Dull Little Boy

3

I look around. I could hit you with the chair. I have an IV in my arm. I could take it out and stab you with it. I try to slide my right arm toward my mouth but it's blocked by a bar.

"Fucking cocksucker." I moan. At least I feel better.
I try to lean down to put my mouth to my arm but my ribs scream and I have to stop to catch my breath. "This is so much fun. I love this. I am having the time of my fucking life!" I scream the last word. I just want to leave. I'd like to be able to use a bathroom. To be able to use toilet paper. Who misses toilet paper?

I pull my knees up to my chest. "Dear God, I get that I'm trans and queer but what the actual fuck? What did I do to you? Did me saying I'm not a girl offend you? I thought you knew! I figured you bought two X chromosomes on accident!" God doesn't respond, that omnipresent turd.

You come in, holding a styrofoam cup with a blue straw. "You're awake." You're wearing a mask, a Jason's mask. You like that mask. I don't like it.

"I wish I wasn't." I spit in your direction. It doesn't go far but for a moment, you look exasperated.

"You're such a child."

"You seem to like children." I remember calling you a pedophile and you drowning me then tying me to the ceiling to hang. It's not a pleasant memory.

"I'd watch your mouth Eli." You hold the straw to my mouth.

"If this is alcohol I'll have to decline. Jesus told me not to drink." You sigh and squeeze my face, forcing my mouth open, then shove the straw into it. It's water.

"Drink."

I decide not to argue and drain it quickly.

"Good boy." You crush the cup easily and slip it into your pocket.

"What an ally. It almost makes up for the torture." My voice is dry and you stare down at me.

"Would you prefer I call you Savannah?" You ask. I can't see your face but I'm sure you're smirking under your mask. I'm still unsure of how you found out my deadname. It's not like I live in Baltimore; my family lives in D.C.

"Fuck you." I snarl, tugging at my restraints. "I hope you get AIDS."

You yank my hair, forcing my head back. My neck is exposed and your lips attack it. I shiver in disgust. "If I contracted AIDS, you'd have it too."

"At least I'd die and not have to deal with you."

"That can be arranged." It's an empty threat. You don't want me to die. You'd have killed me a while ago if that were the case.

"I'm too pretty to die." I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. You like it when I compliment myself. You like my face, which is why you don't cut it up like you do the rest of my body. I get the feeling I remind you of someone, though, last time I checked, I have a pretty unique face. Though people in books always seem to have them, heterochromatic eyes are extremely rare.

"You are spectacular." Your voice is hushed and you raise a gloved finger to caress my cheekbones. I wish I could bite you.

"You are a piece of shit." I mimic your tone and you slap me. Your hand wraps around my throat suddenly and I can see your dark eyes, piercing through the mask. I'm fighting for breath but I don't look away. The pain wells up quickly and I can't contain my panic. I'm thrashing, gasping for air. You never hold out for this long. I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die, this is it, it won't be an infection, it won't be you going a little too far, I'll die by your hand. I stop struggling. My vision is shrinking and there's fire in my lungs. It feels like drowning all over again. The blood's rushing to my face and the darkness is coming and I'm ready, I'm so ready to die, to see Julia and Michael and Seven and all my friends who have died, the ones you've killed and the ones who killed themselves and suddenly it stops and I can breathe and I'm choking on air.

"I thought you wanted to die?" You're mocking me and yet I don't care because I was close, so fucking close to being able to live again and you took it away from me.

"I hate you." I croak through coughs. "You... you take everything away from me. I want you to know that I hate you and when I get out of here, I'm going to kill you." There are tears prickling up from my eyes but I hold them back. Not now.

You lean in so close I'm contemplating your brand of mouthwash. Signs point to no mouthwash, just an abundance of coffee and onions. "You're never getting out."

"You're breath smells." I whisper back. You punch me in the jaw, hard enough to make me lurch back, and yet I'm laughing. I can't stop. "Go eat a cock, Pedo."

You punch me again. Now you're beating me, hitting every inch of skin visible and I can't stop laughing, practically peeing myself every time your fist connects.

The strings inside me have snapped and I've realized that the only way I'm going to be able to live is if I die.

And it feels so good.