You are ten years old. Thunk, the clatter of a hardcover book skids across the floor. Pain in the back of your skull aching forward, it throbs to your heartbeat like an ugly song no one wants to hear. Keep your head down, keep your head down. Nothing good comes from looking at the source so you stare at the groves of the tiny desk you’re assigned and the world around you gets smaller and more manageable. A girl’s voice, laughing, high and malicious in the way kids are purely malicious because their insecurities are weapons used against you.
–
You are sixteen and there are walls. These walls are carved inside of you so deeply, they become you. Everywhere you look, walls. They blend and blend and blend and this is because your gaze is on the floor. Stark white pants cuffed neatly over shiny black shoes greet you in the morning, in the afternoon, past the depressing cafeteria tables and your tray of sorry excuses of sustenance and this feels jagged, cut from the same slice of rotten pie.
Heavy is the heart and you’re losing yours. You drag your feet wherever these men want you to go, and you think this is another test in a cold room, but you don’t recognize the floors of the room they take you. You don’t remember this floor, but you remember the scent and taste of the men’s fingers in your mouth. Dirty. Sweat-stained, three cigarettes deep since morning and they haven't washed their hands yet dirty. They muss your hair, leave cigarette-smell in every wavy curl, and they like it when you choke and cry around their cocks.
They like it more when you gag enough to vomit your lunch, but they leave you in there, in that room you don’t recognize the floor of but will always remember the odor of them and you and your salty tears and bile and cum and fear and bruises on your knees. You remember that room well.
You are nineteen, almost twenty. The Bad Room has been a pattern for years, but the floors aren’t your walls anymore. Faces are categorized: neutral, good, bad, worse, insignificant. The nurses are wary of your attention these days, but your memory is spotty. You don’t know whether they’re wary because you attacked a guard or because of something you don’t remember. There’s muscle on your bones and your posture is better, taking up space is easier. Make yourself big so no one can make you small.
A guard wants you to get on your knees again. Compliancy is weaponized and yes, yes, anything for him. Feign fear. Feign submission. Feign it well enough that the anger flushing your skin becomes embarrassment and shame. That’s what they like to see. Get on your knees in the place that makes your body want to crawl in on itself and shudder, where spoiled milk rises in your throat and the terror response is sweating out your pours.
Obediently, like a good boy, you part your lips and open your mouth wide, wider, you take in the guard’s cock with a shit-eating grin. He is looking down at you with sudden alarm, because you’ve never looked at him like you are looking at him now. Too late. Jaw snaps down, teeth crush through muscle and flesh, tearing off the prize with the ferocity of a wild animal. Blood is spurting everywhere, flecking your face, spilling and soaking clothes. The guard has collapsed and you spit the mutilated genital beside him.
“Say hi to your wife for me,” you tell him as the heel of your boot connects to his face.
Satisfaction in revenge, but the taste of his sweat will always be on your tongue, as will his blood.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ages 10-19. cw: SA, emeto, abuse, gore
–
You are sixteen and there are walls. These walls are carved inside of you so deeply, they become you. Everywhere you look, walls. They blend and blend and blend and this is because your gaze is on the floor. Stark white pants cuffed neatly over shiny black shoes greet you in the morning, in the afternoon, past the depressing cafeteria tables and your tray of sorry excuses of sustenance and this feels jagged, cut from the same slice of rotten pie.
Heavy is the heart and you’re losing yours. You drag your feet wherever these men want you to go, and you think this is another test in a cold room, but you don’t recognize the floors of the room they take you. You don’t remember this floor, but you remember the scent and taste of the men’s fingers in your mouth. Dirty. Sweat-stained, three cigarettes deep since morning and they haven't washed their hands yet dirty. They muss your hair, leave cigarette-smell in every wavy curl, and they like it when you choke and cry around their cocks.
They like it more when you gag enough to vomit your lunch, but they leave you in there, in that room you don’t recognize the floor of but will always remember the odor of them and you and your salty tears and bile and cum and fear and bruises on your knees. You remember that room well.
You are nineteen, almost twenty. The Bad Room has been a pattern for years, but the floors aren’t your walls anymore. Faces are categorized: neutral, good, bad, worse, insignificant. The nurses are wary of your attention these days, but your memory is spotty. You don’t know whether they’re wary because you attacked a guard or because of something you don’t remember. There’s muscle on your bones and your posture is better, taking up space is easier. Make yourself big so no one can make you small.
A guard wants you to get on your knees again. Compliancy is weaponized and yes, yes, anything for him. Feign fear. Feign submission. Feign it well enough that the anger flushing your skin becomes embarrassment and shame. That’s what they like to see. Get on your knees in the place that makes your body want to crawl in on itself and shudder, where spoiled milk rises in your throat and the terror response is sweating out your pours.
Obediently, like a good boy, you part your lips and open your mouth wide, wider, you take in the guard’s cock with a shit-eating grin. He is looking down at you with sudden alarm, because you’ve never looked at him like you are looking at him now. Too late. Jaw snaps down, teeth crush through muscle and flesh, tearing off the prize with the ferocity of a wild animal. Blood is spurting everywhere, flecking your face, spilling and soaking clothes. The guard has collapsed and you spit the mutilated genital beside him.
“Say hi to your wife for me,” you tell him as the heel of your boot connects to his face.
Satisfaction in revenge, but the taste of his sweat will always be on your tongue, as will his blood.