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“Cole, you have to let me see, please.”
He lifts his head and when his eyes meet mine, the fear, the pain, the shame, it all swims just below the surface of his mossy irises.
“Please?”
His breath falters as he inhales and he nods his head, “Okay.”
Sliding off of my lap, he turns to face the bars of our cage, and sits on the edge of the mattress, hiding his face with his hands. When I see the wreckage left on his body, my heart seizes, clenching so tight, it may explode in my ribcage. An audible gasp leaves my lips as I hover my fingertips over his back, tracing the lines without touching him. Counting the places where his flesh is split wide open.
Sixteen.
I count sixteen fucking lashes.
Sixteen times they tore into his beautiful blank canvas leaving wounds so deep, they’re bound to scar over. Sixteen times, he swallowed pain that I ultimately caused. Sixteen times he bit his tongue and swallowed his screams.
I can’t hold back the flood of agony that rips through my chest. Hot tears pour down my face, while self-hatred pierces my heart and consumes me like the bite of a venomous spider. Flowing from the organ in my chest, spreading throughout my veins, and seeping into my soul. The hatred eats at every part of me.
You did this. You’re a fuck up, Zeke. A fucking failure.
Shaking my head, I attempt to knock the intrusive thoughts loose so I can focus on comforting the man in front of me. Scrambling to my feet, I find his wet sweatshirt in the corner of the cell, and make my way back to the mattress. I sit down behind him, spreading both legs so he’s situated between my thighs.
“Cole, this is going to sting ok? But, I have to at least clean these. This wet sweatshirt, it’s all we got.”
He nods his head in silence and I suck in a deep breath before gently dabbing his wounds with the sweatshirt. None of this is ideal. For all I know the water on this sweatshirt isn’t even sanitary, but it’s better than nothing.
Cole’s body trembles and when I reach the large gash across his spine, his body clenches and he winces audibly.
“I’m almost done.”
Making my way down the rest of the wounds on his skin, I stop when I dab blood away from the last gash. I need to find a way to comfort him without touching his back, so I drop the sweatshirt and hesitantly reach out, resting both hands on the sides of his biceps. Softly running my hands up and down his upper arms, I press my forehead to his shoulder.
“He’ll find us, you know? Riot. He won’t give up,” Cole whispers.
“I know,” I respond softly.
Turning his head, he glances at me over his shoulder, “Lay with me? Please.”
I nod my head, and as I back up to lay down, I yank my hooded sweatshirt over my head. Lying on my side on the dusty old mattress, I extend one arm and wait as Cole settles down on his side, resting his head in the crook of my elbow. With my opposite arm, I drape the sweatshirt over his torso. It may not be much, but it’s all I have.
Side by side on the small excuse for a mattress, we are pressed closer than we’ve ever really been. Tracing my fingertips over Cole’s jawline, I stop at his chin and tilt his face until he’s looking directly into my eyes.
“I’m so damn sorry. All of this is my fault. No matter what, I promise I’m getting you out of this.”
“Us, you’ll get us out of this.”
“Cole,” I sigh. “They want me. I’m going to get them to let you go. I’m going to give them what they want.”
“W-what do they want you for?”
“They want me to work for them.”
Cole’s eyes widen and he lifts one hand to my chest, fisting my t-shirt in his grasp, “No. You can’t do that. These people, they do awful things. They… there’s auctions. People, Zeke, they auction people.”
“If it means keeping you safe, getting you home? I’ll do anything they ask.”
“No,” he shakes his head. “We will find another way. When we leave this cell, it’s going to be together.”
“Ok,” I breathe, agreeing with him for the sake of argument.
