Page 24 of Brutal Captivity

“What were you doing in a homeless shelter?” Callisto’s voice is soft, almost disbelieving, and it angers me. I don't like pity. I don't need to be pitied. I’ve had a rough life, but it hasn’t always been bad. Peadar made it a lot better, and I’m very thankful for that.

“What do you think?”

He doesn't answer. I pinch my lion's head pendant between my thumb and index finger, rubbing the smooth surface of the back. He watchesme, his green eyes tracking the motion of my fingers. Feeling exposed under his gaze, I drop it and clear my throat.

“We were homeless.” My tone is distant. It’s the only way I can talk about it. Remove myself from it. I shiver, cold. I barely resist the urge to cuddle closer to Callisto, the warmth radiating from his body almost addicting. Instead, I take the blanket and pull it closer to my chest, cuddling down into it.

“Oh.” The single syllable falls from his lips softly, but it feels like it punches me in the gut. I did not expect this conversation to turn so heavy. I should shut this down. Turn off the TV and go upstairs. But I’m frozen to my spot on the couch, wanting to see where Callisto takes this.

“Um… Can I… umm… can I ask why? Like I genuinely don’t know how people end up in homeless shelters. Aren’t there government programs designed to help?” Callisto’s voice fractures with nerves, and the words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“Well, Daron has been in and out of the system his whole life. His dad left before he was born and his mom was on drugs. He was born addicted to some kind of drug. Never told me what.” Callisto’s mouth gapes open at the new information.

“Anyways, he lived with his grandma throughout his childhood, but she was old and frail. Let him do whatever he wanted, so he started getting into trouble pretty early, I think. His mom would visit, make empty promises and all that shit about cleaning up her life. She never did. His grandma died of a stroke when he was eleven. He found her dead when he got home from school one day.” I study Callisto’s face for any sort of understanding of what he’s thinking.

“At eleven? That had to be so traumatizing. Oh my God.” Callisto winces, the pity he feels for eleven-year-old Daron written all over his face. “Then what happened? Did he go to live with his mom? Did he have any more relatives?”

“No. His mom was still on drugs. She was declared unfit by the courts. No other relatives wanted him, so he went into foster care. He was in and out of different homes for a while. No one wanted a damaged teenager. One day, after yet another beating from another foster dad, he decided to run away. He ended up in a shelter.”

“Oh. Wow. Will Daron be mad at you for telling his story?” Callisto’s mouth is still open in shock. I think about the question, letting the cool ice cream melt on my tongue, my body leaning even more into Callisto’s. If he minds it, or even notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“Nah. He’s laid back. He’s open about his past. Anyway, he’s younger than me, and he was getting bullied by an older boy at the shelter. The boy didn't want to give him a cot and was trying to take his portion of food.”

“What a little…” Callisto’s insult trails off, and my mouth quirks to the side, silently urging him to say the word that is clearly on the tip of his tongue.

“Asshole?” I supply.

“Yeah.” Callisto nods.

“Anyway, I had been there for a while, so I stepped in. Told the boy to fuck off then gave Daron the last pack of crackers I had as a way to show him that not all of us are that bad. We were all trying to survive and some did it with displaced aggression. We have been best friends ever since,” I finish. I hold my breath, silently praying to whatever god that so happens to be listening that Callisto doesn't ask about why I was in the shelter.

I chance a glance at Callisto, and his expression is almost impossible to read. He looks contemplative, as if I said something that shook him, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what that could have been. I clear my throat, and that seems to break his trance.

“So… umm… what about you?” I ask, shifting my weight slightly. “Who’s your best friend? Did you meet them at some ritzy private school or while you were traveling in Italy?” I smile, hoping it seeps into my tone. I want Callisto to understand that I’m not judging him.

“Me?” Callisto’s voice goes a tad higher with the word, pointing to himself with a ringless finger. I can’t tell if he is panicked or confused. I nod, eating another bite of his ice cream as I wait. “Oh… umm… I- I guess Nico.”

“He’s your assistant, though,” I say before I’m able to stop the words from leaving my mouth. I never did have much of a filter when it came to certain situations, especially those that involve intimacy. For some reason, this feels intimate to me. Callisto is sitting so close to me, in a darkened room. The TV is the only thing shedding light on our stories– the only thing that’s allowed to.

“Umm… yeah, he is… I had more friends when I lived in Italy.”

“How long did you live in Italy?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Umm… My dad sent me to boarding school there when I was eleven,” he responds, looking anywhere but at me.

“Did you like it?”

“Yeah… I loved it. I finally felt like I belonged. I had friends. Some were children of politicians. A few were actual princes,” he smiles fondly, as if caught up in a memory.

“What happened to them?” I ask, confused.

“Nothing. I guess they’re still my friends. We just don’t talk much since I moved back to the US,” he says, his gaze finally finding mine.

“Why did you move back then? You sound like you were happy there.”

“I was… but my dad basically forced me to move back. He said he would take my trust fund away if I didn’t.” He shrugs as if it’s not a big deal, but once again, he doesn't meet my eyes. “Since I moved back, Nico is the only one around.” Callisto’s body stiffens. He is clearly uncomfortable with the topic, but my interest is piqued. I should back off, but I don't care if I make him uncomfortable. If he gets mad at me, it doesn't matter. Not like he can go anywhere, and he will be gone in a few days. I will never see him again, so what do I have to lose?

“Really? I figured you’d have a whole host of friends with yachts and skiing trips or whatever it is rich kids do. The whole nine.” I gesture widely with the spoon; even though I kind of knew that Callisto didn’t have anyone. Evan figured that much out through his research, but I’m not going to lie, not even to myself. I’m incredibly curious as towhysomeone like Callisto doesn’t have any friends. As much as he annoys me, he seems nice enough. There isn’t anything inherently wrong with him. He’s a tightass but a lot of people with money are, if you ask me. He could easily find like-minded individuals to make as friends.