by G. R. Lyons
It was too late to save Cam, but maybe he could save this boy instead.
Please? Cam wrote again, underlining the word. Maybe we both need this.
That did it. If Cam needed anything, he had to make it happen.
“Alright,” he agreed. “I'll do it.”
Now he just had to convince the boy to trust him.
Chapter 5
THE BOY couldn't quite open his eyes when he woke. His eyelids felt too heavy, his mind too hazy. He let out a groan. There was some vague sensation of Bad Man starving him again, but he couldn't quite remember, his thoughts too sluggish to make any sense. The boy sighed and waited for his head to clear.
If he'd been starved, then it must have been punishment for behaving badly, which meant he'd probably been abused as well. He shifted, and winced. Sure enough, his hole ached. Not as much as it usually did, but he could still feel it. There must have been a party, or maybe it was just Bad Man being especially rough with him.
The boy frowned, his eyes still closed. He didn't remember Bad Man coming for him before he went to sleep, and he always remembered. Even though his mental darkness made certain details hazy, he always at least remembered that much.
But, no, something else had happened between Bad Man coming for him and falling asleep, but he couldn't quite picture it.
He shifted again, then froze. He wasn't on the rough, concrete floor. He wasn't exposed. In fact, he couldn't remember ever being so comfortable and warm in his life.
Except…
There was something. Some vague, hazy memory. Some brief moment in which the fantasy within his mental darkness had seemed so incredibly real. He'd been wrapped up, safe and warm, in someone's arms, carried away from his torment, freed from the confines of his basement. It had felt so good. Even better than he felt now.
So it couldn't have been real.
The boy gasped, forcing his eyes open. He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision, and found himself in a strange, white room. Not the basement. Oh gods. Where was he? How had he gotten there? Why had Bad Man moved him again so soon? Was this some new punishment? What had he done wrong?
He tried to sit up, to get away, but his arms were weak. The boy looked down, trying to push the blankets away, then spotted the chain on his wrist. It didn't look like any chain Bad Mad had ever used before, but it ran from his wrist all the way up to a pipe sticking out from the wall.
He was still trapped.
The boy gasped for air, feeling dizzy, his heart racing. Then something loud beeped beside him, the noise repeating over and over until a door flew open and a stranger rushed into the room.
The boy screamed and threw his arms up, ducking his head. He should have known. All the lights were on. That only ever meant one thing.
“Easy there, easy,” the stranger said. “It's alright.”
“No!” the boy screamed, flailing. He tried to pull free of the chain on his wrist, tried to kick away the blankets weighing down his body, but he was still so weak, his head still so hazy.
The stranger touched his arm, and the boy screamed again.
“No! No, please!” he begged, bursting into tears. He didn't want this. Not again. Not ever again.
But there was never any escape. His fantasy was just that. It wasn't real.
Another stranger came in and helped the first try to hold him down.
“No!” he cried, fighting back. “Please!” Oh gods. What were they going to do to him? Would they use his body first? His mouth? Beat him? Maybe something new and scary? Bad Man did that sometimes. Said it kept things 'interesting'.
The strangers shouted things at one another, more strangers coming in and surrounding him, all of them shouting more things while still trying to hold him down. The boy kept screaming, trying to break free. Gods, why couldn't he just ever be free?
“Easy there,” one stranger said, grabbing his arm. “Easy. We're not gonna hurt you.”
“Maybe we should sedate him again,” another said.
They shouted more words, talking nonsense over his screams. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, still pulling and kicking and trying to get free while the strangers tried to hold him down.
Oh gods. They were all going to take turns with him, he just knew it. And he was already sore, which meant it was going to hurt like hell, especially when they punished him for fighting.
But he couldn't help it. He couldn't stop fighting. He didn't want them touching him.
“Oh, thank gods,” one of the strangers said. “Vic.”
Vic. A strange sense of ease washed through the boy. He wasn't sure how, but he knew that word. Just the sound of it was enough to send him slipping into the safety of his mental darkness, where he could disappear and feel safe, wrapped up warm and secure.
Suddenly, the strangers were all gone, no longer touching him, the sudden change pulling him back from the brink of disappearing entirely within his mind, enough that he could hear that they hadn't left the room.
“Hey, champ,” a voice murmured. “Hey, it's alright.”
The boy knew that voice. It was the nice voice. The nice man. The hazy memory came slowly flooding back to him. The nice man who touched him gently and gave him water, who wrapped him up all warm in a blanket and took him away from the basement.
But it hadn't been real. Had it? Maybe he'd finally just lost his mind.
“It's alright,” the nice voice went on. “You're safe here, buddy.”
The boy whimpered and ducked his head, still holding his arms up where they were when the strangers finally let go. He slowly cracked open his eyes and peeked between his arms. Sure enough, the nice man was there, crouched beside him, not looming over him like all the strangers had been. The boy stared at him. The nice man was actually real?
“Hey, champ,” the nice man said again, a smile on his face. “I'm so sorry. I meant to be here when you woke up, but the sedative wore off early.”
The boy slowly lowered his arms, tucking both hands up under his chin as he looked around. The strangers were all quietly leaving the room.
“You alright?” the nice man asked.
The boy choked back a sob, looking at the door. “I thought…they were…” He looked at the man again.
The nice man shook his head. “They won't hurt you. They're just here to help.”
The boy frowned. It didn't feel like helping when they were trying to hold him down. Besides, he was already chained. His eyes went to the strange cuff on his wrist.
He looked at the nice man again, then all around the room. There was no sign of Bad Man. It didn't make any sense. Bad Man was almost always there. Sometimes to use him, sometimes to host his parties, sometimes to bring him food or taunt him with the lack of it. No matter who came to use the boy, Bad Man was always present, but now there were strangers everywhere, but no Bad Man to be found.
Oh gods. Did the nice man own him now?
“Is this my new basement?” he whispered, holding up his wrist.
“What?” the nice man asked. “No. No, of course not.”
The boy blinked. “But…I'm chained.”
“Wh– Oh. No, kiddo. That's not a chain. You see this?” The nice man pointed at the thing on his wrist, then traced the chain all the way up to the pipe on the wall. The pipe held some sort of clear bag with what looked like water in it, and it was that the chain was apparently attached to, not the pipe itself. “This is medicine. It's gonna help you get healthy.”
The boy frowned.
“How are you feeling?” the nice man asked.
The boy tilted his head.
“Alright, how about this,” the nice man went on. “How do you feel compared to yesterday? When I found you?”
“Oh.” The boy tried to think. He was terrified, but he wasn't actually starving or thirsty anymore, despite how he'd felt when he first woke, and he wasn't cold. His head felt more clear, especially now that the fog of sleep had worn off. And he was warm. So comfortable and warm. “Better,” he realized
aloud, then shrank back. He wasn't allowed to feel better. It meant he'd have to pay.
The nice man smiled. “Good. That's good. That means this is helping,” he said, gently tapping the thing on the boy's wrist.
The boy whimpered and grabbed at the chain, trying to pull it free.
“Hey, hey, easy,” the nice man murmured, gently taking his hand and pushing it aside. “You need that, kiddo. You were severely dehydrated.”
“Don't wanna pay,” the boy cried softly.
“You don't have to pay for it, champ–” The nice man cut off suddenly, and a strange look crossed his face. “Oh.” He grimaced, then put on a smile. “No, you don't have to pay for it. Not like that. Not at all, actually. I'm taking care of it.”
The boy frowned. He had no idea what that meant.
“Hey, you know what?” the nice man asked, turning his voice more cheerful. “We didn't get a chance to properly meet yesterday. My name is Victor Lucius. But you can call me Vic.”
Vic. The nice man was Vic. The boy felt his mouth twitch like he might actually smile. “Vic,” he whispered. He wasn't sure why, but that word felt good. Safe. Just like the man felt safe.
At least, he had when it was all part of a fantasy, the security of those arms holding him within the safety of his mental darkness. In the light of reality, it might be a different story.
Vic beamed at him. “And what's your name, champ?”
The boy frowned and tilted his head.
“What are you called?” Vic asked.
“Boy,” he answered. Wasn't it obvious?
Vic's smile wavered. “That's it?”
The boy nodded. “Bad Man always calls me boy.”
Vic frowned. “You don't have a name?”
The boy shook his head. “Isn't that my name?”
“No, that's what you are–” Vic broke off, then said, “Actually, you're a man, but…” He waved his hands. “Maybe that's a discussion for another time. You don't remember having a name?”
The boy shook his head again.
“Not even from before?” Vic asked. When the boy looked at him with a puzzled frown, Vic added, “From before the Bad Man had you.”
The boy scowled. “Bad Man always had me.”
Vic blinked. “You don't remember anything from before the basement?”
“No,” the boy answered, shaking his head, but there was something there. Something vague and hazy, but no matter how many times he tried to make the picture more clear in his mind, it only got worse. He cringed and curled both hands into fists, rubbing them against his temples.
“Alright,” Vic soothed, gently touching the boy's hands until he lowered them. “It's alright, champ. Don't worry about it.” He reached into his jacket. “Here, tell you what.” He pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket.
“No,” the boy whimpered, tucking his hands up under his chin as he tried to scoot back. “Please…”
Vic went still, eyeing him over the phone. “What's wrong, kiddo?”
The boy looked at the phone, whimpered again, and shook his head as he begged, “Please, don't make me–”
Vic slowly lowered the phone. “Don't make you what?” he asked gently. “Talk to me. What's going on?”
The boy hesitated, watching Vic carefully, but when Vic didn't make a move to grab him, he said, “Bad Man had one of those. He'd shove his cock in my mouth until I choked, then he'd take a picture and show me…”
Vic cringed. “Gods,” he breathed. “I'm so sorry.” He shook his head, looked down at the phone as he quickly tapped on a bunch of things, then slowly turned the phone around so the boy could see the screen. “No pictures, I promise. I just thought we should pick a name for you.”
The boy glanced at the screen, but didn't see anything that looked like a picture. All he could make out were a bunch of colors and tiny lines that made strange shapes.
“Since you don't remember your name, and there's no record of a name your parents picked for you…” Vic went on. He held the phone out toward the boy, giving a nod of encouragement. “Why don't you choose one?”
The boy eyed Vic before he carefully took the phone and held it in both hands, looking down at it. Closer up, the colors, shapes, and lines were more clear, but he didn't know what any of it meant.
“Scroll through those and see if there's anything you like,” Vic said.
The boy frowned, staring down at the thing. He had no idea what Vic meant. What was 'scroll'? And what was he supposed to be liking? He glanced up at Vic and saw the man's encouraging smile fade.
“Ah, you can't read, can you?” Vic asked.
“Read?”
Vic took a deep breath and smiled again. “That's alright.” He held out his hand, and the boy slowly handed him the phone back, bracing himself just in case Vic changed his mind about the pictures. “We can teach you to read later, after you get settled in.” The boy had no idea what that meant, but before he could ask, Vic went on: “Tell me if any of these sound good to you.” He looked down at the colorful lines and touched the tip of his finger to them, making them slowly move across the screen. “Let's see. Aaric, which means to rule with mercy.” He glanced up at the boy, then back down at the phone. “Parle. It means little rock. Weston. From the west.”
The boy listened as Vic ran through several more names. None of them really stood out to him, but he supposed one was just as good as another. He didn't want Vic calling him boy like Bad Man had.
“Hurst, which is lives in the forest,” Vic went on. “Tomlin. Little twin. Nyle. Champion. Colby, which means dark. La–”
The boy perked up.
Vic paused, looking up at the boy. “Colby?”
The boy nodded shyly.
“You like that one?” Vic asked.
The boy nodded again. “I like the dark,” he whispered. “Dark is safe.” Vic gave him a curious look, so the boy said, “When it's dark, I'm alone. Bad Man only comes for me when he turns on the lights–” He cut off and held his breath, looking around. All the lights were still on.
Vic went very still, then he slowly got up and crossed the room, tapping something on the wall by the door. The lights went off. The boy gasped, and watched as Vic went over to the window—bigger than the boy ever imagined a window could be—and pulled some cloth over it, dimming the light in the room even more.
It wasn't dark, but it was certainly better.
“How's that?” Vic asked, returning to the boy's side.
The boy looked at him. “Does that mean no one's gonna come fuck me right now?”
A look of pain crossed Vic's face before he put on a smile and shook his head. “No one's ever gonna touch you like that again.”
“You promise?” the boy whispered.
“I promise.”
The boy looked all around the room again, wishing it could be darker so he could be sure, but Vic looked like he was telling the truth.
And Vic seemed nice. Maybe he meant it when he said no one would come for him.
“So,” Vic said, “Colby?”
The boy looked at Vic, studying his face, then felt the corner of his mouth twitch.
Vic nodded. “Look at that, champ. You've got a name.”
The boy—Colby—felt a hint of a smile on his face for the first time in his life, and the answering smile on Vic's face somehow made the moment even better.
Chapter 6
VIC COULDN'T help grinning. Colby was smiling. Not much, but the change was noticeable. The slight tilt of his lips, the brightness of his eyes. Tiny changes in his face, but those changes made all the difference in the world. With just one five-letter word, the boy had gone from a terrified, trapped little boy to taking his first step toward freedom. He had a name now. A piece of his identity that he had chosen rather than having his entire being defined by others.
All in all, it was a great start. Vic couldn't wait to find another way to make the boy smile.
But Colby's smile faded, and he tucked his hands under his c
hin as he ducked his head, looking around.
“V-Vic?” he whispered.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“What if Bad Man comes back for me? Will I have to go back in the basement?”
Vic moved closer and just stopped himself from touching the boy. “No. Bad Man's gone. He's never coming back.”
Colby frowned. “But–”
“He's dead, champ. He can't hurt you anymore.”
Colby looked up at him from under his eyelashes. “Dead…like…”
Vic hesitated. Did Colby even know what death meant?
“Like…” Colby said, then he whispered a word that Vic couldn't make out.
Vic tilted his head. “Did you know someone who died?”
Colby swallowed hard and nodded.
Vic waited, watching him. Maybe Colby was finally remembering his mother. Maybe he'd actually seen her die, right there in the hospital, before the doctor had grabbed little Colby and taken him away. The combined trauma of watching his mother die and then being kidnapped and locked up could easily explain why he'd repressed the memory and thought he'd been in the basement forever.
“Do you want to see his body?” Vic asked gently. “It's still in the morgue. You can see for yourself that he's dead. It might help give you some closure.”
Colby perked up slightly at that, big eyes looking up at Vic from under his eyelashes.
“Yeah?” Vic asked.
Colby nodded, then looked down at his wrist. “Will they let me go?” he asked.
“Yeah, of course.” Vic slowly stood, not wanting to frighten the boy with his size. At six-foot-six, Vic towered over just about everyone. “Here, look.” He grabbed the IV stand and pulled it away from the wall, then showed again how it was connected to Colby's wrist. Of course, Vic wasn't sure Colby realized he actually had a needle under his skin, hidden away behind the tape. Vic figured he'd save that little fact for later. “See, you're only attached to this. We'll just bring it with us.” He paused. “Think you're strong enough to stand?”