Dull Little Boy

1

I've been here for 2 years. I know because you tell me. Every time you come and see me, you tell me how many days I've "survived" you. Like you're impressed.

Today, you come in, happy. I don't know why and I don't care. I strain my eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of your face but it's too dark and you're careful to keep yourself hidden from me.

You're holding the knife you love so much. It's been my only friend since Julia. Thinking of Julia brings a sharp pain— far worse than anything physical you can do to me. I stop thinking of her, but her eyes still haunt me.

"How are you today?" You ask, as if you care.

"Fuck you." It's my standard reply. I hardly feel the sting from your hand as you backhand me across the cheek. There was a time when I would have had to fight to keep the cry from escaping. Since that time, your torture has progressed, as has my pain tolerance.

You trace my face with your finger. I hate it when you're soft toward me. The anticipation kills me, and my muscles are tense. My shoulders ache from being chained to the ceiling. Sometimes, when I fall unconscious, you unchain need and change my position. When you dislocated my left arm, you let me rest in a dog crate. I miss the dog crate but I doubt you'll bring it back.

I feel the cool metal of the knife against my left thigh and practically sigh of relief. Pain is better than the waiting.

Your cut is deep. A centimeter deeper and it would need stitches. You enjoy giving stitches. It's the doctor in you, I guess. I can hear the hiss of satisfaction you get from my pain. In some cases, like when you stole my kidney or the time you ripped off my toenails, you got physically erect and used my body to relieve yourself. You disgust me.

"Does that feel nice, Eli?" You use my preferred name, as if respecting my gender identity discounts the shit you've put me through.

"What do you think?" I want to spit in your face but that would just make you happy. You enjoy my rebellion and you are pleased when I am obedient. I can't win. The others got to die quickly, as soon as they begged and pleaded, but you force me to stay. To live. And for that, I hate you.

Your punch comes without warning. You're strong, stronger than me by a lot. I was jumped in the first couple of months of being homeless and broke multiple bones of my attackers. I was 13. At 17, I can't fend you off. I am too weak and you are too strong. So I take it. You hit my ribs, back, anywhere you can find. Your rings dig into where your cigarette burns are healing and I wince. I can hear you lick your lips.

"Still sore?" You taunt me. One of your hands snake around my waist and squeezes. The fantasy of ripping off your long, thin fingers calms me.

"You—" I'm struggling to breath but I force the words out. "You need to— to get laid."

I brace myself another assault but you just stroke my body predatorily. Your mouth is close to my ear and I can feel your hot breath entering my canal. "You offering?"

Usually you aren't in a good mood. When you are, you relieve yourself using me. I twist in my chains, but it's fruitless. I would rather you shoot me again then rape me.

You prepare yourself and enter quickly. At least you used lube this time. I resist as much as I can, but it just makes you even more aroused so I give up. You finish quickly, weak from your orgasm. When I get the chance, I'll kill you then, when you're riding out the pleasure and distracted. But for now, I pray and I plan.

There is another round of pain, but you give up the cigarette burns, at least for today. When you leave, clumping up the stairs in your unnecessarily loud manner, I spit in your direction. You close the metal door, lock it, and leave me alone with the dripping and the darkness.

Another day survived.