by Shay Savage
“My parents weren’t talkers. Mamaw would talk to me, but that was mostly her doing the talking. I understood what people were saying to me, or about me, really, but I had no idea how to respond. The lights were always so bright, and I had a hard time looking at people. Even when I knew they wanted me to say something, I couldn’t make any words come out. They kept sending people in to try to get through to me. I had a pretty limited vocabulary, and I didn’t know a lot of what they said. One lady—her name was Susan—she came the most. She brought me animal crackers. I got one every time I named the animal right.”
“She was a teacher?”
“A teacher, a social worker, and probably the first person who I felt comfortable enough with to talk to. She came to see me every day, and she made them turn the lights down and keep the blinds closed until I could get used to the light. She read to me. And…she gave me chocolate.”
I grin at the memory.
“Chocolate, huh?”
“I like chocolate,” I say with a shrug. “I’d never tasted anything like that before. It took a while, but eventually she used M&M’s to teach me letters and numbers.”
“You’d never had any education before, had you?”
“None. I couldn’t read or write. She was my only teacher for a long time. They had to get me ready to enter school before they could take me to a foster family. I learned a lot from her. She was patient. Never met anyone else like her.”
“How long was it before you could go to school?”
I shrug. Memories of Miss Susan handing me tiny circles of chocolate as I formed three-letter words with magnetic plastic letters danced around in my head.
“Time never has meant much to me,” I finally say. “It took a while for me to even figure out what day and night meant. I didn’t have a clear concept of time until I was a teenager.”
“And somehow you still managed to make it to college. Wow. I know I keep saying that, but…well, wow.”
“Fucked up, huh?”
“Yeah, Rocco. It’s totally fucked up. You had no control over any of that though.”
“I know. I never felt like any of it was my fault, but that’s why I just…I don’t do people well. I guess a lot of those skills are learned when you’re young, and I missed out on that time. The first time I was put in a room full of other kids, I panicked. I didn’t even know that many kids existed. I hid in a closet, and they had to call Miss Susan to get me out. I tried public school a couple of times, but I just couldn’t handle being around so many other kids. I ended up in a school for kids with all kinds of learning and behavior problems. They weren’t the best to help me learn to communicate, but at least having a tantrum and hiding in a closet didn’t get me kicked out of class.”
“And you never completely got over it.”
“I might not have had any education at that time, but I wasn’t stupid. I figured out pretty quickly that other kids didn’t grow up in a tunnel underground. They played in back yards in the sunshine, knew about sports, television, and how to tie their own shoes. I’d never even worn a pair of shoes. They made my feet feel funny, so I walked funny. All the kids looked at me—stared at me. I couldn’t take it. I still can’t take it because I know they’re all watching me.”
“I’m not sure they are, Roc.”
“I can see it, Casey. I can’t look people in the eye, but I still see how they look at me. They might not know why I’m fucked up, but they can tell that I’m broken. The nice ones talk to me like I’m… like I’m simple or brain-damaged or something. Most people just avoid me, and I don’t blame them.”
“Rocco—”
“That’s why I don’t understand…understand this.” I wave my hand in the air, gesturing between the two of us. “I have no idea why you would…want to…” I can’t even finish the sentence. “Women don’t look at me like they look at Ivan or Cree. They look at me out of pity. They don’t look at me in that way at all.”
“Stand up.” Casey’s voice has switched to that no-nonsense tone she usually uses when she grabs my chin.
I move immediately, jump to my feet, and she stands up in front of me.
“Let me tell you exactly what I see when I look at you.” Casey stalks her way around me, stopping again when she gets back to the front. “You have beautiful eyes.”
I roll them at her, and this time, she does grab my chin.
“I didn’t ask you for a reaction. You just listen.” She releases me, and I chew on my lip as she moves on. “I love your hair. Long hair on guys is sexy as hell. I suppose that’s a personal preference.” She reaches out and trails her fingers over my stomach. “Six pack abs”—she makes a tsk-tsk sound with her tongue—“that’s sexy as fuck, I don’t care what you prefer. You’re tall, and lean, and this”—she moves her hand down and grabs my dick, causing me to gasp—“I do admit that this caught my attention early on. If you think people are looking at you, it’s probably because you’re fucking hot.”
Casey takes a step back as she lets go and puts her hands on her hips. I start to open my mouth, but she shushes me.
“And that’s just the first glance, of course. Superficial and shallow. The thing is, the second glance gives you a clear view of the shields. Yeah—those shields you have up that tell everyone to stay away from you. The downward stare, the sharp look of fear behind those beautiful eyes…they tell everyone what you want them to see, that you’re traumatized and don’t want anyone approaching. I recognized those shields right away. After all, I spent most of my life carrying them around, too.”
Casey steps forward, reaches her arms up and wraps them around my neck.
“I knew it was going to take some effort to get past that armor, but I also knew it was going to be worth it. I knew underneath all the physical attraction that there was something else, something sweet and kind and scared, something pure and something uniquely you. And that’s something worth sharing if you just knew how to open up and make it happen.”
She stands on her toes and pulls my head down until our lips meet. I close my eyes tightly as I fight back tears. I don’t want to cry, but I’m not sure I can stop it. Before we break apart, my cheeks are wet. Casey just smiles and wipes the teardrops away.
“You’re a beautiful person, Rocco. You’re smart and sexy and strong.”
“Strong?” I raise an eyebrow at her.
“You came through something that most people can’t even imagine. Hell, that’s the kind of shit you only see on that cable channel with all the messed-up stories. But you made it through. Somehow, you got through all of it and made your way to college. You are amazing, Rocco, and I’m pissed that you don’t see it.”
Chapter 10—Casey
Rocco has gone quiet though he seems more introspective than anxious. I can only hope it’s a good sign.
“Do you want some water?” I ask. “You’ve been talking for a long time.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
I grab a bottle of water out of my bag and open the top before handing it to him. He gulps down half of it without pausing, takes a deep breath, and then finishes the rest of it. I snicker softly as I sit back down and take a few swigs from my own bottle. I set if off to the side and look up at Rocco, still standing there, half naked, and staring into space. I reach out with open arms, and Rocco settles back down on my chest.
I have no idea how much time has passed or how late it is. I glance out at the open area of the dungeon and notice there aren’t as many people out there as there were before. I wonder if it’s near closing time. I’m not ready to leave just yet, but Rocco seems pretty tired.
I have the distinct feeling he’s told me a lot more than he’s ever told anyone else, certainly in one sitting. Though I’m overjoyed and honored that that he trusted me enough to tell me his story, I’m not really sure how I should react to it. Images in my head of a small, frightened boy alone in the dark haunt me. Even worse, I can imagine the same boy being interrogated by police—I know exactly what that’s like—
and not even understanding where he was or what was happening.
The whole thing pisses me off, but I can’t really come up with anyone to blame directly. His drugged-out parents? Maybe…but I don’t know anything about them or how they ended up in such a position. I could blame the hospital, cops, and social workers—but they were just trying to do their jobs the best they could.
Rocco was right about one thing—his life started out in the most fucked up way possible, and I have a much better understanding of why he is so closed off and reserved. Given his upbringing, all the anxiety he has is completely normal.
Just like it is for me.
I close my eyes for a moment and lean back against the cushions. I run my fingers through Rocco’s hair, allowing the soft strands to relax me. Rocco sighs and nestles against my tits, which makes me smile every time he does it. I’ve known guys who were into breasts before, but Rocco seems to take it to a whole new level.
“Who do you think is responsible?” I don’t actually mean to pose the question aloud, but Rocco responds.
“Responsible?”
“For everything that happened to you.”
He shrugs.
“I mean, you obviously did nothing wrong. You were just a kid.”
“Does it matter?”
“That you were a kid?”
“No.” Rocco nestles down again, running his nose over the top of my breast. “I’m not sure anyone did anything wrong. I think…shit just happened.”
“It pisses me off,” I say. “I want someone to yell at.”
Rocco shrugs again.
“Aren’t you pissed off?”
“I guess sometimes I get mad about it but not usually.”
“Don’t you want to…to…I don’t know, get back at someone?”
“No.”
“Ugh.”
Rocco tilts his head to look up at me, his brow furrowed and his eyes pensive. He looks at me for a long moment.
“You had someone to blame,” he says simply.
“Yeah.”
“Did that make it easier?”
“Yeah,” I say after a moment of thought, “I think it did. I have a place—a person—to direct my anger toward. Otherwise, I think I would just be pissed at myself.”
“I guess that makes sense.” Rocco turns away, snuggling against me.
“You don’t agree?”
He shrugs once more, and I start to reach for his chin but pause.
“How about an answer with words?” I say, trying to keep my voice restrained even though I’m getting frustrated.
“I guess I never saw the point of blame,” he said with yet another shrug. “It doesn’t get you anywhere. It doesn’t change what happened.”
“No, it doesn’t. It does make me feel better though.”
“Does it?”
If anyone else had said the same two words, I might have thought they were being sarcastic or, at the very least, snarky. Rocco isn’t really the type to be either, so I have to think about it for a while before I answer.
“It did at first,” I finally say. “I don’t know about now.”
“You’re still angry.”
“Yes.”
“But your…your dad is in jail, right?”
“Prison forever, yes.”
“Do you ever talk to him?”
“God, no!”
“Sorry,” Rocco mutters.
“I haven’t seen him since he was sentenced, and I hope he dies in prison sooner rather than later!” The viciousness in my voice is unexpected. I try to pull myself together, but I’m starting to shake.
Rocco reaches up and places his hand on my cheek. He says nothing but keeps his gaze on mine. Though the question upset me, I realize he doesn’t even know who his parents are, and he might very well be interested in seeing them regardless of what happened in the past. Maybe it would answer questions or just give him some closure, but he’ll probably never have the opportunity. None of this changes how I feel about my own father, but I see how Rocco would feel differently.
“Did you ever try to find your parents?” I ask. I need the subject change, but I also want to know.
“Not really,” Rocco says. He drops his hand to my shoulder, fingers twitching a little. “I mean, other people did. They told me the people who were living in the tunnels didn’t know any last names or anything. They ended up with some sketches of what they might have looked like and passed those around, but nothing ever came of it.”
“Do you think they’re still alive?”
“No.” Rocco presses his lips together, and his fingers twitch again. He stares down at my boobs.
I take his hand and move it down until he’s palming my tit, and he smiles a bit.
“I think they probably died, and that’s why they didn’t come back. I know they were both addicts, but I always knew my mom cared about me in her own way. I don’t think she would have…just abandoned me.”
“Maybe if she knew she couldn’t take care of you, she would have. She might have thought it would give you a better life. I assume she didn’t always live down there.”
“Probably not. I have no idea why she was there.”
“You might have family out there somewhere.”
“Without a name, it’s hard to go by.”
“What about doing one of those DNA test things?” I ask. “People are always finding long-lost relatives and such from those.”
“Cree suggested that last year, actually. My budget is pretty fixed, though, and it costs money just to ask for the test. Maybe someday, if I ever get my degree and a job that pays more money, I’ll be able to have it done.”
“Would you want to?”
“Maybe.” Rocco runs his thumb over my nipple, and my skin tingles. “They’d ask a lot of questions though.”
“I thought it was all online now?”
“Oh…sorry. I meant for job interviews.”
“Those are kinda intimidating for anyone.” Rocco doesn’t respond. “What’s your major, anyway? I’m studying criminal justice.”
“I’ve never declared one.”
“What? How can you not declare a major? I thought you were a senior, like me.”
“Um…I’ve been here for five years now.” Rocco’s hand stills, and he tilts his head away.
“Without a major?”
He shrugs.
“Rocco, how can you not have a major declared?”
“They…they send me letters about it. I have to go see my advisor.”
“So?”
“So…I’ve gone to her during office hours about thirty times, but the door is always closed.”
“And you can’t bring yourself to knock.”
He nods.
“Did you ever tell anyone that?” I’m not surprised when he doesn’t answer, but it tells me everything anyway. “Rocco, how do you even know what courses to take?”
“I just sign up for classes that sound interesting,” he says. “Most of the time, I can’t get myself to class anyway. I drop some, but I have to keep a certain amount to maintain financial aid. I usually pass everything but only barely.”
“How did you manage to get to college in the first place?”
“Well, I guess partially by luck. I like reading and writing, and I guess my college essay was impressive enough. With my long-term PTSD diagnosis, anxiety and such, I qualified for a couple of grants and scholarships. I do pretty well on written tests. When there’s a lot of reading and then an essay test over what you read, I do okay on those. I get high enough marks in those classes to keep my grade point average up.”
“English classes? That kind of thing?”
“Yeah, mostly English, some literature. I did all right in math classes initially, but after calculus, I couldn’t keep up anymore. Missing one class would put me so far behind that I never knew what was going on.”
“So why not declare an English major?” I don’t even need to hear a response before I already know the answer. “You’d
have to talk to the dean. I get it.”
“Yeah.”
“But you’ll never get a degree without deciding on a major.”
“Yeah.”
I narrow my eyes at Rocco, waiting to see if this topic is something that will upset him, but he doesn’t seem concerned about not having a major. In fact, it doesn’t bother him at all.
“How old are you, Rocco?”
“Twenty-five.”
“And when did you get to college?” I already know the answer, but I wait for a response anyway. Rocco just smiles sheepishly. “You don’t want to graduate.”
“I know this place. I’ve been in the same dorm room since I got here. If I graduate…”
“You’d have to find another place, find a job, and start a life.”
“Yeah.”
“So you’d rather stay in limbo, a professional student.”
“I never thought about it that way, but I guess so.”
“Oh, Rocco.” I wrap my arms around him and hold his head against my chest. “You know you can’t do that forever.” I feel him shrug in my arms. “Someday, no mater what, something will change.”
“I know,” he whispers.
I hold him for a while, wondering if there are any words I can offer that haven’t been said to him before. I know Cree has talked to him a lot, and I’m sure he’s had a pile of professional counselors, but I also know they just aren’t enough sometimes.
“There was a time,” I say, “when I didn’t want to talk to anyone either. I lashed out at everyone who got near me, physically or otherwise. I spent a lot of time just being mad at life and wondering why I didn’t get one of those perfect families with Sunday dinners and trips to the park. I was stagnant and full of self-pity. People encouraged it, too. Not intentionally, of course, but they walked on eggshells around me and excused my behavior because of what I’d gone though. Maybe if one of them had just smacked me and told me to stop fucking up my future…I don’t know. Maybe we all have to figure that out ourselves.”
“Figure what out?” Rocco asks.
“At some point, I had to make the decision to heal. Maybe not get over it all—it will always be a part of me—but that doesn’t mean I have to let it run my life. I take my power wherever I can get it, including how I approached you. That’s part of my healing. Maybe it’s time for you to make the decision to heal because no one else can do that for you.”