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“What do you need to do medically?” Travis asks as I open the bottle of water and bring it to the boy’s cracked lips.
“He needs another IV with antibiotics and a sedative. The doc offered to come in and help, but I-” I pause, looking over my shoulder at him. I have to choose my words carefully. Casey might be out of it, but mentioning Carter could trigger him. “I wasn’t sure if we’d be alone. Figured the doc would get the wrong idea if we had… company.”
Also, the sooner we got rid of that piece of shit, the better.
“Fair enough.” Travis winces, his mind seeming to drift elsewhere. I’m too deep into my own worries to care about his tonight. “Do you have the supplies? I can do it.”
“In there.” I nod toward the bag that I packed before ever leaving to go get Casey, full of all the medical supplies I thought I might need. I’d rather do the medical stuff myself - my training is better than Travis’s in that department - but Casey is such a good boy drinking his water for me and I don’t want to bother him. “You sure you got it? It’s been a while.”
“Yeah. I got to brush up on my medical skills when-” Travis pauses, his eyes finding Casey. “When mine was sick.”
“Shit, right.” A flash of Carter, far too sick and broken for either of our liking, appears in my mind. That wasn’t long ago at all. God, these poor boys. I laugh humorlessly, anger boiling beneath my skin. “Was that really only last week?”
“Feels like a fucking lifetime,” Travis mumbles.
“You’re telling me.”
A week ago, Carter didn’t know the truth about the operation.
A week ago, I didn’t own a slave.
I sigh heavily, pulling the water away from Casey’s mouth when I realize it’s already half gone. The boy will make himself sick if he doesn’t pace himself. I screw the cap on, my fingers stumbling when I hear the soft, wounded sound Casey makes.
When our eyes meet, Casey cowers and squeezes his eyes shut. His chest heaves as he whispers a frantic apology. “S-sorry, Master. Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Hey, you’re fine,” I say quickly, placing a gentle hand on Casey’s knee. The boy winces. “Were you upset I took the water?”
Casey opens his eyes impossibly wide. “Upset? W-with you? No, Master! Never. Not upset. I - I swear, Master!”
Clearly, that was the wrong fucking question to ask.
“Alright. Calm down. I wasn’t-” but before I can finish, Casey is burying his face in his hands and sobbing, “Sorry,” over and over again. I just stare at his scraped knuckles and broken fingernails, not sure how to fix this. Not sure if fixing this is even a remote possibility.
It hits me then - the heavy reality of my situation. This is a fucking human being. A human being that I now own. I have to make sure he eats and drinks and sleeps. I have to make sure I don’t hurt his feelings or cause him physical harm. He’s a traumatized, broken boy that I have no business trying to help. I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.
How the fuck does Travis do it? Even now, with Carter knowing the truth about everything, it still falls on Travis to keep him alive. To protect him. To care for him.
How the fuck am I supposed to do this?
“Sorry,” Casey is still saying, the word barely a whimper now. “Sorry, sorry, sorry-”
“It’s normal,” Travis says softly. I nod, knowing it’s true, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. “Let’s get his IV set up. The sedative will help.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” I start to reach for Casey, wanting to tell him what our plan is so he won’t panic, but the boy flinches away. I drop my hand and turn to Travis with my best attempt at a smile. “Let’s get to work then.”
Chapter Seven
Casey
Things are blurry for a while after the American brings me to his home. I was given water straight from a plastic bottle at first, but then the American suddenly switched to using straws. I don’t know why. Maybe I spilled? It’d make sense, except that I was never punished for spilling, and spilling is definitely a punishable offense. At least, it used to be. Maybe this man is different? I’m too tired to figure it out, so I just drink whenever the straw is placed against my lips, and wait and see if I’ll be punished later.
There’s been food too. A banana, I think? Maybe some… yogurt? I loved the food at first, thankful for it, but then I realized the cruelty behind the game. After only a few bites, my stomach would roil, and I’d find myself gagging. Once, I even threw up. The American always hushed me when I apologized for it, never seeming angry, never forcing me to continue eating or punishing me for not appreciating my food.
Maybe the man is just adding up punishments, waiting for me to be healed enough to fully endure the misery of them?
Just the thought of that has me remembering why I want so badly to die.
I think the American’s friend comes back sometimes. I hear their voices mingle together, usually whenever my eyes are heavy and scratchy with sleep, unable to open despite my consciousness stubbornly lingering. I just lie there when his friend visits, waiting like a good boy in case one of them decides to use me.
