Ezekiel
The metal chains scraped against the cement floor, giving little leeway as I paced from one side of the room to the other.
Ten steps.
That’s how much room I had to roam.
Each step brought forth more pain as the chain tightened around my ankle, digging into the already abused flesh and sending the smallest trickle of blood sliding down the side of my heel before crashing to the floor.
On my next pass, I shot a glare towards the wall where the thick metal shackle was attached, as if my looks alone could melt the hardened silver material. Of course, I knew there was no way in hell that fucker would ever come loose because I’d been trying since I got thrown into this shithole. And it was no more loose now as it was when I’d first arrived.
The lone light above my head flickered as I rubbed a hand down my face in agitation. I was a caged animal here, on display for whoever goddamn well pleased to stop by and gawk at me like I was a filthy pet. And I hated every minute of it.
“Would you stop pacing? Please?” the small voice begged, giving me pause. Of course, it wasn’t the first time I’d been asked since my arrival.
My gaze softened as I let my eyes wander over to the kid sitting bunched up in the corner, back against the wall, legs to his chest. His eyes, which I knew from looking into them so many times, were the darkest brown I’d ever seen and filled with defeat.
When he was first thrown into this cell, he nothing more than a pile of skin and bones. Sadly, that had only gotten worse as more time passed.
Fuck. How long had we even been here?
“Sorry, Kid,” I muttered as I flopped to the floor with a groan. The pressure against my back from the wall behind me caused me to flinch in discomfort, leaning forward. The cuts were just now starting to scab over, but there was no telling how long that would last.
After a while, time stood still. I had no idea how long I’d been kept here against my will. All I knew was that it had been a while longer than the poor kid who sat defeatedly in the corner. I still wasn’t entirely sure why he was picked. As far as I could tell, he was the most different out of the bunch of us here. And the complete opposite of me.
I wasn’t entirely sure how many of us there were anymore. When I’d first arrived, I had figured there to be ten, more or less. And that was only an assumption based on the number of people who had passed by my cell. What I did know was that I was the only one that shared a cell. Just one more thing in this hellhole I didn’t quite understand.
Nothing down here made a lick of sense.
Like me, the boy was tied to a post, which had been attached to the brick wall behind him. Though, unlike me, he was attached by a thin brown rope. Whereas, I had a chain. I could only assume he wasn’t deemed a runner.
I certainly was.
I’d already tried on more than one occasion and I wasn’t afraid to try again if the chance ever presented itself. My leg still bore the nasty cut that refused to heal from my last attempt as a reminder of my past pursuits. Of course, it didn’t help that the men weren’t gentle in any aspect of anything they did.
It was either try or die. And I’d gladly die if it meant being free of this place.
“I have a name, you know.” The quiet words were muffled as the kid pressed his head to the top of his knees.
Sure, I knew he had a name. But ‘kid’ just stuck. Plus, his name, Judah, was so old fashioned. And since he was still a baby in my book, ‘kid’ only seemed fitting. Seventeen was far too young to be thrown into this sort of life. Fuck, so was twenty-two.
His reactions to just about everything we encountered here showed just how young and innocent he was. For instance, the way he pulled his dirty body closer into the corner, trying to appear so much smaller than his lanky form already was.
Of course, I knew I didn’t look any better.
The pants I’d thrown on the morning I was taken while out for my run were now beginning to slip down my waist. My shirt had long been lost, torn into pieces by one of the many nameless men I’d encountered.
My left hand ran across my chest where the healing cut could still be felt, angry and warm.
“I want to go home, Zeek,” the young boy’s voice echoed.
My heart went out to him and made me ache in the very depths of my soul. I still couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten me to feel this way. Perhaps it was because we only had each other down here. If–not when, because that wasn’t a likely possibility–we got out of here, I knew we’d go our separate ways and never see one another again.
“Not that they would want me back.”
“Chin up, Kid. Things will work out.” Who was I kidding? No, it wouldn’t. But I knew that in order keep him fighting, to stay alive, one of us needed to at least say the words.
I knew through one of his ramblings, which ended with his sobbing for hours afterwards, that his parents had kicked him out of the house when he came out as gay. I wasn’t naïve to think that such things didn’t happen, but I will never understand why. He was just a teenager with nowhere to go.
