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Breathe, she told herself. Breathe.
She reminded herself that she was a medical professional. A fucking doctor.
Breathe. It made sense that she felt a bit weak, after lying in bed for ... what? days? weeks? months? (Part of her said, slyly, years. But that couldn't possibly be true: there was no way she could have spent years in that fucked up little world. So. Months, at worst. Definite muscle atrophy, and probable trauma, but nothing proper care and therapy wouldn't be able to fix eventually. Breathe.)
She'd gotten rid of the bits of equipment she didn't recognize (breathe) but she'd left the intravenous feeding tube and ... other things. (Breathe.) At some point, she'd need to get up and get help, or at least clean herself up. Feed herself. Take a shower. (How long had it been since she'd taken a real shower?) Breathe.
Jack’s body was on the bed next to her. (Breathe.) She'd need to work out a way to get rid of that. Or maybe not. He was evidence, kind of. Maybe. If she was going to take down Frank here, in the real world, she wouldn't be able to do it by inviting him to a dinner party. Not that that had worked out so well in the not real world either. Breathe.
But all of that was for later. For the moment, she was safe. She was alive. She needed to rest, get her physical strength back. At least enough to reach a phone.
If she closed her eyes, she wasn't going to wake up back there. She hadn't been trapped in a dream. What a silly fear that was.
If she closed her eyes, she was going to be safe. If she closed her eyes, she would wake up again right here.
Breathe.
‘You know, I must say, you've racked up quite the body count,' Frank said.
He was sitting on a chair by her bedside. There was a magazine about fishing on the bedside table.
'How ...' Alice started, but that was a stupid question. Of course he knew where she lived Jack had kept her.
'I mean, it's not exactly subtle, but hey. Whatever gets the job done, right?' Frank smiled. He looked healthy. Almost identical to how he'd looked in the fake world. 'So good for you. Well done.'
Alice whimpered. She realized that she'd forgotten to tell herself to breathe. The idea of having a fucking panic attack right here, right now did not help her to stay calm.
'And now here we are,' Frank said. 'Well, here you are, anyway. Muscle atrophy's a bitch, huh? I swear, we've been working on fixing it - you're welcome for still being able to see, by the way, but you would not believe how difficult these types of things are to figure out.'
Breathe, Alice told herself.
'So am I getting the silent treatment here or did something happen to your vocal cords? Itchy throat? Numb tongue? I'm not a doctor, but you can tell me. I'm here to help.'
'Fuck you,' Alice said.
'Great,' Frank said. 'Sounds like your voice is just fine.' He patted her knee. 'Don't you worry about a thing now. I'm here to help.'
She dozed off, or Frank drugged her, or possibly both. When she woke up, Frank was gone. Jack's body was gone. The empty food cans that had been scattered all through the kitchen were gone.
He'd even washed the dishes, it looked like from where she was lying on bed. Still unable to lift her arms, or her legs. Breathe. She wondered whether anyone would come if she screamed, and then she wondered if whoever came would call an ambulance or ... not. She was completely helpless, and a woman. These were not safe things to be in the real world. Breathe.
She needed a plan. She needed to be able to think. She needed safety.
More than anything, she needed to be gone when Frank came back, except that she wasn't able to move and she had no idea of the time or how much of it she had.
'Oh good, you're still here,' Frank said. Alice'd heard him coming when he turned the key to the apartment door. She hadn't even considered it might be someone else: of course it was Frank.
'Aren't you going to kill me?' It wasn't that she wanted to die, Alice thought. Sure, she felt awful, but she would get better. She was just sick and tired of lies.
'Nah' Frank said. 'I told you, I like a challenge. And you ... you challenge me, Alice. You make want to be a better man. Not just for myself, but for you. To prove myself worthy of you.'
There was only one possible reply to that. 'What.'
Frank chuckled. 'All right, so you're not a romantic. That's fine. Look, why don't I unhook some of these tubes, and we'll go and see if you can drink some water. How's that sound?'
She wasn't sure she remembered what water tasted like. 'Do I have a choice?'
'People always have a choice,' Frank said. 'It's just that sometimes, they need a bit of help to make the right one. But then, once they do, their lives become so much richer and better. It's a wonderful thing, Alice. And I hope that one day, you will get to see that.'
'Bullshit.'
'Well, that's another way of looking at it,' Frank said.
Nurses helped people drink. Alice had worked at a hospital: she'd seen people needing help with all sorts of things. There was nothing shameful about needing someone to help you drink a cup of water. There was no reason to feel embarrassed when your body refused to do what you wanted it to do.
Frank was not a nurse, but he'd held her head like he knew what he was doing. Like he'd done this sort of thing before, maybe, and often enough to be skilled at it. (Breathe.)
Solid food was going to be next, he'd told Alice. And maybe a few exercises to help her muscles regain their strength, wouldn't that be good.
'So what, you're a physical therapist now?' she'd asked, scoffing. (At least she was able to talk. Maybe she should scream, one of these days. Risks be damned. Whoever came to see what the noise was about surely couldn't possibly be as bad as Frank.)
'Not at all,' Frank had replied. 'Just, you know. Good with Google,' and then he'd winked, which might mean nothing at all.
On his third or fourth visit (it was probably a bad sign that she couldn't keep track, or maybe he was drugging her after all) - on one visit, he brushed her hair. It was longer than she remembered it being. Tangled though, and a little dirty, which shouldn’t bother her. (It did bother her.)
'You know, almost everyone wants to look better. Sound better. Be better,' Frank said. 'But a lot of people just don't think they can actually do it. And I respect that. I respect people who are able to admit out loud, or even just to themselves, that they could never become the person they want to be, either because it's too much work, or because they'd need to make too many sacrifices, or because they're afraid of what people might say.'
'Is that what you are?' Alice asked. 'Some guy who didn't want to put in the work?'
Frank chuckled. Part of her felt absurdly pleased at having managed to amuse him. Still, perhaps that was only sensible. She was helpless. If Frank decided to kill her, she was dead. This wasn't some fucked up program she could escape by logging off: this was the real world. If she was going to escape, she needed Frank to trust her. To let down his guard. to find her a challenge. (Some challenge she was.) 'Trust me. I put in a lot of work to become who I am. The Victory Project - it's something really special. I'm going to miss it.'
Breathe. 'You mean it's gone? They're all free? All the other wives?'
'Freedom is such a ... funny concept,' Frank said. 'Really. What does freedom even mean? Should we value freedom over everything else? What about comfort, security? Happiness?'
She waited. Frank might like a challenge, but any guy making a podcast also had to like the sound of his own voice. A lot.
'I suppose you could say that it's served its purpose,' Frank said. 'I met some very interesting people. Like you, Alice.' He stroked her hair, like Jack a lover. (Breathe. She had received plenty of physical affection in the fake world, but her actual body had been lying here all this time, untouched. (Hopefully. Surely? Unless - breathe.)
Touch-starvation was a thing. Having a reaction to being touched didn't mean she liked Frank, or wanted him to touch her again. (He would touch her again, of course. To help her drink. To feed her, To bathe her. To help her dress.)
'What a wife you would have made me,' Frank said, still stroking her hair. He'd started to hum a song, the melody strangely familiar.
(She'd have slapped his hand away if only she'd had the strength. But she didn't, so she had no choice at all but to accept it.)
Annoyingly, the physical exercises Frank had found god knew where actually worked. Alice felt it in her legs, in her arms. She was able to sit up, then stand, more or less, then walk. Short distances at first: to the bathroom. To the kitchen. To the phone, but of course it had been disconnected - perhaps not even by Frank. Who used landlines anymore, in this day and age?
She pictured herself, cooking Frank breakfast. Throwing a cup of hot coffee in his face. Having him eat her out on the kitchen table. (Breathe.)
She told herself that she had to be ready to run. This sense of security Frank was creating, it wasn't any more real than the white-cottage fence had been. He was dangerous.
Of course, so was she.
Breathe.