The Spider and the Fly
I can't stop dreaming about it.
A cold hand clamped onto my throat, lifting me off my feet until I was gasping for breath. As I struggled to break free, I looked down into the face of pure evil. I felt my consciousness fading when Lestat took hold of Armand's arm and slowly lowered it. There was a tense moment as if something unspoken had passed between them before he finally released me. I fell to the floor coughing up blood onto his antique Persian rug.
Apparently, I'd said something he didn't like and my punishment will be waking up every night soaked in cold sweat until I can find some way to force the experience out of my mind.
I've been to the house to visit Owen twice since then. The first evening was spent chatting in the lounge over a cup of something which bore no resemblance to tea. Armand sat in a chair in the corner of the room and didn't speak at all, though I could feel his eyes on me for the entire hour that I stayed. Impossible to really talk with him there analysing my every word. Owen looked pale and ill, but the Christmas celebrations had raised his spirits and it was good to see him smile. I enquired about the bruise on his cheek and a cut that was healing on the back of his hand. He reminded me that his condition has always made him accident prone. I didn't believe him. Anyone who has read through Armand's files knows the sort of cruelty he is capable of.
Last week, we met during the day for the first time in what seemed like forever. Owen spoke in a guarded manner, choosing his words carefully as if his captor might appear at any moment. He insisted that he was fine and happy to be here with Armand, but I know him better than that. This is the same person who had been there for me through more recoveries and relapses than I can count and I wanted to be there for him now.
I caught sight of a smear of red on the skin near his sleeve and asked him to show me his injury. He refused, just as I had expected. I would not relent and what started as a heated argument turned into a physical struggle, ending with me pushing him into the sofa and lifting his jumper to see his wounds for myself.
I gasped at what had been revealed. On top of his old scars were a patchwork of new lacerations and bruises in various states of healing. One particular cut that ran diagonally across his abdomen had been crudely stitched up. The bite marks were obvious. I could see at least half a dozen of them. He smelled of antiseptic, which wasn’t unusual for Owen, but it was clear that he’d been trying to prevent another major infection.
I wanted to remove him from that house immediately and take him for proper medical attention, but I could see that I had already upset him enough. When I let go of him, he moved to the other end of the sofa and wrapped his arms tightly around himself. I searched his mind for truth and found nothing but anger toward me and worry over what Armand would think of this incident.
I left him with an apology for my actions and a promise that I would return to see him next week whether he wanted me to or not. I needed him to know that he wasn’t alone in this.
Stockholm syndrome is the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Owen’s current situation, but it’s far more complicated than that. I don’t know that I can define or explain the relationship that he and Armand share, but I can only hope that he has the strength to survive it.
A cold hand clamped onto my throat, lifting me off my feet until I was gasping for breath. As I struggled to break free, I looked down into the face of pure evil. I felt my consciousness fading when Lestat took hold of Armand's arm and slowly lowered it. There was a tense moment as if something unspoken had passed between them before he finally released me. I fell to the floor coughing up blood onto his antique Persian rug.
Apparently, I'd said something he didn't like and my punishment will be waking up every night soaked in cold sweat until I can find some way to force the experience out of my mind.
I've been to the house to visit Owen twice since then. The first evening was spent chatting in the lounge over a cup of something which bore no resemblance to tea. Armand sat in a chair in the corner of the room and didn't speak at all, though I could feel his eyes on me for the entire hour that I stayed. Impossible to really talk with him there analysing my every word. Owen looked pale and ill, but the Christmas celebrations had raised his spirits and it was good to see him smile. I enquired about the bruise on his cheek and a cut that was healing on the back of his hand. He reminded me that his condition has always made him accident prone. I didn't believe him. Anyone who has read through Armand's files knows the sort of cruelty he is capable of.
Last week, we met during the day for the first time in what seemed like forever. Owen spoke in a guarded manner, choosing his words carefully as if his captor might appear at any moment. He insisted that he was fine and happy to be here with Armand, but I know him better than that. This is the same person who had been there for me through more recoveries and relapses than I can count and I wanted to be there for him now.
I caught sight of a smear of red on the skin near his sleeve and asked him to show me his injury. He refused, just as I had expected. I would not relent and what started as a heated argument turned into a physical struggle, ending with me pushing him into the sofa and lifting his jumper to see his wounds for myself.
I gasped at what had been revealed. On top of his old scars were a patchwork of new lacerations and bruises in various states of healing. One particular cut that ran diagonally across his abdomen had been crudely stitched up. The bite marks were obvious. I could see at least half a dozen of them. He smelled of antiseptic, which wasn’t unusual for Owen, but it was clear that he’d been trying to prevent another major infection.
I wanted to remove him from that house immediately and take him for proper medical attention, but I could see that I had already upset him enough. When I let go of him, he moved to the other end of the sofa and wrapped his arms tightly around himself. I searched his mind for truth and found nothing but anger toward me and worry over what Armand would think of this incident.
I left him with an apology for my actions and a promise that I would return to see him next week whether he wanted me to or not. I needed him to know that he wasn’t alone in this.
Stockholm syndrome is the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Owen’s current situation, but it’s far more complicated than that. I don’t know that I can define or explain the relationship that he and Armand share, but I can only hope that he has the strength to survive it.