Tuesday's room
He would make her sleep with him the first week or so after her arrival, and truly share the bed with him, if she tried to pull back and go to the other end of the bed he would bring her back to him, naked-body to naked-body, only to wake up and realize that she ran away from his arms to sleep somewhere else, somewhere hidden, if she even had slept at all that is.
When he asked about it she would, well, say nothing, as per usual. Just serve his coffee, give him his pills, sit by his side and put her hands together.
Sometimes when they prayed together, he could hear her fainted voice. At first he thought she actually knew how to talk, but if confronted about it she might've gone mute just for the sake of not doing what he asked her to, so he just tried to hear her between the prayers he had to command. That was the first time he heard her voice, and she wasn't really saying anything per se, she was just trying to repeat whatever he said phonetically. The first thing she learned to say was her morning prayers.
So, even if her being there for him was her whole purpose, he let her be, she was there for the rest, might as well give her this one gift of her sleeping wherever she pleased. Or at least for a while, because after a few nights of going back to sleeping on his own he couldn't stop but wonder; What could he do to make her stay right there?
He would eventually come to the realization by looking without her noticing that at first she would go back to that small, but with more than enough room for herself, suitcase, the one in which she has arrived at his home in. She would make herself comfortable and close the thing on herself. Maybe if she knew that she looked like a cute vampire creature she would come for his blood next, better not to let her learn what a vampire was. He would notice, too, that after waking up she would get out of her self-made bed, stretch a little and get back up as if she hadn't slept in an uncomfortable position in such a cramped space. He would monitor her the rest of the day and come to the conclusion that she acted the same as every day. He tried to bring the suitcase to his room, and at first she rejected it, she wouldn't sleep on it, but after a few days she would come in when she believed he was asleep and would leave before he woke up, that is, until she took the suitcase with her, leaving him back to square one.
For a while he got a bit too distracted to think about the whole sleeping situation, a thought that only came back to his mind when he could hear a distant noise, a fainted voice, one that felt like it came from his walls, but no, it was coming from an unused walk-in closet. And there she was; little naked Tuesday on her knees, with her hands together and her head between her arms, praying with her body towards the wall, one that she had decorated with scribbles, a little window not to the outside but to her mind. She didn't hear him at first, and when she did, she hissed at him, something that she rarely did since she had arrived, not even when he did all sorts of things to her, to her skin, to her body. He was taken aback because of how rare it was at this point, but he put his hands in front of him as somewhat of a peace offering, she just looked at him with those eyes that often seemed so voided with nothing but anger, he felt that she was saying "How dare you?" in her own way, so he just left, dumbfounded as to why he was even leaving. This was his place, he could get in there, scare her real good, put her back in her suitcase, and let the lack of oxygen do its own thing so she learned to not do that to him ever again. But he didn't. He stood there in silence, and before he noticed she was back to her prayers.
So, in another occasion, as he left her unconscious on his bed, he decided to take a look at what was now her little place; she had used blue chalk to paint the wall, her suitcase was in a corner, now completely open, some of the plushies that he gave her were piled on it, she probably used them as a pillow or to make herself more comfortable. He went back to his room, made sure that she hadn't opened an eye since he left, took a pillow, a small blanket, and went back to the closet.
He monitored her movements carefully the next few days, wondering if he might've ruined another place for her to sleep, but he noticed that she went back to the closet every night. He would take a peek on there to see if it appeared lived on, and it did, she would keep bringing things to it, anything she liked she would take; a book, the glass she liked to use the most, magazines, he would then notice that she would also take from him, things that he now knew weren't missing. His glasses, now broken, a pen, one that she used on one of his shirts, scratching it until it was ripped, and a single doll, the only he had ever bought for her, ripped apart, every limb missing, and what remained of her body covered in black sharpie.
He would keep taking note of the changes in her room until one night, after he had his way with her and before the routine of healing and applying bandages to her wounded body, he would take her in his arms. She didn't react until she noticed where he was taking her, and when she did, she tried to get away from his arms, hissing and trying to get on the floor. When she did, she ran to her little room, trying to close the door that he had blocked to avoid her from doing so. She kicked, she pulled, but in her weakened state there wasn't much she could do. When she noticed this was a lost cause she tried to leave, but he took her in one arm, pulling her back to the room.
This was the first time he ever saw her cry, she cried as she tried to leave, as she took him by his arms and tried to make him leave, trying to tell him with her clumsy and bare words to leave. He stopped the struggle by putting her face against the floor, and when she stopped moving, almost by command, he left the first aid kit in front of her sight to make her notice it. He then let go, getting up slowly. She looked back at him, still unsure about moving or not, he stepped back to the door-frame, noticing the floor now covered in blood. He could take care of that later, for now, he just left her on her own, even if just for a while.
He understood something; that was her place. Anything that existed or happened in the rest of the house didn't matter there, this was hers, and he, or more likely what he did, wasn't welcome there. He went back to his room, only to be accompanied by her not long after, first aid kit in hands. She didn't know how to heal herself after all.
He admitted defeat, allowing her to sleep on her own, but would come to her room from time to time to see more changes, and to also leave some more stuff for her; a mattress, another pillow, some more plushies, offerings in his own way. Her favorite was a lamp with fishes that rotated around, she could look at it for hours, so he took it to her room, and with her permission, would later bring a television, one that she would also watch even if she didn't understand anything on it. She liked when there were animals on it, especially the ones from the sea. It was a small win, it was fine enough just knowing what she had allowed, and the fact that every night after she gave him his night pills he knew where she would go next.
So, one of the nights when he was done with her, he would be surprised to see her get up, go around his bed to take him by the wrists, pull him, and take him. He would soon find himself on her bed, now a mattress on the floor surrounded by plushies, even if too small for him. She then turned on the television, pointed at it, and he looked at it; static. He understood that she probably wanted it to be fixed, and while he worked on it she left, leaving him on his own in her little toy-box, one that seemed like a proper room now, one that felt lived on, probably more than his own.
She came back with the first aid kit, just in time to see the TV fixed, she smiled, probably the first time he ever saw her smile genuinely. She took his hands and left the kit on them, as it was now her turn to be fixed.
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