Kidnapped

You sit there in the room. Your knees are against your chest and your forehead rests on the exposed flesh; long tendrils of golden wheat locks fall forward and just barely brush against the carpet flooring. The small bit of light that comes from the candle on the side table catches on your greasy roots. You haven’t taken a shower yet; I haven’t let you because things aren’t ready for your movement around the house. I haven’t finished the downstairs. Of course, I’d cursed myself for this; I’d been too eager to bring you home and to have you with me. That’s OK, though. You’re understanding. You don’t fault me for this mishap.

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