Captive{ated}

Thirty-Seven: Sweet Betrayal

I sat at the table, palms sweating and closed in fists, while Issac sat directly across from me. You sat in the chair beside him, creating the tensest environment imaginable as both pairs of hazel eyes were on me. Conversation was few and far in-between. That didn't stop Issac from trying to make small talk, however. He asked about my day, school, and well-being.

As if he really cared.

I hardly looked at him. Between seeing him kill so many and forcing me to partake in a ritual against my will, and now having the intention to kill me, my only option not to shake in his presence was to keep my eyes low. I couldn't look your way either since you looked too much like his accomplice. It never ceased to startle me how similar you were in appearance.

It felt like I was entirely alone.

Just like me, you didn't have many words. Unlike me, however, who sat as still as a statue, you ate and shared short responses. Issac was the liveliest, you played the role of a good son, and I felt like a helpless victim forced to eat my final meal with my murderers. It was like a scene from a horror movie.

"You're quieter than usual," Issac remarked between bites. I shrugged in response. "Are you not hungry, dear?" Another shrug.

He commented again on how good your food was.

"Thank you, father," came your robotic response.

My stomach swirled, feeling nauseous. This whole situation had to be a joke. It really was like a cheesy 70's slasher flick. The one where the girl was forced to eat dinner with the family of cannibals. At least I wasn't tied up, I supposed, nor was I forced to stare at a face made of leathered human skin knowing I'd be next. If I was in fiction, my reality could've been much worse. That's looking on the bright side, right?

It continued like this until both your plates were emptied, mine sitting untouched. How could you expect me to eat at a time like this? Running his hand over his neatly trimmed beard, Issac contemplated. It looked like he debatd on continuing. It was then I realized he tried forcing the conversation at dinner to alleviate his own feelings. Perhaps he didn't want to be here either. He was bound by duty to what he believed, and if I was a problem to his son and to the Village, it was his responsibility to take care of me.

"Judging by your demeanor, I suppose you know why I'm here-" Issac started grimly.

"Father, can I get the wine?" You interrupted abruptly. You looked at me begging me to trust you, but I only became sicker at the thought of wine. Not again. How many times could I fall for this trick? You turned back to him. After he didn't give you a reply, you added, "Please."

Perhaps you were pleading for me, too.

The two of you exchanged looks. I never saw such compassion between father and son. He always acted more as a mentor to you, so seeing him respond to you like a father? It was a strange sight. He knew this was difficult for you, and even if it was against tradition, he wanted to support you. It would've been touching if you weren't bonding over my execution. "Yes, wine does sound like a nice addition to this meal, doesn't it?" He finally answered with an empathetic smile.

You stood before Issac could change is mind and left me alone with him. Neither of us moved as we awaited your return. Suddenly, I was very aware of the sweat running down my back and how parched my throat was. I tightened my shaking fists. When you came back, you had three 3 glasses of wine, placing one at each of our spots. As you did so, your eyes met mine pleadingly, making a request.

Trust me.

I wasn't sure if I could. I wasn't sure what you were planning, but this entire set up didn't sit well with me.