7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Matt
For the first time, Nolan makes a large dinner for everyone in the house.
He doesn’t outright say it’s because Travis is gone, but it feels like it’s at least a factor.
Nolan is still having a hard time dealing with the tangle of emotions regarding the man that used to be our master.
We’re all having a hard time like that. It’s not crazy to assume none of us would want to sit at a table with him.
Then again, Jake should be just as much of a villain to everyone. Yet, here he is, seated alongside his fellow operatives at the table among the small group of us survivors that are still left in the house. No one seems bothered by his presence.
It makes sense that Maison and Ace are fine around him. Casey and Carter are clearly comfortable too, since they knew the truth about Travis and Jake before the rest of us. I don’t think either of them were ever hurt or raped by Jake either. Not that I ever saw, at least.
I don’t get how Nolan is okay with him, though. Not just okay enough to sit at a table with him, but enough to be passing him bread with a nervous smile on his face and actively listening to him when he talks.
Even Bryce isn’t making it into an issue, only giving Jake a few dirty looks as everyone fills their plates and begins to eat.
I can’t even look in Jake’s direction. Any time I look at him, I think of that night.
I think of him in that white shirt with the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled just beneath the crook of each elbow.
I think of the way his belt buckle caught the light.
I think of how I watched his shoes move closer to me - honey colored, shining, the music and laughter too loud to hear the sound of them against the floor.
I think of how I had laid there, wondering if he’d make it over to me in time. If he would save me, or put me out of my misery, or if he’d just look down and grin, watching as life drifted away from me, just another sick and twisted show that us slaves put on for all of their entertainment.
I think of how Dr. Deacon had said only 45 seconds.
Only.
Only.
Only.
I blink rapidly, willing away the tears that are suddenly stinging in my eyes. All I can see is the blurry plate of food in front of me. I concentrate on it, pretending it’s just me at the table. Just me, safe, alone, maybe hiding under the bed. Maybe with my bunny. Why didn’t I bring him with me?
I force a bite of food past my lips.
It takes up too much room in my mouth, despite not being a large bite. It’s thick and heavy, sitting like concrete on my tongue. My throat has to work harder than it should to choke it down. It leaves me shaky and a little breathless by the time it’s gone.
When I look at the next bite on my fork, my stomach rolls.
Jake laughs, soft and low, warm. He says something.
The others laugh.
I can’t laugh.
I haven’t been able to laugh since that night.
I slip away from the table on wobbly legs, trying to ignore the prickling sensation of all of their gazes watching me.
Trying not to think of those shoes and no air and only, only, only.
This is how it starts.
I’m at a party in the compound. Master Mica’s party. It’s his birthday. He has chosen me to be the one kneeling at his feet. He’s chosen me for the night. His special little pet.
He offers me a chocolate-covered treat.
I say a timid, Thank you, Master Mica, before leaning forward to delicately accept it with my mouth.
I bite down.
And the sharp taste of peanut butter bursts on my tongue.
Two decades of instinct kicks in. I don’t even have to think. My body knows what to do when this type of accident happens - spit it out fast, don't swallow, hurry to the sink, wash your mouth out, take an allergy pill, wait with your pen in your hand in case you need it.
I spit it out - fast.
And then I remember where I am.
I freeze.
So does Master Mica.
It's like a cold wave from there, passing over the room until everyone is quiet and still. The only three things that exist are the music, the vibrating tension in the air, and the lingering taste of peanut butter on my tongue.
“Did you just fucking spit that out?” Master Mica asks, his voice ice and blades, a death threat just by existing.
I have to answer, but my mouth is full of the saliva I know I can’t swallow. It'll be a far worse reaction if I swallow, if I send a mouthful of contaminated spit into my system. Spitting more won’t fly either, though.
He backhands me.
I choke on the spit, breathing some in on accident. I gasp for air after. It feels like needles in my lungs. I don't know if that's the allergy already working or the liquid going where it's not meant to go or just sheer panic.
It doesn't matter.
All that matters is that I have to fix this.
“Master, please, I didn't mean-” but it's too late. He has a hand fisted in my hair, shoving me face down.
My nose and lips are pressed to the peanut-chocolate glob beside his shoe. I keep my mouth tightly sealed, trying to figure out if it's worth the risk of opening my mouth to explain myself.
No one knows.
I never thought to tell anyone. Not Nolan, or Bryce, or anyone. They can't speak up for me because they don’t know they need to. They can't help.
No one knows that I need help.
“Eat. It,” he growls.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Please,” I say, moving my lips as little as possible. I can feel the chocolate move with them. “I'm aller- aah!”
He drags me back up by my hair, everything hot and stinging. I can feel chocolate on my lips. On my chin.
My tongue is heavy.
Is it swelling? Or is my panic playing tricks on me?
The world is on fire, oxygen setting my lungs ablaze, my vision filling with the blurring glow of party lights.
And then there’s a gun to my head.
Everything narrows down to the pinprick point of life or death. There’s no more wondering if my tongue is swelling, if my throat is closing, if my lungs are going to stop working - the only thing that matters is the gun and the man holding it.
“You will eat the chocolate,” he says in a deceptively calm voice as he drags the gun down the slope of my nose and to my mouth.
He pushes, forcing it past my lips until the barrel of it is resting on my tongue.
It’s cold and heavy and tastes like blood and oil.
I have just long enough to think, my tongue must not be swelling if this fits inside my mouth, before he finishes his sentence with, “Or you’ll eat a bullet. ”
He pushes the gun deeper, until I’m choking. It hurts. Everything in my mouth, in my throat, in my chest hurts.
Then he pulls it back, tracing the lines of my face with the saliva-slick barrel. “Your choice. What’ll it be?”
One only has a chance of killing me. The other absolutely will.
It's not much of a choice at all.
“I'll eat the chocolate, Master. I'm sorry. I-” and the idiot in me, that idiot that hasn’t been defeated yet, who still feels hope, stupidly adds, “I’m allergic.”
Master Mica’s eyes narrow.
I try to focus on him. I try to focus on the cold, wet metal still digging into my skin.
I try to - to - to - but my tongue is definitely swelling.
It’s not my imagination. I can feel it pressing up against the roof of my mouth, against the inside of my lips.
Everything is starting to tingle, teetering between numbness and pain.
“Oh, look at you. You’re shaking so pretty. Is it getting hard to breathe?”
I want to answer, but when I try to adjust my tongue to make the Y sound, I can’t do it. There isn’t room.
There isn’t room, there isn’t room, there isn’t room.
A tear slips down my cheek. He leans forward and licks it off, chuckling when it makes me shudder.
“You’re allergic?” He asks, not like he doesn’t believe it, but like he doesn’t believe I could find the fact worthy of even saying out loud. He digs his gun harder into my skin. “You’re ungrateful, is what you are. Do you know what happens to sluts who are ungrateful?”
I try to think of a response. A proper apology. A way to get out of this somehow. To get away from the party and do anything I can to stop this reaction from getting worse. A way to save my life. A way to survive one more night.
But it’s really hard to breathe, air feeling like sandpaper every time I suck it into my lungs, and my brain is starting to feel as swollen as my tongue.
It doesn’t matter - he tells me the right answer.
“They get taught a lesson.”
The whip that comes down on my back steals the breath from my already aching lungs. I have enough time to think - please, no, not a whip, I hate the whip, anything but- and then it lands again.
Master Mica is very good at being an unapologetic, twisted sadist. He has us all pegged. He knows how to calm us. He knows how to terrify us. He knows our limits. He knows our breaking points.
I forget a rule, too hurt and panicked to remember. I accidentally look at him.
I see it in his eyes, then. In his smile.
I see the moment he decides he is going to break me.
Someone screams. They’re screaming and screaming.
It’s me.
The whipping doesn't stop until my screams do.
My back is one hot, wet slab of pain that the rest of my body wishes it could crawl away from. Every inhale is torture. My throat is raw and itching, my tongue feeling like it’s doubled in size, like it must be close to blocking off my airway.
Master Mica palms my face with one big hand, pulling me back to my knees from where I had ended up crumpled on the floor at some point during the lashings. He forces me to look at him, fingers and thumb digging into my cheeks.
I taste blood as my own teeth cut me open on the inside.
There are imaginary flames licking along my back.
Something is dripping down my skin.
The room is quiet - so quiet.
Master Mica blurs and doubles and spins, even as he sits perfectly still.
“Allergic, huh?” he murmurs, and there's something so playful in it. Like he just thought of a new game he can’t wait to play. Master Mica loves his games. “I wonder, would it feel good to have my cock in your throat while it swells? I bet it would. Should we see?”