bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter nine, part two. 💚

Sir never came back, which was a relief at first but as the days dragged on Case was beginning to miss the company. Missed hearing another person's voice, feeling their touch, or even simply the warmth of their presence in a cold and empty room.

If Case slept (the pillow curled over his head to block out the dim yet ever-present light), it was shallow and fitful. He had dreams about finding his phone but being unable to unlock the screen or dial for help; about Sir hovering over him like a sleep-paralysis; about waking up in a panic and crying for his mom, only to wake up for real, his pillow wet with tears. When he arose, it was with sore eyes, a pounding head, and the same achy-seediness as a hangover. Case shook off the ickiness of his nightmares and distracted himself by keeping active. He'd pace the basement, workout, attempt the yoga printouts, run laps from one wall to another until he was sticky with sweat and his chest was tight from exertion; he'd take long showers, two or three times with reinvigorating mango and citrus soap suds, even when the water ran cold and he ran out of dry underwear..

Whatever was living inside the walls (too small to be a possum, strangely vocal for a rat) seemed to become active around dusk or dawn. Case'd wake up or get disturbed by screech-thump whenever the creature returned to its hole. When it gnawed against the beams in the crawlspace, or made a hissing-scream, Case would talk back.

"How was your day, Gary?"

Reeeee-RAH!

"Oh, wow. You found a map to One-Eyed Willy's hidden treasure? That's incredible."

He didn't know why the rat-possum's name was Gary; but it stuck. Case listened to Gary the Rat-Possum scurrying in the crawlspace overhead. He carried on a full, one-sided conversation, easing his loneliness until the critter was scared away by the screech of metal hinges.

Case flinced—ears perked, breath held—unsure about the foreign sound disturbing the silence. A creak, followed by the shuffle of footsteps, then the thud of the door closing.

Sir's back.

Instinct took over. His heartbeat stumble-skipping with anticipation. Sir was back, and Case was now rushing to the bottom of the staircase, his face hurting with a huge smile. For a moment, he was like an excited child racing to meet his parents at the end of a long, long day; ready to be hugged and kissed and share I missed you's—

Case stopped, sobered by realization. No . . . no, that's not right.

Heavy footsteps thud-thumped down the stairs. Dark sneakers and white soles scuffed with dirt forewarned the monster descending into the basement. Case's blood turned icy-hot, his skin prickling with sweat and chills. Yes, this was how he should be feeling. Not excitement but dread.

Sir ambled down the stairs, head down to watch his footsteps. A baseball cap obscured his face, emphasizing his strong jawline and salt-and-pepper stubble. He came to a stop at the bottom landing, finally looking up at Case from beneath his cap, and visibly flinched in confusion.

"What are you doing?"

Case didn't reply, deer in the headlights. After a beat, he registered that Sir had asked him a question. "Umm . . ." He looked down at his bare feet, toes curling.

"Wait," Sir undertoned, coyly drawing out the single syllable. "Where you waiting for me?"

Case grit his teeth, embarrassed that, yes, in the end he didn't know if he dreaded or wished for Sir to return. In the absence of a definite yes or no, Sir chuckled, relaxed and rich with bass. The laughter offset Case's nerves—only slightly. He fixed his stance and eyed the bed.

You know what happens now, said the voice.

Yes, he knew. And he knew that to fight against it would be like swimming against a rip in the ocean—struggling would only lead to drowning.

You've done this once, you can do it again.

He swallowed, blocking out the voice of reason and his knowledge of what was to come. It's just a blow job, Case reminded himself. Just oral sex. Not even real sex. You can do that. With a blank mind and a body switched to autopilot, he stepped towards the bed.

"Stay there," Sir said. Not angry or demanding, but an order all the same.

Case faltered, one foot still in the air, then quickly resumed his position, fixed in the center of the basement. If only his parents and teachers could see him now: so voiceless, so obedient.

Sir sat down on one of the bottom steps, the simple movement eliciting from him a contended, old man groan. He spread his legs, slapping his hands against the faded knees of his jeans, and angled himself towards Case, staring.

Staring, like someone watching a dispirited animal at the zoo. The attention made Case's insides swirly with discomfort. So he stared back, focusing on the motley of bruises marring Sir's face. Dark purple and blue. Dead blood cells beneath swollen skin.

I did that, Case thought, bolstered with pride. Bolstered by the proof Sir wasn't some impervious horror movie monster—he was a man.

The voice of reason sneered. A man who kidnapped you, and made you suck him off.

Case sucked the inside of his cheek, grinding the soft flesh between his molars. Pain blocking out reason.

Sir reached into his back pocket, not breaking eye contact as he pulled out a lighter and hand-rolled cigarette. He put the joint to his lips, and somehow Case knew that he didn't intend on sharing this time. "I see you're starting to adjust."

Case shrugged. Sure, he was adjusting—if that's what you could call the constant, on-edge struggle to keep himself from falling apart.

"You're up and about . . ." Sir took a drag from the cigarette, his cheeks hollowing, the bruises and shadows contouring his ghoulish features. "And you've showered . . ." He exhaled a gray stream of smoke. The charred, earthy, skunk-like odor seeped into the space between them, permeating the air. "That's good. I want you clean."

Case's insides swirled with queasy discomfort, the heat rising in his face.

Sir leaned forward, toying his thumb against his bottom lip. "I want you to listen real closely to me, Casey."

Case nodded, mouth too dry and throat too tight to reply.

"I'm not going to touch you," Sir said, his big, scary grown-up man voice devoid of emotion, and resolute with fact. "I'm not going to touch you, not until you ask me. That's the one big promise I can make you. Do you understand?"

A frigid, morbid chill spilled into Case's stomach.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Sir continued. "Not unless you make me. In fact, I'm not going to even leave this step. You just have to be a good boy and do as I say." Sir studied him carefully. He raised his cigarette to his parted lips, a sliver of pink tongue poking through and teasing the filter. "Do you understand?" He took another drag, paper crackling as it burned.

Case had to take a moment to breathe, to swallow and wet his parchment-dry tongue. A moment for his mind to clear through the fog. The basement smelled strangely like burnt popcorn. Okay, Sir wasn't going to touch him. Not unless he asked for it. And Case wasn't going to ever, ever ask for Sir to touch him or fuck him or worse. And, honestly, Sir had been mostly straight up with him until now, so why lie? Sir had made a promise, and Case's instinct told him to believe. This was okay. Finally, he nodded. "I understand."

"Take off your clothes."