I am not myself.
The balcony I sit on, the table I sit at, are so hyper realistic they've become false.
Butler is talking. I can not hear him. His lips move, but no sounds come out. I can not hear anything at all, I believe.
I am also talking. My mouth is moving. I smile, and then, a gentle laugh. He, too, smiles, if just a touch.
This isn't right.
The table is stretched. It should be about two meters wide, and yet, it goes on for miles. Butler is so far away. But he's also so, so close. The gate beside us looms over me. The ceiling is a hundred feet above.
The people who pass by have faces of gray.
And then, the bang.
I expect it, and that makes it worse. A bang, and then, like, everything explodes into sound. Butler has passed out; he's under the table. Someone used a tranquilizer shot. He's disabled and he's injured, but he's not dead.
This is the only thing that brings me comfort, and it only lasts a second.
Spiro's voice seems to block out the sound of confusion and rumble. He crawls into my ears and refuses to leave. Someone grabs me, several someones, and I'm pulled away.
I scream.
Artemis wakes up, and his sheets are wet. His stomach knots in nausea and disgust, as he always does after these dreams and their after effects, and he quickly disposes of the sheets in the laundry bin, along with his soiled clothing; they'll be washed within the next two hours, if not replaced.
He steps into the shower, already blocking the memory of the frightening dream. Best not to dwell on it.
When he gets out, 45 minutes later—he'll have spent 30 minutes of it sitting down, simply letting the water wash over him, as he kept his eyes shielded—he has an outfit waiting for him, a cashmere sweater and slacks. It reeks of concentrated lavender detergent, and the colors clash. A small piece of him flares with dignity, but quickly, he lets it go. Best not to care.
The hallway is dim, and there's a note at the end of it. He frowns, grabbing it, before his stomach jumps about a foot in the air.
'Spiro is on his way. Should be here in two hours. Early vacation. Get ready.'
His whole body tenses in an excitement he's become accustom to, and he feels his lips flicker.
Company. Spiro's company. It's been three months. Oh, God, it's been three months, and he's finally going to see someone, finally going to have company so he doesn't go mad here.
...and, it's not just someone. Spiro. He'll finally be able to see Spiro.
It's a painful, nauseating, disturbing kind of excitement.
Maybe he can escape. And then, probably not. He'll find a way, eventually.
Half an hour passes by and it felt like an eternity.
In a desperate attempt to pass the time, he goes outside; he's already rearranged the books on the shelf and re-positioned the paintings and counted the minutes, seconds, anything to try and take his mind off of the impatient wait game.
He has the strongest of the phantom butler's gloves on, and he's holding the scissors as carefully as he can. If he gets hurt, Spiro would ever mock him or punish him in some way. And that would be worse then just a cut.
The roses, the beautiful orange roses out back. He plans to cut the ten prettiest one, and put them in a vase; the phantom butler's will probably feed the plants regularly if he does this, and they'll live for a week after. He rounds the corner of the small woodland home, and stops.
Wilting.
Every one of them is withering, dying. He frowns, confused; they've been impeccably cared for, haven't they? He kneels beside them, and reaches out, gently grabbing thorny stems.
Spiro can not keep me locked up forever he will let his guard down he will ruin himself I will win I will survive I will get out of here I am not nothing I am not a child I am-
The thorn manages to breach the glove, and he jerks his hand away.
He knows he's crying because it's leaking back into his throat, but he doesn't understand why. These things were so beautiful, but they were just plants. Their death is natural. It shouldn't affect him. Should it?
He wipes his eyes, and he stand up. Obviously, these won't do. He puts the gloves besides the bush, and the scissors. The butler's can take care of them.
For the rest of the hour, he makes absolute sure he doesn't look like he's been crying.
He can't show that kind of weakness around Spiro. Spiro will devour him in one gulp. He gently massages the bags under his eyes, a thin lipped frown on his face.
When it's almost time for Spiro to get back, he switches between sitting on the couch, the bed, and at the table, trying to look normal, as if he hadn't been eagerly awaiting Spiro to get back the second he'd left.
It doesn't work. When Spiro arrives, he goes straight to the door.
The car is rusty, old, loud; and, above all else, it draws no suspicion. Or at least, not the kind that matters. It blends in with the towns it passes through on it's way to Spiro's secret vacation home.
"Left here, Reginald."
The drivers name is not Reginald. Spiro had forgotten it years ago, and kept this one as a nickname, because it made him laugh. The man hates it, but at least he's paid more then enough.
"Down this driveway. Yes, I know you know. Yes, here's your money. In a weeks time, exactly like I said. If I have to go into town I'll call you. Yes. Yes. Okay, good bye, Reginald, old chap." Spiro laughs and it's insufferable.
When he exits the car, 'Reginald' leaves as quickly as possible, peeling out of the driveway at an incredible speed. Not many people can stand Spiro for very long; if he wanted to, he could very easily be a 'likable' person, but there's really no point to trying, honestly.
He takes in a deep breath of fresh, pine scented air, and grabs his luggage, going up the steps.
Behind this door, his greatest prize and biggest source of stress relief beckons him.
Artemis has, even after two years, retained his manners.
Spiro's natural state of being when he eats (not that he eats often anymore; a very rare occasion, really), is to also be telling a story. His hands are moving around widely, expressively, in a very American and masculine display of obnoxiousness.
Artemis doesn't notice. He feels both happy and terrified. If this wasn't a feeling he was used to now, he wouldn't be able to eat.
At some point, the story stops; Spiro either got bored, or the punch line was delivered, and Artemis smiled weakly in time. His hands abandon the food—in all that talking, he's taken maybe three bites—and he pulls the boy towards him.
Artemis moves like water, flowing over to Spiro, sitting in his lap mechanically. Spiro's hands irest on the curve of his back.
"God, you're gaunt," he says, and then he laughs. Artemis smiles weakly in time.
His mouth locks on to the boys, and his breath is...invasive, filling, suffocating. Disgusting. Artemis hates it, but he'd take this over abandonment any day.
"I'm not going to fuck you today," he pants, when he inevitably lets go. "Jet lagged a bit. Joints hurt. Headache. I'm an old man, can you blame me? You're such a slut for seducing someone so much older then you." His smile is evil. "If you hadn't been so fucking delicious I wouldn't have had to take you away from your family. You've really hurt them, being like this."
Artemis, once again, smiles weakly in time. His chest feels like it's going to rip open.
"Anyway, I just like touching you, I guess. Get up, for now. I'm going to set up my laptop and check the news for an hour or so, and then I'll lay down with you in bed. I need a nap, I think, but my stocks take priority."
Once he's out of the room, Artemis almost collapses on the ground. His knees are so, so weak.
He stays in the living room for three hours more then he said he would.
Not that Artemis knows that. He blinks, and the time has past. Has he really been sitting at the edge of the bed that entire time?
He hears Spiro getting ready to come back there, and begins to brush his hair out, a mechanic movement that usually calms him, although he doesn't know if he is or isn't upset. He doesn't know what he feels.
"Brushing your hair? Good idea. It looks nice sprawled out on the bed." Spiro begins to strip as soon as he gets in the bedroom; he's obviously a person more comfortable with loose-to-no clothing, and he motions for Artemis to do the same. While Artemis so very appreciates company, he hates this the most; "cuddling" with Spiro is just so...deceiving, especially nude like this.
Spiro approaches him from behind, wrapping arms around Artemis's waist. "God," he mutters, looking at the wall's human-length mirror, "with the gaunt cheeks and the long hair, not to mention the tan, you don't even look like the same person, do you? Like some sort of ghost unnecessarily attractive ghost. Or maybe a withered flower."
A withered rose.
A wilted and withered rose that's given up on life.
The shards of Artemis's life crack.
His chest compresses, and he can't quite breath as much as he'd like to. A shriveled up plant. A dead end. He's producing too much saliva.
"Come here, lets get to the bed. I have an idea."
In his dream earlier, Butler had been talking, smiling. In reality, this bothers Artemis the most. Smiling at him. He's smiling at him when Artemis has failed. He has no life. He has no escape route.
This is it.
This is him.
This is life.
This is it.
This is it.
This is it.
'If you hadn't been so fucking delicious I wouldn't have had to take you away from your family. You've really hurt them, being like this.'
Why is it so hard to breathe?
Spiro lays him down on the bed, and knows the right buttons to push on Artemis's mechanic body, turning his genitals on manual control. He's erect, and he doesn't notice.
The pattern on the ceiling is fading and shades of orange. He wants to rip it away.
"Ah."
Spiro's mouth is around his cock, and he can, very distantly, feel it. It's almost nice. Distracting.
Artemis hands clench until the knuckles turn purple.
He can feel Spiro laugh gently, the vibration racking through his body like a million pin pricks. This is his life, and it's disgusting.
He comes shortly, weakly. Spiro kisses him, transferring his own cum into his mouth.
It's overwhelmingly bitter.
Again, Spiro laughs, and it hurts.
Spiro is asleep and Artemis doesn't think he could ever pass out again.
The lights are on, but it seems like every shadow is moving, conspiring together to kill him. He's paranoid, nervous. The shadows can tell.
He sits up. Spiro won't notice he's gone for at least two hours, and so, he moves to the kitchen.
It's just beginning sun down, but the trees have blocked out what remained, casting giant shadows. At least they're outside, instead of inside.
He gulps three cups of water and then his stomach churns. He grips the sink.
By his second heave, what's coming out is almost purely bile.
He slips down to the kitchen floor quickly and silently, curling up on the tiles and shivering. Somehow, he falls asleep, and for it's short duration, the sleep is dreamless, for once. When he wakes up again, one of the phantom butler's moved him into the bed with Spiro, who hasn't even turned over yet.
He tires to be thankful for Spiro's presence or the soft sheets or his nice, if mismatched, clothing, but he just...can not.
He's ruined. His destiny, if he ever had one, wilted right along with him in this suffocating house.
"Happy birthday, Artemis!"
His mother hugs him tightly to her chest singing a cheesy rhyme. Butler clears his throat, and she lets go, giggling; she hadn't realized how strong the punch was, and she was just a tad bit tipsy.
Artemis stares at her.
"Hey, what's with that look, mudblood?" Holly punches his leg, and he turns his stare to her. She's grinning as big as ever, and she's abandoned the LEP suit for a casual normal outfit, making her look like a tiny normal person.
This isn't right, is it?
"Enough of this, c'mon, we gotta open presents!" Juliet drags him into the other room, and he's even more amazed by how many of his 'friends' are there. Foaly, Mulch, Minerva, Root...
The twins run between his legs, and his father follows them in, laughing. "They're so rudely at this age."
There's a big, cheesy birthday banner, with the age 7 and a sharpie'd 1 in front of it. Streamers are everywhere. Everyone's laughing and talking, and Butler stands at his side.
"Come on, birthday boy, aren't you going to...Artemis? Are you crying?"
Everyone looks up, and he's shaking. They all have such confused looks on their faces. His mother quickly goes to his side, wiping the tears away, and Butler places a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Oh, Arty, darling, don't cry." Angeline coos softly, and Artemis feels himself hiccup. "Come on, darling. Don't cry, okay? We love you. We'll always love you. No matter what happens. No matter where you are. Okay?"
She presses a gentle kiss to his head, and he wakes up sobbing.