Before I know what's come over me, I slather the blood around on my foot with my fingers, hoping to make it look worse than it probably truly is before he manages to see me. I am sort of naively hoping that if it does look too gruesome, then he will have no choice but to release me and take me somewhere.

If he was any decent, he would take me somewhere to treat my foot with no hesitation.

"I think I need to get a bacta treatment," I breathe, trying to sound in a really bad way. I have never been a particularly good actress, but I pray that it will work for me now. "I cut my foot on some glass. It's bleeding pretty profusely."

"Well, what were you doing in here in the first place?" It's like he is scolding me.

"I was looking for my stuff," I admit, deciding to be honest. I can't think up a good enough excuse right now anyway. My emotions are everywhere. "From last night? Where did you put it?"

I brace myself before hopping around to face him. I am almost tingling with anticipation, wondering what I will see. Is he still wearing that stupid thing over his face? Will I finally at last get to see who my captor is? My hopes are dashed though when I turn my head to find him wearing that stupid mask again, his face flying downwards to where my bleeding foot is. Doesn't he ever take it off? Does he wear it in the 'fresher even?

He isn't wearing the same clothes as before, at least. He's wearing a pair of light grey pants and a blue, short-sleeved shirt that is fairly tight. Just by looking at him alone, I know he has to be fairly young and not much older than me. He isn't some old, chubby pervert obviously. He keeps himself in good shape.

I hear him give out a heavy sigh as he shakes his head slightly. "You shouldn't have come in here. Your stuff isn't in here."

"Then where is it? Why can't I have it back?"

He ignores me. "Sit on the bed," he murmurs, lifting one hand, pointing. "I have a first aid kit in the kitchen. I'll go get it."

He's not falling for it. Why can't he just believe me and take me to a medical droid or something?

"There's a piece of glass stuck in my foot, wedged in pretty deep," I say, though even to my own ears I don't sound all that convincing. "Plus, I'm starting to feel... lightheaded." I make myself breathe loudly and shallowly. "I haven't eaten or drank anything all day. I think the blood loss is getting to me. I need treatment."

Just when I am starting to think its working, he sighs again. "Sit on the bed." He steps closer towards me, vaguely threatening. "I won't ask you again."

Resigning to defeat, I hop towards the bed ungraciously, making sure I don't tread on my injured foot. As soon as my backside hits the mattress, he leaves to find the first aid kit. I let out a growl of frustration, hitting my thighs with two clenched fists. God, why can't he just believe me? Why can't he just pity me and let me leave?

The fact that he didn't take the bait, that he didn't offer to take me somewhere, it leaves me feeling even more depressed and aching with despair. He'll never let me go, obviously. Even if I managed to slice a finger off, he probably wouldn't let me go either way. No matter how much I pleaded or how much in agony I was.

I think I really am starting to hate him. Seeing as he is keeping me here like this, I think its perfectly understandable.

I suppose the only way I can think of to ever escape and be free is to give him what he wants. Let him "get to know me". I don't even think I fully understand what that means.

If he wants to be friends with me, it would only be like play pretend. I would only be pretending because, who can possibly want to be friends with the person that is doing this to them? It's hard to not want to let him "get to know me" or for me with him when he is the one taking away my freedom, fresh air, sunlight, and so many other things.

The crunching of glass with his shoes alerts me to his return. I watch him grudgingly as he pulls an armchair from in the corner of the room closer to where I am sitting on the bed, something he does so effortlessly it makes it hauntingly apparent to me yet again that he is so much stronger physically than I am, the muscles in his light forearm flexing.

At least he knew to wear shoes. It's not my fault this happened though. He has taken my belongings from last night, doing heaven knows what with them. What need could he have for them anyway?

I don't want him touching me at all. But I'm not going to get that wish, not when he takes my cut foot in his hands, placing it in the middle of his lap. It's hard not to wriggle about or not follow through on the very satisfying urge to kick him away.

"It's not so deep," he says after a long moment of inspecting my foot. "You wouldn't need to go to the medbay for this."

Rich enough to be able to take me to the medbay?

"I feel faint, though," I say, trying again. "I bet its from the blood loss. I need a bacta patch. If you could just take me-"

"-No, no medbay," he speaks over me through gritted teeth, meeting my gaze. I see light brown, wiry eyebrows above his eyes through the eye-holes as he squints at me in frustration. "I know what you are doing, Rey, and it isn't going to work."

At that, I try to fling my foot free but he catches it with his hand, pressing down with his fingers over my ankle to keep it still. It isn't painful, like he is trying to hurt me and make a show of it. It's just a firm, tight clasp.

"Stop moving otherwise I won't be able to fix it."

"Good then. I don't want you to fix it, I want a droid to fix it."

"Well, tough. This is what you are going to get." The words are low and soft, but definitely menacing. It's enough to make my blood run ice-cold. "If you keep insisting on moving about, then I have no qualms about tying your arms to the headboard so you'll keep still long enough. Is that what you want?"

He blinks at me slowly as he waits for an answer.He's being serious about that!

"No, I don't want that," I whisper sullenly after a second. "Of course I don't."

"Then keep still."

His hand is still clasping tight over my ankle when he reaches down to get something. I don't know what that something is, until I see its a set of tweezers.

"I need to remove the shard of glass first," he explains, quite calmly. "It's probably going to be the only painful thing about this. Make sure you keep absolutely still."

I hate myself for getting into this situation, but I guess he right. There is no other choice but to remove the glass first.

I shut my eyes tight, feeling nauseous. It would have helped if I had eaten something today. On an empty stomach, I just feel flat-out queasy. I guess that isn't anything new though; I hate the sight of blood. I especially hate pain, and that's what I get, when I feel him tugging at something with the tweezers. I don't bother asking to check and see whether he got the piece of glass out successfully though; I really don't want to know.

When I find enough courage to peek at what he is doing, he has a bottle of a yellow liquid in his hands. As he uncaps it, he pours a decent amount into a tissue and then I'm off hissing in pain again at the stinging and trying not to move when he dabs the tissue into my skin gently. I think its antibacterial stuff, but I can't be too sure.

"All done now," he says distractedly while throwing the paper in the bin near his bed.

He hardly sounds grossed out by the blood or my cut foot at all; It's as though he is completely unfazed by it all, which is weird. Maybe he's just sadistic and likes seeing blood and people injured?

"Now we just need to bandage it up." He's talking to himself, so I don't bother saying anything. I focus on keeping as still as possible while trying to breathe slow and steady as he undoes the packaging of the bandage. "How are we doing over there?" he asks with concern. I don't actually realize he is talking to me until I glance up at him, finding his gray eyes watching me through the holes of his balaclava speculatively. "I think this is the quietest you have been since waking here?"

"Thank you," I force myself to say weakly. "It feels a lot... better now without the glass in it."

"Your welcome." He nods once, something disturbing glistening there in his eyes. "See." I feel all the tension leave my body once he averts my eyes, unrolling the bandage out. He clears his throat as he holds my foot in the air about an inch by my toes, then he starts applying the bandage, wrapping it around and around. "This is what I can do for you, Rey. It's all I have ever wanted."

I have no idea what he is talking about. I part my lips, hesitating to ask the question. I'm petrified already that he will say something sick, something that illustrates just how much of a psycho he really is. "What do you mean, about this being what you can do for me?"

"Taking care of you." He lifts his head, meeting my eyes again, something weirdly intense there. "I can take good care of you. I can be... good to you."

He can take good care of me? Who says I want to be taken care of?

"I don't need to be taken care of by anybody," I mutter. "I don't want anyone to take care of me."

"We all need to be taken care of, in one way or another. I think its in our basic human nature; We all want to be cherished and taken care of, even if we are... too stubborn to admit it to ourselves."

I really wish he would quit it with the confusing remarks already. It's the most frustrating thing in the world; the fact that I can't work him out. It would be easier to find out what he wants if he could just be straightforward with me. I could escape from this hell quicker.

Maybe I should try to play along, for the time being? I just don't know where to start though. That fear inside of me refuses to leave, and I still feel on-edge and in a constant state of distress. I feel I am walking on egg-shells right now, with wanting to not say something wrong in case he refuses to let me leave for good. I have to play this right. But how?

My mind goes blank when it dawns onto me just what his finger is doing to me as he holds my ankle in his lap. His forefinger runs back and forth along my big toe, like he is petting me, caressing me. It makes my stomach churn and I feel like I want to gag. I don't think he realizes he is doing it, though. He's too preoccupied with staring into my eyes while we talk. What the hell is all that about?

Now what to talk about? I search my brain frantically. I can hardly think properly while feeling him stroking me repeatedly with his finger. Why is he touching me like he assumes I'll enjoy it? Or maybe its him that's enjoying touching me?

Instantly, I remember his reaction when he had touched my cheek with his hand. He had closed his eyes, like he was in ecstasy. Is that why he is doing this? He... has some kind of infatuation with me? God, even thinking about it makes me feel sick. Surely that can't be it, right? I mean, what's so special about me?

Think, though. Say something like he interests you that much...

"Why... why is the mirror smashed in your bathroom?" It's the only thing I am able to come up with.

Finally, he stops stroking me with his finger. He glances down, grasping my foot in both hands before setting it back down on the floor. I think I've gone and done it then. I've failed in seeming like I want to get to know him.

"Did you do that yourself? You... smashed it?" It's a stupid question, I know. Of course he did that himself.

When he lifts a hand to run his fingers over his face, I see something on his gloves. The dried blood. The guy obviously isn't a fan of his own reflection. No surprises there, though... seeing as he won't even let me see his face because he assumes he will repulse me. I can't help the unwanted pang of pity that goes through me at the sight of his knuckles though. I don't want to feel that way towards him, but it just can't be helped.

"Your knuckles were bleeding?" I whisper sadly. "You smashed the mirror in with your hand?"

"What?" He turns his hand, glancing down at his battered knuckles himself. Then he shrugs, uncaring. "It's nothing."

"Why?" I shouldn't be asking, because a part of me knows its a touchy subject for him, yet I can't stop myself. "Why would you do that? Do you hate your reflection that badly?"

Without warning, he stands from the chair, shoving it in the corner roughly. He stands with his back to me a long moment, and I know for sure then that I have gone and done it. I've ruined it already.

"You should go to bed. It's late." He's dismissing me. "Let me know if your foot still hurts or if it bleeds through the bandage and I will replace it with a clean one."

I don't want to get him angry again. I've obviously put my foot in it again. Sleeping is the last thing I know I will be able to do, especially when I am so hungry, but I do it, getting to my feet and carefully treading on my right foot so as not to aggravate it and make it hurt again.

I don't look his way as I start limping upstairs to the room. I listen carefully with my ears to make sure he doesn't follow me up. As far as I can tell, he doesn't.

When I crawl back onto the mattress under the sheets, I shove the side of my face into the pillows, trying to urge sleep to come to me. It's uncomfortable because I have to restrict movement on my injured foot, but hopefully it heals rather quickly. My stomach hurts though; It keeps reminding me how hungry I am, that I need to eat something soon, but I try to block it out.

I've barely just started to doze off when I hear the alarming sound of footsteps against the floorboards. My eyes pop open and I sit up, immediately on alert. He's come into the room. Now what the hell is he going to do to me?

Holding the blankets to my chest as tightly as possible, I start shaking uncontrollably when I feel the mattress lurch and depress as he sits beside me. I can hardly see him because the room is that dark; But if I look hard enough, I think I can see the outline of him. His body, and the shape of his head. I can hear him breathing deeply.

"What?" I get out anxiously. "What is it?"

He moves towards me and I know he's going to do it then. He's going to rape me or force himself onto me or do something.

I feel his fingers curl over my wrists and he yanks, but I refuse

to let go of the blanket. I won't.

"Piss off." It tears out of my mouth angrily before I can help it. "Don't do anything to me! I don't want it!"

The tears escape my eyes and I start sobbing as he manages to loosen my hold on the blankets. And then, doing the very last thing I expect of him, he ducks his head into my protesting hands, and I feel it.

No mask?

He makes me touch his face, starting from his hair, holding my wrists and guiding my hands, running my fingers and palms over warm skin and prickly stubble from an unshaven chin. My blurry eyes widen in fear when he guides my trembling hands down the curve of his chin and towards his hot throat.

"Can you feel it?" He pants roughly, his voice strained. He guides my hands over his face again, making me touch him for a second time. "Feel how disgusting I am, just like he always said I was. I should have aborted you while I had the chance... you're unclean... filthy..." The words come out fast and rapid, a tinge of hatred there. "This is what happens when you refuse to be quiet... Go stand under there and think about what you've done, you little shit..."

As his breathing dies down, he releases my hands, shifting away from me on the bed. I think I see him put his head in his hands, but its really too dark. What the hell just happened? I stare into the darkness; stunned, frozen and too frightened to make a single movement in case he does something else. Someone did this to him, I hurt him when he was a child.