Zombien©

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Fredrickson grabbed Blake's black locks and made him look up. “I hea…” Fredrickson slapped Blake.

“Remember. If you tell anyone of what we're planning. You will wish you're dead.” Fredrickson smiled at Blake.

Blake just nodded. Patrick roughly pulled his foot away as Fredrickson dragged Blake away.

He didn't just threw Blake outside the door and continued what they were talking about.

My closet. That was my sleeping place.

No, Blake was dragged to a small closet room where Fredrickson liked to lock him up and leave him in there for hours.

When Fredrickson locked said closet, Blake cried, pushing himself in his corner. He held his knees close to him as he cried more.

The closet was dark and dusty.

Blake never know how long he is in the closet. One time it would feel short the other time it would feel long.

It's the one place where they didn't abuse me…

When Patrick let him out, he was grabbed by his arm again. “Play nice, or you don't eat.” Patrick hissed. Blake just nodded and let Patrick drag him to the kitchen.

In the corner of the kitchen, there was an old blanket with two bowls. Yes, Blake had to eat like a dog and drink like one.

Patrick threw him down in the corner. Blake was careful not to bump into the water bowl. It's all he would have the whole day and night through.
It didn't help that his food was always, and always, dry.

"UGH! I NEED FUCKING BOOZE! FREDRICKSON!” Patrick shouted as he stormed out of the kitchen.

Blake's heart stopped for a second. His father and alcohol of any type did not mix. Beer made him slumpy and impulsive. Vodka made him loud and obnoxiously annoying. There's one, Patrick's favorite, Brandy or Whisky.

Patrick would be ten times more impulsive and violent, especially when it came to Blake.

Blake took a deep breath. There's no way to find alcohol down here. It isn't a necessity for survival. Even entertainment was minimum. Blake didn't understand how the bunker system quite worked, but he knew in the many floors underneath him is responsible for food, water and other manufactures of clothes and furniture. Basic things

Blake stayed in the corner after he had drank all his water. He looked down at his arms as he curled up in a ball. His arms were decorated with many cuts (healed and new) and bruises.

Fredrickson even went as far to show Blake how to hurt himself. For a while Blake did just that. Until Fredrickson and Patrick started to make those cuts extra painful.

It was addictive at some point. Sometimes I hoped it would kill me.

Blake didn't do it as much afterwards. Sometimes he thought of doing it again. Every time he was caught doing it or that he had new cuts, they would not give him a break over it.

Following Fredrickson's logic, Blake wanted more of the pain, so he gave Blake more pain.

One night, Blake stayed in what he's supposed to call a room. It was a broom closet to be honest. “Fredrickson! I got a fuck load of alcohol!” Patrick had shouted happily.

No…anything but that!

Blake went pale. How…?

Blake pushed himself into a corner again. He heard a new voice.