'Wake up, wake up!'
'Can't stay asleep, you'll get caught.'
'Disgusting. Look at you, you're filthy.'
When he awoke, it was warm, and his mouth was dry, salty.
Not warm as with the embrace of a mother to her child, but the steamy song of an oven, baking him alive even as the ceiling fan, in all of its wobbly glory, danced above him, a noticeable squeal from above making it impossible to fall back to sleep.
Though, it wasn't as if he'd be able to stay in bed anyway.
No, this wasn't for him. This wasn't his bed. He couldn't stay here too long.
Mom and Dad wouldn't like that.
He had half a thought in him to rise from the sheets, yet it was the cold breath of pain that soared along his backside, engulfing his tender body in unyielding flames as he resisted the urge to cry that forced him back down upon the crusted, soiled mattress. This was something he knew so well, too well, that pressing throb that wrought through him with intense claws, that, despite the welling pit that seemed to open in his belly at the prospect of getting caught, no tears burned at the corner of his eyes. Nothing but the dry stare wrenched firmly towards the ceiling fan that wobbled and shook above his head.
Crying wouldn't make him feel better, and it surely wasn't going to make it go away, whatever this feeling was inside.
They didn't like it when he cried.
So he didn't...not if he could help it.
He wasn't...he wasn't supposed to...right? It wasn't something that he was supposed to do because they would laugh, even when it hurt, even when he wanted to scream.
Even when he felt sticky and...unclean...
Even when he wanted to tear his skin off, to rip his hair out if only to make the feeling of their hands go away.
He was supposed to be quiet, so that's what he was.
He was supposed to enjoy it, so that's what he did.
But he would be lying if he didn't want to..you know? Aching waves washing over his bottom half with each movement that he made, a rush of pressure behind his eyes threatening to fall, but still, they refused to bud.
He swore to never cry, never again if he could help it.
A hazy memory blurred past, and he felt sick...horribly so.
- (Flashback) -
Dash tried to hide his excitement, but it came, fresh like ocean waves as he woke up that morning, relishing in the feeling of being eight years old, noting that it didn't feel that different, actually.
That entire day had been pretty amazing, like when Ms. Smith gave him a little bag of candy (something that he had practically scarfed down in one go, much to his displeasure, his hunger and impatience overtaking him), or when the other kids left him alone and he got to play on the slide that day a few times (something he could proudly say never happened), or even when Mr. Everen gave him a funny card with nice words inside of it. It even made sounds when he opened it up, singing happy birthday to him in a funny voice. It was the perfect day, made even better when, just at the end of the day, one of the teachers, an older lady that he liked very much, actually, brought in a cake just for him, but he shared because that's what you should do, she said.
It was chocolate, and that was the first time he had tried it.
He loved it.
His arrival home was...quieter, but nicer than he could remember.
"Hi, mommy. My day was really cool and nice and,-" The little boy paused, looking at her face, the way her eyes rolled back into her head, the way she twitched, her mouth hung open, her nose covered in white dust.
She wouldn't be able to take right now.
"Oh, um...I'll come back to see you later, okay? I brought you cake for when you wake up, so I'll put this right here, okay?" Leaning over to kiss her cheek, the woman didn't respond.
She usually never did, but that was okay.
When he had gotten home, his daddy wasn't there. Looking in each of the rooms of their flat, he could spot no trace of the man, except for the belongings that he had.
He was gone for the day.
Dash, in the stillness of the house, felt a little uneasy, but saw the television, it's cracked screen playing idly with low volume, his father's favorite western films playing on repeat until the little boy grabbed the remote, fumbling with the broken buttons until he could find the cartoon channel, looking around the room as if checking for something, placing his card beside him on the couch.
It was just him and mommy, and soon, he felt his eyes drift shut, cast off into a slumber...
...
...
...then snap back open as he heard his father begin to scream, beer bottle in hand as the boy tumbled from the couch and onto his side. He covered his ears.
He didn't like when they yelled.
His father looked about the same as he always did, red-faced, disheveled...angry. Dash tried to avoid him when he was like this, grabbing his card and stepping quietly around the raving adults in his midst, body trembling as he saw his father's hand collide with his mother's face, shielding his eyes from it as he listened to her scream, and scream, her high long gone as the much taller man hit her.
Over and over again.
He tried to contain the whimper the whispered past his lips, and in all honestly, his father shouldn't have been able to hear him at all, but there he was, regarding the child with a glassy stare as he took another swig, stumbling forward as his entire demeanor changed, the older man ruffling his head of golden hair before kneeling down to plant a wet, sloppy kiss on his cheek that stayed for just a bit too long...but Dash didn't really notice it.
Grasping his tiny shoulder, Allen stared into his eyes for a long while before he spoke, his words slurred and bunched together so much that the child could hardly understand him, but he listened anyway, only occasionally sneaking a glance to the woman that scrambled to pick herself off of the ground.
"Ah, so..so, you, uh...how was your...you day?" Taking another drink, he threw the glass behind Dash, shattering it.
Dash tried not to flinch at the sound.
"Oh, it was good, daddy! Really, really good!" He smiled a little as the memories of his day passed him again, a sort of warm feeling creeping over him, paying little mind to his father, his hands, caressing his shoulders tenderly, calmly, as he nodded his head. The man commanded him to continue.
Outside, it had become quite dark, most of the living room merely illuminated by the light of the dim television.
The rest of their house was dark, like empty chasms that threatened to swallow the boy whole, just like his father's eyes would.
"And I got a bag a candy from Ms. Smith, but I ate it all...," His father answered 'Mhmm', continuing down the boy's small back.
"And the other kids let me go down the slide. It was really fun, too...," Rubbing small circles on the child's back, the boy vaguely made note of it, but it wasn't often that he got his daddy's attention.
He paid him no mind.
"Then I got this...this really cool card and something called cake from Mr. Everen and Ms. Hawthorne! It was chocolate and it was really good! Sorry, daddy, there was only enough cake left to get mommy some..." Hanging his head, he felt the man rubbing low on boy's back, but still said nothing.
Allen did, however.
"Oh, that's, uh...uh, real nice, Mikey." Roughing up his hair again the older man looked deep into the young boy's eyes, his smile sharp...unusual.
Not that Dash could really tell.
"So you...you had a good d-day?" Allen asked through a particularly violent belch, blowing his breath into Dash's face, ignoring the look of disgust and confusion erupted on his son's face, all the while his touches becoming rougher, harsher, but he never broke eye contact.
Not once.
"Yes, yes, Daddy! It was the best day ever! I just...I just wish it could go on forever...; He looked down sadly, spotting the odd cockroach, but he couldn't really say that he was bothered by that, either, really. They'd always been around. His father seemed sympathetic, clicking his teeth as he frowned a bit.
As if struck by an idea, he grasped the boy's shoulders hard, causing Dash to flinch.
He didn't mean that, the little boy reminded himself as his rough hands held his there.
"Then...do you...want me to give you your present now? It's something I've wanted...wanted to give...you...for a long time." Leaning close, close to be as close to the boy's ear as he stood up, still grasping the boy's shoulders, he whispered, purring into his ear, "It's way better than cake."
The little boy was skeptical.
"Better than cake?," He echoed, allowing his father (though it wasn't as if he could have resisted him very much) to lead him to his parent's bedroom.
His mother didn't stop them.
His father looked down at him, face strange...unnatural.
He answered him yes, and gripped his shoulders tighter.
In the dark of his parents' bedroom, Dash could hear his father shut the door, looking behind him at it as he was pulled and told to sit on the bed, eyes covered by his tiny hands. Tiny hands that practically shivered with excitement, something his father could see as he knelt down to the boy's level, the alcohol in his system making him swoon and stumble a bit.
"Now. I want you to count to ten, and when you get to ten, I want to...to uncover your... eyes. You got it? Then you can see your...your surprise." Oddly, Allen said the last word, surprise, with an odd amount of clarity, but Dash didn't think about it harder, keeping his hands neatly over his eyes as he began to count.
'One'...
He could hear his father step back, the floor boards buckling under his weight, but didn't move from in front of the boy.
'Two'...
Dash could hear shuffling, and something unzipping.
'Three'...
A belt buckle falls to the ground.
'Four'...
He could hear his father grunting softly as he heard his boots hit the ground.
'Five'...
His father was breathing heavily; was he okay?
'Six'...
His father spits on something. Dash wonders why.
'Seven'...
Going to peek, just a bit, he can feel his father's hands on his, stopping him. They're wet against his skin.
'Eight'...
He is told not to cheat.
'Nine'...
His heart races as he smiles, feeling ready, more than ready.
'...Ten'...
He uncovers his eyes.
His father was there.
Filling his vision.
Naked as he stroked himself.
Stroked his flesh before his son, his face flushed. Dash knew that face well, recalling with vivid memory the game that they would play.
But he didn't want anymore candy today, especially not Daddy's.
"I don't get it, Daddy. I this my present?" He asked uncertainly, trying to look at his father's face, but he found that hard, too.
Allen was giving a weird look.
What was going on?
"Oh, no, no, no. This...this isn't yours. Not your gift. I'm gonna show you...show you something special. But you have to promise to do it. Do you promise?" Dash looked even more uncertain now.
His daddy usually never made him promise things unless it was really, really important.
Just like the promise he made him make to never, every tell anyone about their games.
It was top-super-secret, he could recall himself being told, do his heart thrummed with anticipation as he nodded, trying to keep his eyes on his father as he went behind him, crawling beside him in the bed, telling the young boy to join him.
He did so happily, if a bit apprehensive.
...
...
Allen pulled him close, rubbing his stomach.
Then his hand traveled further down, palming his groin until he felt it slip in his pants.
The boy squirmed, a funny feeling overtaking him.
"D-Daddy, is...is this my-," Dash paused the hand poked at something else.
It snaked inside, pushing in and in as the boy felt his body instinctively twist away.
What was Daddy doing?
"Shh, shh. I want it to fit, so just relax, Mikey. Just...just relax." He pushed a second finger inside, pumping them together as his son cried out, grasping the sheets as it began to burn more and more.
Was it...was it supposed to hurt?
His father went a bit faster, but he was slope, fingers slipping out of him every so often, then shoved back in, then out again, then in. Dash's body was beginning to burn, too, but he tried to stay still.
He really did.
"That should be enough. Pull down your pants some, Mikey. This is gonna feel really nice, okay?" The boy hadn't realized he was crying before that, trembling hands, pulling down his pants, then his underwear.
His father grabbed his bottom, pulling him apart.
The little boy was red with embarrassment, but now, also a touch of fear.
He wasn't so sure if he'd like this present so far.
Maybe he should tell him he didn't want the present anymore?
But he had already promised, and he was never supposed to break promises-
His train of thought halted as his father forced himself inside, and he screamed.
Screamed as his father pushed further and further, screamed as he felt something wet and warm drip from beneath his buttocks.
It was like fire, horrible fire as his father began to thrust, harshly, quickly, the little boy struggling against it, but it didn't matter.
He wouldn't be getting away.
He tried to call his name, to tell him, to beg for him, to stop, but nothing came out.
Nothing as his pace quickened, and his little mind tried to make sense of it.
He could remember him doing the same thing to his mommy sometimes, except...except she was laughing. Smiling.
He briefly wondered if it was always meant to hurt?
Was this what fucking was like, he questioned, the word from long ago, his father telling him what it meant, finding it hard to think at all.
His father moaned behind him, grasping his hips and pulling him closer.
Closer as he heard him near his climax.
Closer as something hot, burning, filled him.
...
Dash was still as his father pulled away, boy tensing and feverish as tried to speak again.
Nothing.
Nothing but the tiniest of cries as he felt his father lay beside him.
He asked him if he liked it, the present.
Dash went to shake his head, no, but his father's hand gripped his sweaty locks, and he told him to always promise to say that he liked it.
So he did.
It would only be thirty minutes later, after he'd lied there for a bit, that his would do it again.
And again.
And again.
Yet each time, he was asked if he liked it.
He said yes.
"Yes, daddy," The boy would tell him, body on fire.
"More, daddy," The boy would tell him when the man said to say that.
He didn't know how many times he'd received his present that day.
He could count four times, maybe more.
But he was tired.
So...tired.
His throat hurt.
And after some time, he felt himself fall unconscious.
- (End of Flashback) -
Everything that he had was placed into pushing up from the bed, shaky arms trembling with warnings of collapse, fearing with each moment that passed that one of them would walk in, and that would only make things worse.
So much worse.
Thankfully, they didn't.
He sat up, scrunching up his nose at the smell of pennies and sex that lingered heavily in the air, sticky blooms of that stench causing him to gag and choke, doubling over just a bit, though the motion made his backache; bile bubbled somewhere deep within in him. Vague touches, like hands upon him, invasive, ghostly, throbbed below, bringing forth a profound shudder that racked his body so thoroughly that his knees began to buckle and shake, motioning to support himself on the wall of the room to keep his body upright.
All the while, the sounds somewhere in his head rattled and chuckled and giggled like storms, murmuring, listless mumbling.
Yet all the same, voices were as clear as day.
Grating...whispering...mumbling...
Dash trudged forward, hardly minding the pile of strewn garments that, as he absently noted with a passing thought, he'd been wearing just hours ago, muddled thoughts working at a snail's pace to make sense of the darkroom before him, working with masterful skill to find what he had been looking for. Upon his hands fell a roll of paper towels, faint and yellowed in the low light before him on the kitchen counter, its indifferent shape hanging in the heavy dark. Grabbing a few and turning on the faucet to a light stream, though not before scarcely eying the cracked door illuminating the room from afar, waiting for a few moments as the saturated towel lied in his shaky palm before allowing it to come to a stop; a touch of dish soap on the paper and a nice scrubbing of his hand was all it took to make it fuzz and drip down his hand, soap suds coating the paper towels.
He took it and eyed his down-below, staring long at the sight of thick trails of white that dribbled and dried along his thighs. The teen wasted no time scrubbing, scrubbing away at the grim and filth coating his legs, unable to, despite his best efforts, quiet the sucking of air he made between his teeth as his hands grazed the new slew of darkly colored blotched that dotted his inner thighs and buttocks and even in the absence of light, he could spot them. He knew they were there, and in the same breath, from the murmurs, the whispers grew louder, words like recurrent knives to his skin.
'God, look at you. You're so fuckin' dirty, heh heh. You'll never get clean if you scrub like that.'
'I bet you had a lot of fun. Tons of fun with them fucking you in the ass, didn't you, faggot?'
'Slut.'
'Dirty whore.'
"P-please...please just...not right now. Stop, please...", The best he could manage was a soft plea, dotted with cracks that rattled his vocal cords and split dry lips with a trembling frown.
All he needed was a minute to collect his thoughts.
Just one minute.
One...minute.
...
...
It was funny.
The last thing he wanted or needed was them confirming what he'd already known.
What he'd always known.
From that first time, on that day so many years ago, when his father wanted to talk to him...it was something he realized with startling clarity as he begged for him to stop, as he cried for him to stop.
It didn't help.
It never did.
His father was angry, and it was funny because his father called him the same thing.
But it didn't mean it didn't still hurt.
Yet they didn't stop.
Taunting him, laughing as he scrubbed and ground his skin harder and harder, turning his skin bright red through the agitated and bruised surface, but that didn't matter. Not when he could feel them on his skin, under his skin, writhing and wriggling as maggots in a corpse. Just like him, a rotten, rancid sack of meat that could never be clean, never be washed.
Smelly and disgusting, too disgusting to be touched.
Only when shimmering, hot tears trickled like fire down his cheeks did he stop, wiping furiously at face with burning shame that blistered at his cheeks.
No, he was fine.
He was okay.
Completely okay.
He knew what to do, what it was supposed to feel like.
So why?
Why wouldn't they be quiet?
Why did he feel so disgusting?
Why did this feel so...so wrong?
'That's because you're weak. Weak and stupid. You aren't as strong as you think you are.'
'You're getting everything you deserve, you know.'
'You should be glad someone would even want to touch you. That's the best you could do.'
"I...just...stop...p-please...don't you think I already know that? Why can't you just shut up already?!", Laughing, chuckling, cackling, giggling; they whined at him, screamed at him. He knew that they were right, but it didn't help, not one bit. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Why did they hate him? What had he done to make them say this?
He wanted them out.
Out.
OUT.
Scratching, scratching at his scalp until he could feel warmth cake beneath his fingernails, and when he looked at them, all that laid there was blood.
Limping over to his clothes and bending down to get them, despite the protests of his body, he donned his attire with a heavy, limp hand, taking care to remain quiet though his very joints begged him to cease.
This was fine.
It wasn't a big deal.
They would quiet down.
He just had to ignore them, he just had to stop minding them, and then they would stop.
From the light of the window, however faint, he could see himself in the mirror.
And he looked fucking terrible.
Wincing at the state of his hair and the bruises upon his lips and shoulders, at least, the parts that his shirt hadn't concealed, Dash's mind began to race, the story that he would tell coming to mind in resounding cues, one after the other.
Perhaps...a dog had chased him?
Someone tried to pick a fight with him?
Oh, no, what if he was...taking a jog...and he fell and hit his face?
...
...
Those stories wouldn't work, would they? They were poorly thought of at best, completely unbelievable at worst. Besides, the teen muddled with anxious nibbles at his nail bed, he had tried them already, hadn't he?
He couldn't keep pulling the same shit and expect them to work, not when this happened so much...
Adjusting his clothes, Michael, fixing to plaster that coy, exuberant smile upon his face, speaking in that voice, the one that wasn't his, but Dash's, he recited with pinpoint accuracy, "Oh, this? Nah, dude. I think I just bit my lip...or somethin'. No big deal." Shaking his head, the smile fell, thoughts churning until another answer came to mind, and mechanically, his lips fell in line, speaking once more, "Oh, not much. A guy tried to pick a fight with me; can you believe that?!"
Dash looked down, casting a glowering glance to his feet that pulled and kneaded at the stained carpet beneath his feet.
"I...shouldn't sound so...excited...I think. Maybe more...annoyed, I think?" Staring into his own eyes as he looked back up, they wavered and buckled beneath his own gaze.
He couldn't stop them.
Not when the very sight of himself sickened him.
...
...
He could...figure out what to say later, probably.
He was tired.
Really...tired.
Working his way back to his spot, the clock was as it always was, hands moseying by and clicking at their untroubled pace just as they had before.
Settling back onto the ground where his blanket, slick with oil and dirt, beckoned him, he made no move to unfurl it as he sat back upon it.
It was almost time for school anyway.
