She'd wet the bed.

Judging by her, albeit, fucked up internal clock, it was at least 24 hours since she had asked to use the restroom. She thought her interaction with a certain black-eyed devil's helper had been fairly positive, at least, more positive than any other previous encounter. Though it couldn't have been that positive, or she wouldn't be sitting in the unsettling warmth of wet bedsheets. She wasn't even sure if this would be a big enough reason for them to let her leave The Room. Her broken ribs weren't, so maybe she'd just have to learn to live with the smell of piss. Good god, she thought, was this her life now? Was she actually becoming used to being held captive? She felt a pinch behind her eyes, and shook out the thought.

She peeled herself off the damp mattress. She was almost positive she was alive, but god, she felt like she was dead. She had a crick in her neck and a wheeze in her breath that hadn't left her since her arrival. It didn't take much to get her up; the smell of urine was too potent to stay sitting. She stood for a second, still tired. That was something else she had gotten used to, being tired. Without having natural light, she couldn't tell the difference between day or night, so she just slept all the time. Sighing, she trudged to the door, studied it. How many times had she stood there, just staring, hoping it might unlock and she'd be free? She had practically memorized the thing. The exact colour was stained into her mind, a dark green, like the colour of a dusty chalkboard; and every single place the paint peeled. She memorized the little lines in the middle near the bottom, scratch marks. The golden door handle, the one she'd spent countless hours just twisting in her hand. She'd pretended she was locked out of her house once. She tried to call Punk, and cried when she couldn't. She was sick of this door.

"Hello?" She called out, knocking, "Please, I need to talk to someone. Please let me talk to somebody."

Her voice was hoarse, still groggy. She was always groggy. She wondered, suddenly, if they had drugged her food. It wouldn't have been hard, and it wasn't like she had any other choice but to eat it. Dammit, how could she have been so weak? This way, she was always out of her senses; brain too dusty to try to fight back. Her joints felt so rusted, of course they drugged her food. She felt so paranoid. What else would those bastards do?

"Goddammit, would somebody help me out here? Hello!" With that, the door swung open, ssacking her in the face and knocking her off her feet.

"Miss Abigail!" Erick Rowan's massive hands reached for her, hoisting her up by her elbows. He kept bowing his head, silently apologizing for his mistake. Luke Harper stood beside him, blank-faced. AJ grimaced at the two, heart racing. She hid her shaky hands by balling them into fists; she would never let them think they won.

"You know, when you get a pet, you're supposed to take care of it. Change its litterbox, take it for walks, give it a bath," The two looked utterly bewildered, had they heard sarcasm before? Then again, knowing Bray, probably not, "There was a reason I asked to use the washroom."

"My apologies, Abigail. I had asked, but He merely said that you were not finished with your revelations. He wanted you to have more time."

"Well, I don't think some clean bedsheets, and maybe a bath is going to interrupt my revelations."

The henchmen nodded their heads, closing the door behind them. AJ stood there, holding onto her elbows, watching them walk to her bed and remove the sheets. She moved her eyes to the floor, folding into herself. This was so demeaning. She hadn't wet the bed since she was nine years old. As they left the Room, wet sheets in tow, Rowan turned to her, "We will be back."

The door closed, leaving AJ alone again. She knew they were her captors, but she always felt so despondent when they left. She wasn't sure if it was the lack of interaction, or the change of pace. Maybe they were hypnotizing her somehow. She walked around the room. How long had she been in here? She wondered what the Outside was like. Was she the only one here? Maybe they'd open the door and she'd hear a thousand other screams with a thousand other Abigails here with her. Would they let her leave the room fully conscious? Maybe they'd handcuff her. She sat down, a few feet from the door. Did they even have a bathtub? Sometimes she didn't think so, judging by how the Wyatts had smelled in the WWE. She smelled so bad, now, she couldn't tell the difference.

She layed on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She had realized it was concrete, just like the rest of the room. Why did they fear her escape? The Wyatts were tricky, they weren't like regular people. If somebody else had kidnapped her, she could have easily chalked it up to them being crazy, but she felt like the Wyatts were legitimate. She wasn't sure if it was demons, or witchcraft, but something here just felt real. Her mind began to drift to her nightmare, and soon enough she started shaking. Did they put that in her mind? They would do anything to break her, she knew it.

The door creaked open and she flew up, on her feet. Luke Harper smiled at her, eyes lifting at the edges.

"Would you come with me?"

She froze, unsure of what to do. He seemed so kind at that moment, but he was a Wyatt. Nothing they ever did was in kindness. Still, it was better that having to stay in The Room. She took tiny steps towards him, shivering more as she got closer. He took her arm gently, and she peeked out. She was at the end of a very long hallway. They left The Room, together. She found herself clinging to him, the only familiarity before her. She wanted to puke, but she was so desperate for freedom she kept steady on her feet. The walls were scattered with framed pictures but she didn't dare look at them. They reached the end of the hallway, and Harper kept going, walking towards a door. He stopped in front of it, beaming at her. He opened it. She saw a running bath and she cried.