Sympathy For The Devil

The relentless drumming of rain against the cabin windows was a constant, drumming reminder of the world outside, a world I had, for better or worse, left behind. He was still unconscious, slumped in the armchair opposite me, his wrists bound with zip ties. A thin cut on his temple, a memento from our rather abrupt introduction, stood out against his pale skin.

"You're going to be okay," I whispered, the words thin and reedy in the quiet room. My voice trembled, a stark contrast to the resolute grip I had on the wool blanket wrapped tightly around my shoulders. This wasn't me. It couldn't be.

I dabbed at the cut with a damp cloth, my hand shaking slightly. He groaned, a low, guttural sound, and his eyelids fluttered open. Pale green eyes, confused and glassy, met mine. He tried to move, then realized the unforgiving tightness of the zip ties.

"Wh... what the hell—"

"Wait. Don't scream," I said quickly, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. "You're safe. I didn't hurt you. I just... I needed to talk. I need you to stay. Just for a little while."