3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Matt
There isn’t just a doctor here, but a therapist too.
He gathers us together for group therapy, his smile kind and voice gentle as he tells us that his name is Dr. Singh and he’ll be here for us for as long as we need him.
I can feel Nolan practically vibrating beside me, his anxiety somehow worse in this house than it was back in the compound.
I wonder if Dr. Singh will be able to fix that for him.
If he’ll be able to fix Bryce, with all his pent-up fury and rampant distrust, or fix Darian, with his ever-growing gaps in memory.
I don’t let myself wonder if he can fix me.
The therapist talks a lot. Then the others talk, too. There’s shouting and standing and pacing and pointing.
The guy with the dark hair - curls, bright blue eyes - a brother, he’s someone’s brother, and his name is - his name is - his name is…
I rub at my forehead, not sure if I’m trying to chase away the headache that’s starting to build, or trying to get the name to break free. He’s important. The guy standing and yelling. I know his name because he’s important. Bryce would talk about him a lot. Nolan too. He’s - he’s-
Carter.
That’s his name. Carter.
And Carter belonged to Master Roar- wait, no, that’s not his name either.
He’s no longer the R sign tapping against the temple - the name sign Nolan and I made up ourselves to save us time when we needed to refer to him at the compound.
I don’t have a name sign for his real name now.
His real name, which is - which is - is… Travis.
I don’t have a name sign for ‘Travis’. I would need to sign his name using fingerspelling instead. Like I had to with Jake yesterday - wait, was that only yesterday?
Anyway, this is - this man is Carter and he’s Jake’s slave.
No, wait, that’s not right.
Travis. Carter was Travis’s slave.
Jake’s slave was a C name too, though, right?
Not Carter, but…Cody? Or Corey?
Wait, no - Casey.
I think Jake’s slave was Casey.
Carter’s the little brother of - of the guy - the one who talked to Nolan in the kitchen, who didn’t yell at him when he broke a dish. His name - his name is - come on, come on, you know this, Nolan said it again this morning, said he talked to him - his name - his name is - is -
I squeeze my eyes shut. There’s so much noise. Everyone is shouting.
Or no one is shouting and it’s all inside my head?
I don’t know how to tell.
I don’t think it matters.
My head is loud either way.
It’s so, so loud.
It hurts.
I don’t realize I’ve left the group until I’m standing in the middle of the bedroom that’s supposed to be mine, but doesn’t feel like mine at all.
My head feels gauzy and overfull. I made my own teddy bear once at one of those stores in the mall.
The lady had said, “Oh, not too much! His head will pop!” when I overstuffed him.
She had laughed, hooking fingers into his insides and pulling chunks out.
I forgot about that store. That day. That teddy bear.
I wonder how close my own head is to popping. If I could pull stuffing out of my ear. Just reach inside and scoop pieces of me out. If it would stop hurting so much then.
I almost laugh when I realize that’s not a normal thing to wonder about.
I almost cry when I remember I can't laugh anymore.
I'm on the floor now. I don't know when I got there. I don’t think that matters either.
God, I'm so tired.
My blue bunny is on the bed, left behind after I woke up and got dressed. One of his ears is flopped over his face like he’s hiding.
Hiding sounds nice.
I’m not supposed to be here. In this room. On this floor. Not right now.
That wasn’t the right time to leave. I don’t think the therapy was done yet. I think everyone might still be down there. The doctor promising to help us wasn’t finished.
Will there be more chances? He said something about meeting with him one-on-one, right? Or was that something I imagined?
Will I be in trouble?
Should I go back?
Has anyone even noticed I left?
You’re not a ghost, I tell myself as a familiar chill creeps in. There is no reason to be chilled. I am full of hot blood. I am human. I am real.
I’m real, I’m real, I’m real.
I can reach the bunny if I stretch my arm out.
I manage to get it to tumble off of the bed, landing so I’m face to face with the little creature as it settles on the floor.
I tuck it close, right under my chin, and take that floppy ear between my thumb and fingers.
The blue fur is the softest thing I’ve felt in a long time.
The last time I felt anything like it was when Master Jason was dating that woman with the long red hair and the pretty laugh.
She wasn’t like most of the significant others, just wanting to watch their man get all worked up by hurting a slave before forgetting about the slave entirely as they moved on to having great sex together.
No. She liked to participate. To touch.
She liked to do truly awful things, her pretty laugh never once turning cruel, everything so much more surreal and terrifying because of it.
She liked silks.
She liked me best.
She liked to lay me out on a bed full of silks. They were sometimes warm colors, all reds and oranges and yellows. Other times they were pastels, or they were simple and colorless, just whites and creams. Sometimes she layered them until a collage of color formed my backdrop.
Her silks were never green. Never blue. Not even the softer ones, the pastels. She didn’t like my skin tone against cool colors. I didn't care. She was allowed to pick whatever she wanted. I was just a canvas. It wasn't for me to decide.
She liked for my body to match whatever aesthetic she had in mind that night.
I was her art piece, so pretty for her, so quiet, just something to be painted.
They would take turns dripping me in colors.
They’d bruise and cut and burn. They would spill red wine and stain me with lipstick.
Cover me in cigarette ash. Splatter me with thick white cum and wads of spit.
Sometimes, if she was having a craving, there would be food. Melted chocolates and whipped creams. Juicy berries. Ice cream so cold that it burned. Champagne that did the same as it seeped into my cuts.
She’d laugh when my stomach growled.
Well, sometimes she’d laugh. Sometimes she’d punish me instead.
Then she’d remind me that I was only her favorite because I was quiet and pretty.
Remind me that there were others that were pretty.
Others that could be quiet if they were enticed to be.
Others who would give anything to take my spot in their room.
A slave just died, isn’t that right, darling? she’d ask Jason. Or, Maybe we should give him to Mica tonight instead. What do you think, my love?
And Jason would agree and say something like, You’ve got it easy with us, pretty thing. Stop being so naughty.
Sometimes she'd take photographs.
I was allowed to cry. Tears were clear. They didn't ruin the aesthetic. Sometimes, if the light caught just right, they’d even glisten in the photos. She always did a happy little shimmy when she’d get those shots.
Jason loved her so much. He was patient with her. He'd smile and chuckle and say things like, “Last pose, baby, then I want all your attention to myself,” as he moved my body where she directed.
It always ended the same, me being shoved to the floor in a tangle of wet fabric, where I was to remain still and quiet until Master Jason dealt with the mess I had made.
I sometimes think that was her favorite part.
She enjoyed the art, I could always see it in her eyes, but her smile was always the biggest when she got to remind me that filthy boys don’t get nice things.
“Look at these,” she’d say, never sneering or frowning. Always smiling. “I tried to make you pretty. What a shame. You’ve ruined them.”
She’d say it in a way that never failed to make me feel guilt and shame. She’d say it in the same tone someone would say, “This is why we can’t have nice things,” or, “It’s disappointing that he never rose to his potential.”
She’d say it like it was something to be sad about, but only a little sad. There’d be a dose of pity in her tone and a shake of her head - because there was nothing to be done. The situation couldn’t be fixed. Slaves like me ruined things. Filth like me wasn’t meant for silks.
What a shame.
The silks were soft, though. Even after I ruined them. Even after Master Jason eventually came to deal with me, sometimes wrapping one around my throat to use as a leash as he dragged me out of the room.
Every once in a while, he’d fall asleep after making love to her without remembering to get rid of me first. I’d get to just lie there on the floor those nights.
I would be so still and pretty and quiet.
I’d focus on nothing but the feeling of those silks against my skin, the world fading away for a while as I floated on the sensation of soft and cool and smooth.
I wasn't real, then. I wasn't human. I was just a pretty doll to be enjoyed, then tossed aside for the real thing, broken and quiet on the floor.
I'm still on the floor in this safehouse that I can’t quite believe is safe. Maybe that's just where I belong.
Sometimes being high up on the beds is scary.
It makes it harder to feel like I’m still on Earth.
It makes me feel like any second I might fall - or be pushed.
Any second I might crash. I like the hard feeling of the ground beneath me, as long as I’m the one who put myself there.
I like being able to safely hide under the bed like now, so far into the corner no one would be able to reach me.
Maybe things can still be different here. Can still be better.
The blue bunny is so much better than those silks. The soft blue bunny is the best thing.
Nothing is bleeding. Nothing is bruised. There’s no punishment to wait for. No blood or cum or sweat or tears to ruin anything.