bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter eight. 💚

Case retched – a pained, violent sound – into the sink.

Head down, hands gripping either side of the basin for support. His spit-up came out sticky-bubbly-white. Thick, wet strands dangled from his lips and nostrils. He'd swallowed wrong, shooting semen out his nose.

He gasped without sucking in air. Coughed. Sobbed. Body trembling. Jaw aching. Alone . . . The back of his throat burned like the warning symptoms of a strep infection.

It's okay. It's okay.

He spat – spat again, harder – trying to disconnect the gooey strings from his lips. "Eugh . . ." He ran the faucet, cupping the tepid water into his mouth. Anything to rinse out the salty-bitter-vile taste.

It's okay. This is okay.

"I'm okay," he whispered, shaking. As if verbalizing it would make it fact. "I'm okay."

He took the toothbrush – used, its bristles soft and flared – and brushed his teeth until the foam was streaked orangey-red from bleeding gums. He breathed in, thinking he could deep cleanse himself if he inhaled enough spearmint.

It's okay. I'm okay –

The walls began to rumble.

A motorized buzz echoed from behind the roller-door.

Case whirled around, toothbrush hanging limp in his mouth. A clang of metal-on-metal obliterated the silence. He flinched at the sound. No . . . oh, god, no-no, what now?

The roller-door rattled against its framework. A click-clack-click-clack-click-clack reverberated inside the steel cavity. Grinding gears. Conveyor belts. A rollercoaster he didn't want to ride.

Fear embalmed him, the hairs rising on his clammy skin. His lungs, still foggy and polluted with smoke, refused to draw in new breath. Toothpaste dripped onto the front of his shirt.

He's going to kill me, Case thought. Sir is going to kill me. His vision whited out, replaced with mental flashes of barbaric Saw traps. Or torture me.

Adrenaline and fear flooded his senses. Numbed his brain. Paralyzed his body.

He's going to torture me.

The resounding, mechanical rumble came to a stop. The roller-door went still.

The basement plunged back into silence.

Dead silence.

Tense and smothering silence.

Case turned back to the sink, vomiting. All that came up was minty froth, acid and bile. He wiped his mouth and exhaled, feeling the overwrought nerves and terror deflate from his body. And suddenly, as if nerves and terror had been the only things keeping him afloat, he felt weak. The dim, yellow light smeared into his vision. His surroundings blurred together, over-exposed, under-developed. Unable to feel his limbs, Case sank to the ground. He lay flat, unable to control his breathing as it came out shaky, fast, and shallow.

Touch the ground, the voice of reason whispered over the panic. On autopilot, Case splayed his tingling fingers against the cool concrete. Feel the ground. It's okay. You're okay.

The hard, coarse stone tethered him back to reality. The basement – dim, gray, and empty – came back into focus. Case brought his other hand to his mouth, involuntarily sucking on the tip of his pinky finger. His tongue poked into the crescent-shaped cut, making it sting.

It's okay. You're okay . . . You're okay.

He was okay. It was just a blowjob.

Just a blowjob. Fellatio. Oral sex. Not real sex.