Chapter Text
He could remember it vividly.
The terror shivered down his body as he realized he was tied, and the dread of hearing Vince step into the cold room shook his body. If anything, at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to die immediately before knowing what Vince schemed. If he had the potential to feed someone he loved, his first worry was ‘Will he eat me then?’ He wouldn’t dare guess his next moves. But Vince didn’t do anything—for that moment.
Until he turned, with his footsteps echoing, banging into Rody’s ears, sending a tremble every time. He leaned close and picked him up. Fuck, he’s actually going to eat me, Rody thought, with tears blurring his eyes. He didn’t know what to make of his situation, other than to cry, sob and weep. He wanted to grab and punch Vince, but with his arms bound, he was stuck, only left writhing and kicking slightly. He couldn't see much through his foggy vision. But the cool air of the walk-in freezer faded from his skin, and the lights seemed to dim to a deep orange. Perhaps he took him to the kitchen now?
But the footsteps continued—further and further he took him. He wasn’t sure about where he’d be now, too shaken and frightened to think any longer. His head burned in confusion, with his breathing getting heavy and his chest hurting from the anxiety.
Finally, after what felt like hours of trepidation, Vince had rested him on the floor.
He only knew from then on, he’d be in a deep, deep plight he couldn’t dig himself out of.
—
He lost count of how long it'd been since then. He didn't know if it was days or more than a week. But every moment felt the same—every moment Vince came into the room with him, shutting the heavy door behind him and approaching Rody.
Every second, his head hurt like hell. He couldn’t process anything but Vince’s stinging words. He didn’t know why. Was it a shock? Did he hit his head somehow? He couldn’t pinpoint it. He couldn’t pinpoint anything. Where was he? What exactly was Vince trying to do? What did he want from Rody in the first place?
Vince stepped closer and kneeled. He watched Rody’s body sway, with his eyes gazing anywhere and nowhere all at once. He put a hand to his forehead and furrowed a brow.
“You’re on fire, Jesus.” Rody’s head twitched and shook in his palm, damp with sweat. He held the top of his hair and spoke. “All I ever wanted was for someone to enjoy my cooking. I wanted you to enjoy it, Rody.”
He wanted to talk, at least, and scream in terror and lash out at most. But he couldn’t do anything, with his body weak, pained, and his head dull. He could only groan and whimper.
Vince pulled out a knife from his pocket and continued to speak. “I don’t know what to tell you. I thought we could have something real. Something special. That I could make you something special—and now look at you. You’re a fucking mess, really.” He struck the blade against the rope, tearing off one loop. He continued to slash through until Rody’s arms fell to his sides.
Before he could even move them, Vince grasped them into his own, wrapping his limp wrists with the rope again. It was strange; maybe he thought a bit of mobility was the most mercy he'd give him now—but Rody looked away and shut his eyes tight. He didn't want to hear, feel, or see anymore. He just wanted to die. But he couldn't do anything other than listen to the words Vince shoved down his ears.
"Had you just tried it, given me a chance, none of this could’ve happened.”
Rody felt sickened by the words. He wanted to deny them, but he couldn't. He felt guilty, and he hated it. His repeating words stayed with him. He felt as if he made a mistake. Was he wrong? Was he wrong to not give him a chance, or to lie to be kind? He hated this all, he hated the overridden guilt taking over him. He wanted to hurt Vince and blame him for his fury, but deep down, he couldn’t avoid wondering if he was truly guilty after all.
Vince sighed and took his hands off of his head. Rody opened his eyes slowly and saw Vince leaning forward, looking down at him. He felt his hands on his shoulders, and he let out another low moan of discomfort.
“What am I going to do with you? You’re helpless.” Vince’s voice got lower with every word. The pace of Rody’s heart got faster, hitting his chest and making it sore. He was worried he’d be hurt. Punched, kicked, thrown, who could guess? He shut his eyes tightly, waiting for something to happen.
But nothing occurred, to his surprise. Vince let go and stood up.
Rody’s eyes went wide, hearing his footsteps fade. A strong relief traveled down his body, and he sighed. But he looked up at the sound of what he assumed was plastic. He watched as Vince held something in both hands. Seeing he was much further from the light, he couldn't make much out. Until he walked closer to him and uttered.
“Here.” He flicked his wrist, and a small, wrapped piece of bread hit Rody’s leg. Then, a water bottle smacked against the wall and rolled off to the side. Putting his hands in his pockets, he continued, “I don’t want you dead yet.”
Rody looked down at the bread, almost disappointed. As much as he was hungry, he didn't want to eat anything Vince would give him. He wasn’t sure if it was spite or laziness, but he knew damn well he didn’t want to touch it.
He could barely think, but the most he could even process was the fact he'd rather be dead than suffer through this.
—
Rody saw a small, triangular shape of light widen at his feet. His gaze ran up the yellow luminescence and was greeted with Vince's gaze. His shadow covered the light, and eventually, the brightness faded away back to the plain, white light bulb of the basement. Vince glared down at Rody, and off to the side. He saw the bread, not even opened, and the water half empty. He scoffed and leaned close to him.
"I have something in mind for you.”
Rody swallowed, holding great fear down, buried in his tight chest. He pondered what he could be thinking—
A smell hit his nose, and his head perked up in curiosity. His eyes went wide, and his stomach churned like butter. He bit his lips, seeing a plate of food in Vince's hand. He held it high, with steam rising from it. Under the plate was a wrapped-up napkin, assuming around utensils.
He kneeled slowly and leaned close to his face. “You didn't even eat the bread? You must be starving.” He kneeled, holding the warm plate on his lap. He unwrapped the silverware, pulling out the fork. “Well. You wouldn’t want her to go to waste, right? But don’t worry. I've preserved her well.”
A wave of shock made his body freeze over entirely, and he gasped quietly. His lips trembled, and he balled his weak, goosebump-covered hands into fists. “Vince… No…”
"You never ate anything I gave you then. I want you to finally cherish a meal I would make for you.” Vince grabbed his chin. He gazed into Rody’s eyes, with his own shrouded in a filthy murkiness, making his blood run cold. “If it means I have to use her to the very last bit, I will.”
He let go and picked up a fork. Rody swallowed and stuttered. “N—No. No, please—Manon—” Rody watched as it raised to his face, and he pursed his lips. Shutting his eyes, he jerked his head to the side. The smell wouldn't have discomforted him this much—but knowing what exactly it was, it sent Rody’s head spinning, and he felt his stomach twisting into itself. To his dismay, the twisting seemed to have shot right up, and he slammed his palm over his lips. Shutting his eyes, they began to water, the longer he smelled it.
“Come on.” Vince grabbed his head, turning him to his face. He put the fork to his lips, and immediately, Rody turned away.
“No, no, no!” He shouted, kicking his feet. The feeling of the warm piece on his lips made his stomach contort tighter. The moment he opened his eyes, they met Vince’s, along with the sight of the plate. He swung his head away again, and before he could stop any further, his throat burned as vomit spewed out violently. He choked on it, coughing, and his body convulsed. His vision blurred, and he couldn't breathe as more spilled on the floor. He felt like he was dying from the harsh pressure. His vision grew dark, and he felt like he was going to pass out from how sick he felt even smelling it. He couldn't take it anymore.
But then, a noise caught his attention. He turned around and saw Vince standing there with eyes wide, setting the fork on the glass.
“I knew you were a wreck, but this is truly something else.” He placed the plate on a wooden shelf, and covered his nose, looking at the mess on the floor.
Rody almost felt a sorry escape from his lips, but he held it back.
Vince inched closer, and his forehead touched Rody’s hair. “You’re not leaving this place until you savor anything.”
Like a piece of his heart shattered, a sharp pain in his chest made him wince. He looked down at the mess, with his head throbbing. Everything began to blur as streams of tears ran down his cheeks. The nausea got to him so much, and it only got worse as the stench of bile hit him.
Two taps on his shoulders made his head perk up, and Vince held a water bottle in his hand. He grabbed Rody’s cheek and leaning his head back, he began to pour slowly. Rody shook his head, refusing, but Vince pushed the bottle harder against his mouth. He held it there firmly, forcing him to swallow. He struggled and tried to push it away—when he swallowed, he coughed and gagged, spitting out whatever little he had left in his throat over the mess he already made. The pressure building up in his body became too much—he wanted to give up. He slumped over, exhausted.
Vince sighed and put the cap back on the water bottle. "It's only some water, and you won't even drink that? When will you quit acting so pathetic?"
Luckily for him, a mop was nearby, lying against the wall amongst other cleaning equipment. He lifted it and took it over to the mess of vomit. He pressed it down onto the puddle of liquid, and it splashed slightly when it touched the pungent liquid. The odor filled his nostrils, and a stinging sensation didn't help, making his face scrunch.
After wiping off most of it with a rag, he tossed it into a bucket and got another clean one. He rinsed it in the sink and wrung it out.
Rody looked up to see he brought it to him and kneeled back down to his level.
Vince brought it to his lips and wiped across. “You reek now."
Dazed and distraught, he couldn't bring himself to think or care about anything else. He couldn't eat it. Even the thought, even the smell, made him go mad.
"I'll get you something different next time," Vince said, getting to his feet. "If you refuse to eat... You saw what happened, I guess." Vince took a deep breath and put the plate in a mini refrigerator. Rody’s eyebrow furrowed, curious. He didn’t even notice it was there—Vince must've contemplated this for a while now. Vince walked off to the door. His footsteps faded as he moved further away from him, and Rody exhaled as well, letting the tension leave his shoulders.
He put a hand on his stomach, writhing and groaning. He looked at the bread on the floor, but he held back. His head pounded terribly, and all he could do was lie on the ground, wishing for death to come quickly. So lay on his side, looking at the ceiling. If he couldn't count the days passing, he may as well start now, marking them from the daunting terror he felt when he first realized Vince’s plans.