CHAPTER III
What a pain this was. Alfred's friends had left a little while ago, and that was when they realized they'd tracked the caked on dirt on their shoes into the house. He supposed they hadn't toweled off enough back at the field. So now he had to drag that sputtering vacuum out from the closet upstairs and clean everything up before his dad came home. He'd have a better chance of convincing him to let Matthew stay if the floor wasn't dirty.
Kicking off his sneakers by the garage door, he slipped off the muddied jeans and threw them into the adjacent laundry room. Alfred then hurried up the stairs to put on a new pair, only to find more dirt on the floor, to his dismay. Right, he and Gilbert had run up here to gather clothing to change Matthew into.
Once his jeans were on, he groaned and pulled out the vacuum. Al remembered that Matthew was sleeping and put the appliance on its lowest setting since he'd have to go into the guest room too. Quickly, he swept through the hallway and the loft. Then he suctioned off each individual step until he reached the bottom. Vacuuming around the wall to the guest room door, he slowly pushed it open to find Matthew was still resting soundly. Alfred wasn't sure why, but something about his face was so familiar, as if he saw it every day. Putting the thought out of his mind, he hastily sucked up all the dirt in the carpet and in the adjoined bathroom. Luckily, the boy wasn't disturbed by the light rumbling of the appliance.
Gently closing the door behind him, Alfred moved on to the den, which was all carpet, so he'd finish fast. Too lazy to look at his watch, he glanced to the oven across the room: 8:01 P.M. Dad would be home soon, so he'd better hurry up. Elizaveta had gone into the kitchen to fetch the Tylenol, so Al had to clean there. Thankfully, the wall stopped once the stairs did; it didn't separate the kitchen and den, so he could just vacuum straight across the room.
Even after he swept over the kitchen, some of the dirt stained the tiles. He grabbed a sponge and some cleanser, on his knees to scrub away the filth. God, he'd done enough scrubbing for his life. Was this what it was like for those housewives: always having to clean up messes all over the house? At least they were paid to go on reality TV.
Just then, the garage door roared open and Alfred heard the familiar sound of the car pulling in. Footsteps pounded up the small set of stairs outside the door, and he heard the garage start to close when his dad walked into the room.
"Al, I'm h-" Arthur announced, stopping as he rounded the corner of cabinetry that indicated he was entering the kitchen. Here was his son, diligently cleaning the floor. "What is this, a reprisal of Annie?"
"What are you talking about, Dad? My friends and I got the floor dirty, so I'm just cleaning it up. After all, I'm sure you've had a long, backbreaking day in Corporate America."
Arthur just stared at him, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. "Okay, you want something. Come on, spit it out."
Alfred sighed and stood up to face his father, tossing the sponge to the sink. "All right, so Eliz, Gil, Rod and I went to the vacant lot to play football today. Eliz kicked the ball into an alley, so I went to get it and- and we found this- this…"
"Please tell me you didn't bring home a bloody stray."
"What? No! No, he's not a dog! He's a guy! We found a guy!"
"What?"
"He was unconscious and lying in the alley, and he's really sick, he has a fever and everything, and I-I couldn't just leave him there like that, so…" Damn, why was he stuttering so much? He'd never felt so…unconfident. Was he really going to be able to convince Dad to allow Matthew tenancy?
"…So you brought him here?"
"Y-Yeah, we took him to the guest room. He hasn't woken up yet, so we couldn't give him any Tylenol."
"Can I see him?"
Alfred blinked. "Y-Yeah, of course, Dad." Arthur followed his son out of the kitchen and into the room. Al watched nervously as his dad got closer to Matthew. He hoped he wouldn't pull back the blankets and realize the boy was wearing Al's clothes, or smell the shampoo and bubble bath. Also, he didn't want Dad seeing the note on the nightstand either. Those were things he'd rather not explain. Arthur placed a hand on Matthew's forehead, feeling the temperature.
"Well, he's definitely burning up," he concluded, removing his palm and placing both on his lean hips. "We should put a cold washcloth on his head. Could you get that for me?"
Nodding, Al soaked a bathroom washcloth and slightly wrung it out. On his return, he carefully laid it on the boy's forehead. He turned his attention to his dad and made his proposition. "So…he can stay here for now, right?"
Looking to his son, puzzled, Arthur answered, "Alfred, of course. You didn't think I was going to toss the chap out the door, did you? That'd be cruel and inhumane."
Didn't stop Rod from suggesting we leave him there. "I-I dunno. I just wasn't sure what you'd think."
"I'll tell you what I think," he replied, ruffling Alfred's hair. "I'm proud that my son is such an upstanding citizen as to nurture a complete stranger."
Alfred smiled back at his father, happily accepting the praise for his heroics until he recalled the state he had found Matthew in. What would Dad think if he was the one to come upon the boy dressed in tramp clothes? If Al hadn't cleaned up Matthew's appearance, would his dad still applaud him for taking him in?
"Come on." Arthur moved towards the open doorway. "Let's leave the poor boy to his sleep." Alfred took another glance at Matthew's dear face before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.
. . .
Voices shouting gruffly, hands grabbing harshly, all wanting him, every bit of him.
"Oh, Matthew, come here darling."
"No, come here. I want to stroke that lovely skin."
"Hey, I paid before both of you. This kid is mine tonight."
"Really? I think we should let him decide. You want to spend the night with me, don't you?"
"No," he protested in his sleep. "No, I don't want to. I don't want to. No."
"See, he doesn't like you. Come here, Matthew. I'll make you feel good. Isn't that what you want?"
"No…" Tears escaped the corners of his tightly shut eyes, gracefully gliding down his cheeks. "I-I don't want this. I don't want this. I don't want this!"
Matthew was jolted awake, springing up from the mattress in his panic. He immediately began to cough and choke on air, his throat dreadfully raw and parched. They gradually subsided, and he panted heavily, clutching his hair in hope of solace. God, with all the nightmares he had, he couldn't tell anymore if they had actually happened or if it was just his imagination haunting the bends of his mind. How many of them were real encounters? What did it matter? He'd lost track of how many times he'd been used so long ago. Night or day, reality or figments of his fragmented mentality, they were all the same to him.
Slowly he began to control his breathing, taking them in deep. This worked until he tried to survey his surroundings. Everything was dark and blurry. Damn, where were his glasses? Oh, right, he'd left them behind by accident.
He noticed a clock on the bedside table; it was 12:22 in the morning. Wait, last he remembered, he'd been trying to fall asleep on the rough ground in that alleyway, rain pounding on his miserable self beneath that blanket. This was a bed, a soft bed with warm blankets and sheets. Looking around, he found that he couldn't recognize anything, and that even if the hazy blobs were clear, this wasn't a place he knew. Just where was he?
Realization, along with terror and grief, washed over him in a horrific concoction known as defeat. Of course, Ivan must have found him and hauled him back to the ring. Now, as punishment, the brutal Russian had done the worst thing he could: bring Matthew to his own dwelling. Any pet unlucky enough to be called to Ivan's lair received wounds far worse than any S&M freak they'd been subjected to could inflict. After all, Toris' treatment had been proof enough.
…Although, he couldn't imagine anything worse than Ivan's personalized "choking game", adjusted to fit his own sadistic needs for each pet. Matthew tenderly touched his neck, wincing as his fingers brushed over the sore bruises. What was worse: the discolored marks or his arid throat?
That was strange- he shouldn't have been able to touch his neck. Something, he couldn't figure out what, but something that was supposed to be there was missing. It didn't matter; he was too distracted by the sobs swelling in his chest. He wept into his hands, his aching body convulsing with each shaking breath. So close, he thought, lamenting as he tried to wipe away the tears with his sleeves. I had freedom at my fingertips. I was so close…and that chance will never come again.
The abrasion between his eyes and the sleeves' fabric caught his attention. Hadn't he been wearing that tank top? He looked down at the red sweatshirt, lifting up the blanket to discover the jeans and white cotton socks. Then a fruity scent, mixed with the calming smell of flowers teased his nose. Sniffling now, Matthew guided his hands along the shape of his neck, and in pain, he realized what had been off: his collar was gone.
What was going on? Sure, it was plenty like Ivan to clean up his pets before brutalizing them, to catch them off guard and destroy their resolve with a little taste of freedom. But no way in hell would he remove the only thing showing proof they were his property, his possessions.
It was when he glanced towards the clock again, searching for answers in the digital numbers glowing faintly, that he saw the bottle of Tylenol and the folder piece of paper with his name written on it. Baffled, Matthew reached over to turn on the lamp and opened up the note once he had sufficient light.
"Hey! If you're reading this, you must be awake! Awesome! Okay, hi, my name is Alfred. I guess your name is Matthew since that's what the collar said. My friends and I found you in an alley. You were really sick with a fever. So, we took you to my house and I, well, gave you a bath. Sorry about that. It sounds really awkward, but I thought you'd be more comfortable if you were clean. Anyway, you have a fever, so read the directions on the Tylenol bottle and take some. There are paper cups in the bathroom. If you need me for anything, my room is upstairs through the loft and all the way down the hallways on the right. - Alfred."
Matthew couldn't believe it at first, gaping blankly at the letter. This handwriting, the writer's voice, he couldn't recognize either of them. Hope amplified throughout his lungs, so intensely that he thought his chest might burst from the pressure, but he didn't care. He'd escaped; he was still free! After so long, so many nights of use and anguish, his prayers had been answered. This overbearing joy, was there any way to contain it? How much he wanted to shout in light of his liberation, from that torturer, from the daily exploitation, and from the doldrums that had taken over him for so long. He soon remembered that is was half past midnight. It wouldn't be good to wake people up at this hour.
His throat reminding him agonizingly that he needed water, Matthew slipped out from under the covers and grabbed the Tylenol before walking into the bathroom, flicking the light on. He immediately turned on the water in the sink and ran one of the paper cups on the side under it, rushing it to his mouth. Oh, how soothing it was, refreshing as it surged down his dried esophagus. He quickly refilled it, refusing to let even a drop of the precious liquid escape as he brought it to his lips. Removing the cup from his mouth, he popped two of the Tylenol pills and swallowed them with the water's aid. Matthew panted between swigs, unable to get enough of the treasured source as he replenished it over and over. Oh, it was pure, pure ecstasy.
As he took his attention away from the faucet, he looked into the mirror and noticed the bathtub behind him. That note…the Alfred guy had written that he'd washed Matthew in there. He chuckled at the thought, but it was a dismal chuckle. The guy had found it awkward, but that was something so absurd to him. Why should it matter how many people saw him without the comforting shroud of his clothes? His body had become but a tool; it was nothing more, nothing less.
…No, he'd promised he wouldn't think like that anymore; they both had. They were going to escape together and press the reset buttons in their minds, erasing all of the brainwashing they'd endured together. Neither of them had wanted the fate that had come to them, and they were going to make their own. At least that had been the plan until...they'd been separated.
Toris, he thought wistfully, wherever you are, be safe.
Matthew walked out of the bathroom, and then the room's door caught his eye. Letting his curiosity get the better of him, he hesitantly made his way over to the entrance and turned the handle, pushing it open slightly. He got a glimpse of the spacious den, lit dimly by the moon shining in through the paneled glass surrounding what looked like the front door.
Maybe I'll explore a bit, he thought, following along the wall on his left.
. . .
It was nearly half past midnight when Alfred's stomach woke him up, enraged that it hadn't been fed for nearly eight hours. He'd been too busy to eat dinner last night, and now he was paying for it. Groaning, Al shifted under the blankets, pulling them aside to step out of bed. Well, there wasn't any way he was going to get any sleep with an empty stomach.
Alfred trudged sluggishly along the hall, turning left at the loft and left again down the winding staircase. He made his way to the bottom and into the small, carpeted area before reaching the kitchen tile. He figured he'd just grab a bowl of sugary cereal and head back upstairs right afterward. Wait, sugar would only keep him up longer. Well, he was already awake anyway, and no way was he going to eat anything healthy. Al rummaged through the pantry, snatching a box of Lucky Charms. He returned to the bar counter overlooking the den as he calmed his ravenous stomach with the cereal of little nutritional value.
When a figure walked out from behind the wall beside the staircase, Alfred almost thought they had installed a mirror there. The boy's face was so similar to his own. But the hair was longer, wavier, and his eyes were a gorgeous violet-blue.
…Oh God, it was Matthew.
