You damn homosexual bastard; he wasn't moaning your name, he was in pain—you hurt him!

Let alone that you're a boy and so is he...and you just kissed him after knowing him for only two weeks! What is wrong with you? You're not gay, you like girls and only girls!

I tried to face-palm with my right hand but instead I ended up tugging at the handcuffs and hurting my wrist.

I stared at the closed bathroom door, light shining out from under it. He's been in there for fifteen solid minutes without a single sound.

I pondered what happened...but still didn't quite get all of it. I came to the conclusion that he's used to taking everything; he never stands up for himself—and that was why he didn't push me away.

But...I couldn't be gay. No, that was wrong. Incorrect. Completely against the laws of nature.

But why did I kiss him? Why did I hurt him and just lose myself into the moment? Why won't he come out?

I hated this! I wanted to scream at him to open the door but I didn't have the heart to. I wanted desperately to talk to him—explain it was all a mistake.

A mistake that I liked.

While I waited, I took in everything in the room (for about the thirtieth time since I had arrived.) Two solid, non-stop weeks in the small room gives you plenty of time and more to observe everything absolutely clearly and remember it, too.

[Two doors sat on each side of the desk that sat directly across from the bed. The door on the right side was the bathroom door, where Veneziano had disappeared into. The one on the left was that one the man threw Veneziano's unconscious body through, when he was done with the abuse. The couch that Veneziano slept on sat against the wall to my right, and I often observed him as he slept. Beside the couch was some sort of treasure box thing, containing unknown items. The hard thing I had leaned on when I had first arrived. Small night stands were on each side of the bed, a normal reading lamp on the right and a lava-lamp on the left. On the wall also to my left, right beside the only window, stood a bookshelf containing dozens upon dozens of books.

Veneziano seemed to read the books often, selecting a new one each day.

The floor was fuzzy, dark brown carpet and walls were dark wood; as in real tree bark. That kind that's smoothed out and looks professional.]

The room was cozy, small and crowded—and it was all I remembered. Veneziano had often shared stories with me about my life back at home, saying that I was rich, living in a mansion so big that I lost myself daily.

I enjoyed the stories, picturing in my imagination—like little kids do when told a bedtime story—everything he told me. My smiling mother and protective father standing in front of my huge white, four story mansion. But that was just my imagination.

How he knew all of this was beyond my thinking.

My eyes immediately turned towards the bathroom door as it flung open (causing me to jump so hard the cuff tugged at my wrist), revealing Veneziano's brown, dirty, messy mop of hair. Looking down at his broken shoes, as always.

I had no idea Veneziano was that strong. And so I stared, wide-eyed as he made his way to the desk a mere three steps to his right.

He stared at the wall—lifelessly. His back was to me, but I could still tell his hand was fidgeting with the lip that was previously bleeding.

"Ve-Veneziano?" I choked out, hoarsely. I knew he didn't want to face me, but the kiss that happened had still not fully registered in my mind. I wanted to ask him what happened; why I hurt him and tell him that I was sorry. I didn't want the boy to cry because of me. Hell, I didn't want him to cry at all. But still—despite everything I hoped and every time I lied through my teeth and told him that it'd all be okay—he cried. It didn't mean he was a baby, and I knew that. It meant that instead of yelling or breaking things he cried his feelings out. He broke down in the small room as I watched him sit in the fetal position, not daring to make a peep or let me see the many tears—but I still knew. Cellophane was the boy as he cried into his knees so silently.

"Your turn," a surprising nonchalant version of the boy's voice made me flinch.

I looked up to see Veneziano; chair turned to face me.

"Huh?" I asked, a bit taken back.

"The...game."

"Oh," I replied, shocked at the bipolar twist in his attitude.

I mentally chuckled, finding it funny that Veneziano needed 'approval' to pick one of the game's limited options. "Truth or dare?"

The boy looked down, trying to hide his blush. "T-Truth," he answered, very silently.

Wait.

What?

Oh.

Oh!

He was really actually picking the dreaded truth?

He indicated that he noticed the shocked expression on my face, even before I did, by the giggle he choked out.

Veneziano actually...

Giggled.

Smiled.

He half motherfucking laughed.

I couldn't help my open jaw and unblinking tired eyes.

Veneziano's expression had changed back to the lifeless one I became used to as he played with the hem of his black shirt...but I still couldn't get that giggle and smile out of my head. It was...cute...

No. I can't like boys. Please, no. Don't do this to me.

"Why..." I barely replied, shoving my thoughts and [possible crush] aside for the moment. I couldn't waste any time where Veneziano was actually willing to open up to me. "...do you cut yourself?" I sputtered, deciding that it wasn't too out of the boy's inner circle, or out of range for my curiosity's satisfaction.

Veneziano turned his small frame towards the desk, grabbing the pocket knife and twirling it around in his hand. "It's a cover up." That mumble of his made it hard to make out.

"What?"

A sigh escaped the boy's chapped lips, "I do it so that he thinks the blood is yours." Venom in the boy's voice, but also extreme fear in his eyes as he said the word 'he'. "I don't want to hurt you."

"...and so you hurt yourself?" I interrupted quietly, barely enough for him to hear my words. I knew he wouldn't admit it himself, but he silently nodded as he played with the knife.

I cause him to cut himself so he doesn't have to hurt me? God, this boy sure knows how to make me feel terrible. I slowly uncovered the blankets, revealing the very first blood stain Veneziano had made; the first time I watched the whole horror film that was this boy's life play out right before my eyes.

Why was I so mean to him? Why did I always yell at him and get so mad easily? I hated myself for that...especially now when I look back at his black, blue and pale face and the fear in his eyes. His weak, pitch black hair that the sunlight never seemed to notice as it fumbled into the room. He wasn't glowing; not at all. I wasn't sure if it was the beating, lack of food, lack of hygiene...or all mixed together in unison.

"Uhm," I cleared my throat abruptly, probably scaring the boy. "Truth."

Of course, as always, the boy had to wait a few seconds—going as long as a full three minutes—before he replied. So much in that small mind of his going on, I think he struggled with everyday talking. "Are you h-hungry?"

And then it hit me. I wish he hadn't asked that. My stomach ached for food, leaving me with a fatigued feeling I've never had. Inanimate objects didn't shape-shift into my favorite foods like cliché cartoons led on, but I could taste my very last meal in my salivating mouth.

My stomach hurt, exploding into pure starvation and then leaving me with a feeling as if I was never hungry over and over. No, I wasn't hungry...I was starving.

The last meal I remember myself eating was a piece of bread he had given me on Thursday. But that was three days ago. Maybe three days was nothing for Veneziano—but I, on the other hand, couldn't take it.

The boy fed me, usually whenever he could and I guess I didn't whine for more because I knew he needed it more than I did.

"Very," I breathed, trying not to sound desperate—but I failed miserably by the extreme want in my voice.

A few minutes without a reply, and I realized that the boy wasn't going to say anything more.

I looked back at the past few days and remember that Veneziano had only used the knife when he needed to, and that he always put his blood next to me which I had found disgusting until this moment.

But still, things didn't click. Who was the man to Veneziano; why was I here; why did the man

always take Veneziano's word for it that I was hurt, rather than looking at me himself?