Morning Routine

When he lived alone, he dedicated himself to routine.

Without routine, he had very little. His interactions with other people were hardly amiable enough to strike conversation.

But now, he was locked in the dark basement of the foreign home. A careful blue eye darting every which way. He tried to keep his routine in this new place. Wake. Bathroom. Shower. Eat...

He searched for clever ways to follow his schedule. Wake. Pull the cuffs to the front of your body and stretch. Slip silently into the unlit bathroom and after you use it, wash your face and hands, rinse your hair, dry yourself with a towel snagged between the handcuffs. Slide the hidden hairpin from your ear and try to pick the locks. Try and try and try until you hear the opening click, then lock them again, and sit on the bed.

Wait to eat.

That second morning, he watched the detective very carefully. The detective's face was taut with morbid curiosity which naturally meant interrogation, but Monday really did not much mind interrogation.

The detective, ignorant to Monday's plans of escape, leaned behind him, unlocked the cuffs, and realigned them at the front of Monday's chest so that he had the hands to eat.

"I have questions for you," He clicked his tongue, taking a long drink of coffee. "Before I feed you."

"Ask away, darling."

The detective tensed the side of his lip as if digesting the nickname.

"Where are the bodies, Mooney? How many are there?"

"Unquantifiable." Monday announced, more proud than anything to be deemed Mooney. "I lost count."

"Where are the bodies?"

"You know where they are, sweetheart..." Monday gave a pleased smile. "Everyone needs to eat."