Page 6 of These Monstrous Deeds

The chain doesn’t let him advance past a squatting position.

Feeling like an idiot, Carter whispers into the darkness around him. “Hello? Is… anyone there?”

Nothing.

He had figured, but that doesn’t mean the confirmation doesn’t hurt.

How long will he be kept here?Surely they won’t leave him too long. They have to feed him. Water him. They won’t let him die. Not after all of their “Beckett whore” talk. Not after Scarface keeping him safe from the playroom. There’s something about Carter that means something to these men. They won’t leave him here to die.

Just to suffer.

Deciding he should see if there’s anything useful in here that he can reach, Carter tugs at his chain until he’s as far away from the ring as he can get, then slowly begins to circle around it. He reaches his arms out as far as they’ll go, taking his time so that he doesn’t miss anything.

He does this twice.

There’s nothing. No cracks in cement – which is what he’s thinking this room is made out of, considering the feel of it. No possible weapons. No food or water bowls. No bucket to go to the bathroom in. No drain either. Carter can touch two walls with his fingertips, so he must be bolted down near a corner, but that doesn’t help much. He can’t even use the walls to rest his body against. They’re just far enough away that the chain chokes him when he tries.

Eventually, Carter winds up back near the ring so he can relax his body. He lays down and curls himself into the tightest fetal position he can manage. Even though it’s dark, he closes his eyes. At least then he can pretend like it’s his choice to be blind.

As the cold bites at Carter’s skin, he finds his mind drifting to his game. He had shared it with Casey a while ago. They had played together, after Casey made it very clear that he thought it was a bad idea. He thinks Casey had enjoyed it, though. He had a fantasy about being purchased by some sexy business guy who wears fancy suits and just wanted a slave for convenience, not for really fucked up or painful shit. He wants there to be a pool at the house he’s brought to, and he wants his new owner to be kind enough to let him swim in it sometimes. Casey had been on his college swim team. He was good, not that he said so. Carter could tell just listening to him talk about it.

Carter hopes Casey gets his businessman with the pool.

As far as Carter’s future is concerned, he’ll just be happy to survive this new place he’s been locked up in. Anything after that is too much to even consider.

And freedom?Freedom sounds nearly impossible at this point.

He can’t believe he ever let himself dream otherwise.

???

At some point, Carter starts to claw at the floor and walls. Even when he breaks his nails. Even when they start to bleed. He claws and claws, determined to find some sort of escape. He’s desperate. Terrified. There has to be a crack somewhere. Some way to get just a sliver of light. Or sound. Or something. Just…anything. Any goddamn thing.

He needs some proof that he isn’t trapped in a black world where only he exists.

But there’s nothing.For all Carter knows, he’s dead, and this is his hell.

At least there are smells now. Familiar ones even. Carter has been in this new place long enough to shit and piss, which he did as far away from his ring as possible.

Carter’s lips are cracked and bleeding. His throat is raw. Whenever he swallows, he swears he tastes blood.

He needs water at the very least. Someone has to give him some goddamn water.

“Please!” Carter cries, gasping and coughing right after as his body punishes him for the sound he forced from it. He smacks a hand against the cement floor, the movement lethargic and weak. “Please…”

Nobody comes.

He’s starting to think nobody will ever come.

???

Carter took a literature class his freshman year of college. They had to pick a poet from the time-period they were studying and do a presentation on them. Part of this assignment was memorizing one of the poet’s poems – or an excerpt from the poem, if you chose a large one – and reciting it to the class. Carter had chosen William Wordsworth. Being someone who is terrible at public speaking, Carter worked tirelessly at memorizing his poem. It was only 20% of the presentation grade, but that’s not what he cared about. He cared about all the eyes on him. Heavy. Itchy. Just waiting for him to fail.

So, Carter memorized that poem.

He memorized the shit out of that poem.

He memorized that poem so well that here, now, in the freezing cold depths of darkness, his body shutting down from lack of water and nutrition, Carter can recite that poem perfectly. He does so in his mind only. This partly has to do with him having very little confidence in his ability to make sound anymore, but it’s also because the poem feels intimate to him. It’s all he has anymore. The one thing they can’t take from him.

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