It's hot, sweaty, and dirty in that narrow alleyway, but Hiruma is not there; he is at the fatass's temple, eating his food and watching cult reruns, uninvited but not unwanted.
It's painful where his body lays, and mildly aware is he of the skin on his back scraping agonizingly into concrete and broken bottle remnants, but he is not really there there. He is actually kicking the fucking brothers one by one and firing off random sprays of bullets, watching as they rain down and frighten the little running back. Where he is, the fucking manager glares, to which he responds with a pointy grin. Silent defiance.
It is shameful, suffocating, frightening on the outskirts of his psyche, but at the core, none of this can harm him. In his mind he is running over various football strategies, playing a mental game of blackjack to test the accuracy of his memory, anything but really paying attention, dammit, because he is not truly ready to embrace where his physical body is right now.
And he's talking dirty to him now, insulting him, but Hiruma's not hearing. He is not feeling the hands run coarse over his nipples, nor the crude tongue on his neck, nor the massive cock abusing his innards. There is no blood caking his thighs and lubing the penetration, his legs aren't bent back past his forehead, and he is not, by any circumstances, abetting his attacker for his survival. He is not telling him how good he is, nor is he telling him how much he surpasses all the lovers he's ever been with.
He is not falsifying the fact he is a virgin, you see, because he's not really there. He's in a place where these things - the tongue, the voice, the disgrace - can't touch him.
Which is why later, when his blood-laden thighs have long been washed, the bruises on his face and arms healed, he passes his assaulter in the street, makes eye contact, and does nothing.
Because he wasn't really there for all that.
Now his assailant is free to walk away, laughing, in that fucking irksome way he does.
"Call me," Agon says, cockily.
x--end
I was rereading Alice Sebold's memoir, Lucky, when this story's concept came about. It was based on the idea of being detached while a tragedy is happening, not getting the proper details. I was thinking how all these things might cause someone who relies (or relied) on percentiles to find their chances slim and refuse to even try convicting the guilty party.
Although, it wasn't until after I'd written the story that I looked that deeply into it, and I found that this wasn't just an uncanon rape story after all; it kind of has a point.
Hiruma, I believe, has the ability of a meticulous observation of things (thereby aiding his blackmail and split-second strategies). If he were to purposely block things out, not gain in full detail the events that would condemn such an attacker to a life in prison, then why would he bother testifying? All subjects would be against him: little knowledge of the night's sequence of events; waiting until long after marks indicating a struggle had disappeared; his prior entanglements in blackmail, possession of weapons, and penchant for outright lying and twisting things. His appearance, the fact he is male, would also effect the decision made. And, realistically speaking, despite being intelligent and a trickster, he would know that he couldn't just threaten the judge or try anything without causing himself to fail (and possibly, be locked up himself).
Also, as I mentioned earlier, his aim is to intimidate people. By making his rape public with a trial, he is showing weakness. People simply do not fear victims of violence.
Oh, crud - my notes were almost the length of the story! If you read the story, please review.