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"Come back here, you fat piece of shit! Come and fight me like a man!"
This has been going on for days. Curses and angry screams trailed from the locked room inside the abandoned hotel.
Sure, Arkin didn't exactly expect to be kidnapped by the Collector when he got stuck inside that house, but he expected being ignored for days to follow even less. He felt like he was going crazy.
The room he first saw when he was thrown out of the red box was big, spacious and weirdest of it all: empty. It didn't have a single window and with its door being the same color as the walls, for a few moments, he wondered if he somehow actually got himself trapped in an inferno. He got stripped of his shirt and his arms were tied crossed behind his back and hooked to a loop in the ceiling. The 'leash' wasn't long enough for him to be able to sit down, not even relax his legs, forcing him to stand tall without any rest. He wasn't able to reach any of the walls in the room, and, as much as he tried to loosen the bindings, he was failing to see any escape route that could be beneficial to him.
His shoulders screamed from the pain of staying in one position for an extended period of time. He screamed too, until his voice grew sore and he couldn't anymore. It hit him after he noticed that he was no longer holding his weight up as much as just hanging; it has been days since he had seen anyone else. Days since he had been given any water or food.
He had to admit, it was a good way to get rid of someone; slow, but painful nonetheless. It stripped a person of humanity and if done well, it could lead to madness. Isolation and starving; to be honest, Arkin had expected something a but more gruesome from the serial killer.
The hours went on without a change; the light was turned on nonstop, only making it harder for the captive to rest his eyes, and with no way of telling how much time had passed. During the long, quiet moments in the empty, soundproof, poor white room he found himself missing not only his family but also the loud, dangerous nights in prison. He reminiscented about the daily structure it held, the food, although terrible, was given to him three time a day. Hell, he was allowed to go out at least once a day. He had a toilet, a bed. And, at least, they fucking turned their lights off at night!
When he first got locked up, he thought they treated him like a dog; eat, sleep, take a walk, repeat. Then he noticed that dogs usually were treated better than him, after a group of other prisoners decided he was small and spiteful enough to become a perfect prey, enough to take interest in. The guards could care less about what was happening behind the bars. If it wasn't for Roy standing up for him back then, he would've probably never get the chance to see his little girl again. What would he give to have someone like that here. Even if he would have to dig himself into an even worse deal, just to see his daughter again. When he got out, he learned to appreciate the smallest things, learned to live with the worst so he could give Cindy the best. And yet, at this moment, it felt like he had taken everything for granted. He missed the nature, the Sun, changing temperatures, sounds.
He feared he was going crazy. All he ever heard was the clinking of the chains and little sounds that he knew came from him, but wasn't able to fully recognize as his voice anymore. He knew that if this went on for too long, he could also never actually recover from the effects of this room. His eyes could be ruined beyond repair, the amount of fluorescent light he was exposed to in the white room turning his eyes blind day by day. On the other hand, the quiet in the room helped to sharpen his hearing. The same went with his sense of smell, sometimes he swore he could smell someone in the hallway.
He didn't know how many days went by, he knew he was at the verge of exhaustion, starving, malnutrished and in desperate need of water. He only weakly raised his head when the door finally opened, ready to glare at the monster that trapped him there, but to his surprise, another person was thrown inside instead. It was clearly just another piece of the collection.
It was a guy, similar age to Arkin by the looks of it, he had his eyes blindfolded and ears covered but otherwise he was unrestrained. He seemed almost well, it was clear that unlike Arkin, the collector had fed this one. Was that the collector's priced pet? Pampered and well kept? Why was he here now? The tortured captive did not understand.
And then he was being lowered to the floor, his shoulders popping back into his pockets. He groaned, but his sore throat made it sound more like a growl. Finally, the bindings were loose enough to rest on the lower part of his back, and he was able to stretch his legs, even get as far as to just barely touch the walls in the room.
The other victim didn't mind him, he tried to follow his movement, that much was evident by the head movement; it occurred to Arkin that he was trying to follow him by the floor vibrations. Arkin tried to talk to ask, but whatever the little noise he managed to make was, it definitely wasn't enough to get through the ear plugs. He looked around, confused on what was wanted from him. It was then that he noticed a water bottle tied to the man's back. A light bulb went on in his head.
He was free to take the water.
As long as he was able to get it.
He took a starving, furious man drive by the need to survive, unable to use his hands and put him against a semi-healthy man with no sight or hearing. The Collector made sure they wouldn't be able to talk it out. Arkin wouldn't be able to warn him, even if he didn't want to hurt him. For the other man, he was currently standing against his kidnapper, against someone who will hurt him if they get the chance to get too close. The Thief felt sick to his stomach, disgusted at the realization, the collector wanted a scorched earth, and boy, did he scorched the shit out of that earth.
You're not a bad dog. You're a wounded and terrified dog who bites to survive. That's what Roy said about him one evening when they were sitting on a semi-private porch after that one day in prison; when he saved him. For some reason that stuck in his head like a soft mantra. I'm not a bad person. I'm just trying to survive.
He stepped closer, trying to appear as non-threatening to the blinded captive as he could. But, as he stood towering over him, over the covering mule, he felt only frustration. The water was so close, yet it felt just out of his reach. He didn't crouch, as much as he was sure that putting himself at his level could possibly help, it put him in a massive disadvantage. If the guy pounced, he could fall on his back he was not going to be able to get up.
The untied man crawled around the room, one hand on the floor, feeling the vibrations, the other on in front of him to stop him from walking into a wall. Arkin weighted his options, and burying that small voice in the back of his head, the moment the guy turned his back to him, he raised his leg and kicked his head into the wall as strongly as he could.
The guy yelped and scrambled to fight back, his moves were dizzy and he was swaying. Still, he grit his teeth and raised his arms up to protect himself, to defend himself. Arkin cursed in his head and stomped the floor, hard. The guy raised to the bait, jumping where he felt the vibrations from and ran himself straight into another deadly kick. When he fell down, Arkin didn't hesitate, he continued to stomp on him until he stopped fighting back, until he stopped moving, stopped breathing.
Blood poured under him and the thief shook as he knelt down to his knees, his joints and muscles protesting. He leaned down and his lips wrapped around the neck of one of the bottles. He pulled it out of the safety of the belt only to notice that he couldn't open it.
No hands. No furniture. No help.
He let the bottle fall out of his mouth with a loud choked sob. His head fell down, and his eyes closed with tears burning. He just killed a person. He killed another innocent victim and it was for nothing.
But really, who was to blame but him? He didn't even attack him, proved no real danger. No, Arkin killed him because he was a monster. A disgusting animal undeserving of freedom. Of family. Of life.
The door opened again, Arkin didn't even have to raise his head, he knew who it was as soon as the dark, leather boots stepped into his gaze. The Collector himself.
He took his time, not rushing, he picked up the fallen water and showed it to Arkin, he did a gesture, a pantomime, of opening the bottle and tilted his head.
Arkin nodded, wheezing, he glared at the taller man from his position on his knees, ignoring the tears running down his face.
The masked man gave a nod back and turned to look down at the mutilated corpse, pointing at him.
"What?" rasped the thief, not understanding what the man meant.
The Collector pointed the bottle at the corpse again and made a Muppet-controlling hand gesture. It only confused the victim further. The gestures repeated. Pointing at the bottle, then at the corpse and thumb clapping the four other fingers like that one move in duck dance.
Drink? Eat. Him.
If you want to drink, you have to eat him, the pieces clicked in Arkin's brain and he desperately wished that he misunderstood. The three signs were not very specific after all. But deep down, he knew he was right.
His lips were slightly parted, his eyes distant as they were swallowed by the horror of the situation. But Arkin knew, he understood. There was no other way. He couldn't do anything else. He needed water.
He was shaking, whether it was from the starvation, stress, fear, hunger, or cold, his quess was as good as any other. He bent down and his teeth graced the still warm skin of the dead body. He licked his lips but it didn't help to soothe the dryness at all. He opened his mouth and his teeth wrapped around a piece of meat of the arm. He bit down as tightly as he could, his teeth pierced the skin, but not enough to bite through t nuhe whole bite. Warm, rich, iron blood filled his mouth and he gagged at the taste. However, his body gladly welcomed anything resembling a liquid. He kept his Jaws clinched and jerked his head to the side, hard. A ripping sound echoed through the room.
What a sight he was. Sitting on his knees with a glare and yards-long stare, covered in blood, with pieces of debree sticking out of his mouth.
A finger gently raised his head by a soft touch to his chin until he was looking his captor to his face and then the sticking part was slowly pushed into his mouth, a hand covering it by the end.
The message was more than clear. Eat.
He closed his eyes again, feeling himself fall apart, but all he could do was swallow.
The process repeated, a hand in his hair guided him; a soft push down, wait until he takes a bite, up and cover his mouth until he swallows.
At some point Arkin turned his brain off, his movement mechanical. He tried not to think at all, but if he failed at that, the first thought that came up was that it felt good to have something in his stomach.
He closed his eyes, just imagining that it wasn't what it was. If he pushed his imagination enough, he could even see it as a really badly cooked stake, or something.
He was breathing heavy, stomach full and he kept his eyes closed. He knew that if he would look at himself right now, he would look like a monster. Sticky blood ran from his mouth, down his throat and chest. His trousers soaked up the blood he was sitting in.
A tut made him open his eyes and when he looked up, he noticed that the opened bottle full of water was right in front of him.
He opened his mouth, leaning closer and wrapping his lips around the neck. He was hesitant, unsure of trusting the killer.
The body of the bottle was turned upwards and Arkin moaned as the first drop hit his tongue. He sucked at it greedily, nearly breaking down in relief. His tears started falling down again, but he ignored it in favor of taking big gulps of the liquid.
A moan came from above him and the thief looked up, eyes widening when he made eye contact with the collector, who currently did nothing to hide that he was thrusting his hips, humping the air while subtly moving the bottle.
A hand curled in his hair again and released, moving down his face, caressing all that was in the way, before ending at the throat.
The water was nearly gone and with his panic, Arkin quickened his drinking.
One last swallow, the hand from his neck disappeared only to quickly come back with a strong hit to his pharynx. Arkin choked, coughing up the water and panicking at the lack of breath. A second hit came, a harsh kick to his stomach, and Arkin was doubling over, puking his guts out.
He screamed, trashing as he cried.
He didn't understand, didn't he do it right? Exactly what the captor wanted?
A chuckle was the last thing the collector gave him, before turning on his heal and leaving the room.
The body was left behind, tempting Arkin with unreachable water.
As soon as the door clasped, a soft click echoed and the mechanism started to pull the chains back up.
No, nonononono, no, you fucker-
And Arkin screamed.
"Come back here, you fat piece of shit! Come and fight me like a man!"