“Oh, you’ll see.”
He’s going to piss in his pants. He’s never been so scared, and his bladder is about to let loose and soak his pants, run down his leg and into his shoes. Maybe, Jimmy thinks, he’ll laugh later, because he thought his socks would be wet from the snow, he couldn’t even imagine how bad things could get. Now, having a little bit of snow in his shoes sounds like a luxury.
“This is what I get for taking the fucking bus,” Jimmy says.
“Shut up.” The guy forces him to stand, makes him walk out of the shelter and back into the cold. There’s no one around, no one on the street so he can scream for help, there’s not even any cars driving past. It’s like everyone is dead and they’re the only two left alive on the whole planet, trudging across the frozen ground under a slate sky. It makes him think of that TV show his mom likes so much, where most everyone is dead and there’re groaning zombies lurching down the streets. That show makes the idea of everyone being dead seem almost nice, like it could be a great time, but this is different, this is wrong and he doesn’t like it at all.
“Where are we going?” Jimmy asks, but it’s too late, the guy is shoving him hard, and kicking him in the back of the knee, so Jimmy crumples forward, slumping into the open trunk of a car idling at the curb, a neat and easy trick, like the guy had planned the whole thing, practiced the move until he got it perfect. He tries to sit up, to get up and run, but he can’t because he’s lying on some slippery fabric, and when he gets a handful of it he sees it’s silk, bright colors with fuzzy pompoms sewn up the front, like something a clown would wear. He doesn’t think about this long, because he’s gotta get out of this car, he’s heard that you should never let some psycho take you to another location, somewhere secluded where they can have their way with you, and although the advice is usually given to girls, he thinks it probably holds for him too.
“Hey man,” Jimmy starts to say, and—
*
Jimmy wishes he were dead, and he thinks that’ll come, sooner or later. He doesn’t know where he is, or how much time has passed. He is tired and he is hungry and he is in pain. And he is cold. He doesn’t know when he was undressed, but everything is gone, even his socks, and he must be in a basement or somewhere underground, because the floor is plain cement and he can hear the guy climbing stairs in the next room every time he leaves or comes in, his feet slapping against the bare wood steps.
“I’m not gay, I want you to know that,” the guy says, crouching beside him, his hands dangling between his thighs like they were having a normal conversation, and Jimmy nods, because he doesn’t care, he doesn’t give two shits whether the guy is gay or not, he wants to go home. He wants to sleep in his own bed and eat his mother’s meat loaf and lumpy mashed potatoes, and he’ll never ask for a car again, not ever, if he could go home to her. “This isn’t about you.”
“I don’t know,” Jimmy croaks. He’s thirsty, and his throat is nearly swollen shut from all the screaming. He knows he’s not making sense, but it doesn’t matter, because the guy nods, thoughtfully, like Jimmy told him exactly what he wanted to hear. This guy likes to talk, and he’s told Jimmy all about his life, his job, but mostly about a woman.
“I’m doing this for her,” he says. He has some tool in his hand, Jimmy doesn’t know what they’re called but they look sharp and they look mean and they look pinchy. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to see, but the guy slaps him lightly on the face until he looks again, because if there’s one thing this guy hates, it’s to be ignored. “She needs this, and I’d do anything for her.”