bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter twenty-two. ?

He snapped off a bite-sized rectangle, the act of placing it over his tongue almost sacred. The plain Hershey's Sir had given him were tiny, each piece divided into three petite sections. He sucked, letting the chocolate melt, and the rich, creamy flavor dissolved over his tongue. Case closed his eyes, moaning as the sweetness eroded the acerbic taste lingering at the back of his throat. He wanted to binge eat the whole bag, tempted like a junkie offered a pound of heroin. But he knew that a treat like this wouldn't come again soon, so it was better to have self-control and make the bag last.

On close inspection, the bag didn't seem to be tampered with. No needle punctures, no split seals. No chance for hidden razor blades or poison here.

Not that it should matter, said the voice, reminding Case of all the times Sir had slipped oxy or who knows what else into his food.

Case rummaged through the bag, dividing the mini-chocolates into three piles: milk chocolate Hershey's bars, KitKats . . . Fuck. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Case groaned inwardly as he picked up one of the pieces, toying with its black wrapping, reading the neon-green allergen warning: CONTAINS PEANUTS. Sir had no idea, but Case now had twenty-eight pieces of candy that could easily kill him with anaphylaxis. So much for trial-and-error.

What do I do?

Would surrendering them piss off Sir? He doubted he'd be rewarded for his belated honesty.

Would eating them kill him quickly, like cyanide poisoning? Chocolate covered suicide pills—is that really what he had laid before him? Was that something he wanted?

An option, the voice told him, the words fleeting through Case's brain like an off-hand comment.

Not dwelling on the issue, Case swept the pieces of candy into his hand and looked for a hiding place. Not the supplies tub—too obvious. Not somewhere hidden hidden, either—it would be too suss if accidentally discovered by Sir. In the end, Case buried the chocolates in the bottom drawer, under the folded pairs of sweatpants, where they would likely melt and re-set over time, becoming smooth and deformed inside their plastic wrappers. For later, he told himself; rehearsing for Sir, reassurance for himself.

*

A few days later, Sir brought in the monthly restock of supplies and cleaning supplies for another deep clean of the basement. Thanks to the new bedding, the mattress wasn't totally disgusting but it did have yellowing patches of sweat.

"I'll concede, you were right," Sir said, bundling the linen into a pile with the rest of the laundry he'd take upstairs. "This is far more efficient."

Case gave a half-hearted hum in agreement. He began blotting out the new stains with baking soda and peroxide, knowing that in a few hours he'd be carving a fourth line into the wall.

Four lines. Four Months. And he was no closer to getting out of here . . .

That's your fault, the voice scolded. You stopped trying.

Sir helped Case flip the mattress, then sat on the refreshed side to watch as Case carried on with the rest of the work. Pouring cleaner into the toilet bowl, wiping toothpaste streaks from the sink. Sir tried to talk to him about movies, music, the usual shit, but all he could give in return was a flat uh-huh. He was lost in the rhythm of scrubbing scrubbing scrubbing, his mind stuck on the fact it was November and he'd missed both his birthday and Halloween. Soon, he'd miss Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Years?

Across the basement, Sir fiddled with his lighter. He'd given up on trying to force a conversation and now seemed lost in his own thoughts. He didn't take anything to smoke out of his pocket, but he kept thwping the spark wheel.