10

Do You Love Me?

It was a question Sam kept asking and one which Spencer refused to answer.

'Do you love me?'

This wasn't how you showed someone love! This was lust. This was not love at all. This was dirty, painful, heart stopping greed.

'Do you love me?'

Sam's voice got more demanding as skin slid against skin. 'Mmmrr…' Was about all Spencer could articulate and that really could have meant anything. It certainly wasn't a safe word.

'Hit me again!'

'Again?' Spencer managed to say into the back of Sam's neck.

'Like before… I need to feel it! I have to know you're there.'

Spencer was holding Sam with one arm around his middle and another hand on his hip. How could he not know he was there? 'Before?' Spencer hadn't hit Sam. He was sure of it and now things started to turn a bit strange. Sam hauled himself forward trying to pull out of Spencer's hot grasp… he wriggled a writhed and managed to get away from Spencer and roll onto his back.

'Fuck me properly!' Sam moved his feet up and slammed them down towards Reid's surprised face. Spencer managed to move quickly enough to avoid being kicked in the face but now he was angry. 'Fuck me!' Sam was howling at him and now on his hands and knees crawling over the bed towards Spencer who just slid back and knelt on the floor.

'Sam…'

'Sam what? What are you running from? Come on… you can see I'm all grown up! HA! You can see! What's stopping you?' Sam struck Spencer across the face with a strong backhand. The small diamond in the ring made a red welt over Spencer's cheek. He went to try again but this time Spencer was ready and grabbed at Sam's hand.

'Stop it!' Reid yelled at Sam. 'Just stop it! What's wrong with you?'

Sam seemed to have become a creature made only of arms, legs and teeth. He bit and spat and tried to scratch and kick. He pinched and squeezed and finally Reid got a good hold on Sam and he pushed him back.

For Reid what happened next was so frightening he wanted to puke. Sam flew back and smacked his head on the corner of the chest of drawers. For Sam as he slid to the floor it was all a carefully thought out plan. He'd not hurt his head, but now he was going to get Spencer all hot and bothered and maybe…

'Sam… oh god…' Spencer knelt at his side and put the back of one of his hands to Sam's cheek. 'You'll be all right. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Oh god. Wait there. I'll get you something.'

Sam let out a soft moan and waited for Spencer to go and get whatever he thought could help before he opened an eye. He then carefully opened the other and with all the skills he had started to cry soft pathetic tears.

'Drink this. It's… it's whiskey.'

Sam accepted it with shaking hands and sipped it slowly. 'You could have killed me.' He whined. 'I could have broken my neck.'

'I don't know what happened. What were you doing? Why?'

'I just like it rough Spence. I love it rough. I like to be bruised and bitten. I watch the bruises slowly fade day after day and each time I look at them I remember each bite and kick and slap.'

'But that's not how it should be.' Spencer took the empty tumbler from Sam. 'Come here.' Arms out ready. 'I'll just hold you for a while.'

Sam slid across the floor on his bare butt and crawled onto Spencer's equally bare lap. He wrapped his arms around Spencer and Reid stroked Sam's hair and ran fingers over the marks and bruises Sam already had on his face. 'This isn't love Sam. Getting someone… forcing someone to hurt you doesn't mean that they love you. If they love you then they care for you and protect you.'

'Well I guess I wouldn't know. I've only ever known it like this, but that's Floyd's influence. It always starts off nice and then I just need so much more than some people want to offer. It's why I whore. Any old back room or alley way you can get someone to do it if you pay.' Sam broke out into calculated sobs and let the tears fall. 'Oh my neck hurts so much.' Sam then moved so he was on his side facing Reid's stomach and went to sleep. At least he pretended to go to sleep. He'd not finished with Spencer yet. He'd shown Reid that he was needy. He'd shown him how vulnerable he was. He'd shown him his spiteful side and how easy it was to hurt him… and now he was going to keep Spencer sitting on the bedroom floor worrying if he's done damage to him. Sam curled up tighter and made small whimpering sounds and Spencer just sat and stroked him and wondered how long he was going to be stuck there on the floor.

He thought of getting up and putting Sam on the bed but then would he feel that he was being pushed away again? Spencer thought of the gun and how Sam had pressed it against his skin. He thought of the way the small knife had dug into Sam's chest. He thought what Floyd would do if he came back and found Sam splattered up the wall – or even lying dead with a broken neck where he'd pushed him away one final time. 'Sam… Lay on the bed and I'll stay with you.' He managed to lift Sam onto the messed up bed and then curled up behind him with his arms tight. Pulling him close. Offering him the comfort which Floyd had given him so many times in the past. He could see the red mark on the back of Sam's neck and he found that kissing it better for him just seemed like the right thing to do. He pulled covers up over them and pressed his hand hard against Sam's chest feeling the way his heart was pounding. Spencer knew that what he was doing was wrong… not because of what other people might think; he didn't care what Morgan or Rossi or even Hotch would think. It's frankly not their business. He was however very concerned about what Floyd would think and do.

But then Sam's soft body rocked against him. His sweet smell of roses wafted up Spencer's nose and he pulled Sam closer and bit down on his shoulder and gave Sam what he'd been so desperately seeking.

And yes… Spencer was aware that he was a slut. Spencer was very aware of that. Why else did he have condoms and lube? Why else did he have sex toys in the drawer and boxes of tissues under the bed? Why else did he keep his work friends out of this room? It was because if Morgan particularly ever saw some of the things Spencer had hidden in his room there would be no end of questions he was unwilling to answer.

In Which Floyd Thinks.

I am fully aware of my situation. I may not have been yesterday but today I am. They've removed the straight jacket and upon seeing that I am as calm as a cucumber they take me down to talk to someone. I'm not much in the mood for talking, but sometimes you have to do things you don't like or end up in a dungeon. I need to get out of here. I've instructed my brain… my self, that – I will not kill. I will talk my way out of this and see if I can go via a legal route first.

I am asked by this gent in a jacket which makes your eyes go funny if you look at it for too long (and if you stroke it you get told to sit down again) so I stop looking at the jacket – anyway he asks me if I hear voices.

Very carefully I explain that I'm not fucking deaf and of course I hear voices and if I couldn't what the fuck would be the point in sitting here talking? He goes on to explain that he meant when I'm alone… Now this can be answered in many ways and the most honest is probably that I'm never really alone. No one ever is.

'If there are voices…' I say in a very reasonable voice. '…and I can hear them, then surely I am not alone. You know that question If a tree falls in a forest blah blah blah does it make a noise? Do you know the answer to that?' It seems that he might but he'd like to hear my version of the answer anyway. 'The answer is no. Sound needs a receiver. If there is no receiver there is no sound. You need ears or some kind of equipment to be able to pick up the sound and hear it.' He's nodding at me. 'So what I'm getting at…' I pause and ask him to remove his jacket as it's making my brain scream. Maybe I should have said it was giving me a headache… but that's not strictly true. He does though. '… what I'm trying to say is that we all have voices, we don't all have receivers. I do.'

So now he's asking me how long I've heard voices and is there more than one and I have to explain that it really depends on how many people are talking. It makes perfect sense to me… not to him it seems. He tells me that I was speaking in Latin earlier and I ask him what's so dreadful about that and he cant really answer my question. He wants to know if I do that often and I shrug.

'Tell me…' I enquire of this man. '… did the tests come back and discover anything awry with my brain? You had me stuck in the fucking machine for a reason. What were you looking for and did you find it?'

He looks at his notes and runs a finger down the page and then looks up at me. 'The MRI found nothing.'

'Not even the cockroach?' Fuck… shouldn't have said that. 'I mean… nothing? So I'm fit? Am I to be considered a threat to anyone?'

'Your bloods came back with very interesting results though.' He jabbed at some writing on the page.

'Sometimes I get a bit…' I pause and stand and then sit again and scratch at my neck and then shrug. '…high, but you know it's nothing illegal.'

'You smoke strange mixtures of chemicals.'

'And snort them too. They ease my mind. Except for when they don't. Sometimes they give me odd hallucinations…'

'Rat poison.' The man tells me.

'Oh that. That's not normal. I don't usually do that. Really I meant that for Saaa… for… for a rat. Not me. The rat has to be kept on his toes don't you think or the world becomes infested. Nasty things. Spread disease… they bite… have parasites. I didn't mean to take rat poison. That's what I did? You'd not think that snorting it would do that would you? I suppose though… causes bleeding… maybe? I really should mark the bags I keep things in… all white powders look the same when you're already not really here. I'll do that. Thank you for the warning. I'll go now shall I?'

He doesn't look satisfied with my answers though and starts asking me more things. 'Have you ever or do you have suicidal thoughts.'

I laugh and tuck my hair behind my ears and then lean forward with my elbows resting on my knees. 'No. Absolutely not. What's the point in that? Well maybe once I have… I had this vision once of jumping, but as…' I stop and look at the doctor. I don't really think I should tell him that I only didn't jump was because Sam refused to jump with me. '…it's not like it's…' I pause again and he's staring at me waiting for an answer he's going to be happy with. 'It wasn't suicidal as much as delusional I'd say, though the end result would be the same. I just think it would be a great experience to fall from a great height – wind rushing through your hair, the sky… nothing but...' I pause again. 'I realise that the end result is death and so that's why I didn't do it. I wish though quite often that I could fly again.'

'You were a pilot?' He asks me stupidly.

'No. I had wings, but lost them due to my sexual activities and other things which were deemed unreasonable in a perfect society. A society which was made up entirely of beautiful men and boys. Really what sort of fool would do that and not expect a bit of anal fun to occur. Anyway… beside the point really and in the past. Cant go back. Life is shit but no, I don't want to kill myself again.'

I said again… and he's looking at me and making notes.

'Again?' He picked up on it. Why that? When I'd said all that other shit why pick up on that one thing? Well it's to piss me off. The other stuff he's writing down to me being crackers but this he's making note of because… well because he's a mother fucking whore dog's turd. I bite down on my lip and avoid voicing my opinion. 'Again as in Trying To Kill Myself… not as in I Have Died and Been Reborn.' I don't have to elucidate and let him know that I did actually mean the latter. 'Do you believe in reincarnation?' I suddenly say and he's giving me that please continue look so I do. 'Well I'm just saying that some people do and so if I did then saying that I've been reborn wouldn't bee such a crazy statement would it?'

'Indeed not. Do you believe in re-incarnation?' He's scribbling down notes.

'They say that if you're not shriven that you walk forever in purgatory.' That should explain everything to him but he's giving me that sign to carry on again. 'Well I wasn't shriven.' I gesture around myself. 'This is my purgatory I think… one day when my penance has been completed I will be allowed back again, but you see the problem with that don't you?' Of course he must see the problem…but nope… that gesture again. 'A true penitent wouldn't keep on doing what he's in trouble for. I cant be an anchorite. That's really what they want, but I cant do that. I wont do that. What the fuck have they ever done for me except give me free will and then tell me that my reasoning was all twisted? Can you see what I mean?'

Oh he can! A minor miracle… False alarm…

He has no fucking idea what I'm talking about.

'You belonged to a religious order?'

I shake my head, not in denial but more in frustration. If I tell this man the deep down honest truth then I'll be locked away. If I tell him half truths maybe he'll just think I'm a bit odd. 'No… no, no, no… not as such no, but maybe, but not as you'd see it. It was and still is a way of life rather than a religion. It's just how you are. Not what you are… or maybe it is what you are and not who you are? I don't know. It confuses me sometimes. It I suppose was like…' I wonder how I can possibly compare it. '…have you read or seen any of those gay porn movies or books about the rooms full of lovely boys possibly pool boys with beautiful oiled skin and dripping wet most of the time… well imagine living in a place like that and being told you couldn't touch.'

Oh… he's looking blank.

'You've never read or seen something like that?'

'No I haven't.' He tells me.

I snatch up a pen off his desk and pull his note pad over and write down some good examples for him. 'Best watched alone with a lot of hand cream.' I grin at him. 'Or with someone who doesn't mind you sticking your…' I stop and push the pad and pen back. 'Are you gay?'

He tells me that it's very unlikely that he'd be watching or reading anything like I've advised he should and I tell him that a good doctor would do as he cant possibly expect to understand the inner pain of someone who has suffered a life time in purgatory if he doesn't do research. I am informed by this good man that he's never until this moment felt that he was lacking in the skills needed. I tell him that he's a stupid fucker. He asks me not to swear at him. I tell him he's a… Well a female body part and he calls for someone to take me back to my room unless I can curb my tongue and calm down.

I am calm. 'Fine! But I'm no anchorite and never will be and so don't sit there awaiting the miracle cos it's just not going to happen.'

Now we get down to the questions of my lifestyle which I don't really think is any of his business and I don't know what bearing it has on what's going on. So he wants to know my sexual orientation and I tell him that I like stuffing my cock up arse and again I'm asked to curb my tongue and I tell him that I like sliding my tongue into soft crevices too and again he asks me to think before I speak. I inform him that I like to fuck boys. He asks me how old the boys are and I tell him that they're all old enough to take a ten inch bit of… and he cuts me off there. But you know and I know and he might soon know that ten inches is a bit of an exaggeration.

'I don't screw kids.' I tell him. 'Are you worried I mess with kids? I don't. It's not my thing anymore than cunny and tits are. I hope that clears that up for you.'

Now he's asking if I have a regular partner. 'I have a few.' This causes a sudden blast of writing. 'I'm not a whore.' I inform him. 'My partners are though.' Not sure if this is really explaining much at all. 'I like sluts.' I let him know.

He goes onto the next subject: do I take drugs. And he knows the answer to that already and so I don't bother answering. He goes onto if I drink. 'To excess.' I let him know. 'I am a high end dependant whiskey drinker.' He makes notes and asks if I consider myself alcoholic. 'Absolutely. If that means that your very existence depends on if you have enough alcohol buzzing through your blood, but I'm not the paper bag and cider sort. I can go without if there's nothing around I expect. I've never been in that situation. I'm not a drunk. I never get drunk. I hardly ever get drunk. I never drink until I pass out… or puke… at least not often.'

He wants to know where I get the money to pay for drink and drugs and whores and I tell him that I am independently wealthy and I have enough money to last me a hundred life times and still only scratch the surface. 'It's one of the problems I think. If you have money to do whatever you want, if money is never a barrier against anything… what the fuck is there to look forward to? I've done everything, been everywhere, tasted, licked, drank, snorted, smoked, listened to, fucked… I've been invited to exclusive parties by the rich and famous and I've had their sons… what else is there to do? What's to do? How can I get a buzz from something when I can have whatever I want virtually by clicking my fingers? Well I just take what I want. I don't bother asking. I just reach in… and take. Why not? Why shouldn't I? Why cant I do that?'

He's staring at me. 'Have you got a home address?'

I give him Spencer's address.

He wants telephone numbers which I don't know and email addresses which don't exist. He wants names of my parents and I sigh and rest my nose on his desk and tell him that he's just wasting time. 'I'm fine. I'll just get my things and go home. I want to go home. I'm trying to co-operate but you're asking so many daft questions and you've gagged my filthy mouth so I cant say what I need. I'll go.' I stand.

'You can go back to your room. I need to discuss this with someone and we will decide if it's safe for you to leave. You will be here at least one more night and I am going to suggest therapy which I will expect you to attend.'

'Was thinking of going on holiday.'

'I think that's a fine idea. But firstly I need to discuss your case and see if medication might help you with some of the problems.'

I nod. I don't know what problems. I didn't know I had any, but I guess I have.

When I go back to my room I find a half naked girl in my bed. I drag her out of it, hold her against the wall and punch her once on the nose. She screams like I've done something bad and runs with her tits jiggling and her panties crawling up the crack of her skinny arse. What a fucking day! I get into bed with my lovely visitors pyjamas on (dark blue sweatpants and white Tshirt) and pull the covers over my head and give a good show of being asleep. So good actually that I slide off into some kind of dream about pretty young men with oiled bodies.

Phone Call

Father Green stood in his small but tidy lounge with the phone in his hand. He was holding it so tightly that his knuckles were white and was listening to the voice on the other end. He nodded occasionally and then started pacing. 'Something has happened.' He said when finally being put through to the right person. 'I need an emergency transfer.' He paced and listened again. He was squeezing the phone so tightly he thought he was going to crush it. 'I had a list of young men I've helped at the shelters. They've all but one been murdered. The police want my list. It's gone. Now I am being accused by that other… that one… of…' He was cut off and again he was pacing. The room was too hot. There was no air. There was hardly a floor to walk on. Everything felt disjointed and out of place. 'I understand Your Excellency.' He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it and listened to the sound of the phone disconnected from the other end.

He ran. He thumped up the stairs, dragged a bag out of the wardrobe and stuffed it with personal belongings. He hurtled back down stairs again, took the folder of paperwork and stuffed that in the bag too. He paced for a while running his fingers through his hair. The sound of a car horn jolted him back to now. He grabbed the bag, took a quick look around himself and then left. As he got into the back of the big black car outside the home he knew he'd never be coming back to the driver said. 'The Church always looks after his own Father Green.'

Green slammed the car door and the car drove away. 'Thank God.' He said and quickly crossed himself.

Just Like Everyone Else.

Nothing changes and I don't see why I expected different. Once again I awaken to find that the person I was hugging when I fell asleep has gone. Sam has gone. I glance over at the door hoping that I'd see him crouched there, but no. The door is closed. The bed is cold. I should have known better, really I should have. Sam has learned all from Floyd so of course he's going to act the same. I shiver slightly and slide off the bed, grabbing the bathrobe which's laying in a mess on the floor. At least if Sam is up and walking around he's not dead. At least I assume he's not dead. If he is and is up and walking about then I've fallen into a whole different sort of nightmare. There's no smell of coffee brewing. There is actually no sound of anything. I call Sam's name and there's no reply. He's gone. Totally gone. I walk to the lounge and my heart drops so fast and furiously that I think that it's going to kill me. I do go down to my knees and I do have to hold back a scream of anger. My books are scattered over the floor. I can put them back. That's not the problem. The problem is the metal box laying with the lid open on the coffee table. The problem is my desk drawer left open. The problem is that Sam has taken my side arm and I have no idea where he's gone.

I know it always seems overly dramatic when someone pulls their hair and cries in anger and frustration but that's what I find I'm doing now. How could he do this? And what on earth does he have planned? I don't know how long I stay there for just moaning and making odd noises which I usually reserve for when Floyd is about to do something… and then I get up and walk to the bathroom. The cabinet over the basin is open and the pot of pain killers is gone. So have my vitamins. What would he want with my vitamins? I note that my supply of blades for my razor have also gone but the razor it self is still there. I have to find him. I don't know if this is going to be damage he wants to do to himself or to someone else. I run back to the bedroom and pull on clean clothes and then I make a phone call to Father Green. There is no answer. No answer… either he's not there or I'm too late. And there's only one way to find out which. I have to go see for myself.

I don't like driving. It's not something I find a pleasure at all, but today I think I will. If I can locate Sam I need somewhere to take him to and get him back home again. And I need to report that my gun has been taken, again I'm breaking all the rules and I'm going to see if I can just get it back from him first. The last thing I need now is for people to go chasing him down and forcing him to do something he'd not otherwise do.