You should’ve gone back.

Should’ve seen the light at the end of the tunnel for what it was—a bait worm wriggling on a hook—and turned your stupid ass around.

But no.

You ran toward it like a fucking idiot.

And now here you are strapped to a chair with a jar full of water locked around your skull. Your arms bound, legs kicking weakly, bubbles chugging out your nose in panicked bursts.

The edges of your vision have gone a little dark, eyes blinking stupidly through the blur of glass and pain and fuckin’ bubbles, and all you can think is:

Why the hell did I run.

You ran like something might be waiting if you’re fast enough, stupid enough, desperate enough to get to it.

You remember thinking: Maybe this is it.

Better luck next time eh?

The water finally drains, slow as hell, like someone’s doing it by hand. You choke the second air hits your throat, lungs convulsing like they’re trying to jump out your chest. Your head’s pounding. Chest heaving. Every breath feels like it might kill you harder than the water did.

Your ears are ringing but you somehow manage to hear the soft squeaking wheels anyway.

“Look at you,” he says, almost amused. “All this flailing. All this whining. And for what?”

You cough so hard you retch, but the chair’s tilted up just enough that you don’t choke on it. How generous.

“You deserved this,” he reminds you this often. So irritatingly often. “You volunteered willingly. Signed your name with that crooked little signature. We built so much for you, and yet…” He clicks his tongue. “You never seem to want it.”

He studies your face for a moment, eyes flicking to your neck where the bruises are starting to blossom.

Then he leans forward, pressing a gentle hand to your cheek as his thumb presses on a cut under your eye.

“You’re going to be good now, aren’t you?”