When I opened the door he was sitting where I had left him, gnawing on a chicken bone hungrily with tears in his eyes. His eyes came to me and then the bone, hitting the brass doorknob with a dull clang and ricocheting off into the darkness. “You left me with the shadows again,” he sobbed, burying his face into his arms and weeping bitterly. I shut the door behind me and sat next to him, taking his frail little body into my arms. In my mind I made a note to myself to give him more food. I could see beyond him that the fried chicken I had given him this morning was picked clean.

“I know,” I replied, searching through the darkness for his face so I could wipe those trails of sadness from his cheeks. “Come on. Let’s go clean you up.” I helped him to his feet and then picked him up, his head resting on my shoulder and his arms hanging limply. He was so light, so weak. He was beautiful. I took him into the bathroom, placing him on the toilet and stripping him from his clothes. He groaned in protest; it seemed lately he never wanted to be in the buff with me around. It wasn’t like before. He loved me when he didn’t know me. He hated me when he did. Or at least harbored some resentment. At first he thought it was a game, but when I locked the door and didn’t come back for five hours, he got scared. When I got back he fought me, threw punches and screamed until he was tired, until he was so tired he let me stroke his hair and kiss his forehead.

I turned on the water and undressed myself, taking his hands and guiding him into the stream of water. He gasped at first, cringing from the hot water, but eventually he sank down to his knees and rested his forehead on my thigh. He was shaking, trembling. I could see the protrusion of his bones against his sallow skin, the coarseness of his hair. I came down to him and washed his body of the fright that had seeped into him. I washed away the old sweat and tears, the dust, the sadness. I washed them all away. I knew they would come back. By tomorrow they would all be back.

I dried him tenderly with the towel, slow circular movements so I didn’t scare him. He was so dead inside now. He was so empty. He wasn’t anything like before. He wasn’t the vivacious character that had attracted me. He wasn’t vibrant and alive. He was dependant. Dependant on me for food, for shelter, for life. It was the way I liked it. I just wished he wasn’t so lifeless. I wished he understood.

If I opened the door and let him see the light, he would leave and never come back.

I picked up his body and brought him to the bed, putting him down gently and pulling the covers up to his chin. Those gray eyes stared through me, sent shivers down my spine. I knew he was alive since he had just blinked. I climbed into the spot next to him, pulling him in close, close enough where I could smell the soap on his body. My small prisoner turned into me, nuzzling his nose against my neck, pressing his fists into my chest, his legs flat against mine. I reached down to touch him, but there was no reaction. No gasp or moan, not even an exhale. Just the pressure of his brow furrowing against my cheek. I played with him until I got bored, sick to my stomach that I no longer made him warm. Tomorrow I would do the same thing. Tomorrow I would touch him until his stillness made me as sad as he was. Tomorrow he would yell at me for putting him in this dark place, leaving him with these shadows that whispered to him and frightened him. Tomorrow I would hate myself for having to lock him up like a neglected pet because of how insecure I was. Tomorrow seemed so far away.

“I love you,” I whispered, kissing his smooth forehead, liking the softness of his skin, the feel of his flesh against my lips. I kissed it again, embracing his tepid body as I let my lips drift down the side of his face until they connected with his mouth. I turned my head and kissed his lips, nudging his head to try and get some reaction, but his reaction was none. With a sigh I gave up and let him sleep, drifting off myself.

For a minute I thought he might have whispered ‘I love you too’, but I was sure it was just my imagination, the deep desire in my stomach making me believe he said and felt something he didn’t. And when he slipped out of my hands and carried himself to the floor, I knew what I thought was true.