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I do that a lot, actually - lying in bed and waiting like a good boy. Sometimes a warm presence lingers beside me, smelling of tobacco and vanilla. Sometimes I’m cold and the room is quiet, and I know that I’m alone even without opening my eyes to check. I usually fall asleep waiting, figuring the American will do with me what he pleases, but I’ve yet to wake up feeling any different than when I went to sleep. Which means he hasn’t fucked me yet.
I’m too afraid to let myself wonder why.
“This should be your last IV,” the American eventually tells me. I try to open my eyes to show him that I’m listening, but the fear takes over, keeping me frozen in place. “You’re getting better, little one.”
You’re getting better. The American sounds pleased about this. A little too pleased.
I drift off to sleep, my heart thundering in my chest as I realize that getting better is probably a very dangerous thing.
For the first time in a long time, I open my eyes and find myself feeling… okay. Not great by any means, but better. Breathing isn't a chore. My head feels clear. My bones don't ache.
I survived.
I lie perfectly still as I assess my situation. I'm flat on my back, on what feels like a mattress with a pillow beneath my head. I can't sense any restraints on me, just a soft blanket draped over my body to keep me warm
Wrong, a voice screams in my head. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
I start to move, knowing this is surely a test, but a hand presses down on my chest to stop me. My eyes snap open just long enough to see a man beside me before I squeeze them shut. He's going to punish me. I'm sure of it. Either because I'm in bed and I shouldn't be, or because I should be in the bed and I just tried leaving it.
I wait for angry words or pain, but nothing comes. At least not at first. When he finally does speak, his voice is warm and low. Almost… soothing. "How are you feeling?"
The American accent is like a trigger, all of the pieces from the past few days shifting inside my mind until they form a clearer picture. The American bought me. I'm his now. He’s my new master. I have a new set of rules - ones he hasn’t shared with me yet. There are a million new ways for me to fuck up.
“When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer me.” The words are said softly, almost like my new master is afraid to upset me, but they feel like knives in my skin.
“Sor-” I have to stop, doubling over as a cough racks its way through my body. I bring a hand up to cover my mouth as it fills with wet, metallic liquid. Blood. Sure enough, there’s red smeared in my palm when I pull my hand away. I curl it into a fist to hide it from him, hurrying to swallow the blood down so I can try to talk again. “S-”
“Don’t talk,” he says, cutting me off. Did he notice the blood? Is he upset that I didn’t try harder to talk through it? Is he upset I coughed? Was it annoying?
He brushes my hair off my forehead. A new layer of panic builds in my chest as I wait to see what will happen now. Is he pissed that my hair is so long? Does he hate it? Is he about to grab a fistful of it to punish me? Master - my old master - loved my hair long like this. He liked to grab fistfuls of it and drag me around. He liked to use it as a cumrag. He liked to pull out pieces and toss them in my face.
“Just nod or shake your head - are you feeling better?” the American asks. I nod slowly, hating that the movement makes my head swim. “Good. That’s very good.”
Is it? Does me being better mean he’ll punish me now? Fuck me now?
“Can you look at me?” my new master asks.
I mean… I can, but I wasn’t given permission to or ordered to, so I won’t. I’ve learned this lesson already. Can you eat? I had taken a bite, only to be forced to throw it up and whipped for thinking I was allowed to eat. Can you stand? I had pushed to my feet, weak and wobbly, only to have the backs of my knees caned for daring to walk like a human. Can you speak? I had answered, voice crackly with disuse, only to have cigarettes put out on the center of my tongue.
So, yes, I can look at him, but I won’t.
The American - Master, Casey, you have to think of him as your master before he figures out you aren’t and punishes you - sighs. “Okay. That’s okay. You don’t have to look at me. Just listen, okay? Your fever has come down. It’s still shy of where I’d like it to be, but it’s a start at least. You seem to have more energy and you’re keeping all of your food in that belly of yours. I want to try giving you a bath now that you’re feeling a little better.”
I remain perfectly still and quiet. None of that was an order and it’s not like the American - fuck, I mean Master - cares about my opinion or anything. I just need to wait and see what he decides for me.
Master sighs again. I inwardly wince, knowing I’m upsetting him. A hand touches me on the shoulder. Then another on my cheek. I forget how to breathe, suspended in the moment, waiting for the pain to come. But it… doesn’t.
“Can you walk, little one?”
I can. Well… probably, at least. It’s been a pretty long time. But even if I can, I won’t.
"If you're capable of walking, I want you to get out of bed and walk to the bathroom."
That… sounds like an order. My old master never used to say he wanted me to do things, but maybe this man is different. He's American, after all. Americans tend to want things a lot. I remember that feeling.
God, I haven’t wanted anything in so fucking long. Slaves don’t want. They get what they’re given and they’re fucking happy about it.
“That’s okay,” Master says, sounding… sad? “I’ll carry you, little one.”
