Her Name is Stockholm

A gentle grunt echoed in her chest. She pushed back her shaggy mane, alleviating the obstruction of her groggy gaze. The pale light of a late afternoon flooded the room from a large barred window of distorted glass. The rays waltzed as a muted spectrum across the faded oak floor. An undressed mattress, the girl atop it, lay centric in the barren studio. Her head spinning with hallucinated movement, the girl hoisted herself into a sitting position. She studied her body. The torn, dark gray sweatpants divulged their great age with faded and balling material. The men’s undershirt lost its signature whiteness to a much dingier successor. The clothes dwarfed her. 

She tepidly raised her head and through disheveled bangs, she locked eyes with him--a man sitting just off the foot of the mattress. 

“Good morning.” His gruff tone cooed melodically. She tilted her head in determined examination of the man. 

“Who are you?” her words stung her parched throat. 

“You’ll learn,” he retorted, “soon enough.” She swallowed hoping to soothe the discomfort. 

“Then,” her eyes darted, focusing on one of his eyes, then the other in rapid succession, “Who am I?” 

“Doesn’t matter.” He sniped back, “but we’ll call you ‘Stockholm’.” The silence rang deafeningly in her ears. Her mind, completely void of recollection and struggling comprehension, actively betrayed her. She huffed. Shaking her head, 

“Where am I?” His targeted gaze stunned her into compliance. With hardened eyes he merely assured, 

“Home.” 

Stockholm threw panicked glances every which way, her jaw tightly clenched so her cheekbones displayed prominently. 

“Calm down, Holms,” the man condescended. His voice lured her gaze back to his own. His amber eyes ignited to match the deep rust of neatly coiffed hair. An intentional 5 o’clock shadow contoured his chiseled jaw and framed a delicate cupid’s bow. Refinement oozed from coordinated ensemble, directly contrasting her spiraling essence of uncertainty. 

“This is your new home,” he assured, “You’re not meant to recognize it.” 

Stockholm dropped her eyes to the right. She clamoured for thoughts, but the evermore potent blankness of her contemplations reigned. She blinked three times.  

Blink. 

Blink. 

Blink.

She licked her chapped lips before inquiring,

”Why?” her eyes still glued to the floor. 

“Holms.” He paused, “Stockholm!” although his voice remained at a calmed decibel, it grew stern, demanding her attention, “Because you’re mine and I said so.” Her head hung while her widened eyes gave attention. The reprimand flooded her with unwarranted embarrassment and confusing shame. 

“Also,” he continued, “always look at me when I’m talking to you. I shouldn’t have to ask you. Understand?” She nodded feebly. “Good.” He abruptly rose, leaving Stockholm’s beaten ego aside her dazed and unsure body.

“I’ll be back.” She twitched her head, granting him attention, “Soon.” He emphasized. Upon reproach, he tilted her chin up, forcing eye contact,

“Do you have any questions?” He held her gaze resolute through her musings before her faint request, 

“Can I have some water?” Dehydration steadily invaded her throat and parched

mouth until it reared into a full-fledged throb of a headache. A half-smiled smirk slithered across his face, contorting his seemingly rigid features. He released her, making cavalier strides for the exit. Just before his inevitable disappearance, he turned with tauntingly cocked eyebrows and nodded his head to an adjacent doorway void of door. He pivoted and vanished through the remaining door. 

Thump.

Thump. 

Thump. 

Creak. Click-Click. 

Stockholm was alone. She staggered to the naked doorway and bore witness to what was meant to be a bathroom based on assumption alone. She raced into the concrete dimension, and began lapping ferociously from the sink’s faucet. Stockholm threw her head up, quenched and gasping for air, when the faintest of murmurs seeped through the adjacent door. Turning off the faucet,she pressed her ear to the boundary.   

“...and you used her name 3 times?”

“More.”

“Did she...recognize…?”

“It didn’t seem like it.” Stockholm discenred one voice as her Captor, the other was foreign. She placed a hand on the doorknob. Decisively locked. 

She retreated back into the barren space, breath heaving with paranoia. Unforgiving darkness ambushed the room immediately upon the sun’s naturally impending departure. She stumbled and wandered blindly about as the haze of this reality melded into what must be a nightmare, until she tripped over herself and onto the mattress. Curling into her own body, she held in stunned stillness for the rest of the night. 

“It’s time to wake up…” a soft hand caressed the hair from Stockholm’s face. Her eyes flickered open, meeting that flaming amber gaze only inches from her own. Startled, she jolted in a recoiling fashion. He caught the back of her retreating head, stifled hysteria leaked from his arched-brow eyes and subdued, sickly grin. 

“Easy does it, Holms.” He mocked, “You’re fine.” She froze in compliant breathlessness until he released. 

“You must be hungry,” casually he retrieved a brown paper sack labeled ‘Pav Love’s Bakery’ and a glass bottle. He placed them just within reach on the floor. Stockholm half rose. She studied the implied offering from afar, biting the tip of her thumb. 

“Cinnamon Blueberry Muffin and Chocolate Milk,” he informed, “It’s your favorite.” Bafflement flooded Stockholm’s eyes as she looked to her Captor. 

“Trust me.” He disrobed from his devious mask and replaced it with one of genuine comfort. His eyes fluttered slowly under a relaxed brow while his lips, loosely acquainted with each other, curled ever so slightly, drawn to the inextinguishable heat of his ember-laced stare. 

Lost in his enchanted trance, Stockholm reached for the sustenance. The burst of sweet spice erupted on her tongue and just as quick as the tang debuted, the hunger pangs awoke deep within her starved core. Her chomps grew savagely erratic until the dry lump caught in her throat catalyzing a series of violent gags and coughs. Amused, he reluctantly offered the bottle which she forcedly guzzled, panting with relief.

“So,” he started teasing, “next time I’ll teach you how to eat.” Unsure of his satirical intent, Stockholm looked to him, surrendering a breathy chuckle. A toothy grin scrunched his cheeks and nose into pure squinting joy. 

“I mean,” he continued to flirt, “we definitely could. I’ll tear it up into little pieces, feed ya like a bird,” Stockholm’s gilded laughter graduated from giggle to explicit roars with every ludacris suggestion.

“...the whole nine yards.” He concluded, tossing out his fair share of laughs as well. Stockholm cast her eyes downward, protecting her unwilling smile. He craned his neck for a better view of her expression. Catching her eye, he gently traced her jawline with the back of two fingers, abolishing the organic modesty. 

Something ought to be said, yet only silence spoke. She parted her lips, slightly, with a sharp inhale. She searched for the inquiry to fill the space--something to ease the tension-- before internally succumbing to the honest fact she relished the moment. She drew the tiniest degree closer, barely noticeable to an on-looker, but to him, seemed a great leap. 

He sharply pulled back and rose. 

“I have to go.” He flatly informed, “I’ll be back soon.” He wouldn’t spare her a glance.  

Thump.

Thump. 

Thump. 

Creak. Click-Click. 

Wounded by the implicit rejection, she longed for his return, and the remainder of the night she stayed up and waited. He did not return until the following morning.

“You look tired.” He proclaimed, handing her a repeat meal, “Did you sleep?” She shook her head no, accepting the muffin. 

“Awe, Holms.” He clicked tongue sympathetically,”Wait here.” He instructed, quickly disappearing behind the door. Stockholm’s heart lurched, but to her great relief he reentered with a mug in each hand. 

“Coffee.” He handed her the mug, “Careful, it’s hot.” Sheepishly, she nodded, reminiscing over the victual faux pas of the day prior. He joined her, sitting cross legged on the ground beside the mattress. 

“Cheers.” He offered his mug, to which she delicately clinked before indulging in that first amorous sip. The bold bitter cut through the smooth sweet cream in a gently balanced flow slipping down her throat, warming her stomach. He watched the unbridled pleasure illuminate her expression. 

“I’m glad you like it.” He asserted before Stockholm gained composure for a single utterance. 

And so the routine began. 

Everyday he came baring the same breakfast. He probed about her night, how she slept, did she have any dreams, and so on. Occasionally she excavated the courage to pose her own inquisitions which were more often met with vague, non answers and tussle of her hair or kiss on the forehead. He would depart just before sunset. 

Thump.

Thump. 

Thump. 

Creak. Click-Click.  

She began dreaming of his voice cooing her name, “Holms” as intimacy grew. He even bathed her, though she vowed to remain perfectly still and under no circumstances was she allowed to touch back. 

On the tenth morning, after suffering from a tumultuous night’s sleep, Stockholm contracted tremors from exhaustion and malnourishment. Still, she displayed blissful contentedness to see her companion.  

The pressure of exhaustion heavily hung tight under her eyes as she stared at the door. A metallic jostle sprung an anticipatory comfort from a well-hidden internal reservoir. Her excitement leaked through her composure as she scampered towards the sound. 

There they were. Those impressively communicative eyes with an impossible range from glowering to glowing, intense to inquiring, sultry to sullen. 

“Well good morning.” He greeted his adoring fan with superficial surprise at her awaiting presence, “You’re up early.” He juggled with precision the contents of their morning ritual, though today lacked a certain grace. 

“Here,” Stockholm approached as the door clicked shut behind him, “I can help.” She unburdened his hand of one of the mugs. 

  “Thanks, Stockholm.” She grinned up searching for the absent spark. Faded and cold, his eyes were draped in dark purple. He routinely kissed her forehead. She said nothing. She followed him into the studio and sat down in identical fashion to the previous 9 mornings. 

They both sipped at their coffee in silence. Shallow breaths sounded between impatience slurps and namelessly awkward yawns. 

“You didn’t sleep too well, huh?” He finally sighed. With tightly pressed lips, she shook her head. 

“You didn’t either?” She suggested. Before he confirmed, for a mere moment, the spark flashed again. 

“That’s none of your concern.” Reinstating the hierarchy, she smiled at his voice. He tipped his mug completely vertical and downed the last bit of coffee, “I’m gonna get some more.” She tilted her head at the generous divulgence. She nodded sweetly,

“Okay.” 

He took the understandably brief leave with a vacant stare.  

Thump.

Thump. 

Thump. 

Creak. Click-Click.  

Stockholm watched the emptiness he left, sympathy knotting her stomach. She swiped the chocolate milk bottle and in exaggerated vain grappled with the screwtop. With increasing pressure, the condensation forced the slip of her dominant hand, crashing the bottle neck into the floor. Thick, tanned cream rushed across the oak as several shards ricocheted, gauging her left palm. Blood quickly met the spilled milk as her wound profusely gushed. Stockholm seethed through her teeth, seizing her trembling hand. 

She rushed to the bathroom. Throwing on the faucet, she plunged her wound under its sovereignty. Gradually, the water outweighed the blood as the hemoglobin cocktail swirled the drain. She examined her hand for further damage. Under this scrutiny, she found no new wounds, but an odd tan line. A thin band of skin around her third finger showed significantly paler than the rest. Bringing the bloodied hand closer, she mulled over the implications. 

“Holms?” Startled, she whipped around, “What happened?” he asked with gentle concern. 

“I, uh,” Stockholm’s breath was short and sharp, forbidding an adequate response. She pointed out the door towards the mess, “the bottle broke.” She finally offered after a hard gulp. 

He took her hand in his palm for inspection, 

“This is really deep. Here,” he grabbed a nearby bath towel, “keep pressure on it. I’ll go get stuff to dress it.” Before he released her hand in task-driven automation, he caught her petrified stare. Gaping eyes studied the stranger.

“Hey,” he placed his free hand on the back of her neck, “it’s gonna be okay.” He promised, “We’ll get you fixed up. I’ll be back in a bit.” He released and scurried off. 

Thump.

Thump. 

Thump. 

Creak. Click-

Stockholm suspended her breath. 

Stillness.

Silence.

She crept out of the bathroom and scanned the studio. He was gone. She glanced at the door. Fixation flooded over her as she delicately tip-toed towards the mystery. The moaning floorboards ghastly protested with every progressive movement. She disregarded their foreboding. She traced the doorknob with the tips of her fingers, gently increasing pressure until it shuddered under her touch. 

Her breath caught. She smoothly finessed the door ajar before peering with eyes alone down a dark hallway dressed in a manufactured glow sourcing from the end. She tugged the door just enough, granting her access to the beacon. 

Click-Click. 

The door shut behind her. The light’s granting diameter grew as she drew closer to the hallway’s end. Within the graces of the blue glow, she bore witness to, not only its source, but all its strange companions. A combination T.V./VHS player nestled on a folding card table amongst countless documents and haphazardly stored folders. Each folder was labeled: The Private Sector of Psychological Studies. 

She scoured the table’s contents. She found a series of handwritten notes titled “Stockholm 1” with descriptions of 

-Compliant

-Obedient

-Subservient 

-Un-inquiring 

Sifting through the pages, one particularly bursting folder shared the matching title. Opening the folder she came upon a rather blank document: 

“Mary Margaret Sunderson.

Maiden Davis” 

Hidden just behind that paper, she found a photo with a plastic baggy stapled to the back. Her lungs collapsed as she studied herself in that white gown. Grasping the ring through the plastic, she looked to the man sharing the photo’s subject. Her husband held her close in that photo, with his rusted and neatly coiffed hair matching that ember-laced gaze. 

She swallowed hard. Stockholm thumbed through the rest of her file, beads of sweat racing down her temples. Amongst the remaining chaos on the table, she spotted a VHS tape, labeled “Stockholm 1.” Setting her file aside, she shoved the partially rewound tape into the player. A raspy, static screen sounded off before the picture grew into focus. She recognized her husband, sitting in a folding chair. The room seemed empty, though his stare fixated on a entity off screen, 

“There are certain--ethical--obstacles this study faces,” a calculated voice explained just off screen, “The PSPS helps alleviate those burdens,” the voice reasoned, “You know, cut out the bureaucratic nonsense and dig to the heart of the study’s purpose.” Her Captor nodded, though his skepticism reigned through the pained expression he earnestly offered. 

“Look, Mr. Sunderson,” a new voice chimed in, “this study could really help people, you and your wife will make a nice bit of money…” the voice trailed off. He gave an exasperated sigh, 

“And no one else will touch her?” 

“She won’t interact with anyone else.” 

“And she won’t remember this?”

“Not a thing.” 

The fluorescent screen contoured Stockholm’s devastated face. She leaned in closer, eyes welling and spilling over. She watched her husband’s contemplations, heart pounding in betrayal, as he finally glanced up in decision, 

“Where do I sign?”