…more life, more barbed wire, more berries beyond the fence, more blood spotting the grass here. I will come back to these woods and i will be hungry and i will risk being cut open just to taste something sweet [@]
rafe is tied to a toilet on the boat to morocco. jj helps him pee.
1.
There were no sticks pulled, no cards shuffled to pick him, like they did for dishes, meals and cleaning—JJ never drew. Cleo decided, right about when Pope parted his lips to volunteer and keep the peace; was little worse out on the ocean than losing it. "Goddamnit man, you the one who make this mess, you better clean it up, man".
Rafe started whining—complaining, demanding, yelling: nature calls. Was all long after the first phase of rage they ignored.
Rafe knew need, he was an addict. But he hadn’t known it not satisfied, not for a long time in his life that all things needed to ease his mind were at his fingertips and yet not enough to.
Sure, alcohol mattered, Rafe well aware he paid a price for constant numbness, that he was long dependent past a feeling, he‘d learned a long time ago there wasn’t a life for him without, later not a week either, not a day, those times. But it didn’t matter now, not even smelling it off JJ the second he stepped in, replaced by more pressing, more urgent needs.
“Ah, great, they sent the help”, Rafe grinned nonetheless.
He was one to mock and spit from his ropes on the floor, fearless for he’d never known nothing to fear, he’d grown untouched from it. JJ’d be spitting too, fearless cause he’d know too much of it and fear had worn itself dull on him, couldn’t scrape him anymore.
His shirt draped over the tugged gun, attempt at subtlety, weight pulled the band just below where it usually sat, tan told as much, smallest fair stripe whispered more, and JJ pleased with Rafe’s eyes caught on the weapon.
“You got the short end of stick now?”, Rafe mocked.
He liked this shit, JJ at his service; he the one tied, he the one out of the control, one at mercy and yet it was JJ damned to human rights duty of helping him with his basic needs after skipping out on every other chore, it was JJ out of luck.
“Here to watch”, he decided, just then, for the shameless attitude and Rafe looking through him. He wouldn’t wipe his ass, play servant to a kook one more fucking time.
JJ showed teeth, he looked old in that doorway, even the smile just habit and feeling worn for it. He looked weathered and like the kind of man that can call another one crybaby and mean it—Rafe had envied it when he was far less than still. The boy always seemed like he’d been carved out of wood—too cheap for marble yet pretty enough to work free, just cut with a knife too rough for the delicate details.
And Rafe didn’t know fear. Just fisted his dick to the thought of it, just leaked over the fantasy—knew nothing like it.
“You just cut one hand, yeah, alright?”, Rafe bargained, lifting his tied hands. “Can’t fucking do none with that, alright, man”.
Rafe knew how to beg, he’d learned it at three years old, he’d learned to beg for attention for love for just an ounce of it, he learned it pointless.
“Bitch, I knocked you out and you had this“, JJ laughed, lifted his shirt even higher, gun had been there and clear before. "Could cut both and we go again"
"Yeah?". Rafe’s eyes flashed, mere animal and most innocent when reduced to it, despite the violence that got him like it. Grin ran over his chapped lips. "Go try", he nudged his head.
Thing with Rafe was, you could see every scratch on him. JJ'd seen him carry his bruises with shame to the country club, they flashed bright like neon signs around his neck that titled him unfit, they matched ill with the polo shirts or button ups, the pretty pastels of his world. JJ hid his losses in plain sight, people missed his pain for the trees, they glanced past it like you do with a speck on your glasses, too used, to notice.
JJ slid down the door frame to sit in it, put his head in his neck to laugh, blonde locks falling. He'd never in his life had the time, less even the choice, between hit or run, take or starve, jump or die, never had he not been chased.
Now it was Rafe in his net, wiggling. Now it was nothing but time and water around them. JJ stretched to flick some chipping paint off the frame with a dirty finger nail, pushed it beneath the next slit til it broke and left another, pulled to make it bigger this time than last.
“You gone let me fucking piss now or what?”
Rafe could read a room. He just thought he owned the house.
“Told you”, JJ shrugged. “Here to watch”
Here to disobey, out of spite, for he’d never done nothing for anything else. Here for Captain Cleo thought she ran this ship.
“What? Me suffer?”, Rafe spat. His bitter laugh missed the mark, hypocrisy took the insult out of it, mellowed it to a weak cry of envy.
JJ the kind of newly rich they make fun of at the country club basking in their newfound privilege, not an attempt to contain the shameless joy, no class to keep sadism wrapped up—he let his gaze drop without urge.
Rafe frowned like disgust was worst he'd hurt the other with, closed his legs and pulled his knees in under JJ's low eyes, his bladder pressing worse.
2.
Rafe was a bedwetter; not the first, not the most prominent or notable indicator on a long list of all things wrong with him, not the most shameful, not even when he aged and aged and didn’t age past it.
Those things worse later than when his mother took care and bathed him lovingly, taught it was fine to have secrets the other didn‘t know about—her the one rather spared from another late night discussion of all things she birthed and couldn’t fix—worse when it was a new woman in the house.
His father never involved himself those moments, one of the more kinder things he did, still stung, the silent disdain. But he made Rafe sit on a toilet come bed time and wait until he finished. The boy sat, with feet dangling above the floor and goosebumps on his skinny legs for it took. Rafe never felt it then, he woke up wet and miserable.
But he felt it now, urgent and unforgiving, he was grown, he was the big boy his father called him sharply, he was past it, felt that it was time, it was need, it was almost pain in his stomach and surely something wrong with it, surely dangerous.
“What do you want?”, Rafe made. He wasn’t scared of him, he wouldn't know it. “Make a deal?”
Every grin on JJ’s lips had Rafe uneasy, they didn’t fit, like the shirts he used to wear when younger yet long too grown for them, they sat tight on his teenage arms and high on his belly, short phase of growing them out before sinking into the oversized range of adult shirts available at goodwill. Rafe hadn’t caught him outgrowing the smiles, hadn’t been paying attention either.
JJ turned and crossed his legs in front of Rafe, seemed glad for distraction. Rafe figured his liquor empty, and that what he was still here for.
“Sure”, JJ said and cocked his head. “What you have to offer”
Rafe grimaced. “Gave you a fucking boat, alright”. He nudged his chin up to signal.
“That’s not how that works, Rafe. I thought you were a fucking business man or something”, JJ laughed.
Like he knew shit about it, ran his friends business into the ground just fine.
“Yeah, well, what the fuck you want?”, he spat.
JJ felt old, just now. He felt like he’d drank for decades. He felt old opposite of Rafe who glistened with his eyes, who barked and bared his teeth like they did as kids, like they were still playing a game, like there was still any fun to it.
“Know Barry’s got a stash on here?”. Junkie fucking spark in his eyes just thinking of it. “I’ll tell you where it is”
The slightest twitch, Rafe’s blue eyes without mercy, catching it, sweet promise, something quicker, something better, something to sleep. What’d Rafe see, if he did, and the others didn’t, what made him think, what made them miss, if there was? Rafe nodded and licked dry lips.
“Right, you want pills? I know it’s in your blood”
Maybe Rafe wanted to be punched in the fucking face—JJ an easy tool for it—maybe he wanted the rest to come running, maybe he wanted Kie cleaning blood off his grinning facade, maybe he wanted the numbing pain in his nose if he didn’t have nothing else for it.
Maybe he knew, wanted to get him talking, though JJ doubting he’d be subtle about it, he’d shut up for just a second if he knew it was yet another Kildare royalty across from him, it was blood more kook than he’d ever be.
JJ pulled himself up by the door frame, sure heard Rafe’s sigh of relief—to get punched?—when he stepped up.
“Mind moving a little there”, he said polite like no one and nothing raised him, pushed Rafe’s head out the way with a rough hand by his temple, crude fingers disrespecting that pretty face. Rafe in shock and moving for it.
He invaded space like he knew nothing of it, never learned of such, stepped up between Rafe’s legs and held his head off—kind, and Rafe not yet grasping that—put the gun between his teeth to bite on and unzipped ragged cargo shorts.
Maybe the kook knew fear, maybe he knew his place, could read a room and knew to keep his mouth shut, press his lips close, maybe he knew not to run it then, or maybe used to this and panting with it wide open.
Pogues had taken care of their business right off the boat—if their nature allowed them to—or in the newly declared piss bucket, no one ready to face the problem JJ’d put in their bathroom yet, no one willing to address it.
Rafe stretched into his constraints, strain on his wrist almost welcome, turned his head as far as he could, feeling the cold metal of the wall against his temple, closed his eyes first and blinked soon, fair stripe no longer stripe, and JJ‘s hand gone off the side of his face, long holding his dick to piss in the toilet behind him, sound worst in all of this, to be human, worst in it.
He thought and feared and knew he’d pee on him—Rafe would‘ve, he would—and if pretending it was accident, JJ in no need for excuses, to hide sadism from this man, Rafe in shock and waiting for it—for once too tall, too much in that body of his, and nowhere to crouch into, no space he fit.
Jealous he didn’t think it first, jealous he wasn’t one to hurt, humiliate, he couldn’t do this to him. He’d make him choke in the bowl, afraid to think it, afraid to give ideas.
JJ never played those games, he was surviving. He never had, never did quite satisfy Rafe with all he thought to trigger, never gave quite what he wished for, always kept him wanting, was it bloody, was it winning.
Rafe was real silent, easy to tame, he waited cowardly til JJ’s shook a last droplet off his dick, tugged it back in and the gun followed.
“Fuck is wrong with you”, he spat just then.
He hadn’t moved. He was still all pushed into the pipes of that toilet and arms strained from pulling on that rope, his legs drawn in and he still needed, he needed now more than ever to empty a pressing bladder, ache by now, threatening pain in his lower stomach.
“Funny. Always wanted to ask you that”, JJ shrugged and sank back down against the frame.
3.
Last time Rafe wet himself he was 18 years old and long too old for it, brand new fake ID and a death wish without the gut to carry it out, one of many lows unseen; Rafe alone in the worst of them.
Woke up in vomit and piss; first time he’d drank in a while without a line offered here and there, figured the problem was a lack of it, and coke would’ve never got him there. Few weeks passed till the heaven-sent powder let him down for the first time, few months of nothing but it followed.
The night passed and so did hope, that JJ‘d drop this, that he‘d come up with a trade, some way to humiliate Rafe and he could give it to him.
Nothing but few insults exchanged came of it, for nothing else to say to each other, though none hit, none picked up, none were the slightest bit of fun, none enough to distract from the ever growing pressure down his stomach, worse when he moved, worse when he stayed stayed still, then.
"You know you're gonna have to kill me, right?", Rafe asked. Waited, til JJ lifted his head to pin him with cold blue eyes, nod ever so slowly with his jaw bones sticking out. "Cause I'll come after you"
JJ offered nothing but a crooked smile creeping into the corners of his mouth; certainly hadn't thought this through, didn't think shit through, seemed pleased now, with Rafe planting the idea in his head, entertained by it in a vast night of circling thoughts. "Not scared of you, Cameron", he shrugged, he teased, he seemed once more thrilled by cutting Rafe out of his ropes and beat him back in again, he'd do it if the sea stretched on for a few more days.
Rafe wouldn't mind a brief moment of hope out of his bonds, not even if he lost twice, not if he had wounds to lick and aching knuckles when back in.
"You’re gonna wish I let Shoupe have you when I’m done with you". Rafe licked his goddamn lips. "There's no way outta this, JJ", he added with a slimey smile. "You're gonna have to put a hole in my head if you wanna enjoy a single day of the rest of your miserable life"
"Unless I cut you free now, that is", JJ said with the biggest stupid grin. "And we'll live happily ever after…Right?"
Rafe was all on his high horse quick, the business act, he loved negotiating, he loved getting the better end of a deal. He raised his chin, calmer now. "Yeah. I..I'll still be mad, you know, but.. I'll spare you, bro", he smiled. The greatest men showed mercy once in a while—the wasteful abundance of it proved their power, not that JJ would understand a thing about that.
"How gracious of you, my lord", JJ said and pushed himself up from the floor, Rafes jaw dropping in surprise, had his face under control soon enough, about time the boy came to his senses, face who he was dealing with here and put his damn tail between his legs where it belonged. It was still hope, it was desperate dependancy in his blue eyes looking up that immediately dropped down JJ's stomach, he'd feel sick if it didn't drop further.
Rafe noticed the distorted grin too late to fear it, hair in his neck standing up just a split second before JJ pushed his boot into his stomach, grinding his dirty sole into Rafes full bladder when he already started kicking back, aimed for one unstable shin and ankle, kicked helpless like a bug turned on it's back and still hit well enough to push him back.
He wanted to spit the stingy taste of vomit right out, swallowed it down in fear it'd inspire JJ once more. And he didn't dare to glance if he'd leaked in the struggle, no fear there, cause JJ did it for him. Rafe drew his legs closer to his body again, let his head sink against the wall and stared at the dirty floor; if he was alone, he'd cry out of helplessness, if he was alone, he'd choose relief and sit in the shame, used to this.
4.
When Rafe did piss, JJ wasn’t paying close attention anymore. He’d turned dull from waiting, grown bored of his game, caught only few and fewer of the ugly faces, struggle reflected in a distorted grimace, Rafe’s silence helping none to mask it.
Was grey morning, the rest of the crew asleep, cuddled up somewhere together in the few beds there were, Kie pulled in by Sarah reluctant and grateful for a loving arm around.
Control a man’s virtue, Rafe never had a lot of it, never over his body. Convenient when it came to punches thrown, worse when it was coke he craved, worse when he lost himself in lust and shame, worst when he couldn’t stop the tears. If he’d pee, it was for giving in, succumbing to the pressure and pain of his human parts, he’d have allowed it then, he’d have given up.
He didn’t know when, but feeling himself leak that he did. Lost to his mind, ever so familiar with it. Drew his legs even closer and pressed them together desperately, squirming in his corner. But once it leaked, it ran. Warm down his legs, wet through his jeans.
Bit his lip to contain, withhold satisfaction, had never been gracious, wouldn’t let JJ have this, nothing soothing though JJ missing all he’d been waiting for the smallest relief, seemed dosing off, eyes low on the figures he‘d carved out of paint on the frame.
Rafe tried not to move, and tried not to cry, his thighs as hot as his cheeks, burning with shame, soaking in piss.
JJ noticed the smell, first, the puddle running over the titled floor, then, the dark fabric of Rafe’s jeans, his legs pressed tight, his eyes scrunched closed, like a boy playing hide and seek, like a boy who wet himself.
“You’re disgusting, Cameron”, JJ noticed, ripped Rafe out of his hiding spot, forced him back out.
And JJ‘s smile dropped, it dropped the second Rafe opened his eyes, not for cold rage in them, for a frightening lack of it. For all he knew and wanted missing in the blue, no cracks, but something shattered still.
Rafe exhaled, wrinkled his nose, lip twitching, none reached his eyes. The wet fabric of his jeans hurt, rubbing against his sensitive skin when he squirmed, feeling too icky to remain like it, more icky when he moved.
“Kie”, Rafe remembered, little more than a breath. She wouldn’t be okay with this, one time her righteousness was good for something.
“Oh, no. Kie won’t clean your dick, buddy”, JJ chuckled.
“She’ll be disgusted over what you did”, Rafe breathed.
“What I do? I piss your pants, Rafe? Take some responsibility. Be a man”, JJ said, let his eyes travel over his crotch again, his boots in the puddle, was supposed to feel good at his accomplishment, he put on a smile to look like it, pushed himself up then.
“G’night, man”
5.
Cleo was the first to notice.
“What the hell is that smell”, she yelled down the tight hallway. Rafe always hated that bitch with a particular passion anyways.
“Ew”. Kie stumbling after her.
If Rafe knew he had the will power to split his head open on the wall behind him, he would’ve, but he’d never been man enough, if anyone was.
“Jesus, man”, Cleo made, appearing in the doorway. Kie‘s grimace of pity worse than any laugh.
“Fuck you looking at” Rafe barked. Had been sitting in his piss for hours, he‘d had time to gain his rage back, he‘d had nowhere to put it, he‘d wrapped himself in it and yet it was shame that tore through with those girls looking down at his mess.
“I’ll get Jayj”, Kie sighed.
“And I’m getting out of here”, Cleo said, pinching her nose with two fingers.
John B dropped in to stare at him like a zoo animal, confirm the news were true. “Holy shit”, he whispered to himself and walked on; Rafe hadn't looked up to see his face.
Pope walked by, stopped for a short moment to look at Rafe, wrinkle his nose. He stayed quiet, but the satisfaction on his face was enough—enough to consider the wall, and cracking his own skull on it.
Sarah barely looked at him, just came heaving a bucket of soap water and set it on the floor, turned to flee quick.
“Sarah”, Rafe made. “Sarah”. His sister ever so reluctant to look over. “Your friend’s a fucking psycho, alright, listen to-“
“Right, I’m the psycho” JJ interrupted; Kie had sent him. “You don’t need to make up excuses, Rafe, we’ve all been there, right, at 3 years old”. He laughed. No one else did.
Sarah just rolled her eyes, turned to leave again and let JJ step in. “Next time just say something, okay?“, she said, softly.
"Listen, I’ll help you change and then you clean your mess“, JJ explained, forced to service once more, exchanged the gun in his hand for a knife in his pocket and flipped it open. He hesitated for just a moment—Rafe caught the expression in his face change, sooner, this time, then when he pushed that boot into his stomach, soon enough to fear it—before he turned and pulled the door close behind his back. “Here, I’ll give you some privacy”
no warnings. Not as in nothing bad. As in if you get it you get it and if you don’t, no damage is done. (I thinkkkk) [ 405 words ]
The old house ached and moaned over the nuisance of its intruders, feet too tiny to bend the floors to creak just yet. Two, four, eight?
Must be crawling, that one.
But it would learn to dance around the aching ones, she’d learn it better than anyone. Til then it screamed and yelled and giggled, and tottered behind faster trampling, louder screaming feet. Noise that soon drowned out the older cries.
This what houses were built for. To shelter. To be a home. The house had seen its creator die, and all creations owe gratitude. The house knew its purpose.
The house had no feelings, it just had what stuck behind from them, settled on wallpaper and the tiny scars and scratches of long dead trees, long tables, long planks, and cabinets, fulfilling new purpose, grateful to their creator.
And they did not remember the soil, and they did not remember stretching their roots, they just knew at a breath of wind through the open window they had once been someone else.
The intruders sanded the planks down, they trapped the feelings in thick varnish and tapestry, they ripped out its guts and told her it was all still the same—but the intruder was creator now.
The creator loved the house, she could not feel or hear, but he said that.
The house had to do nothing but be a house. Bear new feelings sinking into the walls. It could not hear.
It could only scream.
It could groan under every heavy step to the boys bedroom, it could not groan louder, it was a house, it could not keep quiet, when winds rushed through its tired bones and it creaked and wept over its age against the storm.
Not when the creator walked creaking planks, not hush when the key turned there.
“Hey buddy, it’s just me”
“Is the storm scaring you, huh?”
And the mattress didn’t scream, when he sat down, it was new, it had its own creator, it was made mute.
“It’s just this old house, you know, makes it sound worse than it really is”, the creator chuckled. The house could not hear this, it screeched.
“Come here”
The mattress had its own mute purpose.
“It’s all good now. I’m here”
“Oh, don’t worry, we won’t tell the girls.”
“We’ll tell em what a brave boy you are sleeping all by yourself through the storm, okay? ‘s our secret”
