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Autobiography	By : tartausucre Category: 1 through F > Firewall Views: 1918 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Firewall is the property of Warner Bros. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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The rain had stopped.
Margaux rolled onto her back and regretted it; the heat she’d been holding against her belly was dissipating, replaced with a harsh chill that seemed to cut. It was almost like…
She sat up. There was a freshness that came with the cold, as if there was a draught coming from somewhere.
Bill was gone.
Margaux got to her feet and stretched a little, working out the stiffness in her back. She did feel a little better, at least, for having slept. Her stomach growled softly, and as she walked out into the hall, smoothing her skirt, she wondered what time it was. It felt late. Evening. What sleep schedule she could have been said to have at this point would almost certainly be thrown off.
The cold was more noticeable out here, the draught more evident the closer she got to the kitchen. The cause became clear as she reached the end of the hallway: the front door was wide open, creaking a little as it swayed on its hinges in the wind. She could see the van parked outside, its wheels surrounded with black puddles.
She wasn’t stupid, nor was she looking for further disappointment; approaching the door, Margaux knew better than to even dream that this might be the chance she’d been waiting for.
Her assessment was confirmed almost immediately. She heard the rumble and slam of the van’s side door, and a moment later Bill was rounding the bonnet, walking across the dark mud back up to the cottage. A black kit bag swung heavily from one hand. He noticed her, now standing on the doorstep, and stopped.
“Were you thinking of making a run for it?”
She shook her head slowly. He looked down at her socks and smirked.
“Shame. I could use a laugh. Are you sure?”
“I’ve got no immediate plans.”
The strange, unwelcome affection of this morning had been replaced with a savage indifference. She wasn’t sure it was an improvement. Margaux was getting better each day at gauging her kidnapper’s moods, and he seemed to have been brewing a dark one.
Well, she thought, stepping out of his way as he reached the door, at least it wasn’t something I did.
Bill threw the bag on the floor and something inside clattered against the flagstones through the canvas.
“Close the door, Margaux.”
She obeyed silently, wary of his position in the room as she turned her back on him. When she turned back he was leaning against the table, watching her. Silent. A silence she felt the sudden need to fill.
“H-have—” She cleared her throat. “Have you eaten already?”
“No.”
“Would you like me to—”
“Margaux, you keep forgetting one little word.” It took her a beat to realise what he meant. “I don’t have to remind you what that word is, do I?”
“No, sir.”
“…Good girl.”
Silence again.
“So, um… I could make something if you’re hungry.”
“Sir.”
“Sir.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know what we have. Sir. But I think I could throw together a curry. Or something.”
“A little ambitious for a cupboard meal, don’t you think?”
“Not especially.”
She crossed to the cupboards along the wall beside the fridge and opened one, keeping half an eye on Bill. He looked like a predator waiting to pick her off from a herd, watching for any mistake, any lapse in concentration. Except that his motivation in this instance seemed to be not hunger but sheer, poisonous spite. He wanted to hurt her. She wished she could understand why.
A look through the eclectic selection of cans in the cupboards yielded mixed results, but there was enough to throw together something edible. What chickpeas and tinned spinach lacked in wow factor could always be made up for by the comically overstocked spice cupboard.
“I think I can work with this.” She turned and met an expression that was almost a glare. “If you want me to. Sir.”
“Do what you want. I don’t care.”
She swallowed nervously.
“Do you think I could use a proper knife? Just for a few minutes?”
“Do I look like a fucking mug to you?”
His tone made her flinch, and she looked down at the floor.
“No. I’m sorry.”
She could feel him staring, It was like a creeping prickle on her skin.
Finally he said:
“I’ll do it. What wants cutting?”
*
After he’d rinsed the scraps of onion off the kitchen knife, Bill stood by the sink, watching her stir the pot on the hob. His fingertip trailed back and forth along the knife’s edge. Margaux pretended not to notice.
“You haven’t mentioned David since you woke up.”
Margaux looked down at the onions and wondered if she should add more oil.
“Should I have?”
“I would have thought, all things considered, that it would be weighing on your mind.”
“…It is.” She thought of the threat Bill had made to David. She thought of the knife in his hand. “But talking about things won’t make them happen. Will it?”
Margaux looked across at Bill, leaning against the sink. He was no longer scowling.
“No. It won’t.”
She turned down the heat on the hob and realised that there was no garlic, no ginger. Margaux frowned. There were powders, but it was hardly the same thing.
“All the same, Margaux… We’re coming up to that time. It’s already past six. If David doesn’t call, you know I’ll have to make good on my promise.”
Margaux didn’t answer, but the thought made her feel cold and sick. Bill saw her expression change and moved closer. She saw the knife still held in his right hand and tensed. As she opened the tinned vegetables she was painfully aware of every tiny movement the man beside her made.
She didn’t like the way he was looking down at her. Not one bit.
He wouldn’t do it now. Would he? No. He couldn’t. There was still hours left of the day. She still had time. Only when he played absently with the blade, the steel glinting in the light as it turned, she didn’t feel especially confident. He wasn’t a patient man. He’d said so himself. And he was looking to hurt her, for whatever reason. Reason hardly came into it.
“I need to drain these,” she said quietly. He stepped back without a word, just enough to let her pass. When she returned to the hob with the drained tins, he moved behind her. She felt a tingle in her scalp and realised that he was playing with her hair.
While she tried to keep her mind on what she was adding to the pot, she couldn’t help thinking about the knife. She imagined him raising it to her throat, drawing the cold steel across her skin just to watch the blood flow. He wouldn’t kill her, but then there was a great deal she could live through. And she was sure he’d considered his options at length.
The tingle in her scalp localised, grew, and became a gentle tugging. Then it was gone.
“When Rob gets back, if David hasn’t called, we’ll need to make a decision.”
“…Alright.”
“Are you going to need this knife again?”
“No.” She felt him move away from her back.
It was with no small relief that she heard him cross the flagstones and start down the hall.
She waited until a door slammed, then raised a tentative hand to the back of her head, to the spot where the tingling had been. Margaux ran her fingers through her hair and felt an unexpected tickling against her fingertips.
When she moved back and felt it again she found a slender lock of hair that was conspicuously shorter than the others.
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Autobiography