Is he lying? Is this another of Emile’s sick games?
Bayani’s not in a position to refuse help or make demands, so he closes his eyes and resolves to leave his fate in the hands of these two men.
The doctor moves onto Bayani’s throat and places a rolled-up towel under the back of his neck so that he has a better angle to work. Another sharp prick and then the sensation of the area being disinfected followed by the tug of stitches sewing his flesh back together. When the doctor finishes with his throat, he explains what he intends to do to him… down there. This bothers Bayani more than the rest, because if they know about those injuries, then they know too, what was done to him. Perhaps they think he wanted it, that he asked for it. He didn’t.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” the doctor asks. “Please nod if you do.”
Bayani manages a nod and the doctor eases back his knees so that his bottom is fully exposed. John, now standing, holds his legs in place so the doctor can work. There is a sheet draped over his shins to give the illusion of modesty. One of his knees is stiff and still swollen as big as a grapefruit, though the pain is more of a distant hum thanks to the drugs. That injury happened after he’d been released from the chair. Bayani pulled a knife on Emile but didn't have the guts to use it. So, Emile threw him down the stairs to the basement and Bayani landed on his knee. Once down there, Emile kicked him for what seemed like forever, then held him down while he cut out his tongue. Despite Bayani’s pleas for mercy, Emile cuffed his wrists and shackled him like an animal for slaughter.
Naked, bleeding from the mouth, and unable to speak, Bayani had begged Emile to stop, which only made it worse. When Emile had exhausted his own libido, he started using objects. Emile wanted to hurt him, humiliate him. Bayani had thought that despite everything, Emile would allow him to live, but his intent had been to torture him to death. Bayani had never truly known Emile’s capacity for cruelty. He does now.
Bayani doesn’t want to relive the past few days or even the past few months. He wishes all traces of Emile could be scrubbed from his memory altogether. Besides, it’s not as if he could report Emile to the police. Emile’s family owns the police, and even if they didn’t, he or his men would surely kill him for it.
Helplessness threatens to overwhelm him. There isnothinghe can do about it.
The doctor injects the numbing agent into a very tender place. Bayani squirms, biting back a whimper. He remembers the Narra tree in his grandmother’s backyard in the Philippines. Its limbs were good for climbing and it bloomed every spring in a riot of yellow flowers. The petals smelled like honey and perfumed his hair and skin. His grandmother harvested the young leaves for herbal teas and medicines, a remedy for everything from headache to fever.
He imagines his grandmother now with a cool cloth pressed to his forehead, telling him it’ll all be over soon. He misses her tremendously, though he’s not sure how he can ever return to her, in spirit or in body, not without the risk of putting her in danger too.
The doctor works silently and John discusses how he will prepare dinner. “The onions will be diced finely so that they don’t overwhelm the broth. Then I’ll add some celery and a bay leaf to the chicken stock…”
Bayani doesn’t hear the words but listens to the calming rhythm of the man’s voice. By the time the doctor is finished, he’s so exhausted he can barely keep his eyes open. He wants to go back to sleep, slip into that sweet, dark oblivion, but the men aren’t done with him yet. The doctor moves around him, taking pictures of his ribs, arm, and knee with a very large camera while John swabs the blood and dried cum from his skin with a warm wash rag and soap. Covered by a clean sheet everywhere except where John is working, Bayani doesn’t protest, though he is very near tears again because the tenderness is too much.
“I’m going to cast your arm now, and then we’ll be done for the day,” the doctor says. “You’re doing very well.”
Bayani’s face is too numb to express any sort of gratitude, and he still doesn’t know these men’s intentions, so he only nods. He’s so very tired.
He drifts in and out of lucidity while the doctor fits his forearm with a cloth sleeve, then dips a roll of brightly colored plaster in water, and slowly wraps it like a bandage around his arm. The cast begins just beneath his elbow and encompasses his wrist and part of his hand too. He’s never broken a bone before and finds the process interesting.
“Keep this as dry as you can,” the doctor says. He leaves the room to wash the plaster off his hands, then comes back and begins collecting his tools. He gives John instructions on how to care for Bayani. Neither of the men bother Bayani with these details, perhaps knowing he won’t retain it. Noticing a movement by the window, Bayani spots a black cat perched on the back of an armchair, stretching out its sleek back to bask in the sun.
The cat seems like a good omen. Perhaps they will not send him back. But just in case, he’ll find a blade and be smarter about it next time. Instead of using the knife on Emile, he’ll turn it on himself.
3
JOHN
The boy sleepsfor most of the day. César, his only employee, is manning the shop downstairs, so John prepares an early evening meal. It’s ready when the boy stirs from his slumber. John explains to him what’s happening while propping him up in the bed with pillows. The boy doesn’t resist. The drugs have made him groggy and there is also the matter of his mental state.
He’s wearing one of John’s t-shirts and a pair of boxers that swallow his small frame. It’s far too dangerous for the boy to return home, wherever that is, which means John will need to get him some clothes that fit.
Rather than endure the awkward silence, John rambles. He happens to know a lot about military aircraft—that was the subject that initially drew him to the service—so he relays the differences between fighters, bombers, and attack planes, then lists some of his favorite examples of each along with their defining characteristics.
“The Fighting Falcon has a frameless bubble canopy for good visibility, side-mounted control stick to help with maneuvering, an ejection seat reclined at 30 degrees to reduce the effect of g-forces on the pilot, and the first use of…”
The boy studies John closely while he goes about setting up the tray with his food. John offers the boy the spoon, but his attempts to feed himself end up making a mess. His mouth has not healed, not by a long shot. John offers him the feeding syringe, but rather than try to operate it, the boy opens his mouth to be fed like a baby bird. John obliges, aiming the liquid away from his still-healing tongue, then waits for the boy to carefully swallow before offering him some more.
“I’ve got popsicles too,” John tells him when the broth is mostly finished. He grabbed a box of assorted fruit pops as well as some other staples from the grocery store down the street while the boy was sleeping. “It’ll help with the swelling.”
The boy nods, never taking his eyes off him. John isn’t sure if it’s fascination or fear which keeps the boy’s eyes glued to him, though he hopes it’s not the latter.
John retrieves the popsicles and removes the wrapper from one, offers it for the boy to hold with his good hand. He mouths it carefully with his lips, unable to use what remains of his tongue. He’s likely still numb in places too. John supplies a napkin when the juice begins to drip down his chin. The boy blinks and appears to be on the verge of tears. John does not feel equipped to manage the boy’s emotions, so he gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile.
When the meal is complete, John positions a plastic container so that the boy may relieve himself. He turns away until the deed is done, then discreetly ferries it to the bathroom where he disposes of the urine and washes out the container. When that bit is done, he lays out a few pills on the tray, including a laxative to offset the effects of the pain medication. It’s an awkward discussion John must have with him about his next bowel movement, but he feels the boy should be prepared.
“Thomas, the doctor who was here earlier, said it might be painful your first couple of times and to have you sit in a warm bath after. How does that sound?”
The boy nods cautiously, eyes wide and wary. Once he’s taken the pills, his attention turns from John to Miss Priss, who is luxuriating in her favorite chair by the window.
