my stomach like it was pierced through with the knife still looped through his belt. Through it all, Mathias stood, watching, waiting. I never expected him to rub my back, tell me it was all okay as my mother had done, but there was still that little wisp of longing. For the emotional comforts mothers were best at giving during times like these. For someone to wipe the dribble from my mouth as all my strength left me.

He walked away as I hung off the toilet, working myself past the pain. He placed a glass of water near my face, and I leaned back to grab it from him, to drink it like it was my lifeline. When I finished, I handed it back to him, wiped my mouth with a piece of toilet paper. He pulled me up after I flushed the toilet, told me to wash my hands. Supervised my hand-washing technique, having me redo it until he was satisfied, all without a single expression on his face.

One of the few pleasures I still had in this life was taken away from me as he forced me to watch him destroy my package of cigarettes. He ran the pack under the sink, crushed it into a ball and threw it away. He chose to pocket my lighter, while I chose to mourn my cigarettes silently, quickly, before the insufferable silence washed over us again.

He had no television to fill the gaps in our conversations, punishments. But he had a radio sitting on an end table by him. When I asked if he could turn it on, for some sort of sound, he clenched his jaw and I prepared myself for another discipline. Instead, he told me he didn’t like the stations it picked up. He crossed his arms, signaling the end of this conversation. 

With nothing else to keep my mind off the pain in my stomach, I looked around the sitting room from the armchair I curled up in. Mathias kept his distance from me, sitting as far from me as he could on the couch. Unmoved, unblinking, staring into my soul, I wondered if there were any thoughts in his head. I wondered if he had made reason through him telling me he didn’t care what I did, but clearly did. Or it was a lie to make me feel like I had some semblance of control. As I dwelled on it, staring at the painting of trees where a television would go above the fireplace, I figured it was the latter. His eyes followed me as I leaned my head to look at what was on the shelf of the wooden coffee table. His eyes followed my hands as I slid out a puzzle box.

I slinked off the armchair, sitting crisscrossed at the coffee table. I opened the puzzle box and started digging around, looking for the edge pieces. I had done half the border when Mathias joined me on the other side of the coffee table. In stifling silence we worked on the puzzle together, until it became too much for me and I had to ask why he was so calm.

“Be more specific,” he said, placing a piece.

“You robbed a bank. You took me hostage,” I said. “You’re acting as if you can’t be touched.”

“Extradition.” He glanced at me before looking in the box for a new piece. “Are you gonna help?”

I grabbed the box away from him, hiding it by my knee on the floor. His hand hovered above the coffee table, holding a piece loosely between his fingers. “When did we cross the border?” I asked. “I was driving, I would have known.”

“Does it matter when?” He responded, placing the piece. “We did. Now, put the box back,” he ordered. 

I placed it back on the coffee table, the pain still stabbing my stomach, throbbing in my lip, reminding me of his recent actions. “Am I just insurance? Your last-ditch effort of escaping?”

He paused his reach into the box, only continuing the action when he answered, “Good idea. You are now.”

Letting out a sigh, I put my head on the coffee table, partly on the puzzle. I listened to him place piece after piece as the puzzle filled in. He lifted my head off the puzzle by my hair to place the pieces in the places I was covering. He thought through everything, I let myself spiral. Made changes to his plan when I put myself in it. I didn’t know why he needed the money; maybe it was more the thrill of committing a crime than anything.

I could sympathize with that to an extent. I’d done my fair share outside the law, but it was never so showy as putting myself in direct contact with the police. Keep moving, that’s what I always did. Every few years, repeat the cycle, make it almost impossible to find me. It was going well until the officers saw my face through my delusions of grandeur. What did I expect I was going to get out of helping him? The satisfaction that it wasn’t a woman in my place? I figured she would have her make up running down her face, pleading with the police to save her. End up getting herself shot through the back. Maybe that was better than where I was now.

He picked my head up, peeled the piece I felt stuck to my forehead off. I told him I was tired, and he let go of my head, expecting me to keep it up myself. He stood, closed the blinds to the darkening sky before forcing me to stand. He led me by the chain between the cuffs to a bedroom, told me to stay where he left me. I watched him dig around a few drawers, handing me pajamas and telling me no man should go without at least another pair of clean underwear. 

Mathias was kind enough to let me shower if I so wanted. He brought me to the bathroom I previously threw up in, undid one hand from the cuffs, leaned against the door, crossed his arms. When I made no indication of motion, he told me to get on with it. I asked him if he could at minimum pretend not to watch me or close his eyes. He didn’t see why I was putting up a fuss but tilted his head down anyway.

I would’ve undressed regardless of him being there, but his stare that never left my person unnerved me. I only felt solace when I was behind the shower curtain. I tried not to smack myself in the face with the dangling handcuff as I washed my hair, wishing I were in the comfort of my own home. That my dog was right outside the door, whining because she couldn’t be in the bathroom with me. In that regard, it wasn’t all too different. He followed me wherever I went, keeping his eyes trained on me, just like my dog. The only difference being him in the bathroom with me, waiting for me to be done. I took my time, partly to spite him, partly because I figured it’d be the only time I’d be this free. 

It felt an even crueler twist of fate that the towel rack wasn’t in arm’s reach from the shower. I asked him for a towel, heard him sigh before handing me one. I mostly dried myself off, reached for the pajamas I set close to the shower. I dressed, whipped the shower curtain open and he grabbed the cuff no longer attached to a wrist. We came back to the bedroom, where I was forced to my knees as he re-cuffed it to the leg of the bed. He made a little bed for me on the floor: a soft blanket acting as a mattress, a pillow, and a quilt. As he left, he turned the light off.

I found the most comfortable position I could with one arm cuffed to a bed above my head. I laid with the quilt half off me as it was too hot, but I figured whenever the generator cut out, the heat would go with it. He was keeping me alive because he didn’t want to be responsible for my death, but he most likely never gave a thought to my purpose in this whole scheme until I brought it up. Keep me alive to keep him out of jail, that was now my purpose. I closed my eyes, trying not to dwell on him all too much in my few hours of peace.

Darkness greeted my vision when I woke up some time later. I quickly closed my eyes when I realized Mathias was in the room. I felt him move the quilt over my body, up to my shoulders. Heard the bed creak as I assumed he crawled into the bed above me. I thought I fooled him that I was still asleep, but he surprised me when he said, “Go back to sleep. Wake me up if you need something. I’m a light sleeper.”

From him, even the sincerest comments felt vaguely like threats. I didn’t know where the gun was, where the knife was. They could be on a nightstand within reach of him. I calmed myself down, trying not think about how he could harm me to an inch of my life while I wouldn’t be able to do more than squat. And I spiraled, until I fell back asleep.

Mathias woke me up as he thundered out of the room in his heavy boots. I sat up to see sunlight filtering through the slats of the blinds. I waited for him to come back, shivering under the quilt. I was able to start to relax my seizing muscles when I heard the heat kick on. He turned the light on when he stomped back into the room, undoing the cuff attached to the leg of the bed.

He squatted in front of me, holding the cuff in his hand. I noticed his gun was now placed in a holster next on his hip. “How’re you feeling?” He asked. “Done bleeding on my good hardwood?”

“None of that was my fault,” I answered, already feeling regret creeping up my throat.

“Guess not,” he said, a terrifyingly small smile on his lips.