But I am not here. I am not anywhere.
I am no one.
And everyone.
I focus on the crack in the ceiling. The single flaw in a world that expects perfection.
If I don’t look down, maybe I’ll never have to come back.
I stay there, staring at nothing, as Moore prepares the next lesson.
Somewhere in the white void, the lesson changes.
I am not in the chair anymore. There are hands on my arms, but different from before: these are thicker, rougher, unfamiliar. The smell of sweat is overpowering, mixed with aftershave, cheap cologne, the bite of whiskey evaporating offbreath. Voices now, not one but several, layered over each other in a constant, vicious commentary.
“Look at the eyes on this one.”
“Moore says he’s a crier, that true?”
“He can be made to cry.”
“Hold him down, he’s twitchy.”
Someone laughs, a short, barking sound that’s louder than the rest. It’s followed by a wet snort, and then the hands on my legs shift, pushing my thighs wider. I want to close them but the bar is there, locked in place. Hands grab my face, squeezing my cheeks until my jaw pops. A finger pries into my mouth, hooking the inside and holding it open.
I try to count the number of men, but the voices blur together. Four, maybe five. One is very close, his breath hot on my neck, the stubble on his chin scraping skin raw. Another stays back, narrating the scene for an audience I can’t see.
“Senator’s got good taste,” says one. “Too pretty to last, though.”
Someone else says, “Not our problem.”
Hands explore, groping everywhere, searching for new angles of pain. One man goes straight for the wounds Moore left behind,shoving a finger into the bruised spot on my rib. Another laughs and cups my balls, squeezing until I choke on the pain.
The world is hands and mouths and teeth.
They turn me on my side, then over, face pressed to the cold tile. My arms are wrenched up behind me, shoulders screaming. I smell blood and spit and latex.
I go somewhere else. I watch from above, like a drone hovering over a battlefield. The men are shadows with bright mouths, their hands the only things I can see in color. I see my body, naked and pale, pinned by four men. They fuck me in turns, no hesitation, no attempt to hide the violence. My face, eyes squeezed shut, tears running sideways toward the floor. My mouth opens and closes, but I hear no sound.
Each man marks me: one bites the back of my neck, hard enough to draw blood. Another leaves handprints on my hips, the bruises already rising purple. The one at my face grips my hair, yanks my head up, and says, “Watch.”
I watch.
Time stretches and folds. At some point, I realize Moore is there, standing back with his arms crossed, making notes on a clipboard. He doesn’t intervene, just records. For data. For posterity.
Eventually, the hands let go. Someone wipes their cock on my back, then flicks my ear. Another tucks himself away, zipping up with a slow, triumphant sound.
They laugh as they leave, a ripple of casual cruelty. Moore steps forward, kneels beside my head, and peels open my eyelid with a thumb.
“You’re still here,” he says. “That’s good.”
He lifts my head by the hair, holds it suspended for a moment.
“Thank me,” he says.
I can’t. My mouth is full of blood, or spit, or just the memory of both.
He slaps my cheek, not hard, just enough to focus my eyes on his.
