Chapter 5 Cade
Cade
Ican’t see two inches in front of my face, but I’m sure the bleeding in my neck has finally stopped.
For hours, I’ve sat in the same position, back pressed uncomfortably against rusted iron bars.
My head brushes against the top of my enclosure—the fucking cage Marone had me thrown in.
It may be shallow, but at least there’s enough room to stretch out my legs, which are desensitized by the lack of motion.
I poke at a bruise I feel forming beneath my skin, hoping to feel pain instead of the numbing, tingling dancing inside my veins.
Just when I start to feel something, a creak echoes in the darkness.
Sitting up as much as possible, I bring my knees up to my chest, and some sensation finally returns.
My face is frozen, minus the hardness behind my eyes, watching whoever approaches.
The glare from his flashlight blinds me, leaving me no option but to shield myself while he opens the cage. “Eat up.”
The light disappears, and the door latches shut before I can see what splashes on the ground. Feeling the moisture of it seeping into the fabric of my jeans, I contort to tuck my legs beneath me, flipping onto my elbows to see what’s been served to me.
More tears spring to my eyes, and vomit crawls up my throat with the first sniff. Sour meat, congealed fat, and some unknown rancid liquid fill a shallow dish. The mush is ground into a slop—minced like all wet dog food is.
Dog.
That’s the name Marone hurled at me as he followed me to this black hole. His voice was pleasant and soft while he watched me get shoved face-first into the iron bars. The name bounces around my head now, taunting me along with the food.
While the smell is enough to leave me nauseous, my stomach decides differently. Growling and gnawing, my insides twist with hunger. I resist the urge to eat, but my mouth begins to fill with saliva, wanting the mush anyway.
I try—I really do—to maintain hold of my pride, of the stubbornness that has gotten me this far in life, but the pain, the hunger, the—fuck—the fear overwhelms me.
With tears still prickling my eyes, I uncurl my hand from underneath me and scoop the sludge into my mouth.
My stomach acid immediately surges the second the food touches my tongue, but I force everything down together.
The first swallow is the hardest. It comes with watery eyes, retching, and shame. My stomach doesn’t like it, but after a while, the growling comes to an end. I have to force myself to endure, to keep it down when the bowl is finally empty, but I do it. I ate it all.
Wiping the gunk away with the back of my hand, I push the bowl away, listening to it ding against the bars in the darkness.
I remain on my stomach, head resting on my crossed arms. Fighting the need to close my eyes, I focus on every inch of my body.
It all throbs in agony, from the inside of my eye sockets down to my toenails.
Everything has a pulse. Everything begs for relief.
That’s the last thing on my mind before my eyelids succumb to the crushing weight.
Please give me relief.
My prayer was answered—somewhat.
For four days, I was left alone. I was fed and watered like a dog, but at least I was alone. On the fifth day, when the slop never came, I was sure Marone had left me here to rot. And then the door opened.
A light brighter than the others gleams in, illuminating spit-shined shoes.
“Are you alive in there?” His voice now seems stronger, more powerful than when I was latched to his ankle. Still, I refuse to cower beneath his boot.
“Fuck you.”
Booming laughter is his response, a howling so loud it still rings long after he’s finished. Stepping right before the cage, Marone crouches, smirking right in my face. “I’m glad to see there’s still some life in you, boy. You’re going to need it.”
The top of the cage opens, and two sets of hands reach in to pull me out.
I don’t fight it. There’s no point when everything is numb.
I let these two guards press me against the sharp corner.
One holds me in place while the other shackles my arms behind me.
The feeling starts to come back then, stinging, sharp needle pricks running from my fingertips to my shoulders.
“I heard you behaved, ate all your food like a good dog. I think you deserve a treat for that. Don’t you?”
I feel the weight of his words, but I don’t understand. In the dim lighting, they all watch me—the guards with blank stoicism, but Marone is all glee. There’s an eager quality to his smile, one that doesn’t sit well in the pit of my stomach.
Once Marone gets his fill of me, he turns his back and guides us through the door.
I refuse to follow at first, and then I realize I’m unable to at all.
The numbness in my legs is past the point of a quick return, but eventually, as I’m partially carried down dim stone pathways, sensation comes back to me—one pinprick at a time.
“Where are we going?” I ask, fatigue sitting heavy on my shoulders. It even wraps around my vocal cords, making it exhausting to speak.
“Shut the fuck up,” the guard holding onto my clasped hand bites, giving me a quick jerk forward.
Resisting the urge to grunt in pain, I chew on my lip. Looking back, Marone smirked at seeing the blood bead on my lip. I won’t give him the satisfaction of asking a second time. Fuck him, even if my anxiety is begging for answers.
With as much dignity as I can muster, I follow behind, counting my steps and tracking every corner we turn.
After a while, it becomes confusing. All the dark paths look the same.
The only difference I’ve noticed is the scratches on the wall—on the floor.
They deepen the longer we walk, becoming darker, more panicked, and rusted with blood.
As if the guards expect me to reach for the wall, to add my own markings, they keep me in the center, their hold on me unrelenting.
“A lot of boys have walked down these halls. Can you guess how many have returned?”
Silence.
“That’s a good guess. You’re a smart mutt.
” His laughter is a nauseating sound, but soon, it is overwhelmed by the shouting and cheers just beyond the door ahead.
Though muffled, the unmistakable noise of flesh hitting flesh reverberates within me.
I began to understand why the others panicked, why there was so much clawing in the concrete.
Marone opens the door, entering first, of course, and steps into a crowded room.
Men part in his presence, showcasing the boys in chain collars.
About twelve of them sit on their knees, eyes to the ground, while the men above them shout into a circle.
The hole in my stomach becomes wide enough to swallow me entirely when I see two of them in the center.
Children… fighting for their lives.
Two boys, one appearing sixteen and the other maybe…
nine, dance around each other in slow, tired steps.
Their faces, still full of youth, are devoid of life.
As I look around, I notice they all are.
None of these kids has any fight left in them.
They’re all just… waiting to die. One jab to the nine-year-old’s throat, and I think he does just that.
“Get the fuck up!” A man with an empty chain yells, face pulsating red with veins threatening to explode out of his forehead. He swings the chain over his shoulder, whipping the boy across his stomach, but the boy doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch.
There in the center of the circle, with the sixteen-year-old weeping, the young boy lies motionless, his eyes open on the concrete ceiling.
“Yes!” The other man with an empty chain shouts, joy radiating on his perfectly groomed face.
He collects his winnings from the other fellows in the room, pocketing the cash before whistling a sharp tune.
The champion, with his head angled toward the dead boy, shuffles to the man, allowing himself to be shackled without a word.
“Seems like I missed a great show, gentlemen! But no matter, I have something even better for us tonight.” Marone, walking to a chair higher than the others in the room, gestures to me, still restrained by the guards.
“This is my new pet! As you can see, he’s much stronger than the last! Exciting, isn’t it?!”
A round of applause sounds in the room, its booming beating its way into my chest.
“Do I have any challengers?” Looking around the room, gazing at all the men who avoided his eye. “No? No takers? I guess I’ll just have to choose myself.”
That smile is back, looming over the rest of us. “Eenie. Meenie,” Marone begins to count, stare bouncing over the twelve heads, “Miney…Mo.”
I lose the ability to breathe when I see who he’s selected. “No,” I snarl through my closing throat, “I’m not fucking doing it!” but the child, no more than six, enters the circle anyway, fists balled loosely at his sides.
Cutting me loose, the guards throw me forward. Still somewhat numb, I can’t stop myself from falling in. On my knees with my heart in my throat, I shout, “I’m not doing it!”
“But you will, my boy,” Marone calls out, smiling from up above, “you’ll get in there, and you’ll fight, or I will kill you, but not before I let every single person in this room do whatever they want with you. I’ve seen these men work,” he chuckles. “I know what they’ll do to you.”
Glaring around the circle, I take in their expressions as I come to a stand. With some of them, it’s very clear what they’d like to do to me. Their grins and bulging pants are enough of a giveaway.
Sick to my stomach, I look at the small boy again.
His white cheeks are red. He takes a deep breath, his tiny fists clenching to hide the shakes.
Despite his size and the obvious disadvantage I have on him, his eyes burn with defiance.
This little boy does not want to die, and I—I-I do not want to hurt him.
Still, he’s conditioned to know that if he doesn’t fight, he’ll die anyway.
So, without another moment passing, he lunges forward, swinging a wild punch at my face.
I tower over the child, so it’s easy to dodge his swinging fist that misses my face by miles. I’ll give the boy credit, though. His reflexes are quick. Landing a delicate punch in my gut, he goes to swing again. I catch his arm mid-swing and spin him around, slamming him to the ground with a thud.
“I’m sorry!” I snap, “I’m not trying to hurt you!
Stop fighting!” But the boy grits his teeth and tries to get back up in an instant.
It’s hard to think when everyone is shrieking and roaring in my face.
From every corner of the room, the men shout at us to fucking kill each other.
Unease forces me to take several steps back, searching for the space to breathe.
This time, with anger fully controlling him, the little boy charges again, faster and more focused, throwing a series of punches at any part of me he could hit.
Jumping, one grazes my cheek. Instinctively, I shove him away, throwing a quick but sharp jab to his gut, making the air rush out of his lungs.
The kid stumbles back, gasping while holding onto his middle. “Stop! Please stop!” But he refuses to be done. He shakes off the pain, wiping a bit of blood from his lip from where he bit it, and charges again—this time, more determined than ever.
Feeling helpless and hopeless, I quickly circle the makeshift ring, eyeing a way out of this. Right there, diagonally to me, I watch one of the men pull a knife from his belt. Perfect.
Running for it, I think of a way out. I’ll use the knife and cut my way out of these assholes.
The man, tall and slinky with pitch-black eyes, isn’t expecting me to charge him, too focused on using it on the teen kneeling before him.
My actions catch everyone by surprise, thankfully making them too stunned to stop me.
I grab hold of the handle and swing it around, ready to threaten anyone who comes for me, but it wasn’t supposed to be the little boy.
Before I can correct myself, the sharp edge sinks into his stomach, stopping at the hilt.
His eyes—I didn’t notice how green they were—widened in shock and horror, a gasp caught in his throat.
Stumbling back, the little boy frees himself from the blood-coated steel, hands instinctively falling to cover the wound. I fall to my knees with him, pressing on the gushing opening.
“I’m sorry! Please! I’m sorry!” No apology can stop the bleeding. It poured out of him in a hot, sickening rush, soaking our clothes and the ground beneath us.
When his ragged, desperate inhales fade to nothing, I kneel there, expression falling. He was supposed to stop…
“My Blade, gentlemen!”
Marone’s cheers erupt in chorus, everyone shouting my name.
I don’t hear anything but this little boy’s breathing, the ghost of it echoing around my brain.
Hands touch my shoulders, that much I know, and then his voice is in my ear.
“I am going to give you what you’ve always wanted, Cade.
But first, I am going to break you. I am going to unravel every fragment that holds your mind together.
But this,” he says, taking hold of my jaw to bring me closer to the bloodied child, “this was on you.”