Not to my room, but back to his. And this time, he’s the one making the choice, he’s the one choosing to bring me there; I’m not forcing him to do it. If anything, it’s the fucking opposite. And that’s exactly what I need for the last of my anxiety to melt away.
He sits me down on the edge of his tub as he turns the shower on for me. I sit there in a daze, wincing at the pressure on my tender ass, as he lays out some pajamas of his, and a towel. He leaves, comes back with a glass of water to find me sitting exactly where he left me. He stands there while I drink it, takes the cup from me and puts it carelessly on the bathroom counter to take care of later.
I stare up at him, unmoving, just mindless because goddamn, my butt hurts. So he reaches down and pulls me to my feet.
“Get in the shower, and then come to bed,” he orders, his hand holding my chin just the way I like it. “Understand?”
“Yes, Daddy,” I breathe, swaying into him, only to wince and pull back at my slip of the tongue.
“No, no, shhh, Tommy, it’s alright,” he croons, keeping me close. “Nothing to worry about. We can talk about that soon. Very soon. But you’ve still got a while to go before the Molly is fully out of your system. We can talk about it then. Not before.”
I have a sudden, vivid memory of him in the car last night, holding my hips with a tight grip, telling me he likes it when I call him Daddy.
So I relax and nod.
“Good boy,” he praises me, and I shiver. “Everything is going to be alright. Just focus on me. I’ll take care of you.”
Chapter 22
Tommy
My childhood is lonely, but not because I’m ever alone. I’m not allowed to be alone. He’s with me all the time. Homeschooling me, playing games with me, taking me to museums and parks and the movies. Buying me toys and books and treats. He loves me.
He just loves me too much.
We’re playing soccer together in the backyard. I like the sport, and he likes making me happy.
But today, I fall. Skin my knee, start to bleed. I stare at the wound, watch the red drip out of me. Numb, cold. Because I hate this part.
“Tommy!” He rushes to my side, he falls to his knees and inspects the small hurt. “Oh, my poor baby, let me take care of this for you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding!” he points out. “Stay here. I’ll make it better.”
He goes inside, looking for Band-Aids and antibacterial cream and an ice pack, probably. He always takes my injuries seriously. Pays close attention to them. Makes a show of doctoring me up. Because he loves me.
And he needs me to know it. Needs to show me how much he cares. Needs to prove how much he deserves my love in return.
I’m left alone in the backyard for a brief minute. A rare chance that’s become increasingly common lately, as he starts to trust me.
I look at the gate.
I’m tall enough to reach the latch now. I have been for months. I could open it and run. But I don’t. Because he loves me, and I…well, he says I love him, too. It must be true, because my body always does what he wants it to.
When he comes back outside, I’m exactly where he left me. He patches me up, brings me into the house. Like a bear trap closing on my leg, he shuts the back door behind us. He puts me on the couch, gives me some water and puts on a movie. And he sits close beside me, fussing over me, until his hands start to wander. Until he starts whispering about his love, our love, and how much he loves to take care of me. He makes me say thank you between every declaration, until I say it all on my own, playacting gratitude for his care.
And he goes on and on about how good we are together. How my body proves the way I feel about him.
I don’t try to deny him, because if I do, he confuses me. He’ll ask me if I don’t love him anymore, even after he just took such good care of me. He’ll ask me what he did wrong, if there’s anything else I need to be happy; he’ll ask me if he isn’t good enough for me. I don’t know the answers to those questions. And he does take good care of me. He loves me.
So I just stay. And despite the churning in my gut and the way my mind shuts off, the way my inner self drifts away to someplace else, I don’t really leave–I stay.
****************
Tommy
Usually I wake up fast, on high alert at the starting line, on it before my eyes are even open. But right now? I’m fucking crawling out of unconsciousness. I know I’m asleep, I can hear someone saying my name, but I can’t open my eyes. My muscles tremble and I manage to groan softly.
