Chapter Three-Hundred and Eight

Clarissa listened as Thomas argued back and forth with the lawyer on the other end of the line, picking out the little details that she could about this case. Apparently there had been a girl who'd been raped at John's concert, and her mother was trying to sue the band for damages.

She huffed, yelping when she was nearly run over by John when he stormed down the hallway. She could see the tension in his body, the anger coursing through his veins; someone must've told him.

She jumped slightly as the studio door slammed shut, her brow furrowing with the odd spot he'd chosen. He hardly ever went into the studio when he was mad, usually he opted for the garage where his weights and heavy bag were.

John stalked around the sound-proof room, his breath coming in short pants as if he were a caged animal. He hated this, hated to think that Ben had targeted one of his fans. He knew he wasn't much, but for some reason those teens looked up to him, and the fact that one young girl had been a victim of the same evil he had faced. And God only knew what Ben had done to her.

Rape was a pain that no one should ever feel, and he couldn't stand the thought of another human being taking it. He would have taken a dozen dicks up the ass, if it meant saving someone else from that guilt.

He screamed in frustration, his throat ripped raw with the cry, and he could taste the metallic flavor of blood on his tongue. He could almost feel the gang thrusting into him, the irritation of Prick Dick's piercing against his prostate returning like a hammer to the balls, he could practically see Buzzard's claw-like hands wrapped around his member, the tip turning dark purple when the blood was cut off.

He fell to his knees, curling into the fetal position with his hands over his head. "FUCK YOU!" He screamed, hot tears running down his cheeks. "YOU NEVER CARED ABOUT US! YOU NEVER CARED ABOUT ANYTHING!" He beat his fists into the flooring, not noticing when they began to bleed and blood splattered across the floor. "IF YOU WERE THE GOD WE LEARNED ABOUT AS CHILDREN, YOU WOULDN'T LET THIS SHIT HAPPEN!" He glared at the ceiling, wiping his nose with bloody hands. "YOU NEVER GAVE A FUCK!"

Three hours passed, and John was still locked in the studio. Clarissa tossed a bag of lockpicks at Kaylie, nodding to the stairs. "I need you to break in." She followed the teen down to the studio, gasping when the door popped open. "John!" She pushed his hair back from his face, rubbing her thumb over his cheek and touching his swollen hands. "My God, what did you do?" She watched as his chest rose and fell in a deep sleep, sighing as she realized he'd simply cried himself out. "Oh… baby." She took a blanket from Kaylie as she stepped forward, draping it over his skinny body and propping his head up on a pillow.

"He'll sleep through the night." Kaylie whispered, remembering the few other times John had cried himself to sleep. "He always does when the dreams don't hit."

Clarissa nodded, wiping John's cheeks free of dried blood with a moist tissue. "He needs it." She brushed a kiss over his temple, smiling at Claire as she walked down the stairs into the studio. "He cried himself out." She stated, watching as Claire pulled John's shoes and socks off, along with his t-shirt and jeans.

"He's been wearing these too long." She sighed, tracing her fingertip over the sores and lines on his hips. She sat back on the piano bench, letting him have his space. She'd been hurt when he'd refused her hug, but she also knew that he went through times when he couldn't stand human contact, and others where it was all he craved —honestly, he was almost worse than a pregnant woman. "I'll stay with him tonight."

Kaylie pulled Clarissa from the room, leaving the two alone. "I'll bring you dinner later." She smiled, grabbing John's laundry before she headed up the stairs.