After Jean basically forced you to marry him, he brought you to an old, ugly house. Just one badly painted room, no separation between the “kitchen,” the “bedroom,” and the bathroom. All in one. A moldy mattress in the corner, a table missing a leg, a window boarded up so you can’t even look outside.

You can’t leave. You can’t talk to anyone. Jean doesn’t let you. Ever.

He makes you wear white nightgowns, delicate ones, like you’re some kind of holy apparition. No coats, no blankets. When it’s cold, you have to hug him. That’s how he likes it.

“Are you awake? I’m heading to work.” His voice comes from the back of the room.

You blink, sitting on the edge of the mattress, rubbing your eyes. Jean’s there, standing by the tiny bathroom sink, shirtless, his mouth full of foam. He’s brushing his teeth while watching you through the cracked mirror.

“Could you tidy up a bit? If you don’t wanna, it’s fine,” he mumbles, toothbrush still in his mouth.

He doesn’t say it harshly. Not aggressive either. He just lets it drop like everything else. Like the way he controls your world with a sad smile and that look that sees something in you you don’t feel anymore.

Jean never touches you. Well, hugs. Sometimes. Soft kisses on the cheek, like kissing your lips would be a sin. But never anything more.

He says you’re pure. He says he’s filthy. And he’s not gonna stain you.