I close the door and step away from the platform. He stalks the short span of the room, glaring at me and spitting curses. He bangs his open hands against the glass walls so that it makes a muted thudding noise and wails like there are truly demons possessing him. He scratches at his shoulders, neck, and chest, and I’m glad his clothing provides some barrier. First thing tomorrow, we’re cutting and filing his fingernails.
Something about Simeon’s visit triggered him, something he must have said, something I did, but I’m too rattled right now to try and dissect it.
“You’re just like them,” he wails, baring his teeth. I can only assume he means his abusers. His voice is muffled by the glass, but his rage comes through loud and clear. “Just like them,” he screams wildly.
I have seen men unravel in the agony of torture and deprivation, but never someone I cared about, never like this. This feeling of helplessness is as rare to me as it is unwelcome; the lack of control I have over this boy scares me more than anything else.
I drag a chair nearer to his enclosure and make myself comfortable. This may take a while.
Two hours later,he’s completely exhausted himself. Collapsed on the foam mat, he stares up at the ceiling with a vacant expression. His fit is over, but I’m not sure he’s ready to come out of the box just yet.
“Would you like something to drink?” I ask loud enough so he can hear me.
“No,” he says with a hoarseness that is the result of screaming for nearly two hours straight.
“I need to piss,” I tell him, and he bolts to a sitting position in order to track my path across the bedroom to the en suite bathroom. I leave the door open so he can watch me as I urinate. While washing my hands, I inspect the new wrinkles lining my face. I blame him. On my return, I pause in front of his box. He’s kneeling on the floor—eyes swollen, nose running, he looks a mess. “Are you ready to come out?”
“Yes,” he says, wretchedly.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He could probably use a shower and definitely a comb for his hair, but I’m not in the mood to pamper him.
“Would you like to explain to me what just happened?” I ask when he’s seated in a chair across from me with his legs drawn up and a pitiful sulk on his face.
“The demons,” he says.
“The voices,” I correct. Demons has too negative a connotation. “What were they saying?”
“You’re going to leave me.”
“Why would they say that?”
“This boy is too young, too damaged. He reminds you of your ex Dimitri who you hate.”
“You don’t remind me of Dimitri.” I don’t correct the last bit because I do hate Dimitri for the way he treated me.
“That’s what the demons said.” He shakes his head and paws at one ear like a child with an earache. “Your friend Simeon thinks so too. He hates me.”
The voices are echoing Simeon’s concerns, which have less to do with Giovanni and more to do with me and my own failed relationship.
“Simeon doesn’t know you,” I remind him.
“He looked at me like I was a dirty little faggot.”
His mother put that garbage in his head.
“You know how I feel about that word and referring to yourself in that way. I also don’t think it’s true. It seemed to me he was trying very hard to be friendly.”
“That was fake. He thinks I’m not right for you. He wants you to find another boy. A clean one.”
A clean one.I’m not sure what that means, but I suspect it is nothing good. “Simeon worries over me, because when this man Dimitri left me, I went into a very deep depression.”
“Did you kill him?” he asks. I truly never know what will come out of his mouth.
“Dimitri?” I smile at the absurdity. “No, though I wanted to. I wouldn’t hurt you either, no matter what you did to upset me. I keep business and pleasure very separate.”
