All The Ways We Touch [BxB]

seventy-three - home is where the hurt is - pt. four

Jamison certainly disagreed but kept it to himself, goosebumps spreading out across his entire tense body as he waited for Timothy to reveal whatever was next. There had to be a reason that he was standing behind him.

Timothy put the pen to Jamison's throat. "You should be awfully grateful that I'm not a vindictive man," he murmured close to his ear, applying just enough pressure to break the skin. "But as Jesus is recounted as saying in Matthew 5:38, 'if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also.' Revenge has no place in the heart of a follower of Christ."

That was complete and utter bullshit, even if Timothy lied to himself and said that this was for his benefit. That this was all well-intended. That there was no quest for vengeance. The way he beat him spoke loudly, and it said that he was angry. The tip of the pen digging into him said otherwise, too. Still, what was he supposed to say to that? The temptation to mention the F.B.I. agent's murder sat on the tip of his tongue, but he bit his cheek to keep from making a dire situation tragic.

"You must understand that this is happening from a place of good in my heart," he said, returning the pen to his pocket and coming back around to his front. "That if you're to be punished for your actions, it won't be coming from me." As Jamison said nothing, he let out an exasperated sigh and walked over to a large, wooden desk. It was old and hand-carved, a donation from some well-meaning member of the congregation when they were opening the facility. He unlocked the left-hand drawer and pulled out a prepared silver tray. "Even if it may feel that way."

Jamison craned and swooped his head to the sides, trying to get a glimpse of what Timothy was getting, but his view was blocked by Timothy himself. His breathing grew rapid as he waited in suspense, his stomach already on the verge of making him puke. He could only imagine it was more of the pills that he'd used to induce vomiting. Why else would he have taken him here if not to get started back with aversion therapy? The thought alone had his heart kickstart at a beat that could rival a hummingbird's flight. 'I've endured this before. It won't be pleasant, but I've gone through dozens of sessions.' His attempt at calming himself helped a little, but only enough to back away from the edge of a panic attack.

Opening up the sterile packaging, he took out the syringe and then picked up the small vial full of a clear liquid that had been next to it. Sucking some up, Timothy squirted a tiny amount of fluid out in case of an air bubble and set it back down. He needed to roll up Jamison's sleeves first. "I'm sure you're expecting a pill," he said as he crossed back to him and began pulling his sleeves up his meager arms. "But after you left, I started using this instead. It was a lot easier to use—especially on a larger scale—and stronger too."

While Timothy finished fussing with his sleeves, he locked in on the syringe, whimpering at the sight. An injection? He'd read about a medication that was used for this purpose decades ago. Adrenaline spiked his blood, and he began to thrash in the chair, desperately pulling against the straps that bit into his soft and scarred flesh. "I can't touch anyone else! You don't have to do this! I'm already permanently fucked up!"

Timothy laughed bitterly. "If that were true, you wouldn't be able to be with him," he said, going back for the syringe. "Now, you'll sit still if you want Elliot to keep his breakfast."

Because he couldn't scream, not without risking upsetting Timothy further at least, he let the sobs that had returned overtake him. It was difficult to feel anything but pathetic when he allowed Timothy to inject the vomiting-inducing medication into him without a fight. How he was supposed to get out of this and save Elliot was lost on him as he watched the projector screen come to life with an image of Elliot wide and bright on the screen. After ten seconds, the image changed to another Elliot, another old photo Jamison recognized from his Instagram account. Only then did it dawn on him. Closing his eyes, he began to hyperventilate, and even without the need for the medicine, he began to gag.