Thirty-six hours later, Vernon woke up on the sofa in the narrow apartment, head pounding like someone had split it open with an axe. His mouth tasted like metal and ash. The drug had left him weak, limbs heavy, stomach hollow with hunger. The room spun for a few seconds before his vision cleared.
The spilled bags were still on the floor — apples, bread, vegetables scattered like forgotten offerings.
Ira's face came in his sight.
He had left her alone. Handcuffed. In pain. For more than a day and a half.
Vernon shot up from the sofa — too fast. The room tilted. His head throbbed harder, vision blurring at the edges from the aftereffects of the sedative and lack of food. But the panic was stronger. He didn't care about his own weakness. He didn't care about the headache splitting his skull. He only cared that she was still there — alone, suffering, bleeding.
He grabbed the bags and ran out the door, leaving everything behind.
The drive back to the abandoned building was a blur of red lights and clenched jaw. Every second felt like a knife twisting in his gut. He kept seeing her face — the fear in her eyes when he cuffed her, the way her body had trembled. He had done that to her. To keep her safe. But the guilt didn't care about reasons.
When he finally reached the old one-floor building, he slammed the car door and ran to the entrance.
The key.
He had left the fucking key in the apartment.
A raw, animal sound tore from his throat. "No… no, no, fuck—"
Vernon stared at the locked door, chest heaving. For a second, pure devastation crashed over him. He had left her like this. Handcuffed. Probably suffering from hunger and pain. Alone. Because he was careless.
He didn't think.
He slammed his shoulder into the door. Once. Twice. The impact jarred every bone in his weakened body, but he didn't stop. Again. Harder. Pain flared across his shoulder, down his arm, but he kept throwing himself against the rusted metal like a battering ram. Wood and metal screamed. On the seventh brutal collision, the lock gave way with a shriek. The door burst inward, hanging drunkenly from one hinge.
Vernon stumbled inside, breathing ragged, shoulder bleeding through his torn coat.
The smell hit him first—metallic, sour, heavy with blood and sweat.
Then he saw her.
The sight that greeted him nearly broke him.
Ira lay on the thin mattress, unconscious, body curled in on itself as much as the handcuffs allowed. The white sheet beneath her was soaked dark red — blood everywhere, dried in patches, fresh in others. Her short maid dress was twisted and stained, her face pale and drawn, lips cracked from thirst. Her wrists were raw and bleeding where the metal had cut into skin from her struggling. She looked broken. Destroyed.
Vernon's breath caught — sharp, painful.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed, hands shaking as he carefully unlocked the handcuffs. The metal clicked open. Her arms fell limply to her sides.
He stared at her for a second — guilt crashing over him like a wave. Then, gently, he reached under the hem of her dress to pull down the soaked underwear so he could change her into clean clothes.
The moment his fingers brushed her intimate skin, Ira flinched — a weak, unconscious twitch — and a soft, broken whimper escaped her lips.
Vernon froze.
Her voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper, eyes still closed.
"Why… are you touching me there?"
He pulled his hand back immediately, as if burned. His chest tightened so hard it hurt to breathe.
Ira's eyes fluttered open — glassy, exhausted, filled with pain and confusion.
"Why did you do this to me?" she whispered, voice cracking. "Why did you hurt me so much?"
Vernon felt those words like a knife sliding between his ribs.
He didn't want to hurt her. He had never wanted to hurt her.
But he had.
"Did you want to punish me by doing this?"
Her words made him feel extremely guilty. The amount of guilt he couldn't bear.
He swallowed hard, throat tight. Without a word, he reached for the clean clothes he had brought — one of his own black shirts and a pair of loose pants.
He changed her slowly, carefully, trying not to cause more pain. His hands shook the entire time. Seeing her body — pale, bruised from the cuffs, stained with blood — made something inside him twist violently. He hated himself more in that moment than he had ever hated anything.
Once she was dressed in his clothes, he went to the small kitchenette and quickly heated a can of soup.
He brought the bowl to her, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Ira's eyes were half-open, weak. She tried to lift her head, but her body was too fragile. Her lips barely parted when he brought the spoon close.
Vernon's own stomach was groaning with hunger — he hadn't eaten in over a day — but he ignored it.
Ira noticed that. He was hungry too. But he was feeding her!
He fed her slowly, spoonful by spoonful, supporting her head with his bandaged hand.
She swallowed a few times, eyes fluttering, too exhausted to fight.
Vernon kept feeding her in silence, the guilt sitting heavy in his chest like a stone he couldn't swallow.
He had left her here.
She has been so hurt!
For him!
He had hurt her.
And now, watching her this broken, he felt something inside him crack open wider than any wound he had ever taken.
_
_
_
After some time, the worst of the cramps began to ease — not gone, but no longer ripping through her like a knife. Ira's breathing slowly steadied. The spinning in her head dulled. She became aware of her surroundings again.
She was no longer in the blood-soaked maid dress.
She was wearing Vernon's black shirt. It was huge on her, the sleeves falling past her hands, the hem reaching mid-thigh. The fabric smelled faintly of him. The sweatpants he had put on her were rolled at the waist so they wouldn't fall off.
Her body still ached — deep, dull cramps pulsing low in her belly, thighs sticky and sore — but the worst of the ripping pain had faded into something she could breathe through.
She blinked slowly, eyes focusing on him.
Vernon sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that she could see the exhaustion carved into his face. Dark circles under his eyes, skin pale and drawn, hair messy and damp with sweat. His bandaged right hand rested on his knee, fresh blood already seeping through the gauze. He looked wrecked. Hungry. Weak. Yet he hadn't eaten a single bite. Every bit of food, every sip of water, had gone to her first.
He left her handcuffed. Bleeding. Alone. For thirty-six hours.
And now he was here, feeding her like she was something fragile he was terrified of breaking further.
Ira's throat tightened. Confusion twisted sharp in her chest, mixing with the leftover fear and anger.
Why?
Why was he doing this?
He could have left her to die here. He could have walked away. Instead he broke the door down with his own body, cleaned her, changed her into his clothes, and sat here starving to punish himself and making sure she ate.
What did he want from her?
She stared at him, voice hoarse and small. "You left me like that… but now you're… caring for me. Why?"
Vernon didn't look away. His eyes were tired, raw, but steady. He swallowed once, the movement tight in his throat.
"I'm really sorry for everything," he said quietly. The words came out rough, like they hurt to speak. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
Ira stayed silent, watching him. Her heart beat unevenly.
"I'm sorry I couldn't come to you sooner," he added, voice dropping lower. "I got… held up. It wasn't supposed to be this long. I never wanted you to suffer like that."
She didn't say anything. The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid.
Vernon's bandaged hand flexed slightly, blood spotting the gauze darker. He looked down at it for a moment, then back at her.
Guilt still gleaming in his eyes.
To be continued....