Tom and Gabby Ch. 07 - Absconsion

** Hi folks. Thanks for all the reads/upvotes/comments/feedback from Ch. 06. Your interaction is always well received.

This chapter is the longest (yet) and contains themes of mental health, gaslighting and Tom and Linda's manipulation of them. If this is a trigger, please bear this in mind prior to reading.

As ever, I remind readers that this is a work of fiction, and while it may draw some parallels to reality, it isn't.

Please read Ch. 01- Ch. 06 before embarking on this one. It probably won't make sense otherwise.

Best wishes and let me know your thoughts! Ch. 08 is in progress.

**

Linda's voice stirs me awake. It's not how I'd choose to wake up by any means, especially given that last night was one of the worst night's sleeps I've ever had. I couldn't settle and spent hours tossing and turning.

I'm not someone who has ever been able to function well without enough sleep.

I've had to acclimatise to a new normal means of waking up over the past seven weeks. I used to be a snooze-button enthusiast, granting myself multiple rounds of extra four or five minutes, sometimes more times than I perhaps should have done. Since Linda's hostile hijacking of my life, I've had to get used to being roused by her and Tom's loud pleasured moans, fucking mere metres from me, with no discernible efforts to be quiet.

For a short while, I'd found that putting my pillow over my head worked well to muffle their impassioned noises, until Linda put a swift stop to it and ensured that putting my pillow over my head is no longer an option.

Last week, to enforce her rule about me not self-gratifying, she decided that I couldn't be trusted overnight. I'd suspected that Tom had confided to her about my occasional former use of masturbation to help me get to sleep, though she'd not explicitly said as much.

She'd instead claimed to have 'thought about it' and 'become concerned' that potential misdemeanours overnight should be prevented.

She'd spoken to Tom about it at length and they'd worked out a 'solution'. Like usual in their discussions about me, I'd been the subject, not a participant, and had been the last to know of their plan.

I'd only learned of the newest restriction when it was being enacted.

I'd gone to bed like normal, at a time decided upon by Linda and hadn't the slightest suspicion of anything untoward. After I'd undressed for bed, under Linda's supervision, Tom had come up the stairs to us and stood himself in the bedroom doorway, authoritatively.

His unexpected presence during my bedtime routine had unnerved me. It had been a true case of 'absence of the normal and presence of the abnormal'. I'd immediately known something was about to happen, and from experience, sensed that I wouldn't like it.

Tom hadn't hinted at anything, hadn't spoken a word, simply watching in silence. I'd climbed onto the camp bed and rolled onto my side, readying myself to go to sleep.

Contrary to what I'd become 'used to', Linda had roughly wrenched me over, positioning me flat onto my back, before dragging four black strapped restraints up from under the bed, and delightedly boasting her rationale, while fitting me into them.

She'd insisted that this new restriction was being implemented for my own good. The new restraints were being used to prevent me from touching myself but also for allowing her and Tom to sleep soundly, knowing that I couldn't wander around the house at night.

When I'd looked over at Tom, he'd been sadistically smirking, remaining on hand, ready to assist if I resisted.

A week later, now I'm accustomed to it, Tom has lessened his insistence on chaperoning the procedure.

Linda has no idea of how badly I slept as she wakes me. She smiles widely down at me as she unfastens me from the bed.

"It's nearly eight o'clock," she tells me, as if this is a groundbreaking revelation.

Eight o'clock is still early by my reckoning, especially given my poor-quality sleep.

"For fucks sake, I'm awake," I tell her indignantly. She tuts at my tone.

When my limbs are freed, she stands beside the bed and waits for me to get out of it.

I move sluggishly, not wanting to be awake or to get up. My grumpy delaying prompts her to click her fingers at me, as if I'm some sort of trained animal, expected to perform tricks at her command.

"Come on," she directs. "It's time to start the day."

She paces over to the chair, the one I'm often strapped onto, and retrieves a pile of clothes, assumedly the ones she's chosen for me to wear today and returns, holding them while she waits.

I slowly pull myself off the camp bed and stand, waiting.

"I've picked you out a lovely outfit for today. I think you're going to like it," she tells me, with a glint in her eyes.

She reserves comments like this for when she's selected something particularly garish. I half expect to be dressed in a binbag.

She studies my drowsy disposition and clears her throat before speaking again.

"I thought you might show a bit more appreciation for us letting you have a lie in," she comments, as if they've done me some sort of grandiose favour.

Any gratitude I feel is well buried beneath my tiredness, and I roll my eyes, maybe not as subtly as I'd liked to have been.

Linda shakes her head, and hands me a pair of knickers to put on.

They're vastly different from the type of knickers I used to wear. These ones are floral, oversized, and generally just unflattering.

She bought them in bulk from a market stall, choosing them on the basis of the shape and style generally not being worn by anyone under the age of seventy.

I slip my legs in and pull the knickers up, conscious that she's watching me closely. She seems to smell the air around me, with her nose turned. "When was the last time we showered you?" she asks, unconcerned about causing me offence.

"Tom and I will have to make time to get you washed today," she adds.

I scowl at her. The only reason that I'm less than fresh is because of her and Tom's stupid restrictions on my bathing.

She passes me a long-sleeved t-shirt next. It was probably white once.

A couple of months ago, I'd have put a bra on at this point, but I'm denied the privilege of wearing bras anymore. Linda feels that my tits are too small to wear one.

I pull the t-shirt on compliantly, huffing impatiently to myself as I wait for her to hand me the final garment, which closely resembles a dark grey, burlap sack.

She's excited about revealing it and unfolds it instead of handing it to me, before holding it up proudly, letting me see it clearly. It's a woollen pinafore dress, and an ugly one at that. The bottom half is crudely pleated, and the top half is the embodiment of frumpiness.

Vintage clothing is considered to be fashionable. This dress is the exception. It never has and never will be fashionable.

"It's lovely, isn't it?" Linda delights, grinning gleefully. "I was walking past a charity shop the other day and saw it in the window. I had to go in and buy it for you. I couldn't resist. Here," she beckons, gathering the material and holding it outstretched, almost appearing to be friendly. "Put your arms up and I'll help you put it on."

I'm so busy looking in disgust at the dress that I'm slow to react to her.

"Shall I get Tom to come and help?" she offers, misinterpreting my disgust for defiance.

I don't want to start the day with Tom having to hold me still while she dresses me, and so bring my arms out to enable her. She looks at me, entirely self-satisfied, before threading the dress onto me.

She pulls it over my head and allows it to fall down my body, then pulls the excess material around my figure, ensuring she makes me look as repellent as she'd envisioned. Normally I'd care about something like this. This morning, I'm too tired to.

Linda adds insult to injury by having me stand in front of the mirror to 'admire' myself and I stare at my reflection, emptily.

There isn't much reason for me to look in mirrors anymore, not that I ever enjoyed it much anyway.

I've never paid excessive attention to how I look, often citing this as one of the main differences between Linda and myself, but now I can't look away. My once effortless presentation has devolved to haggard.

The roots of my hair are now littered with unruly white wisps. I have the appearance of someone at least ten years older than I actually am, and Linda relishes it.

When she feels that I've had enough time to wallow over my destitute appearance, she ushers me out of the bedroom and along the landing. I shuffle down the stairs and go to the kitchen, where Tom is sat at the table, drinking his coffee and smoking.

He raises an eyebrow when he sees me. I recognise his expression as revulsion at my dowdy clothes and glare back at him.

"Morning," he greets me chirpily, with a grin. I decline to reply. Tom has always known not to speak to me when I'm tired. I guess the rules of our marriage no longer apply.

"Rough wakeup?" he addresses Linda, referring to my refusal to acknowledge him as she nudges past me on her way into the room.

"I wouldn't bother baby," Linda advises. "She's woken up in a right mood this morning."

"Is that right? She's lucky we didn't get her up at six, with us," Tom pointedly remarks.

I ignore his statement. His flippant use of the word 'lucky' irritates me.

They exchange knowing glances, sharing the same thought.

"Don't just stand there Gabrielle," Linda snaps indignantly. "Go and use the toilet. You know how we do things in a morning now."

I go into the downstairs toilet, making a point of not looking at Tom as I pass him, snubbing him completely.

Once inside, I push the toilet door closed, pull my knickers down and sit onto the seat.

I have my wee, then stand to pull my knickers back up, before flushing and washing my hands.

When I open the door, Linda is bustling about the kitchen busily, preparing some toast.

I emerge from the toilet and walk over to the table, taking my designated chair, across from Tom.

He waits for me to be seated before speaking to me.

"Lind and I are both at home today," he tells me.

I shrug, neither caring nor wanting to exchange words with him. I lose track of the days now, and never know whether one of them is working or not.

"We're planning for a nice relaxing day off together," he reveals. I look at him blankly, providing the minimum of courtesy.

The toaster pops in the background.

"We'll be going upstairs for a workout together for a couple of hours this morning, and then this afternoon, we've planned to hunker down and watch a couple of films," he continues.

What is the purpose of his telling me? I'm hardly going to be a contributing factor in their plans.

"You'll be going on the dining table this morning, while we're in the gym," he prefaces. "But we thought it might be nice for you to sit and watch films with us later," he says.

If he's expecting some show of gratitude, I don't provide one.

Why should I be grateful for being made to sit on the floor; watching films with them, while they canoodle together on the sofa? I doubt they'll even make it through a full film before one of them wants to pause it and fuck.

"Awesome," I answer with a sarcastic undertone.

"Excuse you?" he sounds sharply.

I remain silent, sensing his change in demeanour.

I feel Linda looking over at him, shaking her head.

"What's with the attitude Gabby? We thought you'd enjoy watching some films with us. We can find something else for you to do if it doesn't appeal?" he threatens.

"No, it's fine," I retort, disinterestedly, still irked by his suggestion that I'm lucky.

"I'm trying to figure out why you're being so hostile? Is it that time of the month?" he berates me.

"She's about four days off," Linda calls over.

She doesn't have periods herself, a side effect of being on the contraceptive pill, but she has taken it upon herself to monitor mine.

She marks the dates down on a calendar, and ensures she knows when I'm due to start.

She and Tom share a theory that I'm more 'unruly' in the week before my period arrives and adapt their treatment of me accordingly.

I'm ferociously defensive about any outbursts I experience being nothing to do with fluctuating hormones, and everything to do with their treatment of me. Not that they believe this.

"That explains it Lind," Tom confirms, with a misogynistic roll of his eyes. Linda sounds to agree with him, while spreading butter on my toast.

I loathe their implication and curl my lip.

"Relax Gabby," Tom reasons. "Have your breakfast and then I'll personally put you onto the table and get the wand on you. Maybe a couple of orgasms will sort your mood out? Deal?"

"How could it not? Making me orgasm is the answer to everything isn't it?" I sass back.

"Say again?" he demands. "If you don't drop that tone, I'll take you in there right now!"

I swallow, seeing him losing his patience with my impudence.

Linda comes over to us and puts my toast down in front of me. She presents Tom with a fresh coffee, which he accepts gratefully.

She wraps her arms around the back of him and kisses him on the cheek, whispering to him quietly and working her magic to diffuse the tension.

I begin to eat my toast, keeping quiet. Her mediation, while irritating, offers me some benefit.

Midway through my third bite, there's a loud knocking at the front door.

Linda straightens.

"It's here!" she chirps, brightly and claps her hands.

"Earlier than I thought," Tom begrudges, checking his watch.

"Keep your arse flat on that seat and eat your toast Gabrielle," he orders. "Speaking of toast, I didn't hear you thank Linda for making it for you?"

"Thanks," I mutter, frostily.

They cast me a lingering look before leaving the kitchen together, pulling the door closed on the way to answer the front door. "We really need to work on her manners," Tom tells her, offhandedly.

I stop eating, trying to listen to them both conversing with someone at the door. I can't hear what's being said.

After a few moments, the talking stops, replaced by sounds of furniture being moved.

I wonder what might be happening in the hall.

After some indistinct straining noises, and some banging, the front door shuts again. It's a sound I've gotten used to listening out for. Tom and Linda are worse to me when they're together. They take inspiration from each other, and when one of them is at work, I only feel half of their combined wrath. The sound of the front door is usually symbiotic with things becoming worse for me.

I've resumed eating when Linda and Tom stride back into the kitchen.

They walk past me without feeling the need to explain anything and head towards the back door.

"I can't believe how big it is," Linda marvels. "It didn't look that big in the pictures. I would've told them to take it round the back if I'd known. Our hall is far too narrow to lug something that big through it," she enthuses, waiting for Tom to unlock the door and open it. I note her use of the word 'our', as if the hall is somehow hers.

"Hopefully it's just packaging. We'll need to be able to move the thing behind the sofa when it's not being used," Tom reasons.

They both step out and pull the door shut behind them. I'm perplexed by the subject of their discussion. What is being delivered that they intend to store behind the sofa?

I peer through the window, watching as they walk down the garden to the gate at the end and unlatch it, before standing together, waiting. Both of them are smiling.

It takes me longer than it probably should to realise that their preoccupation in the garden means that I'm alone, unsupervised. For the first time in seven weeks.

I drop the piece of toast I'm holding down onto my plate and look around the room.

My mind is screaming at me, telling me that this is my chance.

I've been waiting for weeks now for one to present itself. I knew they'd inevitably make a mistake at some point, but I imagined it'd involve a malfunction with the table restraints. I could never have imagined my opportunity would arise because of a momentary lapse in their judgement. Least of all when they're both at home with me, and on a morning when I'm so tired.

Their careless mistake is now my advantage.

They've left the front door unguarded and they're both distracted.

I feel as though fate has finally intervened and thrown me a long-awaited lifeline.

I lift from my chair, purposefully keeping my head dipped low, so as not to be seen through the window. I hurriedly scurry out of the kitchen and down the length of the hall.

The narrow table has been moved, and the shoe cabinet is pressed against the stairs, but its still accessible.

I look back to the kitchen, making sure I'm alone, before digging through the shoe cabinet to find the only remaining pair of shoes I have. Linda held onto the ones she'd procured for me and spitefully donated the rest to charity.

I shove my feet into the shoes, feeling my toes press to the ends of them. I make every effort to be quiet, gently pressing down on the door handle. Though Tom's keys are in the lock, the handle depresses, and I carefully ease it open, slowly, clenching my teeth together as it squeaks.

As I step out and turn back to close it, I realise that the sound might alert Tom and Linda to my location and so I leave it ajar.

I move quickly up the driveway, manoeuvring between their parked cars.

Whoever is delivering their new item has unknowingly done me a favour by parking his truck across the drive, blocking both their cars in. I interpret it as a sign that my escape has been orchestrated by some higher power.

As soon as my feet hit the pavement, I abandon any effort to be quiet.

I've never been an athletic person and have always favoured more sedentary activities, but on this occasion, I run. I'm desperate to put some distance between myself and them.

I don't know exactly where I'm headed, I haven't thought that far yet, I just keep running. The shoes are too small and hurt my feet, but it's of little importance.

With every moment that passes, I wonder if they've noticed my absence yet or whether they're still blissfully unaware, thinking I'm sat at the table, idly eating my toast, and waiting for them to finish accepting the delivery.

Whatever they've ordered, I'm thankful for its provision of this rare opportunity.

I sprint all the way up the street and bear right towards the main road, passing a dirt pathway as I'm running.

It leads to the local park and a small, wooded area.

Seeing the path reminds me of a conversation I'd had with Tom, several years ago. We'd both been drunk, and the question had been a bit of stupid, light-hearted fun. He'd hypothetically asked me where I'd go if I ever found myself being chased by a horror film serial killer.

I'd insisted that I'd head for the park and hide within the trees, maybe arming myself with a fallen branch as something to defend myself with.

He'd shaken his head at my answer and told me at least ten reasons that this would be the wrong choice.

I'd tipsily smiled and agreed to disagree but had remained unconvinced by his attempts to persuade me to stay on the main roads. For someone as loathing of physical exertion as I am, hiding from danger has always seemed like a better alternative to running.

Tom's always been very astute at remembering small details and will probably recall this conversation. On discovering me gone, I'm counting on his starting the search for me in the woods based on what I'd said all those years ago.

While we'd been having that hypothetical conversation, I never could have imagined that I'd find myself needing to make the choice between running or hiding. Least of all from him.