Mercy

It felt like I had been trapped in that closet for weeks, but without any form of clock or window, it was impossible to keep track of the minutes, the hours, the days. What made matters worse was my loosening grip on reality. My subconscious appeared certain that Billie Joe was somewhere in that apartment, speaking crudely enough to keep my mind riled and focused on something other than starvation or my bladder’s inability to keep from exploding. For a while, I couldn’t determine whether he was attempting to keep me alive or trying to further weaken my psyche which would easily provide Master Elliot the opportunity to mold my thoughts and actions to match his every fucking whim. Once the voice became more defined, it was impossible to deny that the old bastard was boldly taking a stab at giving me the gumption to fight back. Unfortunately, Billie’s phantasmal, gravelly whispers weren’t enough of a cheerleading technique to keep my mind from going hopelessly mad with fear of my own insolence. In the indefinite amount of time I’d spent locked away, I became nothing more than Elliot’s personal wad of silly putty with how fucking simply he’d been able to render me mute and desperate for his attention despite how notoriously amusing it is to throw said wad of silly putty against the wall, laughing mirthlessly as it bounced right back into your grasp.

Oh, that masochistic jackass adored to witness how relentlessly I flew straight back into his grasp, silent yet begging for more.

I disgusted myself with how, after a while, being sodomized or orally assaulted began to seem much more appealing than being left alone to go insane in that goddamn closet. Any form of attention was supreme to being alone. The more I became aware of the fact, the more it grew apparent that I was still nothing but a whore. I was nothing but Elliot’s desperate little Slut, drooling in anticipation of his erratic arrivals.

Fairy, knock it off. You ain’t a whore.

Oh, Limpdick, if you only fucking knew what I’ve done…

With the perspiration adamantly sticking to my flesh and ceasing to dry completely, my body shuddered with a sudden chill that licked straight down to the marrow in my bones. I wished to wrap my arms around my body to give me a bit more of the warmth I’d previously been captive to, but the metal bracelets locked upon my wrists made it impossible to do so. Instead, I was forced to curl even closer in upon myself in the corner, hoping some sort of heat from my body would warm the walls I huddled against. I could feel my teeth involuntarily chattering within my jaw as a second arctic wave threatened to asphyxiate me with its vindictive chill, and I suddenly grew wary of the reasoning behind my seemingly random bout of coldness. A body needs food to keep itself warm, yet I was irrefutably ravenous.

You shouldn’t’ve thrown that sandwich, Fairy. Now you gotta go ‘n’ suck the pieces outta the goddamn carpet like a fuckin’dog. Hell, with that collar ‘round your neck, you’re practically a goddamnYorkie crawlin’ ‘round down there.

No fucking shit. That was probably his plan the whole damn time, Armstrong.

Regardless of my mounting anger towards a harmless, gutted little sandwich, I inched my way like a worm to reach the stale food to temporarily save myself from starvation and the cold. My stomach squelched as my body wriggled over a pile of vomit that had yet to soak into the carpet, and the mere stench and sound the pile made as well as the slippery feel of it against my skin was almost enough to defeat my mission then and there. Almost.

Barely strong enough to hoist myself up on my knees, I ate every single scrap of sandwich shrapnel strewn about the opposite corner of the closet like an animal. Needless to say, I was still famished subsequent to wolfing the pathetic thing down. Practically famished enough to consider rounding on the vomit that had yet to dry…but not quite. Once I had finished my meal, panting from the effort it took my ailing body just to do so, I collapsed right back down into the fetal position I had myself wrapped up in prior to the excursion.

Quit breathin’ so damn hard, he’ll zap you like a bug for not being silent.

Right, right…I wasn’t making a fucking sound, you old bastard. Not loud enough for Elliot to hear through the door.

You sure ‘bout that?

…no.

I attempted to shift my body to a more comfortable position, but such a feat was an impractical desire in such cramped quarters. Instead, my bladder felt as if it was on fire. I wouldn’t be able to hold the piss inside of me much longer, and it terrified me to no end what would happen if my bowels decided enough was enough as well. Whimpering, I tried to let my mind wander. Something needed to keep me from persistently fretting about pissing all over myself, but what?

He ain’t gonna let you out in time to take a piss, Fairy. Might as well get it over with now ‘less you wanna fuckin’bladder infection or somethin’.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you…I will not piss all over myself. My landlord would slaughter me…

And he ain’t gonna slaughter you for pukin’ all over the damn place? It don’t matter at this point. Just go ‘head and relieve yourself now ‘fore it gets painful.

I contemplated for what seemed like hours the pros and cons of waiting to see how long it was humanly possible to hold in a piss and ultimately decided against it. With tears leaking from my eyes, I used all the strength I had left to hoist myself into a kneeling position as to avoid literally urinating all over myself. Sure, I was a hostage and I’d recently pondered the benefits of eating my own vomit, but I wasn’t a fucking savage. In no time at all, I went from agonizing over my pained bladder to feeling somewhat relieved…though I wasn’t fond of the brand new rancid smell to add to the list of atrocities I had to endure in that fucking closet. In fact, it had me puking my precious little sandwich right back up again within a matter of minutes.

Or hours.

It was just too damn hard to keep track.

Dammit, Old Man, your ingenious ploy to relieve me killed any chances I had of digesting that sandwich.

You expectin’ an apology, smartass?

Yes.

Ain’t gonna happen.

“What the fuck did you do?!” Elliot’s voice hollered from somewhere near the closet door before he proceeded to rip the door open and blind me, once again, with light from the outside world. He gasped, and for reasons I couldn’t understand due to my momentary lapse in sight, I could feel every ounce of fury draining slowly from his form. Perhaps the vile mess I’d made of myself and the closet was enough to melt his heart of stone.

Fairy, he’s playin’ you.

“Oh, you poor thing, let me help you,” Elliot cooed into my ear, causing me to flinch away from the sudden contact. He sighed regretfully before removing the collar from my throat.

“Christ on a bike,” he murmured. “That really left a mark…and look at you, you’re filthy. Stand up, baby, I’ll help clean you up real good.”

I could feel Elliot’s arms wrapping around my waist to lift my fragile form, and I did what I could to assist in the process. Once my eyesight was regained enough to make out exactly where his face was, I attempted to wordlessly ask how long I’d been locked up.

Apparently, I was shit at the facial pantomimes while I was half-blind, for Elliot gave no inkling as to the duration of my captivity.

“Yeah, that’s it. Now just lean on me and try to walk, Mikey. I’m gonna give you a bath, and if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you sleep in the bed tonight.”

My stomach dropped as I realized I was actually looking forward to sleeping in a bed with Elliot that night.

You’ve completely lost your marbles, haven’t you?

Can it, Old Man. I’m free.