Blake woke up in a cold sweat, his body shivering violently as he blinked against the oppressive darkness that swallowed him. The same room, the air stale and musty, and his muscles screamed in protest as he tried to shift. His whole body felt like it was on fire. Every inch of his skin, from the fresh burn marks to the deeper cuts from Riko's knife, was raw, the memories of the torment still vivid in his mind. His hair getting drag by Riko's grip between drowning him in the water, or getting other things made Blake want to throw up.
His body was weak, still shaking from hours of an abuse he should be used to by now, the pain coursing through him like an unrelenting tide. The memory of Riko's mocking face as the knife had slid so smoothly across his skin was seared into his mind, along with the sickening heat of the lighter running over his flesh, the dig of a needle stabbing his veins with a liquid Blake wouldn't dare to name again. It had felt like eternity. And then, the darkness.
He shifted, reaching to the floor for his pants, getting to his wallet, his hand shake around it as he squeezed it in his grasp. Slowly, he pulled it out, the pictures inside, though slightly worn from time, was still clear as ever.
Blake's fingers trembled as he touched the photos, his heart squeezing painfully in his chest. Aaron's picture—the face that had haunted his every waking moment, the person he couldn't bear to lose. The thought of losing Aaron, of him being hurt because of Blake's own mistakes, made his insides twist into knots. He'd promised to protect him, to keep him safe, and yet he was trapped in a game he couldn't control. Then Seth's picture—he wanted to hug the picture, apologize over and over again, for something he didn't even know. He needed him to save him. Even if he knew he wasn't there.
The weight of it was suffocating.
But the pain. It was almost unbearable.
Blake stumbled out of the bed, his head spinning as he moved toward the bathroom. He didn't think. He just moved, propelled by the need to escape the torment, to escape his own thoughts. His legs felt like jelly, shaky and unsteady beneath him.
The moment he crossed the threshold into the bathroom, his stomach churned violently. Without warning, Blake collapsed to his knees beside the toilet, his body convulsing as he threw up. His stomach lurched as bile and the remnants of what little he'd eaten and swallow earlier surged up. His throat burned as the violent waves of nausea passed through him, but it didn't matter. He couldn't stop. He had to purge the poison inside of him.
He heaved again, more violently this time, his body betraying him in ways it never had before. Each retch felt like it was tearing him apart, pulling at his very core.
The smell of the bathroom—the sterile, metallic tang of the air—only seemed to make it worse. And yet, nothing could drown out the memories of Riko's hands on him, or the sickening sense of helplessness that had washed over him as he'd endured the torture.
The feeling of being owned. Of being trapped in a world that only sought to break him.
Blake's hands gripped the side of the toilet, his nails biting into the porcelain as the last of the bile left his system. His whole body trembled from the aftershocks, the weakness sinking deeper into his bones.
He was so damn tired. Tired of the constant games, tired of the constant threats, and more than anything, tired of the feeling that no matter what he did, it would never be enough. He would never be enough.
He felt a sudden weight on his shoulder. The touch was gentle but firm, as if someone was holding him, anchoring him to something real. Blake glanced up, his vision blurry from the tears and the exhaustion, and saw Jean standing there, his eyes soft with concern.
