His eyes pierced yours, it was yet another futile attempt to escape from him. He'd caught you in the act again; striding inside your bedroom to find you one step away from jumping out the window. With arms snaked around your waist, his gaze softened before he leaned forward to whisper in your ear sweet nothings, filled with shameless lies.

"Stop trying to leave me, darling. You're sick, don't be like this."

He mumbled; voice raspy, and low. He was stroking your hair as you inhaled his reek of cigar, and whiskey. Sitting on the bed as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, you were frankly, confused. The cycle was just repeating, and it was terrifying. Downright eerie, with how much you've forgotten, and how much false information he was replacing.

He's convinced you that you were sick, you were bedridden, and that you shan't leave your quarters. But just how long have you been here? How much more?

And for what?