Disclaimer: See first chapter.
Drowning
"Anxiety is love's greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic." -Anais Nin (1903 - 1977), The Diary of Anais Nin, volume 4, 1944-1947
Reid swallowed past the acidic bile that crept up his parched throat and attempted to move his aching body into a sitting position. He couldn't hear his tormentor anymore, but that may have been simply because he could not hear anything past the erratic beating of his own heart. He attempted to calm it from its current state of racing, but it continued to pound relentlessly in his ears, drowning out everything except for his ragged breathing. What surrounding sounds his heartbeat didn't muffle were completely submerged beneath the hitched in-and-out of his breathing.
He had been violated, could still feel the brutal intrusion of the man's tongue against his own, plying, searching, demanding in its degradation even in its absence. Gritty and unwelcome, the minty aftertaste of the trespass lingered in his watering mouth. Swallowing did not eliminate the damning peppermint flavor. The scent of it assaulted his nostrils, making him dizzy and sick to his aching stomach.
His body vehemently protested his attempts to reposition it. It rebelled against his insistence that it relax its rigid pose. Much to his own personal contempt, his body still burned in response to his violator's touch and was currently begging him for release. Primed for sex, waves of shame swept through him, leaving him overcome with grief and self-loathing. Should he give into the raw sense of need and allow his body the release that it begged him for?
His body ached in its visceral need and a cry of helpless frustration tore from his throat in little more than a strangled mewl. Weak as a battered kitten, he mused ruefully. If Morgan could see me now, he would turn his head away in disgust, or worse, pity. Would Morgan even consider me a friend anymore? After all, I laid here, like some helpless infant and allowed that man to have his way with me. I didn't really try to stop him. If I had, he wouldn't have been able to touch me like that. Maybe, he was right, maybe I did want it. If I hadn't wanted it, I would have been able to stop him.
Another groan escaped his dried lips and he sobbed, turning his face into the cool, unforgiving rock of the cave floor. It offered little comfort to him, though it stole some of the heat from his fevered, aching body, assuaging the dull throb from where the knife had sliced into his cheek. A shiver stole through him.
Lost in his own thoughts, the cries of the searchers which penetrated the branches of the makeshift hideaway never penetrated his consciousness. Never made their way past his own near-silent sobs of self-mortification mingled with pain.
His body hurt, his mind was filled with disjointed thoughts and he wanted nothing more than to get away from it all, to sleep and wake up in his own bed at home or to never wake up at all. He wanted this whole day, had it only been a day, to be nothing more than a nightmare. Nothing more than something which his overactive had concocted after a particularly difficult case. Sleep, however, eluded him – it would not come though he willed it to.
Aiken felt the absence of the monster from his curled-up position on the cave floor almost immediately. He was tired and cold and wanted his mommy and brother more than anything in the world. He knew as he allowed his eyes to open, that they were gone and would never come back, ever.
A stifled sob broke forth from his lips as he bravely fought back the tears which threatened to spill from his overtaxed eyes. Tears would not help him now. They'd never help. They wouldn't bring back his mom or Braden. They wouldn't make the monster go away for good. They wouldn't bring him comfort.
Maybe, when the monster came back, it would all finally be over and he'd be able to join his mother and brother in heaven. When Savannah's grandfather had died, his mom told him that all good people went to heaven to wait for their loved ones. Maybe when the monster finally killed him, they could all be together again in heaven.
He'd like to see Mr. Breighton again, he'd always told the best stories about back when he was young. He'd called them 'simpler times' and explained how there were no computers or cell phones or video games. Everyone had to use their imagination. The air was unpolluted and everyone knew each other's names. If anyone needed anything, they'd just ask a neighbor or, more often than not, the neighbors would come to each other's aid without even having to be asked. Maybe heaven would be like that. Maybe it would be filled with imagination and everyone would care for each other without having to be asked. Though, he also hoped that it would have video games too.
Mommy, Braden, wait for me in heaven please, and if you see Mr. Breighton, say hello from me, Aiken prayed. He didn't really know how prayers were supposed to work, but hoped that his would reach his mom and brother. He really didn't want to be alone forever. Sure, he'd miss his dad, but without his mother and brother, life would never be the same.
He thought he heard his name being called from outside the cave, but didn't dare say a word. The monster had told him not to and he didn't want to make the monster mad. No, he'd be quiet and wait until the monster returned, if he was good and did as he was told; he'd be able to go to heaven for sure.
Shivering with numbing cold, Aiken scooted from the dark corner of the cave he had been abandoned to and snuggled next to Spencer who was so warm it felt as though he were hugging a blazing teddy bear. He wrapped Spencer's arm around his body, draping it over him and tucked his own arm underneath the man's head, nestling into the crook of his neck.
Reid's body tensed as the smaller body burrowed next to him. Aiken, he realized belatedly as his mind reacted slowly to the addition of another body pressed tight against his, reminiscent of the much stronger, more demanding one which had tormented him not too long ago. This body, however, sought not to violate him, but rather to gain some mutual comfort and warmth.
Willing his stiff body to relax so as not to startle the young boy, Reid allowed Aiken to meld into him, to wrap his nimble arms around his body. Allowing the boy to leech warmth from him, he warred with the memory of his captor's body on top of him, smothering him. He battled against his impeccable memory's attempt to make him relive the enforced encounter moment-by-painstaking-moment as his assailant's face swam menacingly in front of his vision, clouding it.
Closing his eyes against the mental invasion, he nearly gagged on his own tongue as the memory of the man's mouth hot upon his own, demanding, forcibly taking and eliciting pleasure from him assailed his weakened mind. A peculiar, zesty mint-flavor lingered in his mouth; a gritty reminder of the forced entry he'd been unable to stop.
No! He would not entertain these thoughts, not here, not with Aiken clinging to his side. The memory of his torturer had no place here. The memory of the lips, hot against his flesh as they explored different parts of his body, causing him to tingle and respond in ways that no one else had yet done for him, needed to be abolished. The memory of dexterous hands and fingers, groping, plying slight pressure at different points along his body needed to be stowed away for another time when he would be able to deal with it.
The memory of the man suckling at his throat, drinking his blood like a baby at its mother's breast partaking of life's sweet nectar, titillated his senses. The lips, flush against his throat had been eager and compelling in their fervency. The memory of it overwhelmed him, causing him to tremble chastely. The act had been sensual and strangely arousing and, much to his horror, the memory of it awakened his dulled senses sending him careening over the edge of rational thinking into the murky pool of a hallucinatory hell in which he was the willing victim of a vampiristic madman.
Aiken heard his name called again, but he gripped Spencer tighter and closed his eyes. He felt safe, knowing that he wasn't alone and that he would soon be joining his mother and brother and maybe even Mr. Breighton in heaven. Maybe Spencer would be there too when he woke up.
He listened to the agent's heartbeat, content in the regular, steady beat. Ba bump…ba bump…ba bump… He felt the rise and fall of Spencer's chest and matched his breathing to that of the agent's. Sighing, he popped a thumb into his mouth, something he hadn't done since he was a baby, and sucked, gaining succor from the nostalgic childhood act. The fingers of his other hand played with the fringe of Spencer's hair, twining and untwining it around each finger until a soothing rhythm had been established.
He remembered how his mother used to rock him to sleep on her lap. How she would tuck a blanket around him, wrap him up so that he was warm and secure. He would stick his thumb in his mouth, unless his dad was home to complain about it, and play with his mother's hair, twisting it around his fingers, letting its velvet softness cascade over them until he fell asleep.
The rhythmic movement of Aiken's fingers as they weaved their way in and out of his hair quieted Reid's reeling mind and alleviated some of the pain which had ensconced his heart. The measured inhale and exhale of the child's breathing, hot puffs of air caressing his throat, served as an anchor to his subconscious mind, pulling it back from the depths of hell it had been plunged to.
The consolation that Aiken sought from him strangely brought a comfort of its own to Reid. His body began to relax under the influence of the gentle, methodic touch and he moved his other arm, though it ached from stiffness, so that his hand rested on Aiken's back. He drew the boy closer with the arm Aiken had wrapped around himself and placed his hand on the boy's head, splaying his fingers, entwining them in the boy's hair in imitation of how he had often comforted his own mother as a child. Even as Reid remonstrated himself for seeking comfort from the child he held, knowing that, as the adult, he should be the one offering the comfort not taking it, he grasped at it like a man drowning.
Each clung to the other as though attempting to hold onto a lifeguard, fearful of being swept away by an angry sea, risking drowning the rescuer in the process as they frantically fought the swirling, monster-filled waters of their anxious thoughts. They held on tight, afraid to let go, oblivious to the search party just outside their temporary hideaway whose cries fell on deaf ears, they slept.