by Jette Harris
21
Heather woke to screaming: screams of sincere, flesh-rending pain from the closet next to hers. Heart racing, she cowered against the opposite wall. She covered her ears, trying to block the sound out, but the screaming and a rhythmic thudding resonated through the wall.
Her mind painted a vivid picture of what was happening. Despite the childhood bullying, she was pained at the thought of it. Underneath Witt’s sobs, screams, and begging, she could hear something else: Monica crying. Heather clenched her jaw until her teeth threatened to crack. Her skin tingled with adrenaline. Jumping up, she slammed her fist against the wall.
“Stop it!” she screamed. “Leave him alone!”
Silence fell. The only sound was Monica’s failed attempt at controlling her sobs. There was a thud, the sound of a body hitting the floor.
A soft “No!” from Witt was her only warning. The door to his closet slammed. Heather’s heart slowed to a heavy throb. She pressed her hands against the wall behind her to stop them from shaking. She wished she could camouflage, become one with the drywall, as the door to her closet flew open.
Rhodes stood in the doorway, breathing hard. He was stark naked and covered in sweat, glaring at her. Reaching down, he peeled off a condom, and flung it to the floor at her feet. “Turn—around,” he growled.
Heather’s breathing became quick and shallow as she realized what was about to happen. She tried to swallow, but her throat wouldn’t cooperate. Numb with fear, she shook her head. Her knees began to fail her. Her chest tightened. Rhodes charged into her, crushing her against the wall. Forcing her around, he pinned her with an arm across her shoulders. She shrieked, reaching behind her to claw at him, trying to kick off the wall. He grabbed her wrist in a crushing grip and pulled it back until she cried out in pain. When he released her, all she could do was claw at the wall and pray she would faint as soon as the pain began.
But she didn’t.
22
Witt tried to enjoy it, he really did. He told himself it was what he had wanted for a long time. Believing this didn’t prevent him from experiencing a deep sense of shame. Despite Rhodes’s gentle words, he always found new ways to make it hurt. Witt’s face burned as he remembered the man appearing at his door, naked, and making him a spectacle of his peers. At least, until Heather drew him away. Witt couldn’t decide what was worse: being humiliated in such a painful fashion, or being responsible for her cries of pain.
Even worse than his shame, Rhodes would whisper things to him, things about Witt no one else could possibly know. He feared Rhodes could read his mind, see his darkest secrets. He seemed to know all of the things he had buried so deep out of necessity.
When Witt regained consciousness after the parking lot, he was lying face-down on a bed. A heavy white blanket had been thrown across him. His muscles were stretched tight. When he attempted to move his hands, to cradle his throbbing head, thin ropes cut into his wrists, holding him in place. Raising his eyes, he discovered the ropes were tied to the posts of a headboard. He became acutely aware of his nakedness.
He could barely move, but he could turn his head. Doing so made him feel like he was reeling. He closed his eyes until the feeling passed.
This is one sick fucking prank, he thought. It took him a moment to remember what had happened.
“Do you happen to have any jumper cables?” Rhodes had asked.
“Sure,” Witt answered, chuckling. He leaned into the back seat of his truck to grab his kit. “I’m surprised you don’t have your own, with an old-ass Jeep like that.”
“Oh, I do,” Rhodes replied. “I just needed you to turn around.”
Witt turned to him, confused. The only explanation he found was a swing of Rhodes’s arm, pain, then nothing.
He turned his head again, slower this time. If he craned his neck, he could see a corridor or hallway of some type. Since he couldn’t see any doors, that must be the way out. Or in.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Hey! What is this shit? You think this is funny? This isn’t fucking funny!” A throbbing pain shot through his head, and he took a moment to breathe. When the pain subsided, he took a deep breath to start shouting again, but he was interrupted by the sound of a door.
Rhodes walked in from the hallway, wearing nothing but jeans and keys dangling from a chain around his neck.
“Aw, man,” Witt groaned. “What the fuck? Rhodes?”
He spread his arms. “The one and only.”
“Let me the fuck go!”
Rhodes barked a laugh. “That’s cute! You’re giving me orders!”
“I’ll kick your fucking ass if you fucking don’t,” Witt threatened.
“Every other word that comes out of your mouth is fuck.” Rhodes snickered. “If you’re not careful, you’ll give me ideas.” He reached under the blanket to run a hand over Witt’s leg. The boy flinched. Rhodes drew his hand back to unbutton his jeans.
“Wha—” Witt craned his neck, then turned away as the pants dropped. Rhodes wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He kicked his jeans away, and climbed onto the edge of the bed. “What the fuck? Get the hell away from me! Let me go!” He began to pull against the ropes, but only managed to give himself a few centimeters at the expense of the circulation in his hands.
Undeterred by Witt’s empty threats, Rhodes climbed between the boy’s legs. He teased him by stroking the insides of his thighs with his erection.
“Stop, motherfucker!” Witt yelled, bucking. “As soon as these ropes are off, I am going to beat the ever-living shit out of you!”
“Calm down,” Rhodes demanded, tossing the blanket aside. He ran his fingers up into Witt’s hair and pushed his head down to get a clear look at his skin. There were thick, white scars crisscrossing over his broad shoulders, and running down his back. “Where did these come from?” he asked, his voice taking a curiously tender tone.
“None of your fucking business!”
“Was it your father?”
Witt’s face flushed. Rhodes ran his fingertips over the raised tissue. There were areas of dulled sensation where the belt had cut too deeply, causing nerve damage. The sensation, combined with those memories and Rhodes’s tender tone, made him feel vulnerable in unspeakable ways. He shivered, then tried to cover it up by attempting to shake Rhodes off. “Get the fuck off!” he screamed. “I’ll fucking kill you!”
“That’s rich!” Rhodes laughed. “How do you intend to do that?”
Witt cringed. He pulled against the ropes, but they cut into his wrists and ankles. “Fuck you, man!” His voice cracked.
Rhodes ran his hands down Witt’s back. “That’s not quite the idea.”
“No!” Panic seeped into Witt’s voice. “No! I’m not a fucking faggot! Stop!”
His voice faded into shuddering sobs as one of Rhodes’s hands wandered around Witt’s hip to massage his genitals. He pressed himself against the boy’s back and whispered into his ear.
“I’m not!” Witt begged into the mattress. “Please, please, I’m not a faggot, I’m not! Please, don’t hurt me.”
“I’m sorry.” Rhodes almost sounded sincere. “It always hurts the first time.”
23
The boy still hedged every time Rhodes came to fetch him. The man didn’t even have to say anything. For a moment, Witt would resist, biting his lip and burying his hands in the pockets of his robe. For a moment, he would consider fighting. Then he would follow Rhodes down the hall. Rhodes wondered if he would behave differently if he were surrounded by strangers, rather than his classmates.
“You get to choose this time,” Rhodes told him as he closed the door to the Bedroom.
“What you get to do to me?” Witt muttered.
“Not necessarily…” Witt’s face lit up. “I can think of a few things I would be willing to let you do to me.”
Rhodes stood by the side of the bed, waiting. A smile played at the corner of his mouth. Witt scanned the floor as if he could find inspiration there. He didn’t remove his
hands from his pockets, but took a few hesitant steps forward. Finding courage somewhere, Witt stepped close, lifted his face, and kissed him.
Rhodes had done innumerable things intimate and unspeakable to his victims, but he had never kissed one on the mouth. Not without more sinister motives. Kissing was reserved for consensual encounters (primarily because it was expected). His eyes widened with surprise. He was filled with pity for the boy: He had never kissed anyone in his life, and it was obvious.
Making an exception to the rules, Rhodes took Witt’s face in his hands, and showed him how it should be done.
****
Monica still cried whenever Rhodes took Witt to the Bedroom. Listening to her sniffle made Heather ache. She had never understood how Witt could go from their tormentor to the object of her best friend’s affection. On the other hand, Heather’s concept of “tormentor” and “bully” had changed slightly over the past few days. She felt sorry for Witt whenever Rhodes pulled his door open.
She could hear through the walls as Rhodes began to speak, then his voice cut off when the Bedroom door closed. Monica sniffled for the jerk she loved, who had never given her the time of day.
“Pssst,” Heather hissed. Monica sniffled, but said nothing. “Pssst,” she hissed again. The sniffling stopped. “Psssssssssssssst,” Heather drew it out absurdly long. Z chuckled.
“What the fuck do you want?” Monica demanded. Now was not the time to joke around with her.
“Killjoy, bad guy,” Heather whispered. “Big-talking small-fry…” There was a moment of silence.
Monica burst out laughing.
“What the fuck?” Z snickered.
When they were younger, and feeling their parents had been unfair, Heather would mutter these words to Monica under her breath. She didn’t explain this to Z. Instead, she began to sing:
You suck my blood like a leech
You break the law and you preach…
He was having trouble hearing her over Monica’s giggling. She managed to stop enough to join Heather singing. She stumbled over some of the words; It being years since she had heard the song.
It was the first time she laughed since they were brought there.
****
Rhodes’s hand started to drift down. He hadn’t reached his destination when he froze. Witt pulled away, scared. Then he heard it too. He hung his head with a groan. Pushing the boy aside, Rhodes left the room. He followed the sound across the landing. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He paused at the door of the White Room to be sure.
They were singing. Silently, he entered the room. He was surprised they weren’t more cautious, given what they were singing. They chuckled over the derogatory lyrics, clearly at his expense. He smirked despite the insult, the song pulling him back to a pleasant memory.
Even though Monica was the best singer, Heather was obviously the ring-leader: the lyrics slid off her tongue while Monica did her best to keep up. Z had started to snicker and snort. Peering through the slats, Rhodes found him rolling on floor. He had a hand pressed over his mouth and his face was red from suppressed laughter.
Yanking the door open, Rhodes fell upon the boy, pummeling him with his fists. Screaming, Z flailed to hit him back. Rhodes was undaunted. The singing was replaced by shocked cries. Now the only sounds were Z’s screams of pain, Rhodes’s angry grunts, and fists hitting the boy’s face.
“Stop!” one of the girls screamed. “Stop it, please!” It was Heather, with an edge of desperation in her voice. Monica sobbed. Rhodes realized this was the distinguishing characteristic between them.
“Please—Avery!” Heather’s voice was heavy with tears. Rhodes paused to catch his breath and listen. Z began to cry, covering his face with his arms. “He didn’t do anything; It was me! I started it!”
Once his pulse slowed, Rhodes stood and shut the bleeding boy back in. Opening the door to Heather’s closet, he found her curled against the wall, clutching her hair.
“He didn’t do anything wrong,” she whimpered as he crouched before her. “He didn’t deserve that…”
“I know,” he said, brushing the hair from her face. She was an ugly mess. He placed a hand around her throat, forcing her chin up. He was tempted to squeeze, but he had other plans. “You like singing, sweetheart?” He nodded. She mimicked his nod, sniffling. “I have a song you can sing for me.” He continued to nod as her face filled with trepidation. “I know you know it…” He sang softly, “Under my thumb… I can’t sing; You’ll have to sing it with me: Under my thumb, the girl who once had me down…”
She began to sing weakly. He was right: she knew all the words. As she sang, he pushed down his jeans and began to stroke his penis. Heather choked on the words, turning her face away. Shaking his head, he pulled her back. She attempted to continue, but began to hyperventilate.
“Shh… shh…” He stroked her face until her breathing evened. He eased his thumb into her mouth, pulling her bottom jaw down. He held up two glistening fingers from his other hand. Before he could press them into her mouth, she jerked her head to the side. He yanked his thumb away as her teeth snapped together.
She bared her teeth and scowled. The muscles of his neck tightened. He tilted his head. She had stood up for Witt, surrendered herself for Z… Rhodes wondered how far this selflessness would go.
“No, no,” he scolded, grabbing her face. “There’s still one more member of your choir who hasn’t been punished, remember that.” Her face fell. He held up his fingers, fluid still clinging to them. “There’s plenty more where this came from… Or you can lick my fucking fingers.”
Taking a few deep breaths, Heather allowed him to turn her face back toward him. He hooked his thumb back over her jaw, then slipped his fingers in. With tears streaming down her face, she stared into his black eyes as she sucked the fluid off.
“Very good,” he murmured. “Very good… Do you like it?” She shook her head. Rhodes glanced at Monica’s closet, then removed his fingers from her mouth. “You like it,” he said firmly.
Heather was silent for a moment. Finally, she said in a small voice, “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I like it.”
“That’s too bad.” He sniffed. “I’m saving the rest for Witt.”
Heather replied without thinking: “Shucks.”
Grabbing her bottom jaw again, Rhodes jerked her face upward and forced her mouth wide. “You know,” he said, standing over her, “I’m sure I can spare some more.”
24
Heather didn’t eat. Not because she didn’t want to: She counted three times Rhodes brought the others bowls, but not her. When he brought her bottle of water for the day, he would pause.
“Do you have something to say to me?” he demanded each time.
She dropped her eyes to the floor—if they weren’t there already—and shook her head.
“I didn’t think so.”
She would not have minded if he never opened the door at all. She wished she could waste away on the floor. She tried to stop breathing, but that didn’t work very well: She would get heady, forget why she was holding her breath, breathe, remember, repeat. She lay on the floor until Rhodes came to drag her to the bathroom.
It didn’t take long for her to get restless. The thought of escape tugged at her mind until it reduced her to some primitive animal, pacing its cage.
****
“Is anyone awake?” Heather’s voice was soft, but jarring in the silence. Witt jerked his hand out from under his robe, as if her mere proximity could give her some kind of omniscience.
“I’m up,” he replied.
“How long have you been awake?”
“I dunno,” he scoffed. “Lemme check my phone… Oh, wait…”
“Very funny.” There was a pause. Despite his attitude, Witt was relieved when she continued to speak. “I mean, have you been awake for a while—completely awake? Listening?”
“Yes,” he said. This was true, but he would never
admit to the reasons why. He had been straining to hear the goings-on beyond the door in hopes of discovering a little more about Rhodes.
“Do you feel safe talking?”
“Well—no. But… I don’t think Ave—I don’t think Colossus is here. I mean, I don’t even think he’s in the house. Unless he’s asleep. I think I heard him leave. I haven’t heard a thing in forever... Is it night or day?”
“It’s day,” she replied. “At least, the sun was still up when he brought me back. I don’t feel like I’ve been asleep that long.”
“No, I think it’s only been an hour or so.”
Heather fell silent. An hour or so was not long enough to determine Rhodes was not in the room.
“Why?” Witt asked when she had been silent for too long.
Heather decided to throw caution to the wind: “We need to start figuring out a way to escape.”
“Whoa!” Witt forgot to check his volume.
“The fuck?” Monica grumbled.
Heather hissed through her teeth. Witt could not help but feel this was directed at his incredulous response, rather than the fact he woke Monica. “Don’t worry about it,” he told her. “Just go back to sleep.”
“What’s going on?”
“The Trakkie’s talking crazy.”
“I have a name, Chuck,” Heather spat.
“Will you two please shut the fuck up?” Z’s voice cut in, tinged with fear.
Witt’s face burned. No one but his family ever called him “Chuck” anymore. “Heather…” he drew it out like a dirty word, “is attempting to hatch an escape plan.”
There was a long pause, followed by: “She’s right. We need to start figuring out a way to get out of here.”
“Fucking nuts,” Witt muttered. He was not only scared, he was torn: Rhodes had uncaged a part of him he never imagined he could enjoy. He had hidden from it for so long. Despite the pain, he wanted more of it.
