It wasn’t as if Chrys meant to piss himself. The nightmare in tandem with pain and a full bladder was an equation for it. Niegel stared at him for a moment with dull, chilly eyes. He was pondering something. Chrys couldn’t help but swallow in trepidation. In that moment he felt like a dog chained to a pole; bound to the actions of someone more powerful than he was.  His kidnapper could punish him for the bed wetting, if he so wished; the man had already shown what he was willing to do. Niegel had also shown that he had an expertise for it. Not until being tied up himself had Chrys known the torture of being hung with his arms behind his back.<br/><i><br/>
“I see that.”</i><br/><br/>Chrys fell back as Niegel reached forward, grabbing hold of his wrist. With that he was pulled to his feet. His skin prickled from Niegel’s touch, but despite the unwelcomeness of the touch Chrys let himself be led to the shower without a fuss. Much to his surprise the man left him alone in the washroom, as he returned to the bedroom. Though, Chrys didn’t have total freedom; the door that connected the two rooms was kept open.<br/><br/>Niegel hadn’t said anything beyond his affirmation, giving him no instructions. But Chrys could guess what he meant by placing him in the washroom. He twisted the water knob until he had the desired temperature before gingerly stepping into the shower. Hot water soaked into his scalp, running down his flesh in magma rivulets. The water was near scalding, but it was what he wanted.<br/><br/>Chrys placed both of his hands against the shower walls for support, letting out a labored breath. He looked down at his wound. Catgut sutured the five cuts on his belly closed. The sutures were crooked and uneven, evidently done pragmatically rather than cosmetically. It seemed that Niegel had been stitching him up fast rather than slowly. Which wasn't shocking; anybody could tell that he wasn't medically gifted.<br/><br/>As quiet as he could he let out a deep, shaky breath.<i>Suicidal, </i>Chrys thought.<i>It was suicidal what I tried to do. I injured myself for nothing</i>. It was a wild decision to have made, and it paid off little. All he had successfully done was maim himself and instill wariness in Niegel; now that the man knew what Chrys was capable of, he would be more careful next time.<i>What kind of plan do I have now?</i>He now had to factor in his injury.<br/><br/><i>Fight?</i>In his physically weakened state versus Niegel’s up and ready state, he would be ground into marshmallow dust. He could also probably be put out of commission by a single gentle punch to his injury. Not to mention he had already tried fighting. It had gotten him strung up and molested.<br/><br/>He pressed his back against the tiled shower wall, sliding down until he was seated on the floor. Chrys adjusted his leg so he wouldn’t block the drain. The cascade of hot water, tepid on his skin now after desensitizing, rained down heavier on him.<i>I have no plan except to wait. Wait until a better opportunity presents itself for me to use or wait until I’m good enough to try running again. </i><br/><br/>Niegel finally returned when the water was cold.<i>“Your breakfast is cold.”</i><br/><br/>The man shut off the water, handing him a clean towel. Chrys was nudged with a foot to rise, and he obeyed. He towelled his body off hastily, trying to get him dry in as quick a time as he could, so that he could spend more time with the towel wrapped around the important parts of his body. When he was finished wrapping the towel around his waist, Niegel ushered him out of the washroom.<br/><i><br/>
“Bet you feel like shit after yesterday's stunt.” </i><br/><br/>Chrys responded with silence. There was nothing for him to say to the man. At least nothing that didn’t include aggravating statements or profanities. Niegel gestured to the eggs and Chrys moved over to them, hesitantly picking up the plate and the plastic fork that accompanied it. He stabbed a piece with the fork, slowly placing it into his mouth. Predictably, it was bland and overcooked. True to his word, Niegel couldn’t cook for shit. Even a<i>five year old</i>was a superior cook to the man.<br/><br/>Then he remembered the nightmare. The scent of scrambled eggs was rafflesia scent in the nightmare, luring him to death. It made him sick thinking about it. The eggs, unappetizing as they already were, became even more unappetizing. But Chrys knew that the calories were the difference between life and death, so he brought the plate to his lips and began shovelling the eggs into his gob en masse to ignore the taste and his want of vomiting.<i>This is for your own good. Fucking eat.</i>