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But he’d never taken that final step.
And now…
His brows scrunched together in confusion as he recalled hearing that Armand had died. After that, he’d been put up for sale again, hadn’t he?
As he raised his gaze to look at the man sneering at him, he realized he’d in fact been sold again. Tothisman.
Will it ever stop?
He didn’t voice the question out loud. He only stared silently as he tried to get his bearings together.
For the first time in too long, his mind was clear of drugs. There was still the dull hum of lethargy that threatened to pull him back, but he fought against it.
“Muevete,” the man hurled the word at him, shoving him back into the shower stall. “No tengo todo el dia.”
Suddenly, Rafaelo realized the man wasn’t speaking English, but Spanish. And he understood it.
I studied it,he slowly remembered.I can understand what he’s saying.
“Hijo de puta, andale!” He yelled again before turning on the shower.
Rivulets of water flowed down his skin, cold and invigorating.
Despite the confusion that still swirled in his mind, Rafaelo tried to get a grip on himself and assess his surroundings.
He’d been wrong.
As he let the water wash over him, he stared at the man who’d spoken to him.
He couldn’t have been the one to buy him. No, as he studied him, Rafaelo realized he could only be an underling of the person who’d bought him.
Though questions amassed in his brain, he took advantage of the shower to wash his body—another thing that seemed foreign to him.
It was almost as if from the time he’d been sold to Armand and until now he’d been put on pause. He couldn’t remember speaking in months, nor could he recall washing, or feeling clean in any way. In that regard, the water, cold as it was, proved to be priceless.
Yet it was all over too soon.
One moment he was rinsing the dirt off his body, the next he was being pulled out of the shower and handed some clothes.
“Tienes cinco minutos,” the man told him, leaving him aside so he could push another man into the shower, doing the same to him as he’d done to Rafaelo.
He blinked as he put on the clothes—a simple pair of linen pants and a shirt. Both were worn, and he could bet they’d belonged to someone else in the past. But against all odds, they were clean, and Rafaelo desperately needed that sense of cleanliness to cling to.
He might no longer feel as dirty on the outside, but he felt soiled on the inside, Armand’s intrusive touches having been forever imprinted on his skin.
Once the other man was done with his shower, he was shoved aside, given clothes and another man was pushed into the stall.
“Do you know where we are?” Rafaelo asked in a low voice in English. His brain was still too foggy for him to think up the words in Spanish.
The man’s eyes widened and he gave him a harsh look as he nodded towards the guard. They waited, and when he was busy with another prisoner, the man leaned in and whispered in Rafaelo’s ear.
“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” the man replied in English. “The punishment isn’t worth it.”
Rafaelo gave him a brisk nod. So the other prisoner was American. That could give him some insight into where he was if he managed to get him to talk.
Yet, before he could do anything else, all the men that had showered were lined up in a queue, slowly moving to the exit outside.
Rafaelo kept up with them despite feeling biting pain in his joints. At that point, his body had been abused so much he couldn’t even pinpoint the source of the pain, or what had caused it. He only knew that every step he took made him grit his teeth, so that he wouldn’t wail from anguish.
