Page 48 of His Pet

Justin

I’m an idiot.

They should engrave that on my tombstone. Here lies Justin Palmer. An idiot. May his soul rest in peace, even if his body was sent into a woodchipper or fed to the pigs or whatever organized crime does with their victims.

I should have called the police. Why didn’t I?

Because I liked Cameron and thought he liked me back?

Jesus Christ. I’m too old to believe in fairy tales. I’m nothing to Cameron, just a toy to fuck and toss away when he grows bored of it. I conveniently forgot all about that when I decided not to use the phone. I’ve always considered myself an intelligent person, but all that intelligence went flying out the window the moment I thought about leaving Cameron. Stupid doesn’t even cover it.

I curl up and hug my knees, ferociously missing my blanket. It’s not cold down here, but I could really use some comfort right now, because I’m in all kinds of pain. The physical one is bad enough, but it’s the emotional one that burns through my insides like acid.

He didn’t even hear me out. No innocent until proven guilty, no benefit of the doubt. Cameron simply jumped straight to the worst conclusion possible and silenced me when I tried to explain. I didn’t expect him to blindly trust me, but he refused to even listen. That hurts more than all the marks on my body, and I despise myself for that pain, because I did it to myself.

Why did I let myself grow attached to someone who doesn’t even see me as a person?

Well, at least there’s no risk of that happening again. In no uncertain terms, I’ve been reminded of my place here. It’s time I accepted it, because I won’t get another chance to escape. Cameron was distracted today, but he won’t make the same mistake twice. If he even comes back.

It’s been hours and hours. Days, maybe? I don’t know. Between restless naps and staring at the ceiling through the bars of the cage, it’s impossible to tell. I sip water from time to time, but I don’t feel like eating anything, even though I’ve probably skipped several meals.

What’s the point of eating, anyway? To keep your body alive?

I scoff, wincing when it aggravates my sore throat. As I touch the bruises, I remember Cameron’s expression as he choked me. So much anger. I thought I saw pain flash in his eyes as well, but that’s just wishful thinking, my mind trying to humanize the monster who owns me.

Cameron almost killed me, and I can’t help but wonder what death would have felt like. I don’t exactly wish for it, but being dead must be easier than the mess my life has become. Although if the preacher in my parents’ church is right, I’ll go to Hell for being gay, and Hell is supposed to be all about eternal torment and suffering.

Hmm. Maybe I’m already in Hell, because why else would it hurt so much?

“Why didn’t you at least hear me out?” I ask the empty room.

Neither the fridge nor the AC respond, happily humming away their quiet song, oblivious to my problems. Good for them. At least someone in this place should be happy.

Sometimes, when the boredom hits too hard, I imagine them singing to each other in a modern, inter-appliance version of Romeo and Juliet. But maybe that’s not the best comparison. Didn’t the kids die in that play?

If Cameron is fed up with me, death is the nicest option I can look toward. If he sells me to someone else instead…

I sigh. Pondering my fate is pointless, but it’s better than agonizing over Cameron or talking to the fridge. “Not that there’s anything wrong with talking to fridges. I didn’t mean to insult you, friend.” The fridge doesn’t react, which I take as a good sign.

Ever-present exhaustion washes over me, and I don’t fight sleep’s pull. Naps aren’t a bad way to kill some of that endless time I have on my hands.

I’m asleep when Cameron returns, but the click of the door wakes me. My eyes are gritty, my throat sore, my head throbs, and I don’t feel any urge to pee, which would normally be the first thing I do in the morning. Not that it’s currently morning, if Cameron’s stubble and slightly rugged appearance are anything to go by. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. It’s kind of how I feel, even though I have slept for days.

Watching him approach the cage, I wait for the emotions to hit me, but there are none. I’m empty, and it’s a relief. My body is sore and I’m probably dehydrated, but at least I don’t have to deal with that stabbing pain of betrayal or the paralyzing fear of what’s going to happen. Cameron might hurt me, or he might not. There’s nothing I can do to change that, so why worry? Why worry about anything at all?

Cameron owns me. He can deal with the worries. I’m too tired for it.

As I crawl out of the cage, I have to grip the bars for support as a wave of vertigo hits me, but I manage to pull myself to my feet. Cameron watches me intently, looking irritated, and I idly wonder if he’s going to take his anger out of me again.

“Have you learned your lesson?” he asks.

I have to clear my throat twice before I can speak. “Yes, Sir.” I’ve learned so many lessons.

“Good. I don’t like punishing you.” Cameron’s gaze falls on the supplies in the cage and he glares at me in a way that would have my old self crying and cowering in terror. I’m still blissfully empty, so I simply keep my head down and await punishment for whatever real or perceived crime I’ve committed.

He holds up an empty bottle in front of my face. “Is this all you drank in two fucking days?”

Two days. Huh. It felt longer. “Yes, Sir,” I reply, because what else am I supposed to say? He can see the other bottles are full. Why is he even asking me?