I give her a thumbs up. I like my work. I am good with my hands and it allows me to keep my hobbies since I make my own schedule. I don't need the money. I just like being productive. These days, there's so much new construction in these developments, the bigger companies contract me aside from my own personal gigs. People trust my work, and my stellar reputation precedes me.
I can tell that people feel good about hiring me. Like it's charity, helping the guy who stutters. People assume I'm slow despite the fact that I can build a house with my bare hands. All because I'm different. Sometimes people recognize my last name and they ask about it, but I don't like to talk about my family. I think some of them assume I've been left out of the will and work to support myself. It's none of their damn business anyway.
Sure, they're happy to have me fix their things, renovate their kitchens, but that's as far as it goes. I'm still an outsider. I'm still that kid in the middle of the circle, it's just that adults have to act a little more civilized, and I'm a bigger boy these days.
A whistle blows, the kids form lines and are lead back into the school again. Quiet.
Now that I have Vesper waiting for me—I'm alone, but not alone.
Two times the sun has left and the basement has turned pitch black. Two nights have passed since the man came in, cleaned me, fed me, and showed me the outside world through a television screen. Then he left without a word. I don't know when he's coming back, and that scares me. The food and water is long gone and only gave me enough energy to continue existing. But I'm still starving and thirsty, and he's the only way I have access to more food.
Hunger and boredom is a maddening combination. It makes you pray for anyone's presence to make you feel human again. At least when he's here, my body courses with adrenaline. It makes me feel alive when I don't have the energy from nutrition. It's the waiting that has become torture—not knowing my fate, suffering and growing weaker.
Sometimes there are footsteps and my heart skips with a jolt of excitement and dread. But then the house will go quiet again. My mind and body is constantly confused by this man who terrifies me but is also the person on whom I must depend for survival.
This time, when the footsteps come towards the door, it opens. My mouth produces what little saliva it can, like a Pavlovian dog, in response to his presence.
He comes down the stairs, a milk crate stuffed with random items in his arms. The smell of food instantly hits my nose and my heart rate accelerates. I try not to smile and look too eager. It makes me feel pathetic. But my eyes steal the attention from my nose when it follows the bare arms, slick with sweat, to a naked torso, up a muscled neck and to a masked face. He's wearing jeans again, torn up like the last time. He has streaks of dirt and paint on him, and his skin has a reddish golden tint like he's just been working out in the sun. What I would do to feel the sun on my skin again. I hate that despite all the horrible things this man has done, I can't help but notice his taut, athletic body. He makes another trip with a soapy bucket of water.
I watch in skeptical suspense as he goes about this business without acknowledging me.
Once he's settled, he lifts a gallon jug of water in front of me. I nearly dance. I nod frantically, my throat clenching at the thought of moisture.
He points at the wash bucket.
“Yes—Yes,” I submit without hesitation.
He walks up to me with the bucket, his frigid, golden-flecked turquoise eyes on mine as he rubs the soap along my body. I'm scared. Of my fate. Of what Johnny and my family are going through, but I'm not scared of this. He's done it once before and it wasn't the worst thing he's done to me. It's actually nice to be clean after being in a dingy basement.
Being more relaxed, my body betrays me as he cleans between my legs. Last time, I turned my face away in protest. Consumed with fear and rage, I was able to ignore the physical sensations. But being naked and alone for days on end, with nothing against my skin but cold concrete, his warm hands heat up every part of me they touch. His jeans smell of paint, but on his skin is the sweet aroma of salt and grass, and it reminds me of long days in Tahoe.
I act unfazed, but when I take a deep breath to calm myself, it skips nervously.
He rubs me everywhere. My body is conquered land; there are no secrets from him.
I take in the arm with the scars and see they run all along that side of his body, up his torso. Thick ropey marks crawl up his neck. The other side of his body is pristine.
He pours a jug of warm water over me to rinse off the soap, using his hands to assist the rinsing. My captor makes his way back between my legs, guiding the clean water to make sure it rinses all the filth away. And while his touch was soft but clinical before, this time, he rubs, letting his fingers go past the outer lips, but not breaching the entrance. Testing. Teasing. My stomach flutters with contempt and arousal.