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Alex thinks a lot. In the long stretches of time where he is left alone, he wonders exactly what part of his life led him to this. No one is around to protect him anymore. Utterly alone and vulnerable in an unfamiliar place, on a cold ground in a dark icky bathroom. He stares out the window, aching for someone to peek in and see the state of him and the bathroom. Maybe they would save him, take him in their strong arms and carry him away from those men. He hasn't been carried in so long, he's too big now, older than the little girls. His stomach is empty and growly but he wouldn't even be able to keep food down anyways, if he somehow got it.
After being stuck in this bad, vile place for so long, Alex could describe it in excruciating detail, though he can't remember how long it's been, he can describe the metal smell that leaves him lightheaded and the dark feeling to it all. How the rust on the pipes rubs his arms and leaves behind sulfur smelling dust or how the pieces of the broken sink dig into his thighs and how strands of his hair are stuck to the wall behind him, glued to the tiles with his blood from when they bash his head back into the cool tiles. Pain was familiar to him, the screaming and fighting, the strikes and crying. It wasn't new. This was just worse.
He hates the tiles that surround him. slick with his blood, leading up to the mold spots on the ceiling. He counts them because it's the only repetitive thing big enough that he can see. The grout framing them mostly has corroded. How does that happen? The grout is gone now. leaving only gross, brown grime in its wake.
Time seems to stretch and stitch together haphazardly, leaving him to wonder how long it's been since he's had real comfort, like a warm blanket to hide under or the sun beaming on his skin. There is a small window that allows light to peek through it. Color seeps through, sometimes bright enough to see the contrasting hues that alight the sky. It makes him want to capture it like a snow globe, so he can replay the beautiful gifts from the sun whenever he shakes it.
When they leave the bag on his head it's like time freezes. Going by so slowly almost just to spite him. Sometimes the blackness around his head almost convinces him that he finally died, left only to rot in eternal silence except for the sound of his heart beating frantically to keep him from collapsing into the ceramic sink.
He would prefer being dead to this. No more scary men coming in to scream at him, asking him confusing questions and punishing his mangled body for not understanding. He tried to explain that he didn't hurt them, his aunt made them sad, not him. He can't even see the photos they show him, it's like an indispensable puzzle, critical to his survival but the pieces blur together and scatter across the floor. He can't pick them up anyway.
What would it be like to die right now? For his overworked heart to crumple up and be still, finally. To stop this inflicted harm and be rewarded with happiness. What waits for him after all of this? After they kill him, will he be taken into someone's arms again? Or is empty darkness all that is waiting to catch him?
His gaze falls to his hands that have been twisted around each other and tied with the scratchy, uncomfortable rope. The rope cutting into his already sore hands is painful but the sharp aches throughout his body distract his other senses. His fingers practically begged him to be shifted and flexed but last time he did, a burning sensation spread down to his elbow like fire ants. His fingers are probably broken. like the rest of him. Broken beyond repair, just like he's always been.
He's always been damaged, at least that's what the grown ups have told him. His aunt says something is wrong in his brain, it makes him different. Other people are much meaner about it. He's heard too many insults thrown towards him, like the jagged rocks other children used to pelt him with when he was being too weird on the playgrounds. He's always been like that. He can't help it. He's never been able to read people's subtle signs that they don't want him there. Always out of sync from everyone else, not understanding when other kids didn't want him around. He tried to do the things expected of a child, like keeping eye contact and speaking when spoken to, but it always seemed to not be enough. if he tried harder to understand then they wouldn't hurt him anymore. He would be able to withstand the rigorous questioning and they would let him go home.
His self deprecating thoughts are cut off by familiar footsteps approaching him. His vision swarms. Curling further into himself, he attempts to hide his vulnerable parts from the violent scene awaiting him. He can't focus on anything besides the pace of his breath and holding in the vomit that threatens to come up more with every rhythmic thump. He flinches into his own lap at the ill awated groan of the rusted hinges accompanied by the crack of the knob slamming into the wall, his blood runs even colder when he feels his visitor draw nearer. He doesn't risk glancing up to see the figure who is most definitely looming over him. The dark shadow eclipsing his trembling form is only there to hurt him. He wonders what they will do this time, maybe they will bash his face in with the hammer or screw nails into his knees and elbows, like in the violent threats they scream in his face and whisper in his ears. All he can do is wait for them to tear him apart, to turn him inside out.
The menacing figure leans down in a crouch and tenderly laces his fingers in the top of his hair, since the back is matted with crusted blood. Alex almost can't help but lean into the most caring touch he's felt in weeks, but he resisted the urge and stays still. The sweet feeling of the fingers softly scratching his scalp turns unsettling when he hears the familiar voice. Right now he is gentle, unlike the violent man who is fresh in his mind, but the warmth is like fresh blood.
“Alex, Alex, Alex…” he tuts, like scolding a child “when are you going to stop making us do this?”
He doesn't move from his position, too scared of the consequences. He focuses on keeping his breathing slow and quiet instead of the caring touch from a man who has caused his constant suffering. He starts to feel his warm tears on his arm, where it's braced against his face on his knees. The mixed emotions the man is causing are becoming too overwhelming, he's never had to deal with this much before. The plethoric frustration and pain he's caused will kill him at this rate. It will stop his pathetic lungs from constricting soundlessly beneath his ribs. The hand in his hair stills suddenly and grasps his greasy brown hair into his fist.
“Alex?” he croons, stretching out the syllables, right before he yanks Alex's head up by his hair, forcing eye contact. For a moment two sets of watery eyes gaze into the opposing ones and alex wanted to break down and sob right then. He was terrified of what this man wanted to do to him. He was never safe here or anywhere. The man, fed up with his silence and blank face pulled him roughly up by his hair, Alex let out a short shriek as he scrambled to get on his feet. He could only get up to a bend, his hands were still constricted and the tugging was making the rope tighten. Alex cried out as he felt strands being ripped from his head as the man kept pulling him. without warning the hand in his hair pushed him down and forced his face into the sink.
Alex screamed as his cheekbone was bashed into the unyielding ceramic, unable to support himself anymore he crumpled to the ground. The hand still fisted in his hair dragged him back up to smash his face into the sink again. He groaned as he fell to his feet once more. The man gave one last yank to his hair and let go, instead grasping his throat. He squeezed and shoved his thumb into Alex’s adams apple.
His eyes bulged as he wildly strained against the restraints. His hands, numb and tinged with purple were twisting painfully, the only goal being to get the man off of him. When the black dots clouding his vision, teasing him with relief, was beginning to overpower him the man pried his fingers from alex's airways, slow and stilted like all he wanted was to choke the light from alex's eyes and life from his body. A strangled moan erupted from his burning throat when the fingers were no longer forcing his breath down. Alex wheezed and coughed, unable to get enough air into his deprived chest.
Alex felt hot tears falling down his face, down his chin. His chest was burning. His tired lungs, pitifully constricting, his heart, still beating wildly while he tried to keep from weeping on the dirty floor. He's never felt so much before. The mixture of desolation and agony, coming together in a sour dessert. its miserable taste clung to his taste buds and the smell stuck to his skin.
“Aren't you going to say something?” the man yelled, emphasizing with a kick to his ribs.
He cried out, unable to comprehend the words he was saying. Alex attempted to force words out of his constricted throat but they wouldn't go. He was counting the tiles again, willing the man to see that he can't do this and leave. He felt as if they would come alive and swallow him whole. He ached for the feel of the smooth, cool squares to encompass him and end this all. He wondered what they were made of, if it was the familiar ceramic, stone or clay. Which one would hurt more?
“Talk to me. now alex.” he breathed from his nose, trying to keep composure.
Something had to give eventually. Whether it be the men or his body.
The man scoffed and kicked a piece of debris at him. He quickly turned on his heel and stomped off into the other room. Alex's head lolled to the side to stare more at the moldy grout.
Every bone in his body screamed and begged for him to get out, to somehow outsmart the man and escape. To go back home. Alex tore his gaze away from the wall and back to the man as he waltzed back inside, looking more mindful of his steps, a bit graceful. The oddness of his behavior distracted Alex from the object swinging in his hand with every stride, moving effortlessly. His eyes fluttered shut again, out of his control. He wanted to scream and cry, beg for forgiveness until his voice gave out and his vocal chords played their last song, floating around his ears until it lulls him into restful sleep. He can't though. They don't believe him.
Alex's eyes opened once more when he felt cool metal sliding on his damp cheek, though without his glasses and the added smudges of tears blocking his vision, it was useless to try to see what it was.
“Why won't you tell me? Why wont you talk?”
Alex could only stare in response, tears still falling. Scared to let the noises out.
“I know that you know where they are. I'm going to get it out of you.”
Alex forced himself to choke out a familiar phrase, murmured before.
“I'm not a bad boy.”
The man froze, taken aback by the interruption. His words were worn , mumbled and shaky but he heard. The man fell to his knees and cradled Alex's cheeks in his hands. Alex was confused again about the odd desperate affection.
“I know you aren't bad. That's why you need to tell me where they are.” his despairing voice rang out, hands shaking around the younger boy's face.
“Tell me and I'll get you out of here. Please, you need to tell me and be good.”
Alex felt the cool, gentle, desperate hands against his feverish skin, grounding him.
“She does it. She does it.” he repeated his muttered words like a mantra, practically begging for him to understand. “Im not…im not.” he trailed off. If he told him then she would know. She always knew.
The man was yelling again, grabbing his face and making him keep eye contact. He couldn't hear him anymore though. His words were too loud, replaying like a song in his head, over and over again. She knows. She's going to put him back in the bad place.
He eventually gets fed up with Alex again, gripping his face in a bruising hold and pushing him over. His head smacks against something, he can't tell what it was this time. Sensing more movement he tries to look up but his head won't move. Looking up, as far as he can with the whites of his eyes rolling with his irises, straining against their sockets he sees the man looming over him. He realizes he's talking again, seething and biting his own words, but Alex can't seem to hear anything anymore.
Strong hands move him to sit up again and the one holding his bicep moves to cup the back of his neck, Alex's fluttering eyes snap open at the contact and a scream tears through him again. No more choking, he attempts but all that comes is a curdled wail. He's tugging again, looking as though he wants to rip his wrists away from his hands, tearing himself apart. The hand moves to close around the matted mess on the back of his head, away from his neck. Alex's violent thrashing dies down once the threat of oxygen deprivation is gone and is replaced with loud cries that echo around the bathroom.
Alex feels the rough texture of the bag sliding onto his head, sticking to his perpetually damp skin as the hand fisted in his hair lets go, leaving him to slump forward. It was already too hot in the bag and it was clinging to him uncomfortably, scratching at his irritated cheeks.
He wasn't keeping track of time anyway.
Alex hears a dull scrape on the ground and wonders when he started hearing his surroundings again. The thud of footsteps surrounding him and clouding his senses made him feel like a young boy again, in that dark room with the other children.
“Stop crying.” the man's voice was colder than earlier, more irritated and sharp
Alex didn't like that, he didn't like that everyone was so mad at him. He wished they would understand.
He hears the man grunt out a question before something hard and cold connected with the side of his head, Alex groans, trying to ignore the horrible crack his face made on impact as he tries to curl up again. The metal swings down again and smashes into his already shattered cheekbone.
Completely vulnerable. No one was there to protect him. The tiles begin to come in and consume him. He was never really protected, was he.
His last thought before darkness was the man's words. He would get it out. one way or another.