Legacy

Chapter 27: Radio

Every night goes by without incident. There's no sexual comments shot at me, or even any silent predatory looks. Michael's hands never attempt to wander anywhere but my stomach, which helps me sleep at night.

But then he has to leave for work, and I'm sent back down to the basement. Back down to that creaky mattress that puts a crick in my spine.

The only thing I can do with my hours of free time is reread through my seventeen books, including the new one... I breeze through it more times than Ender's Game before I notice the changes in my body: my belly is swelling so much that it's a chore to tug a shirt down over it and my frequent morning sickness.

Then the deafening lack of any sound in the basement, beyond my breathing, makes me paranoid that Michael is never coming back and I'll die alone down here. When those thoughts run through my head for too long, it's all I can do to keep myself from eagerly wrapping my arms around Michael when he returns.

Today, after politely greeting him, I finally gather up the nerve to ask. "Can I please get a radio or something down here?"

A look of exasperation crosses Michael's face as he pushes his glasses higher on his nose. "Why exactly do you want a radio?" It's not a weird question, but the way he says it almost makes it sound like he thinks I'm up to something again. It almost feels like an accusation.

But I'm not trying anything. At least not this time. I just tell him the truth. "I need some music or something down here." He just stares at me blankly. "You know, just for some background noise so I don't freak out at the silence." I shrug. "It really messes with my head." After a few more seconds of silence I just say it. "After awhile I worry you're not coming back." My eyes go down to the ground at how silly I must sound to him. "I'm afraid that something might've happened to you." I mumble, suddenly finding my toes fascinating.

I'm afraid I'm gonna die down here because nobody else knows where I am, other than Nancy.

Michael brushes my chin with his fingers. When I meet his eyes, he's so close that he's looking down at me. "I'm not goin' anywhere." I blush as his lips graze my cheek. His fingers glide gently along my cast. "How's your arm?"

"I barely notice the sling anymore," I answer as he pulls away. "It didn't hurt when I rolled over this morning."

"Might be time to remove the cast," he says.

His hand presses on the small of my back as he guides me through the cell door and over to the torture chair. My stomach clenches violently at the sight of the handcuffs, but I manage to calm myself down. I haven't even tried to escape in weeks and Michael is the one who mentioned my arm in the first place.

I settle down in the chair and lay my cast on the armrest. With some careful snips and accidental pokes with the scissors, the cast slips away. I can see the bright red pressure scars all over my forearm and sigh in relief of the sudden feeling of cold air on my skin.

Michael's fingers guide my wrist upwards as he directs me to move my fingers. When I do so with no pain coming from my arm the corners of his mouth twitch up. "All healed up, I think."

Yeah, because you'd be the one to know about the healing process, Dr. Serial Killer.

"I can't tell you how long I've been waiting to use this arm." I force a pleasant smile to cross my face as I run my fingers over the numb flesh of my arm. My fingers curl into a fist and I roll my wrist. I hear the popping of my joints rather than actually feeling them.

Michael's fingers trace along my arm as he brings his lips down to my wrist.

In this moment all I want to do is cuff him to the chair and bolt up the stairs... but then, he's the one who has the keys. It's stupid to run at this point especially.

He slides his lips up my arm before he comes up and kisses me, his fingers weaving through my hair.

"You don't need to keep doing this," I say as he finally pulls away.

"Doing what?" The eyebrow arches. "What are you talking about, Morning Bird?" His hands brace on either side of my body, trapping me like the prey I am.

"This!" I gesture to everything before laying my hands over my slightly protruding stomach. "Everything." I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "I'm already carrying your child, so you can cut the creepy seductive crap." One of my fingers juts out to aggressively poke him in the chest as the words fly out.

Michael is silent for the longest moment, his eyes studying mine. For the first time, eye contact with him doesn't feel like it'll lead to another punishment. His look is so calm. I must be seeing things. It's almost like there are actual emotions behind his cold blue eyes.

"September..." His voice is soft as his hand cups my cheek gently. Another moment of silence passes over us before he speaks again. "I don't know what to say..." He drags a hand through his hair, looking down at the ground.

I plaster my hand against his chest and lightly push him away so I can inch out of the chair. "Don't say anything." I head back to my creaky bed. "Don't do anything."

A long moment after plopping down on the mattress, Michael pokes his head into the room. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I enjoy the time we spend together?"

My eyes are rolling before I even realize what they're doing. I fix Michael with a glare as he comes over and sits down next to me.

"I don't like punishing you," he says.

Liar.

His fingers lay on my knee, my pajama pants the only thing separating our skin. A whisper of a touch at most. "I enjoy it in the moment, but you have no idea how shitty I feel afterwards." He takes my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. "It's because you're..." Michael takes a moment, clearing his throat. "...the first person to make me feel anything other than hate and disgust."

I raise my eyes to meet his. They appear shinier than usual. I flinch when a tear actually slides down his face.

"I care about you." His voice hitches at the end, making my stomach twist. "I just want you to care about me." The feeling of his thumb rubbing the back of my hand makes me pull away.

There's no way. He doesn't give a shit about me. If he did, he'd let me go.

When Michael reaches for me again, I hold up my scarred hand, burned side out. His eyes stare at my palm for a moment as if his mind is waking up. With a shake of the head he gets to his feet. "I see."

That's all he says before leaving me alone.

Just like I asked.