Page 59 of Trapped: Until The Darkest Of Night

“I don’t eat rabbits.” Lou peels off the covers, pulls her top down by the hem, and immediately disappears into the bathroom.

“You might have to one day,” I call after her, extra loud. “When the supply of food runs out, for example.”

Bang—the door flies shut behind her.

For a moment, I don’t know whether to laugh or get angry.

“Oh, right, I nearly forgot you’re on a hunger strike,” is all I say as I go back to the front.

Thinking about what to make her to eat, I decide on Eggo thick and fluffy waffles, which she often toasted with Emma.

Love them so much, Lou once wrote in a post about it.

When she emerges from the bathroom, she has her hair tied back with gauze bandaging.

“You looked in the cabinet,” I say, surprised.

“Is that a problem?” There’s a look of rebellion in her eyes.

“No.” I smile disarmingly. She won’t find any tools in the cupboard, I have all of them in the storage space below and in my lockable cupboard above the door. I stocked up a bit, but only with harmless things like aspirin, cough syrup, bandages, and tape. She can’t kill herself, or me, with those.

Lou disappears into her area and pulls the folding door shut behind her. Shortly thereafter, the motorhome rocks because she is probably standing on the bed rummaging around in the middle closet, and then I hear a door slam.

Then, nothing happens for a few minutes.

“Are you coming or what?” I call out as I pop the last two waffles into the toaster.

She doesn’t reply, but shortly after my question, the folding door opens. Lou comes forward with stiff steps and sits down on the bench.

Without comment, I click the loose handcuff from her wrist onto the chain I attached to the anchor under the table earlier.

Lou’s gaze follows the links to under the tabletop. Her expression remains impassive as if it weren’t she who was chained. Or as if she had accepted this condition.

The scar tissue beneath my braided leather bracelet stings. I shake off a cold shudder and pour her coffee, add two sugars, and place the cup on the table in front of her.

With thin lips, she glances at the plate on which I have stacked the waffles.

“Want some blueberry pancakes?” I ask as I retrieve the powdered sugar and a sieve from the cupboard.

“No.”

“Okay.” The last two waffles pop out of the toaster. Using two fingers, I pull them out and place them on the serving plate, dusting the waffle mountain with powdered sugar.

I squeeze myself onto the bench across from Lou and place the plate between us. Lou sits there like a statue as if none of this concerns her. I study her for a while. There are still bags under her eyes and her skin is creamy white, which is accentuated by her coral blouse. My gaze falls on the two strands of hair that fall across her cheeks like a light frame on the left and right. They soften her oval face even more. I remember last night, the strange feeling while I watched her sleep. I want to say something nice to her, cheer her up. “You look cute with your hair up.”

Her hands clench and coffee sloshes out of the cup.

Well done, Brendan! Very sensitive! “Sorry.” I’m annoyed with myself. “Shouldn’t have said that.” I quickly wipe up the coffee with a kitchen towel and grab a waffle from the plate.

“You need to eat,” I say a few minutes later with my mouth full to Lou, who once again doesn’t touch anything.

“I’m not hungry.” She stares at the waffle in my hand, and for a moment, it seems as if her face is turning green.

“I believe it.” I nod. “But you still have to eat.”

“Are you going to force me?” Almost imperceptibly, she slides back a little. The faux leather of the seat creaks.

“I’d find a way to get you to eat, trust me.”

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