Barrett’s Box Boy
Barrett hadn’t meant for this to happen.
His hands are bruised and bloody.
He hadn’t.
That blood was not his own. He couldn’t have.
It wasn’t him sobbing.
But..
He did.
He had done this.
And it had felt so good.
Barrett came home pissed. The barista fucked up his coffee order, his boss was being a douchebag, traffic was awful. He tossed his backpack across the living room as he came in, not caring where it landed until he hurt it hit and a yelp in response. He looked up from untying his shoes and his gaze locked on Rover, scrambling off the couch. The box boy had a hand over his eye, nursing a bump from where the backpack hit him. “What did I say about being on the couch?” Barrett snarled, stomping over to Rover. “I’m s sorry sir…” Rover whispered, cowering as Barrett loomed over him. “I wo-.” Barrett’s fist knocked the air out of him as it impacted with Rover’s stomach. Rover doubled over in pain, coughing as Barrett pulled back.
That felt so damn good. Barrett rolled his shoulders and swung again, his fist connecting with the box boy’s jaw, knocking the scrawny thing to the ground. He leapt on the cowering form and started to pummel it with his fists, his anger fueling him, taking it out on the helpless form crying beneath him.
Soon, but not soon enough, Barrett’s anger was exhausted and he sat up, panting, still straddling the now barely-awake bloody-faced boy. He ran his bloody fingers through his sweaty hair, pushing it back from his face, a wicked grin across his face for a moment before he realized what he’d done. It felt so wrong. Rover was his pet, how could he do this?
But.
If it was so wrong, why did it feel so goddamn good?