AGALMATOPHILIA

_-:6:-_

As unclipped finger nails tear along his lower back, drenched in his own blood and someone else's bodily fluids, the child wriggles, screaming in pain as he is shoved into a damp, cold room head first, naked knees colliding with rock solid floor.

He lands face first onto a thin, filthy mattress, covered in dirt, burning his wounds as they fill with horrific mire like substances, coughing as a cloud of dust erupts into the air and cakes his tiny lungs and sweat covered body in a layer of grey powder.

The child's jaw cracks when it connects with the concrete floor, a cry of anguish explodes in the compact room, the men standing in the egress just laugh, slamming a solid metal door.

Desperate to scramble to his feet yet unable to support himself with arms duct taped firmly behind his own back, Josh kneels in the pitch black room, air thick, dusty, clogging his lungs as he hyperventilates, unable to make another weep come from his hoarse throat.

As he kneels, and waits, time passes, Josh leans against the cold cement walls, the lacerations along his torso throb, but he am barely feel them.

Used to the sojourn he lived in, adjusting to the inky dark room, he spies the feral bucket in the corner, a horrendous smell wafts from it. There's pipes on the ceiling, and if he were to lay down, arms outstretched above his head and touching the wall, his feet would touch the opposite wall, confining him to a claustrophobic space.

His frail naked form shivers, the temperature dropping significantly, and though he hated the clothing they would dress him in, he was begging for something to cover himself, embarrassed and cold.

It was hours before he heard commotion from outside the cell, the only sound for those hours was the drip of water from a crack in one of the pipes.

The door cracks, a familiar face pops his head through the entrance, a wicked, devious grin upon his lips.

"We're having guests today, why don't you put on something nice?" The man, thick beard, and alcohol staining his breath, saunters over to the shaking Josh, lifting him up by the armpit.

"How about one of those little dresses huh? You know what the pink one does to them," Josh shivers against the rush of cold air against his flesh, the words rattling his skull, and he wants to throw up.

That damned pink dress made Josh wish he were dead.

"Be a doll, and go get dressed,"

Josh struggles to breath, sitting dead
bolt upright, chest heaving in some sort of an attempt to get precious oxygen into his deprived lungs.

"Doll,"

A soft, sheen of sweat glazes his bare torso, where he had been laying, stained with moisture, only furthering the traumatic memories of that disgusting mattress.

"Doll,"

Josh flicks the lamp on, the darkness too much, closing in on his chest, immediately the demons dancing in the corner of his eyes dissipate, and the words cracking their way out from the inside of his skull cease to whisper the words he had grown to love, yet simultaneously hate.

Unaware that he was crying until now, the dollmaker swings his legs off the bed, a few thin strips of sunlight slither through the gap in the curtains across the bedroom, just under the window in the doorless closet, sits the dresser holding his and Brendon's clothing.

So towards it he stumbles, sticky sweaty feet slap against the floor boards, stuttered breath slowly easing into something more even, back of his hand swiping pesky weak tears from his cheeks.