Laurence went to bed that night feeling nothing but happiness. Garroth painted him! And thought his eyes were beautiful! He snuggled up in his blankets, smiling brightly and temporarily forgetting all of the troubles of the last week or so and letting a childlike glee fill him.

Why did this make him so happy? It was a simple act, a way for Garroth to see him in a better light, but for some reason Laurence couldn't stop thinking about it. He couldn't wait for the next morning, to talk to Garroth again. To hear his sweet and smooth British accent that sent chills up his spine.

It felt strange. One moment feeling hatred and anger towards someone, then absolutely adoring them the next. Was this how people usually felt around their friends? It didn't feel like it, but maybe it was. Laurence really didn't know. All he knew was that falling asleep that night was difficult, and his mind was swimming with thoughts.

The next morning, Laurence practically leaped out of bed. Flipping his switch and waiting for Garroth to wake up. He waited for a few moments by the mirror, but herd nothing, so he assumed Garroth hadn't turned on his speaker yet.

While he waited for breakfast, and Garroth, Laurence grabbed his guitar and began to strum for fun. Each chord and note was happy and giddy, full of a bubbliness that could only be described as a child's first crush, and maybe that's exactly what it was.

As he strummed, his mind drifted back to the real world. He remembered the message the women gave to them, how they needed to escape. His music began to become a little more dark, slower paced and ominous. It wasn't on purpose, but he kind of just played whatever he was feeling.

He looked over at the little door that slid open, revealing two slices of toast and a glass of milk. His icy eyes filled with worry as he stopped strumming and looked at the white speaker,
waiting for the familiar voice of the woman to fill the room. The voice was so comforting, as it was the only connection he had to another human in all of his years of isolation, other than Garroth of course.

It never came on.

Fear struck Laurence's stomach as he waited.

10 minutes, 20 minutes, 25 minutes.

Nothing.

He walked over to the plate of food and quickly scarfed it down, looking at the speaker every few seconds. Part of him knew that he wasn't going to hear her comforting voice, but the rest of him was holding on desperately for her to speak.

Tears welled in his eyes, then Garroth's speaker switched on and he spoke. "Laurence." He said, his voice serious and firm. "The picture of you is still here. It didn't disappear." Laurence could hear Garroth's voice tremble a little, but he wasn't sure if it was from joy or slight uneasiness, as if he too felt something was off.

It was at this moment that Laurence realized something, and it shook him to the core. "We need to get out of here Garroth. I think we are on our own now."

"What?" Garroth asked, confused. "Why would you say that? Everything is the same as it was before, except for the painting of you staying."

"No." Laurence replied firmly. "I know every routine, every moment, and every second of this isolated fortress, and everything has changed. It's all different now. The routine, the people, the meals, the studies I bet."

"How do you know?" Garroth protested, fear lacing his tone.

"Every Tuesday I get a cinnamon roll for breakfast. No matter what, it's always the same. It marks the day I was put into this awful place, it was a Tuesday. 12 years it's been like that, never changing ever. It was almost like a way of apologizing for putting me here."

"Ok... and?"

"Today is a Tuesday morning, and I got toast."