by G. R. Lyons
If only he could have slept through this part, like he usually did. Then again, being trapped in the box was one of the few times he was truly safe, uncomfortable though it might be. The boy shifted over onto his back, stretching out as much as he could in the confined space, and felt around. His hands were cuffed—no surprise there—but he was able to stretch his arms out and study the box by touch. It was a different box than last time. He was pretty sure the box was actually called a trunk, from what the Sirs had said, but he didn't really know what a trunk was, exactly. He'd never been put inside one without a blindfold on, so he had no idea what it looked like compared to some of the other boxes he'd been stuffed into over the years.
He reached up and tugged at the blindfold, but it made no difference. The trunk was so dark, he couldn't see anything. He let the blindfold drop back into place with a sigh. Darkness was good. Darkness was safe. Despite the pain throughout his body from the party, the boy managed to relax by degrees. It was the only time he'd be able to do so.
His real torment would certainly start up again soon enough.
All too soon, the jolting, tumbling motion that rocked his body suddenly stopped. The boy winced, bracing himself. He heard a couple of thuds, the vibrations rolling right through him and making him shiver. He knew what came next. It was always the same.
Something clicked, and he felt the cool, fresh air on his hands and face as the trunk was opened. A moment later, rough hands were on him, twisting off the handcuffs and tossing them aside as he was hauled bodily from the trunk. The boy barely managed to get his feet under himself before they dragged him off.
A door opened and shut while three different voices surrounded him: two belonging to the men who carried him, and the third was the worst of all. Oh gods. He was back with Bad Man. He just knew it.
Like almost every other place he'd ever been taken, he was hauled down a flight of stairs, then forcibly stripped naked. It didn't matter how much he struggled. With two big men holding him and yanking off his clothes, he was powerless to fight back. Sometimes, he didn't even try. Why bother? This was his life. Had been as far back as he could remember.
Once he was naked, the men groped and fondled him for a few moments before they dumped him unceremoniously on the floor. A bare, concrete floor. The boy shivered. Yes, he was definitely back with Bad Man. Back with his most cruel tormentor. All the other men were bad, too, of course, but none of them were as violent or as humiliating as Bad Man was.
The blindfold was ripped from his head as the two men walked away, leaving him sprawled in the middle of the brightly lit basement while Bad Man looked down at him from the top of the stairs, wearing a vicious grin.
“Welcome home, boy,” the man sneered.
The boy hugged his knees to his chest and ducked his head.
Bad Man let the other men out of the basement, then shut the door at the top of the stairs, trapping the boy in. He heard all their footsteps upstairs, heading away, then one set of footsteps returned.
Don't come down. Please don't come down. He was still sore from the last party, from all those men using him. Please don't come down.
The basement door opened. The boy whimpered, curling up tighter, but he knew it would do no good. Bad Man was bigger. Stronger. There was no escape. There never was. At least, not physically.
The moment Bad Man put a hand on him, the boy tried to disappear within his mind. A part of him was painfully aware of the abuse being done to his body, but he was able, from years of practice, to push it aside, pretend it wasn't happening. He hid away in the dark shadows of his mind, where it was safe.
He could almost ignore the hands forcing him into position. Almost believe yet another cock wasn't ripping him open and invading his body. Almost pretend he felt nothing when Bad Man punched him in the side, punishment for the sobs that escaped him.
The boy squeezed his eyes shut, surrounding himself with his mental darkness, drifting off into a fantasy world where someone touched him nicely and held him gently, keeping him warm and safe.
It wasn't until he registered actual dark that he finally came back to reality. He was alone again, sprawled out on the concrete floor. Still naked, of course. And with several new aches in his body. One in particular that he had to force himself not to think about. He didn't even bother trying to sit up, knowing it would be too painful to do so. He was pretty sure he was bleeding, but was too afraid to reach back and check.
But it was over. For now. And it was dark. If the lights were off, it meant Bad Man truly had left. As long as he was in the dark, he was safe. The dark meant he was alone, no cruel hands touching him, no men fucking him, no tormentors beating him.
He tried to move, to get more comfortable, but choked when something cold and hard pulled against his throat. He whimpered, and slowly reached up to feel around his neck even though he knew exactly what he'd find: the metal collar, locked in place and attached to a chain. The boy felt along the chain, the links cold and rough under his fingers. Sure enough, it was looped around that pipe in the wall. Until Bad Man came back down and removed the collar, the boy would have only a few feet in any direction that he could move.
He lay back down right were he was and gave way to tears.
The sound of footsteps overhead made him wince, but he knew Bad Man probably wouldn't come back down again. Probably not until tomorrow. Maybe alone, maybe with another party. There was no knowing until it happened. The boy was determined to enjoy the reprieve as much as possible since he knew it wouldn't last. It never did.
A heavy thud sounded upstairs, followed by absolute silence.
Chapter 2
VIC SWITCHED off his alarm, considered getting out of bed to hit the gym and then go to work even though he'd requested the day off, and sank back into the pillows instead. He'd barely made it out of bed on this date last year, either. Maybe he could manage it next year. For now, he didn't want to move.
The edge of his bed dipped, and the nightstand drawer opened. Vic pushed himself up and turned on the lamp so he could see, then propped his pillows up against the headboard, leaning back and rubbing the sleep from his eyes while Cam pulled out his notepad and pen.
You alright? Cam wrote.
“Yeah, of course,” Vic lied.
Vic, Cam scoffed, and Vic almost laughed. Funny how he was learning to tell his brother's tone just from the way the pen moved.
“Don't worry about me, kiddo,” Vic said. “I just want to know how you're doing.”
The pen wavered for a long moment, then finally wrote, I'll be fine.
“Are you sure?” Vic asked. He barely got the words out before something smacked him upside the head. “Hey. Brat.”
That's what you get for using the 's' word.
Vic rubbed the back of his head, and nodded. “You're right.” Once Vic had learned that Cam's mental essence still existed and that they could interact, he'd spent countless hours with the ghost, practicing different methods of communication while also giving Cam the much-delayed therapy he needed. Vic wasn't a psychologist, but he had some training as part of his job. The circumstances were hardly ideal since he couldn't see Cam's face or hear the inflections in Cam's voice, but at least he was able to help to some degree, and Cam had definitely been making progress, dealing with the horrors that he'd endured.
So much progress, in fact, that when Vic kept asking Cam if he was sure he was comfortable with some thing or another, Cam had declared the question off-limits.
You're making me feel like I don't know my own mind, Cam had angrily scribbled out one day, a few months ago. Making me second-guess myself. I can make my own decisions, Vic.
“You're right,” Vic repeated. “I won't ask that again.”
That's what you said the last time, Cam reminded him, though his tone seemed playful rather than scolding.
Vic chuckled. “I'll try harder, I promise.”
Good. So I take it you're not going to work since you're still in bed?
Vic no
dded.
So what are we doing today?
“What do you want to do?” Vic asked, wishing he could see Cam's face. “We can do a therapy session if you need. Or just hang out.” He paused, bracing himself, then asked, “If you're ready, we can go face Da–”
NO, Cam scribbled, writing so hard that he nearly tore through the paper. No, I'm not ready.
Vic blew out the breath he was holding. Thank gods. He wasn't ready, either.
I've had almost fifteen years to deal with the attack, Cam wrote. But as for– The pen jerked to a stop, and Vic got the impression of Cam taking a deep breath before he went on: It's only been two years since he killed me. I can't face him yet. It's too fresh.
Vic nodded. It was the same for him. Hells, he wasn't sure if just seeing the man would make him break down into a complete emotional wreck or blind him with such rage that he tore the man apart with his bare hands.
Considering he was lying in bed instead of going about his normal routine, he feared it would likely be the former. Coward, he thought.
Well, since you suck and don't like playing video games with me–
“I told you I would if you really wanted to,” Vic interrupted, and Cam playfully shoved him. “Brat.”
I know. It's not your thing. So can we just like watch movies all day and not think about depressing stuff?
Vic sighed, then reached out, feeling around until he encountered Cam's form, and pulled the ghost in for a side-hug. “Whatever you want, kiddo.”
Cam hugged him back, then started to set his notepad aside, only to snatch it back up again and write, I love you, Vic. You know that, right?
Vic pulled Cam close and kissed the top of his head, buying himself a moment to swallow down the lump in his throat. Cam could have so easily hated him for the rest of his life. Instead, he'd forgiven him and still loved him. “I love you, too.”
They spent the rest of the day on the couch, watching comedy and action films just to pass the time, to help them both forget that it was officially two years that Cam had been dead. All they had to do was get through the day. One day to wallow or push reality aside.
But as soon as Vic's alarm went off the next morning, he was up and out of bed, determined to resume his routine. He hit the gym to clear his mind, then headed off to work, hoping to make a difference, hoping to find yet another way to make up for Cam.
All that greeted him once he reached his desk, though, was an inbox full of insurance policies to write up and contracts to review. Vic sighed. He needed another rescue case. Not that he'd wish for a kid to be abducted or disowned, but without having someone to track down and rescue, it was hard to feel like he'd ever manage to balance the scales and chip away at his failure.
Before he could even open his first file, someone breezed past his desk and dropped something on the floor.
Vic looked up and blinked. “Ryley?”
Ryley grinned at him as he yanked open his bag and pulled out a lanyard with what looked like his old company ID attached to it. “Hey, Vic.” He threw himself into the chair at his old desk and switched on the computer.
“You're here,” Vic said, still staring.
“Yeah.” Ryley blew out a breath. “Almost late on my first day back. Typical me, huh?” He chuckled.
Vic slowly shook his head. “I didn't realize you'd gotten your job back.”
“Oh, yeah. I came by yesterday to talk to the boss, and you weren't here…”
Vic nodded. “Took the day off.”
“Ah.” Ryley eyed him carefully. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Vic said, trying to brush it off. “You know–”
Another agent rushed over and stopped in front of Ryley's desk, interrupting him. “Oh, good. You're here. I've got a scene for you.”
Ryley popped right back out of his chair and started grabbing for his phone and keys. “Where at?”
The agent handed Ryley a slip of paper. “That address. Body's inside the house.”
“Has anyone been in?” Ryley asked, scooting around from behind his desk.
“No, the patrol officer just peeked in the windows and called it in,” the other agent said, following Ryley as he hurried away.
“Got it, thanks,” Ryley said, and turned to Vic. “Hey, if you need to talk later–”
Vic waved him off. “I'm fine. Go.”
Ryley hesitated, then flashed him a grin and rushed off, disappearing through the bullpen on his way toward the front door.
Vic watched the man go, and let out a sigh. Ryley had barely been back for five minutes, and he already had a proper case. Vic envied the man. He could use the distraction of a good rescue case right about then.
He glanced down at the scars across the knuckles of his left hand, then reached into his pocket, gave the bracelet a squeeze, and turned his attention to his work, hoping something in that inbox would give him even a shred of redemption.
* * *
THE BOY whimpered and curled in on himself as he listened to all the extra footsteps upstairs. It had been awfully quiet up there since Bad Man had left him two nights ago—too quiet, really—but now there was definitely something going on. If the multiple footsteps meant anything, Bad Man was probably having one of his parties again.
Which was weird, considering it was morning. At least, the boy assumed it was morning, squinting up at the tiny window over the shower in the corner, the only view to outside. Sometimes, if he looked out the window at just the right angle, he could see something blue instead of the empty, soothing blackness he saw out the window at night. He had no idea what the blue thing was, only that it signified day. But that was all he ever saw. And at that moment, chained as he was across the basement from the window, he couldn't see anything at all except just enough light to suggest it wasn't nighttime anymore.
Bad Man usually didn't have parties in the morning. Then again, Bad Man pretty much did whatever he wanted, and the boy couldn't stop him.
And the boy wasn't ready. His whole body hurt while his temples throbbed with the pressure of a growing headache, but those agonies paled in comparison to his simple need for both food and water. He'd already lost hold of his bladder and his bowels after trying with all his might to hold it all in, knowing Bad Man would be furious with him. But he couldn't help it. Chained as he was, he couldn't reach the toilet, so he'd made a mess, both of the floor and of himself, which meant he wouldn't be ready for Bad Man's party guests. It would mean a beating, for sure.
It didn't matter that Bad Man hadn't bothered to come down and free him so he had a chance to get ready before the guests arrived. The boy would be blamed anyway.
He tested the chain hooked to his collar, listening to it clang against the pipe it was attached to. There wasn't far he could move. He felt along the chain with both hands, trying to find any way to get loose, but the links were thick, the collar around his throat too tight to even fathom slipping free of it. He was stuck.
The footsteps overhead continued, and the boy curled up again on his side, the concrete floor cold and rough on his naked body. He pulled his knees up to his chest, hugged them, and tucked his hands up under his chin. This was going to be awful, he just knew it.
And he was still sore from when Bad Man had last used him. If there was a whole party now, he'd wind up bloody for sure. More than he already was.
The boy choked out another sob and tucked himself closer to the wall, barely noticing the cold, rough surface pressed up against his back as he continued to listen to all the activity upstairs. What was taking them so long? Why hadn't they come down yet? If he had to endure the coming torture, why couldn't they just get it over with?
Then all the footsteps moved away, and everything went silent again. The boy held his breath, waiting, straining to hear any little sound from upstairs, but there was nothing. He slowly let the breath back out, trying not to make a sound, and listened again. He kept waiting, fully expecting the door at the top of the stairs to fly open, the awful lights to blare on
, the group of men to file down, but nothing happened.
The boy trembled, his whole body aching as he stayed curled up against the wall, but even when he was sure that a couple hours must have gone by, there was still no sound. Just like there had been ever since Bad Man last left him. Until all those footsteps, of course.
The silence was so strange. What was going on?
He waited and waited, trembling and crying. Surely, Bad Man would be coming down any moment.
Still, nothing happened. The silence stretched until the boy felt himself on the verge of panic. This had never happened before. The parties never came just to leave again without touching him. It didn't make any sense.
Hours passed. His headache grew to a stabbing throb, his hunger gnawed at him, his thirst was beyond desperate, and his entire body ached as he lay on the cold, hard floor.
And still, nothing but silence.
He tried to lick his cracked lips, but his whole mouth was so dry that it didn't help. His body felt wrung out, desperate for even just a drop of fluid. If he could just get over to the sink! But the chain was too short. He'd never make it.
The boy went limp, sinking into the cold, concrete floor, the whole room feeling like it was spinning even though he wasn't moving and couldn't see anything. His breaths turned erratic, and for a little while, he actually wished Bad Man would come down. It would mean punishment, and then being used, but he was so desperate for so many things that he was sure he'd pay any price that Bad Man demanded.
Then he wondered if he could die like this. Just go away forever, and never have to endure Bad Man's touch again. Or any of the others'. The thought brought a hint of peace to his dizzy brain. He could be free.
If Bad Man would stay away just a little bit longer…
* * *
BETWEEN FILES, Vic glanced at Ryley. The man had been smiling almost nonstop since he'd gone to examine that body yesterday. How Ryley could be so damned chipper about a corpse, Vic would never understand.