Chapter 27
Tommy
I wish I could say that on the day I finally decided to kill the man who took me, it was because I was smart.
I wish it was because I finally decided to stand up for myself, or thought I deserved better, or just, I don’t fucking know, just knew what to do to fix everything.
All I wanted was for everything to just… be fixed.
But nah, it wasn’t for any reason like that. It wasn’t because of the years he had me and used me, the psychological and emotional abuse, the way he shared me.
The day I decided to kill him, it was because I found out that I was too old for him.
He was going to kidnap another boy. I saw him watching one in particular in our neighborhood. I saw him taking photos, learning the boy’s routine. He started dropping hints about wanting another child to love, one we could love together.
At first, I didn’t understand. I know, I’m a dumbfuck, because it was so obvious, but I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
It didn’t even occur to me until he fucking spelled it out for me.
But once I knew…he was marked for death.
Finally, finally I could feel my rage burning within, burning hot enough to actually be useful.
All my hatred and all my pain, all of it would be sharpened into a weapon.
I’d reached my breaking point.
I wasn’t going to let him take any other little boys. No. I wasn’t going to stand by and let some other little kid forget his mother’s face. No.
No, no no, no, NO.
Sometimes I tell myself that I should take some comfort and pride in the fact that I put a stop to him, but honestly?
I’m ashamed of how long it took me to get there.
How long I stayed, how long I waited, how long I rolled over and prayed that things would just be fixed.
I was so useless, so worthless, so weak.
Those men broke me, especially the one that took me. And I waited so long that all of me, all of me, is fucked up.
I’m so fucked up that I don’t know what a good thing even is anymore.
I’m not sure what’s happening.
I’m just…laying here in this big, stupid bed in Young-gi’s guest room, staring at the ceiling.
I’m hungry for breakfast, but I don’t get up to eat.
I’m tired and wish I could go back to sleep, but I can’t.
I’m restless as the daylight gets brighter outside the curtained window, but I don’t get out of bed.
I’m lonely, but I keep the door closed. I’m overwhelmed, but I don’t know what to do about it.
So I just lay here.
My throat feels a little tender from the pounding it took last night, and I absentmindedly rub it as I think. Not even memories of sucking Young-gi’s dick can cheer me up.
What am I doing here? I feel so adrift. So purposeless and pointless and…
Like a liar. Like a fraud.
What kind of show did I put on to make Young-gi think he liked me? Me, of all people? He doesn’t know the real me, he couldn’t possibly. He doesn’t know what I did. What I’ve been through.
He already knows more than anyone else and still likes me, a small voice reminds me hopefully. And it’s not wrong. Young-gi knows I killed people, he knows I’ve got enough issues to fill a dump truck and a chip on my shoulder big enough to park that fucking dump truck on.
But he doesn’t know everything. Doesn’t know what I did.
Doesn’t know what was done to me.
Would he toss me away if he knew? Would he pity me, be disgusted, be wary or distrustful? I don’t trust myself; why would he trust me? I’m a psycho.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s happening between us. I don’t understand how to be with him or react to him or feel about him. I don’t understand what he wants from me, if he wants anything at all.
All the connections I've had as an adult have been transactional and temporary, by my own choice. But he’s made it clear that those words don’t apply to us.
Maybe I could get it, could know how to handle this, if I’d been braver and just ran away sooner, but I stayed. I’m so fucked up, and I’m not sure what’s happening here, between me and Young-gi. I don’t…understand it.
A knock on the door makes me flinch, and when it opens, I scowl, fierce and angry.
“You’re supposed to wait until I say come in,” I snap.
“Are you feeling needy today, Tommy?” he asks me, casual like he’s asking me about the weather. Like me sassing him first thing in the morning is some secret code he’s cracked and he’s presenting me with the answer.
“No, goddamn, just leave me alone.”
He leans against the doorframe and stares, his arms crossed. He waits, patient and predatory. I scowl and try my best not to squirm but I’m so restless and he’s just so good at waiting me out.
“Fuck you,” I finally mutter. “What do you want?”
“I made breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not,” I insist, lying.
“You want soap first, is that it?”
“You can’t know if I’m hungry or not!” I growl, punching one of my pillows. “I’m going back to bed, I’m tired.”
“Cranky, too.”
“Fuck you!”
He raises an eyebrow and waits.
Ugh!
He looks so fucking sexy and annoying. I raise an eyebrow right back.
We have a contest that doesn’t go well for me, and I feel stupid for even trying. Stupid and small, but not the good kind of small that he makes me feel. The bad kind of small. Unimportant. A liar.
And I don’t want to feel this way, but maybe this is just what I am.
I want to forget, I want to make this all stop. I want whatever this is between us to be something simple and straightforward and–and–and unnecessary. Not something I need, but something I can wrap my head around. Something I understand.
“I’m on a bed.”
He tilts his head. “What?”
“I’m on a bed,” I say, with a shrug and an I-dare-you attitude. “You said there would be a next time, in a bed. I’m in a bed. So fuck me already, if you want. Do your worst. I can take whatever you dish out. I’m a fantastic fuck.”
He blinks, and then huffs out that tiny, almost laugh of his, and gives me one of his stellar subtle smiles, the kind that makes me feel all starry-eyed. “Tommy, when we fuck, it won’t be because of a tantrum, or part of correction. When we fuck, it will just be because we both want to.”
“I want it.” And that’s not a lie; I do fucking want it.
“Sure,” he saunters closer. “So do I. But you’re also on the verge of a meltdown, aren’t you? Burned up all your oxygen already, hm?”
“What the fuck does that even mean?” I snap, sitting up as he gets heart-poundingly closer.
“You’re so cranky and angry this morning,” he purrs, putting one knee on the bed. “And I only fuck sweet boys.”
Shit, that’s so hot. Wait–
“You better not be fucking any boys,” I growl, getting to my knees to shove his chest.
“You know I’m not,” he smirks, catching my hands.
“Can’t we just fuck already?” I ask, hating how plaintive I sound, how needy, how scared. “Come on, Young-gi, we don’t have to make it sappy or romantic or whatever. I want your dick, you want to give it to me, let’s just do it. Let’s just get it–”
Over with, I almost say, but bite it back. I scramble off the bed, wanting to feel like I’m on equal footing with him, but I feel vulnerable. I wish I was wearing armor instead of sleep clothes and socks.
“Just–just–just stop acting like I’m worth something to you.”
“Ah,” he nods, slow and infuriating. “I see. So it’s like that, then.”
“No, I mean, I don’t know!” I shout, my sore voice cracking, and I flush with heat that matches the spark in his eyes.
“Just–can’t we just–stop taking this so seriously?
It’s not real. I’m not real–none of this is real.
We’re just playing pretend. We can make it a game and I can call you Daddy, you can make me obey you, I’ll even listen.
I just want it to happen already. I want to just…
I want to just…ugh.” I scrub my face with both hands, so confused.
I jump when I feel his hands on my shoulders.
His hold is gentle but firm as he guides me to turn around.
I gulp and put up a little resistance when he walks me to the corner.
But, ultimately, I let him put me there.
Once I’m staring at the wall, I lean my forehead against it with a thunk and let out a long stream of hissed cuss words until I run out of air.
“This shit sucks,” I finally gasp when I take a breath. And I’m not talking about corner time, I’m talking about the fucking roller coaster my emotions put me through every time I let my guard down.
“Which parts of you aren’t real?” he asks me, low and rumbly, sticking close to my back and making me feel hella small. Good small.
“I don’t know…all of them. Anything you think you like. It’s not real. I’m not likeable.”
“You must miss the taste of soap,” he murmurs, tracing his fingers lightly up the sides of my arms, then back down. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I’m being serious,” I frown. “I get it, alright? Talk nice about yourself or whatever, but this shit is serious. I’m not–I’m not good. I’m not a good person. Okay?”
“A good person?” he repeats, sounding genuinely confused. “Tommy, you’re my good boy. That has nothing to do with being a good person. What we do to be good to each other, and what is right or wrong, are not necessarily connected.”
I open my mouth but have no words. That’s…psychotic. “Young-gi…”
“You can call me Daddy when you’re in time-out.” His tone is dark, demanding. Not an invitation, or a question.
I swallow hard, suddenly salivating, and my dick twitches with interest. Fuck, I’m a sick bastard. “Daddy,” I manage. “I–that–I can’t be good.”
“You’re good for me all the time.”
“I’m literally such a brat,” I argue.
“For me,” he agrees. “To get my attention. That’s good. We both like that.”
He’s got that oh-so-calm, I’m-so-right, ‘this is corner-time correction’ tone on, and it’s dripping over me like honey. He told me that corner-time is where he’d correct my lies, where he’d set me straight. But, but–