Stockholm Syndrome (John Seed x Deputy OC)

3 - Humiliation

A wave of cold water coated my body and I flung myself forward in shock. I snapped back immediately, still being strapped tightly to the office chair. Shivering, I gasped for air and looked up at a grinning John Seed who held a now empty bucket in his hand.

'How was your sleep?' He stifled a malicious laugh at my startled expression. His hysterics quickly passed as he walked behind me, shoving the chair into the centre of the room under the light. 'I thought today we'd have a little therapy session.' John circled me like a shark, spinning a pair of scissors around his index finger. 'If you co-operate then nothing bad will happen.' He vanished behind me before leaning around, his lips pressed to my ear. The hairs of his beard tickled my cheek and I felt my pulse rapidly increase. 'Where's plane boy?' He asked quietly, clearly referring to Nick. I gave no answer and he gave a loud sigh. 'You're really pushing my patience.'

'I don't know where he is.' The words passed my lips through gritted teeth as I trembled from the cold water that coated every inch of me.

'Lying is a sin.' John sarcastically lamented, twirling a finger around a strand of my long brunette hair.

'The last time I saw him was the last time you saw him moron.' My completely valid point earned me a swift clip around the head from his palm.

'Hmph.' He exhaled indignantly, annoyed that I'd got one over on him. 'Fine. Tell me all about the resistance's plans.' John tugged hard on the hair that was now wound tightly around his finger.

'To kill you and your brother.' Before I'd even begun to finish my sentence, the baptist began to hack away at my hair. Tugging and pulling, he used the scissors to erratically chop away my thick locks until I was left with a messy bob that hung just over my shoulders. A few times he managed to graze my neck, nicking open my flesh. Unfazed, I allowed him to carry on until he was done. Spinning my chair around so he could look at me, he seemed disappointed in my neutral expression. Simply staring back up at him, I could feel bags hanging down underneath my eyes. I'd only managed to get an hour or so of sleep and hadn't eaten or drunk in over a day. 'Finished?' My hollow question made his brow furrow. John thought for a moment before slicing through my bonds with the scissors. Now I was the confused one.

'Get up.' He commanded. I rose straight away but immediately felt my knees buckle beneath me. Seeing spots, I collapsed in a heap on the floor.

'Ngh...' I groaned, a splitting headache forming under my skull. Briefly looking up at John, I managed to catch a flash of concern etch over his expression. It was gone in an instance however as he kicked me straight in the stomach.

'I said get up.' Scrunching my body up upon impact with his shoe, it took me a second to recover. Winded, I forced myself upright whilst my right arm cradled my abdomen. Forcefully, John yanked my wrists behind my back and tied them together with rope before frogmarching me towards the main door. His thumbs dug into my shoulder blades as he pushed me down a corridor and up various flights of stairs. Cult members eyed me, some even jeering to get me to react. I kept my head down, willing my feet onward with every shove that John gave me. We reached what looked like a containment unit. Peering through the glass window fixed in the door, I could see a metal slab suspended by the wall which I supposed was meant to act as a bed.

'How charming...' I stated ironically. John didn't like that. Hands pressing down on my shoulders, he whipped me around and forced me down to my knees. Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and focussed on us. Powerless, I watched John walk over to one of his subordinates and snatch their pistol from their belt. Opening the cylinder, he removed five out of six bullets and snapped it shut.

'You want to play the game? Let's play then.' He stormed over, shoving the barrel to my temple. My breath caught in my throat as I looked up at him. He was seething, fed up of my sarcasm and non-compliance.

'Sir I don't think Joseph-' One of his men interjected but John span, pointing the gun at him.

'Do you want to play?' He growled. The cultist backed away, palms raised and shaking his head. 'Then shut the fuck up.' The cool barrel was pressed against my bloodied skin once more and I exhaled shakily. John's tattooed fingers span the barrel. The ominous clicking noise made beads of sweat form on my brow. Despite my hands being tied behind my back, I stretched my fingers out and clutched onto myself for comfort. My green irises met his blue ones and I could feel myself unintentionally pleading for my life through my expression. John faltered, slackening his grip on the pistol and I let my shoulders drop in relief. It was only when my guard was down that he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. 'Lucky girl.' He sniffed, tossing the gun aside. I hung my head and let out strangled wail. Opening the door behind me, John grabbed my shirt and dragged my weight into the room. Dropping me like a sack of potatoes, he stepped over my body and slammed the door behind him. I heard it lock and immediately felt a release of emotion wash over me. Unable to hold it in, I lay there on my back and sobbed. Hot furious tears cascaded down my cheeks and began to puddle on the metal floor.

After a few hours I'd stopped crying and was instead staring up at the silver ceiling. It was best to get all of the tears out at once. John was going to be a hard nut to crack but after everything I'd been through I couldn't let him win. Struggling up onto my feet, I walked over to the sink attached the wall. A mirror hung above it but the woman looking back at me was not the Harlow I knew. My hair was a mess and I felt humiliated. Slamming a hand down on the porcelain I let out an angry scream. He wouldn't win this way. He would not be the death of me.