Page 4 of Dear Owen

He paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob, his back still to me. “Please, what, Kira?”

But I had no answer, no coherent thought beyond the chaos that raged within me. I was drowning in an ocean of my own making, and Owen was the siren that threatened to drag me into its darkest depths.

The door closed behind him, leaving me alone in the half-light, the sound of my own heartbeat a relentless reminder of the life that pulsed within me—a life that Owen now claimed as his own.

Four

The first lightof dawn seeped through a small, grimy window set high in the wall, casting a feeble glow over my prison. I lay there, aching and disoriented, the events of the previous day replaying in my mind like a broken record. The room was a crypt, silent and cold, filled with shadows that danced mockingly in the half-light.

As my eyes adjusted, I took in the details of my surroundings. The walls were bare concrete, the cold seeping into my bones, and the floor was a patchwork of cracked tiles that seemed to whisper stories of abandonment and decay. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with forgotten relics of scientific endeavor: beakers and test tubes, old textbooks, and rusted equipment. It was then that I realized where I was—the basement of the old science building, a place I had never set foot in all my time at the university.

I pushed myself up, my body protesting with every movement, and stumbled toward the door. It was a heavy, metal monstrosity, the kind you’d find in a high-security facility. I pressed my ear against the cold surface, listening for any sign of life beyond, but there was nothing—only a profound and unsettling silence that seemed to echo the void within me.

The realization hit me like a physical blow: the room was soundproof. My cries for help would be swallowed by the walls, my existence reduced to a mere whisper in the darkness. I was utterly, irrevocably alone.

I floated in a void, my consciousness tethered to nothing but the rough texture of the ceiling above me. The cracks and stains formed shapes that I traced with my eyes, again and again, until they became meaningless patterns—a tapestry of my emptiness. Time slipped through my fingers like sand, each grain a moment lost to the heavy fog that shrouded my mind.

The shadows grew long as the day wore on, the light from the window shifting subtly with the passing hours. I watched as it crept across the floor, a silent companion in my solitude. I knew that night would soon fall, and with it would come a deeper darkness, a more profound isolation. But even that knowledge couldn’t stir the embers of fear or despair that lay smoldering within me.

Minutes bled into hours, and still, I lay there, suspended in a waking coma. I was aware, on some level, that this was not normal—this apathy, this disconnection from my own humanity. But it was a small voice, easily drowned out by the overwhelming need to feel nothing.

Then, without warning, the door creaked open, a sliver of light cutting through the gloom. I didn’t turn my head. I didn’t need to. I knew it was Owen, his presence like a shadow across my heart. He stepped into the room, his footsteps echoing in the silence, each one a reminder of the reality I had tried to escape.

“Kira,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the stillness as I heard him putting down a few things on the concrete floor.

I didn’t respond. I was a statue carved from the same cold stone as the walls that confined me. I was untouchable, unreachable, even as he approached, his silhouette blotting out the dim light that filtered through the window.

I sensed him crouching near me. “Look at me,” he commanded, his tone laced with an urgency that I couldn’t muster the energy to decipher.

Slowly, as if moving through molasses, I turned my head to meet his eyes.

His gaze was intense, probing, searching for something within the depths of my own. It was a look that would have once made my heart race with a mixture of fear and an impossible yearning. Now, I felt nothing but a distant curiosity. What was it he sought in my eyes? Some flicker of life, perhaps? A glimmer of the old Kira, the one who had foolishly allowed herself to feel too much?

He must have found it—the thing he was looking for—because his features softened, the harsh lines of his face giving way to a tenderness that was as bewildering as it was out of place. I watched, detached, as he leaned in, his lips brushing against mine in a ghost of a kiss. It was so fleeting, so gentle, that it might have been a figment of my imagination.

I didn’t react. I couldn’t. My body was leaden, my emotions encased in ice. He pulled back slightly, his gaze holding mine, as if willing me to respond, to feel something—anything. But the circuit was broken, and the connection severed. I was numb, and no amount of coaxing could reignite the spark that had once burned so brightly within me.

Without a word, Owen rose to his feet, the sound of rustling plastic filling the silence. I watched, unblinking, as he unfolded an air mattress. The garish cerulean was out of place within the drab, ashen hues of the space. He worked methodically, his movements precise and controlled, inflating the mattress with swift, sure pumps.

When he was done, he turned back to me, his expression unreadable. “You’ll sleep here,” he said, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability that was at odds with the strength and cruelty I had come to associate with him.

I didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge his words. What did it matter where I slept? The stone-cold floor or a makeshift bed—it was all the same to me.

“I thought you might be more comfortable,” Owen said. He moved with a predator’s grace, the muscles in his arms flexing with each deliberate motion. “And you need to eat. I won’t have you wasting away down here.”

He lifted the cloth on the tray that he had placed on the floor before setting up the bed, to reveal my favorite meal—chicken parmesan with a side of garlic bread from the little Italian place off-campus. The aroma was intoxicating, but beneath that was the unmistakable scent of Owen, a musky, intoxicating fragrance that clung to the bedding and the food, wrapping me in his presence. He sat me up and handed me a fork before sitting on his heels to watch me.

“Go on,” he urged, his eyes locked on mine, daring me to refuse.

My mouth watered, not just from the food, but from the display of control, from the knowledge that he could provide comfort and inflict suffering with the same effortless charm. I hesitated, the fork poised tremblingly in my hand as I contemplated the meal.

“What’s wrong, Kira?” he asked, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Not hungry?”

I finally willingly met his gaze. “I’m not sure I trust what you might have put in it,” I admitted, the words tasting of defeat.

He chuckled, low and throaty, before reaching for a piece of garlic bread. He took a bite, chewing slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving mine. “You think I’d poison you?” he asked after he swallowed. “I didn’t go through all this trouble to keep you just to throw it away.”

He took another bite, his enjoyment of the meal a cruel taunt. My stubbornness reared its head, and I set the fork down, a silent protest. His expression darkened, the playful smirk replaced by a hard line of disapproval.

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