Pierre had lost all track of time. His best guess was that months had now passed since his dinner with Catharine. He was no longer attached to the wall, this he had to be thankful for, and once he'd been released from the wall, he'd started marking what he considered to be days. But in his dark room, with no sense of morning or evening, days, weeks, months all felt the same. Endless.

After being unchained from the wall, Catharine no longer came to visit. She watched him though, he found the camera on a thorough inspection of his room. Two, actually, so there were no blind spots. She'd speak with him as well, her sensual voice floating out of the walls into his ears. He'd begged and pleaded for her to show herself, but it was to no avail, Catharine was as elusive as ever. Yet, through all this, he still craved her. His cravings, longings, musings were something he'd come to hate. He'd hear her voice and his insides would melt, butterflies would fill his stomach.

"Catharine," he spoke into his empty cell, "I love you, I need you, please, please come to me!" Sometimes he thought he heard her laugh, light and sweet, other times he was certain he'd become delusional.

She'd left him a note pad and a pen, on which he scribbled love notes, and occasionally sketches of Catharine. He'd tear them out and send them to her with his empty meal dishes. He had a small bookshelf, contents: A Farewell to Arms, A Tale of Two Cities, Moby Dick and, last but not least, The Count of Monte Cristo. He felt akin to Dantes, there in his own Chateau D'If, but lucky for Dantes security cameras did not exist back then, nor did sadistic beauty queens with unusual ways of winning men.

His room contained a bed, comfortable enough, massive pile of pillows and a warm comforter. A desk, into which he carved the passing days after deciding pen and paper weren't dramatic enough. A plain wooden chair at the desk was the only place to recline other than the bed. The room was just big enough for Pierre to keep up with his yoga, Catharine had been thoughtful enough to leave him a mat.

Lying in bridge pose, he heard her voice float in.

"Pierre, how are you today?"

"Great, just peachy." He said, dripping with sarcasm.

"Tell me, Pierre, how do you feel?"

"How do I feel? I feel like I have no fucking clue what the hell is going on. I feel like I'm going insane. All I want, Catharine, is to be with you, with YOU, not held captive in some freaky dungeon. Can I say that any clearer?"

"Oh Pierre, it's not time yet, you must continue to be patient, my love."

Hearing her call him "her love" sent his heart all aflutter. (italics) Stupid, goddamn love.(end italics) Pierre thought to himself.

"But, why can't I wait outside of this...this...cell? I had a life once, you know, a life and a job and friends and now all I do is sit in this room and wait. All I do is wait!"

"Pierre, Pierre, Pierre...you silly man. We are going to have fantastical adventures together, my darling. We'll travel the world, manage impossible feats, conquer world hunger, make love like it's never been made before...but not yet."

"Catharine, even after being your captive for I-have-no-concept-of-how-long, I still want these things. I still want you. I want your body, I want your crazy mind, I want world domination, but first, first I want release!"

There was no answer, as often there wasn't. Catharine carefully structured all interactions, leaving Pierre gasping into his emptiness, his loneliness, once again.

Pierre picked up his notebook and scribbled furiously. "Love is a prison, love is a trap, once you fall in there's no falling back." He stopped and looked down at what he wrote. Tonight, he hated himself. Why Catharine, why him, why were the two of them trapped in this insane charade. What could he do, what could he say, what if tomorrow she released him but he never saw her again, his heart pinched in his chest.

"What the fuck is wrong with you!?!" He yelled at his heart before realizing Catharine might think he meant her.

"Not you, Catharine, my heart, well, fuck, you too. What the fuck is wrong with you? I am here, a flesh and blood man pouring my heart and soul out to you, living for you and for what? For a soft bed and a battered copy of Moby Dick? What the fuck is wrong with you? And what the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I still in love with you? What the fuck is wrong with love?"

Pierre fell silent. There was no response, not that expected one, maybe Catharine hadn't even heard. He felt drained, he felt utterly used and alone and confused, just as confused as that first morning he'd woken attached to the wall. And here, probably months later, he still had no idea what was going on. And Catharine didn't even blow him anymore.

With a pained sigh, Pierre lied down on his bed, stared at the ceiling and prayed for sleep.