Mr. Blund [Tag: No One]

[Dorian F. Blund]

The water ran down his face in big droplets as he washed it; his last scrubbing before his last night. If he was to be sent somewhere else tomorrow, he wanted to at least look presentable.

Because if his watch was not defective, and he did not believe it was, then this would be his last day seeing this room; he had kept contact with Hannah semi-regularly in the past half month, and through her, had been able to always confirm to himself how many days had past whenever he felt like he may have lost track of time. All of the prior times, he had only spent two weeks with one person, and he did not see why this time would be any different; he would miss being able to consult the time with Hannah whenever he got lost for sure; but he would miss the woman even more. She had helped him so much, and it was a shame she could not see that; he could only hope that she would learn to appreciate her own strength more. She was worth so much more than she thought.

He glanced at the bathroom door, safely shut, knowing his roommate was on the other side. He would be lying if he said he would miss the man as much as he would miss Hannah, the two of them were nowhere near that close; but he could only hope for the best for him. Seeing more new souls thrown to the wolves was heart-breaking, knowing that even if everyone he’d met in the basement were to die one by one, it would not be the end. Who knew when his time to suffer would come. Frankly, he did not wish to know, and he could only desire never having to witness it himself.

He wondered, not for the first time, what would be of him now. The first time he’d put on his new suit, which he had been religiously wearing those past 14 days, he had wondered if that would end up being what he would wear to his wedding, still dreading whether his mother-in-law, refusing to accept her defeat after Della’s sacrifice, would force him and Katherine together as a “rebound”, particularly after the woman’s little speech to the cameras; frankly, if it could have ensured her safety, he would have gladly taken her hand in marriage. She had been tortured and traumatized enough, and any security he could bring her would have been a blessing to him, knowing he could protect at least one person he cared about. Nothing had happened, however, and he doubted that, had she wanted them to be together, she would have waited for so long. If he had been kept alive despite Mrs Baker’s profound and personal hatred for him, he could only hope that she would spare Katherine as well, and he would be hoping for her wellbeing until he could hear of it or witness it firsthand.

Yet, it did not answer his questions: what now? Would he be sent to another room once again, going back to the never-ending cycle of roommate switches and new locations? Or did Mrs Baker have other, more gruesome plans for him? Had she wanted him dead, she could have gotten rid of him at any moment, but maybe that wasn’t interesting enough for her. She had a “pattern”, after all; and villains did not like to drift away from their well-thought plans. Maybe, then, she was only waiting for his time to come. Revenge was a dish best served cold, after all.

This time, however, he would not give her the satisfaction of breaking down; she had called him a spineless maggot, and for a time, she had been right; in his marriage he had failed, in the freezer he had been weak, in the aftermath, pathetic. But now, he knew better. In Hannah he had found someone who wished for him to live; in himself, a resolve to see things through. Perhaps he would die, yes; but if that was to be the case, then it would not be of his own volition, because he had given up on living. He had been a coward, true, but he would not be any more. Hence his dedication to look decent for the unknown future. Let it be known that Dorian Blund would go down as he had lived, a respectable man; and the more his roots showed through his forcefully dyed blonde hair, the more he saw of his past self breaking through, smiling at the thought. In truth, it did not look good, but it made him feel more like himself; his only regret was that there was nothing for him to cut the blonde parts out; oh how he wished to shave every inch of that color off his head in defiance, but alas, it was not to be.

All that was left, then, were his clothes; and at last, he turned over towards the closed toilet, his past, original outfit laid down properly on the seat.

For the past two weeks, he had done his best keeping it clean and well-kept, to the point it almost looked new, with barely any noticeable folds. Every time the question came to him; should I put them back on, or should I keep these new clothes? He would immediately find himself giving either his vest or his pants a new light scrubbing, a light wash, just so that he could find comfort in knowing they were too wet to be worn; and so he would go a few more days without worrying about it, or pretending not to worry about it. He was sure Clayton must have thought him mad by now, but he had preferred not to care.

And now he found himself here, knowing full-well that if he did not put them on, he may very well never see them again, and still, doubtful. These clothes held so many bad memories; Kamala’s death, the hangman game, Cassim and Della… His breakdown at the discovery of whom the voice over the speaker belonged to. It was silly, in truth, to associate simple pieces of fabric to trauma; yet, he couldn’t stop himself. The connection was there, and when he had managed to change out of them his first day here, he had done so in a heartbeat, feeling oh so clean and free because of it. So what now?

He looked at himself in the mirror; his hair had grown so much longer now, and keeping his facial hair in check was becoming difficult; he was lucky to be a man who had never had too many problems with it due to how slowly it would grow, but even he was starting to find it complicated. It was not the vision he used to recognize as himself; yet with the dark hair slowly returning, and the light in his eyes more powerful than it had been when he had first awoken in this room, mournful and broken, he could still see behind the stranger’s mask whom he used to be. All he was missing, he realized, was his costume, the same one he’d never wanted to part from for a full month, because it was a proof of his belonging to the outside world, and not this gruesome and cruel place.

Hannah was right. He was not responsible for his mother-in-law’s actions. He still did not deserve to be here, no matter what some wanted him to believe.

Dorian clenched his jaw in new-found determination; disrobing took him a few minutes, getting clothed again, barely any time at all; and soon enough, his reflection was much more familiar, and so much more composed, swearing to stay this way for as long as they'd allow him to. With satisfaction, he stared himself down, before nodding at his reflection, knowing that now, he was ready.

Whatever was to come, he would face it as Dorian Francis Blund, and not whoever Mrs Baker wished him to be.