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Carter closes his eyes, leaning back against the cool cement wall. He plays a new game he made for himself. The point of the game is to create scenarios for after he’s been sold, anywhere ranging from a gorgeous, gentle man purchasing him, to some overweight, sweaty asshole who puts him in a brothel and injects him with so many drugs he forgets his own name. There’s never a scenario where he goes free. It’s not a game Carter can win. He knows that.
He just wishes the others in the cell would figure it out too.
???
Carter’s been in the cell for a long time. There’s no light besides the dim bulb that hangs from the ceiling of the hallway outside their barred door, and they never turn it off. There aren’t any windows. Their meals aren’t at all regular. His only way of telling time is paying attention to his body. He knows he’s been in the cell long enough for his lips to be bleeding and his fingertips to be scratchy with dehydration. Long enough for his hunger sweats to turn to hunger shakes, sweat no longer coming from his pores. Long enough for him to forget what his test was on that he had been so focused on studying for.
He’s been in the cell long enough for him to watch a myriad of boys and men come in and out, some returning, most not. Long enough to learn that the ones who are returned have been brought to a place the captors call the playroom, where they endure all sorts of things other than rape. Long enough for Carter to understand that there are worse things than being raped.
Long enough for Carter to realize that for some reason, his captors aren’t going to ever bring him to the playroom.
Long enough for Carter to decide he doesn’t want to find out why.
???
Carter’s claustrophobia is currently fighting with his need for warmth. He wants nothing more than to curl up in his safe little ball, but he’s freezing.
He’s always freezing.
The naked bodies around him are all he has for warmth these days. Any self-consciousness over lack of clothing disappeared a long time ago. Before his arrival to the cell even.
There are 15 naked bodies in the cell right now. The smallest amount so far has been 12, and the most has been 17. There’s barely enough room for everyone to sit on the floor at the same time. They usually take turns, sleeping in shifts, and even then, everyone has to be curled up tight or sleep sitting up. The younger boys have the advantage of not taking up as much space as the adults. They can curl up on their side to sleep and only use as much floor as Carter would use sitting up in his tight ball.
A guard starts to walk down the hallway, his boots heavy on the concrete floor. Carter feels his heart pound to the beat of the steps. Despite his effort to keep calm, he still startles when the guard’s baton hits the cell bars. The sound rings in the air around them, hauntingly familiar, a warning of danger to come. Carter makes sure not to get caught looking at the man, only glancing long enough to see which guard it is.
Scarface.
The worst of them all.
There’s a single drain in the center of the cell for piss and vomit, and a bucket for everyone’s shit. The bucket is only taken out once it’s nearly overflowing, and the guards are never happy about it. Scarface is the guard who was in a particularly bad mood one day and decided to brighten it by tossing the contents of the bucket back into the cell, shit raining down on Carter and the others.
Scarface is the guard who likes to give them the least amount of bread possible, forcing them to share to the point of each of them barely getting more than a bite or two. He’s the guard who makes sure his victims bleed when he brings them to the playroom. He’s the guard who aims at their crotches and faces when he brings in the power hose to clean them, enjoying the way they gasp and shriek as they bump into each other with the hope of escaping the ice-cold water coming at them through the thick metal bars. He’s the guard who likes to stay afterward with a grin on his face while they stand shivering and crying as they wait for all of the water to go down the single drain so they can rest their weary bodies on the ground again.
Scarface is also the guard who makes sure no one takes Carter to the playroom. The others come back with stories of horrific medical examinations. Of sleep deprivation. Of being waterboarded. They’d come back with bloody whip marks along their skin. Bruises shaped like fingers and fists and boots. Sprained ankles and wrists.
But never Carter. The one time a guard had reached for him, intending to take him to play, Scarface had taken Carter from the man and shoved him stumbling back into the cell.
“Not that one, you dipshit,” he had growled. “That’s the Beckett whore.”
Carter still doesn’t understand what that meant, but he knows it meant something to the guard. It meant enough to keep him safe.
At least for now.
???
Carter is still in the cell with the slaves when he wakes up from a dream about freedom. For just a second, he can still smell the fresh air, the grass, and the flowers, but then the cell’s thick scent drowns the memories. Everything reeks of piss and shit and vomit here. There’s a little boy beside him. He’s new. He must have come while Carter was napping.
The boy won’t stop crying.
Minutes go by.
What must be at least an hour goes by.
Still, the boy is crying. He’ll make himself sick if he doesn’t calm down.
“It’s okay,” Carter whispers to the boy. “Everything will be okay.”
It’s a lie, of course. Carter might not know much about this situation they’re in, but he knows that at least. This boy can’t be more than 13 or 14 years old, though. Carter’s gut tells him he’s even younger. Maybe lying is the most humane thing to do.Maybe it’s not.
