Page 37 of Corrado

Silently, Alessio leaned in, and pressed his forehead to the side of Corrado’s cheek. He didn’t linger there for very long. Just quick enough for Corrado to feel his warmth, and know his presence was real. This hadn’t been something that the darkness did to his mind—it wasn’t another trick.

“I gotta go,” Alessio quietly, his words whispering along Corrado’s bruised skin.

“I know.”

“Trust the process.”

He did.

Just not the way they wanted him to.

Another round in the fucking tank.

Another round in the dark room.

Corrado wanted it to end.

It was a mantra in his mind now—one that wouldn’t leave him alone during his waking hours. Which was damn near constantly. He found it hard to sleep in the darkness now. Impossible, really. He was sure humans weren’t made to go days and days and days without sleep, but somehow, he was doing it.

Or … he was falling asleep and waking up without realizing it. He closed his eyes to darkness and opened them to the same thing. Time was irrelevant, and he didn’t even comprehend when it was passing him by.

The first time they put him in the dark room, he hated the floor. Sure, he liked it more than being dunked into the tank for several minutes at a time without being allowed to breathe, but he still fucking hated it. Cold, wet, and cracked … there was no way to get comfortable, and he was convinced that coldness soaked into his bones constantly. And the wetness? He was never going to get dry.

Now, though?

Now, he didn’t care at all. The discomfort he used to feel at being on the floor of the dark room was a moot point to everything else. He didn’t get chilled from the cold, and the wetness making his dirty clothes irritate his bruised skin further was a background thought.

He simply didn’t feel it at all.

Even the tank didn’t bother him so much now. That had been the worst—trying to overcome the realization that, yes, he was probably going to die in that fucking water if they kept the top on him for another ten seconds. His vision would blacken, and his lungs protested so much when he was under the water that he was sure death was imminent.

Now, he just wished it would happen.

If it was going to kill him, then do it.

Resting on his stomach in the dark room, Corrado’s head rested on his arms, and he faced what he suspected was the door. He couldn’t be sure because they still brought him in here with a hood over his head to confuse the hell out of him.

It worked, too.

Every damn time.

Still, he laid there and waited.

For a beating.

For food.

For light.

Drumming his fingers to the floor, a sharp thought sliced through his mind—something he’d not really considered before right now. He was bored.

The beatings wouldn’t kill him.

The food would be fine.

The light didn’t last.

And he was just … bored.