Healing Gabriel (BoyxBoy)

✚ Chapter Thirty-Two ✚

       I started walking towards my corner of this hell, the one all the way at the end of the room. I kept my eyes on my feet the entire time, knowing that looking at the others chained to the soot-covered walls would get me:

       A) Beat up

       B) Sick

       C) Both

      "Hey Blondie, have'n' seen you 'round here lately. Where you been?" a darker voice rasped. Most of us here either went by numbers or nicknames. I had the misfortune of earning a nickname. Since I was the only boy here with the blondest hair, the name just stuck. I'd been disgusted of my hair color since.

       I was only a few feet away from my corner now. The attention made me stop, though. I glanced up from my feet to see a young teenaged guy, his shockingly blue eyes a sharp contrast to the rest of his filthy, grimy skin.

       I recognized him straightaway as Eightie. The crazed look in his insane eyes helped me remember. Eightie was psycho; he belonged in a freaking psych ward. He was one of the handful of guys who were so screwed up in the head, their hatred for this place turned into an obsession, almost like Stockholm Syndrome. He loved it here; anytime one of us trashed him or cursed this prison, Eightie and his crew would start up a fight. They'd go crazy; they'd call us ungrateful pricks, they'd curse at us, they'd beat us.

       And Eightie and his gang were kids, just like the rest of us.

       Yet they were still defending that monster.

       A lot of the guys in here belonged in a mental hospital, I realized.

       Then again, Eightie had been here much longer than I have. The torture probably consumed his mind completely. He was so brainwashed by it all, it made my chest hurt. Sure, I hated him as much as I hated him, but I couldn't help but hurt for him. He was so lost in this horrendous ordeal.

       I prayed to every deity I knew of that I would never end up like Eightie.

      "Aye, look at me!"

       I hesitated, but I decided not to push him. I looked up, locking my feverish gaze on his.

      "Where you been?"

       Finding my voice hurt. My throat was so raw and sore it hurt to speak, but I knew Eightie would explode if I didn't answer him.

      "Assisting him," I replied meekly. Immediately I wanted to puke again as I almost tasted the fetid scent of the air on my tongue. Could it even be called air? Surely oxygen could never taste nor smell as awful as it did in here. It was probably artificial poison or something to gas us all.

      "How was it?" Eightie tilted his head up at me, terrifying blue eyes curious. I swallowed nervously before shrugging.

      "Okay."

      "Okay?" he repeated in disbelief. "How could something so pleasureful be 'okay?' You're a fucking idiot if you didn't enjoy it!"

      "I mean, I liked it a lot," I quickly said. It hurt to say those words, not just because of my sore throat but because I didn't like it. At all. I only said it because Eightie's dirty chest started rising and falling rapidly in anger. My words seemed to calm him down a bit.

      "Good. What'd he do?"

       That question zapped painfully through my head. My brain mercilessly unleashed the memories of all those agonizing hours, days stuck in the solitary room with him. I wanted to cry out, but all I could do was persuade my eyes to stay dry. If I started crying in front of Eightie, who knew what he would do?