content: pet whump (bbu), institutionalized abuse/slavery, light medical stuff, mention of parental grief, implications of past child/domestic abuse, EMETO WARNING
~~~~~~
Rida woke to the sound of retching coming from the bathroom. Few things ever got her out of bed quite as quickly as that. Even beyond her closed door, down the hall, it always pricked her ears— even from a dead sleep. She was attuned to it.
The handle to her bedroom door didn’t budge when she grasped it, which, in her tiredness, took her a second to register. Strange— she didn’t usually bolt it. She twisted the lock and opened the door, stepping into the hallway. She shivered at the cold, bare floor beneath her feet. The only light at this hour came from the dim lamp above the kitchen stove, which she always switched on before bed in case of nights just like this. It cast its orange glow past the bathroom door, ajar.
Tal must be queasy tonight. It happened, sometimes. At nights her brother had to supplement his diet through a feeding tube— never sounded very pleasant to her. It wasn’t, evidently, because sometimes it would upset his stomach and he’d vomit that milky white shit in the middle of the night, flushing all the extra nutrition down the toilet. But it wasn’t his fault. It would be wrong to blame him for it.
She padded down the hall to the bathroom on the balls of her feet, ready to pat Tal on the back or run a hand through his hair how he liked. But when she peered through the doorway, he looked wrong. It was only when she nearly jumped out of her fucking skin at the shock of the distinctly not-Tal person hunched over the toilet bowl that she remembered Tal hadn’t done a night feeding in months now and that she was currently harboring two complete fucking strangers— pets— in her home.
Right. Of course— that was why she had locked her bedroom door last night.
The little burst of adrenaline meant she was fully awake, now. She willed her heart to calm as she cautiously drifted nearer, bracing a hand on the doorframe. The boy’s face was practically in the bowl, but based on the black hair obscuring his profile it was certainly Sonny who was currently gagging into the toilet. She couldn’t possibly leave him by himself and go back to bed, but she also didn’t want to spook or embarrass him. She waited for the bout of retching to cease and drew closer, toeing over the boundary into the bathroom. She whispered his name. “Sonny?”
His shoulders jerked and his head snapped in her direction. He looked terrible, especially in the dim light. His cheeks had a hallow quality to them, and the dark shadows under his eyes were wet with tears. “Sorry,” he blurted, almost slurring. He turned back to the toilet bowl and tried hiding his face behind his hand, fighting back more acid or drool. He sniffed. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, muffled. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Her heart, still slowing, now ached for him. He reminded her of a sad and pathetic puppy, especially with that collar— though it was an offensive comparison she would never say out loud. She had thought the same when she saw him fresh out of the shower, dripping wet and shaking like a chihuahua. “Oh, you poor thing,” she said. Bechara, she would say to Tal. “It’s okay.”
He only groaned. Then his body went tense— and he started vomiting again. Rida winced in sympathy at the spasming. The band around his throat must be suffocating. Rida’s own throat was bare at the moment, as she didn’t sleep in hers, but maybe she should try it to better understand what they went through every day. I'm a poser. Pets were not afforded the luxury to take theirs off for any sort of relief, despite how she tried to convince them it was okay.
At least he was no longer wearing that rough one they had stuck on him at the facility. She had wanted to get those things off the two of them as soon as she could. That shit wasn’t fit for an animal, let alone a man.
She didn’t want Port nor Sonny wearing collars at all, really, but… that was a hard sell. They were willing to settle with what she gave them— these dainty leather braided things she had found in her jewelry drawer. They could hardly even be called collars— more like chokers, relics of however many years ago back when they were in fashion and it wasn’t taboo to wear something so tight around your neck. She hadn’t been alive for that era, of course, but she’d never been one to follow the trends.
It had felt strange to be so close to them, in their personal space, putting fingers near their vulnerable throats. She felt the way Port’s muscles tensed as she unfastened the old collar, fighting with the buckle. She could even see the pulse beating in his neck. She had the bizarre thought that he might turn around and snap at her fingers like an aggressive dog. Oftentimes aggression means fear, she reminded herself. He’s probably more scared of her than she is of him.
Sonny was meeker and not so intimidating. His hair was a little longer, falling further down his nape. They both needed haircuts— or trims, at least. They could both have such gorgeous hair with the proper treatment, but it was instead dull and uncared for. As she had brushed his hair aside, she was hit with the sudden memory of sweeping her mother’s hair over her shoulder, fastening the hook of a delicate chain necklace over her vertebrae. The flash brought with it a sharp stab of grief, the beginning of a lump in her throat and a hotness in her eyes she immediately tamped down. It was funny how fast things like that came on.
She had felt like a monster as she tied the things around their throats, but they seemed more at ease. She noticed Sonny running his fingers along the braided texture over and over, though he stopped when he saw her looking.
Now poor Sonny was busy expelling everything in his stomach. Never one to be squeamish, she made her way to sit on the edge of the tub and place what she hoped was a comforting hand on his back. His sharp shoulder blade reminded her too much of a younger Tal, all sickly and underweight.
She rubbed his back through the next round of heaving. Based on the sound, it was just stomach acid at this point. He clutched at his side like it hurt and devolved into violent, painful-sounding coughing. His head hung listlessly for a few minutes after it stopped, breathing heavily. Beneath her touch she could feel the slight rattle in his lungs beyond his ribcage— that was concerning. Typical for someone like Tal, but Sonny was certainly coming down with something more than just nausea.
“Feel any more coming up?” she asked, pulling her hand away. Rida worried for his knees, with how long he’d been kneeling on the hard tile.
Sonny spit into the bowl. “No, ma’am,” he said wetly. “I think I’m done.” He lifted his head and swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand— the one she had bandaged earlier that day. They might want to redress it after it’d been pressed against the bathroom floor and the toilet and who knows what else.
“Can I feel your forehead?”
He turned obediently, eyes lidded and exhausted. It was nothing like the way he had looked at her hours before, as she wrapped his hand, fearful but at the same time alert and discerning— trying to figure her out. Rida had recognized the look because she was doing the same.
She pressed a gentle hand to his forehead and immediately she could feel the heat coming off him. His eyes fluttered closed, and to her surprise, he leaned into the touch. She almost drew her hand away, taken aback— but at the same time she felt badly for him and thought he might be aching for comfort. So instead she shifted her hand so that it was cupping his soft cheek, her thumb resting in front of his ear.
“I think you have a fever,” she whispered.
He mumbled something indiscernible, eyes still closed. His T-shirt was all twisted and the cotton collar was hanging low, exposing the stark edge of his collarbone.
She helped him to stand and had him brush his teeth, though his legs were shaking like a colt’s as he braced himself on the sink. She had him sit on the closed toilet lid in fear they might give out from under him.
She guided him back to his room, the door already cracked, and… she hesitated, because Port would still be sleeping inside. She worried to startle him. The last thing she wanted was to give Port another reason to dislike her and it seemed wrong to invade what she had told them was their private space. But Sonny did not seem to be in any state to handle himself, so she set her teeth and pushed open the door.
She blinked against the darkness, trying to discern if the lump in the bed was Port. She shuffled closer with Sonny at her side. Her toe brushed up against something— her gaze lowered and— What the fuck?!
She might have cursed out loud, recoiling at the two eyes blinking up at her. It was Port, flat on his back, laying on the floor. He twitched too and sat up in an instant, scooting away in what little coordination he had. His back hit the bed. It seemed they had both startled each other.
Rida feared he might jump to his feet and extend to his full height, the same way he had at lunch. He was almost as tall as Dad was. For a second, as Port was looming over her, she really thought he might grab her by the front of her sweater or even take a swing. In that long moment, looking up at him, she really could not believe that she had let this grown ass man into her house. I brought it upon myself, like always. Whatever happened to her at that point would be entirely her fault, really. Wouldn’t be the first time.
But there had been no violence, and Tal’s valiant urge to jump in was as sweet as it was infuriating. Port didn’t touch either of them at the time, and he didn’t spring up now, though his eyes were flicking across her in the same way, with that same unsettling gaze. It could certainly be described as creepy, but Rida recognized it for what it was. When it wasn’t a thousand yards on the horizon, it was assessing a threat.
His head swiveled as Sonny, seemingly tired of standing, stumbled to the bed by himself and sat down. Port opened his mouth, a flash of his chipped front tooth. “Ma’am?” was all he said, voice hoarse. Even that one word was enough to hear that Texas accent, thick as molasses. Reminded her of childhood.
“Sonny’s sick,” she explained quickly. “I was helping him back to bed. Sorry I, uh… stepped on you.”
Port’s gaze drifted aside, maybe bashful. He rubbed at one closed eye with his fist. He looked younger without the scruff, and his cheeks were covered in freckles that might be cuter on a friendlier face. “You don’t need to apologize, ma’am. You didn’t step on me.”
“Were you sleeping on the floor?”
“…Yes, ma’am,” he said after some hesitation. “Yes, Rida,” he corrected himself.
“Is… is there something wrong with the bed?” She wished she had better sleeping arrangements to offer them, but the one queen-sized bed was all at her disposal. She had offered to give one of them the couch, or even a sleeping bag, but both Sonny and Port had insisted that they were comfortable sharing the bed together. Maybe they had lied for the sake of politeness. Some people just hated to have needs.
“No,” Port answered hastily. “It’s perfect, thank you. I just…” he trailed off, rubbing at both eyes, now. “I’m more used to floor.”
Rida did not want to unpack that right now, with Sonny terribly sick and teetering on the edge of the bed. “Well… let me know if I can get you more blankets or something.”
“What’s wrong with Sonny?”
The change of subject did not go unnoticed, but was okay with it. Rida moved to the side of the bed and placed a hand on Sonny’s shoulder, gently easing him down. He laid without protest. “He was throwing up in the bathroom.”
Port pushed himself to standing and Rida had to resist the instinct to take a step back. He wasn’t looking at her, which made it easier. His posture was looser in his tiredness, not as stiff and formal. “Might’ve been the food,” Port offered. “Not your cooking, I mean. It’s just more than he’s had in days.”
She could tell. They were both skinny things. “Maybe, but he also has a fever. His immune system is probably fucked from the cold.”
Port, closer to Sonny’s top half, laid the back of his hand on Sonny’s forehead.
“He’s warm, right?”
“Yeah…” Port affirmed. Sonny chased his touch when he pulled his hand away, whimpering. Port glanced at her sidelong, maybe reluctant to face her. “Thank you for helping him.”
“It’s no problem,” Rida said. She ran a hand over her face, suddenly exhausted again now that she didn’t feel like she was going to be attacked. “I have to be at work by eight tomorrow. I won’t be back ’til six, though Tal will probably come home at three… unless he goes to Jo’s house.” She mindlessly fluffed at the back of her hair. “He might not, though, it depends on if…” At Port’s blank stare she realized she was muttering on about nothing he cared about and cut herself off. “Will you be able to take care of him?” she asked.
He blinked. “Of course.” He might've even had offense in his voice. “You don’t need to do anything. He’s not your responsibility.”
She crossed her arms, gaze falling upon Sonny’s pinched face and his tightly closed eyes. A full body shiver wracked him as though he might be able to feel her attention. “I mean… isn’t he?”
solitaire masterlist: act i / act ii ♤ prev / next
content: pet whump (bbu/institutionalized slavery), cigarette burns, forced self harm, a ssssnake
𓆙𓆙𓆙 THREE YEARS AGO...
“God, this is terrible for me,” Ginny muttered, wrapping her lips around the filter. The end glowed, a burning ember, as she accepted the smoke into her lungs. It poured from her mouth when she said: “First cigarette in years.”
The next few minutes passed— except for the sweet sound of rustling leaves— in silence, her dark eyes squinting into the sun setting behind the trees. She seemed placid today— though Ginny’s stillness was, of course, no guarantee of safety. Perhaps it would be peaceful, sitting side-by-side with her as they listened to the sounds of the forest in her backyard, if not for the unrelenting anxiety that she was merely preparing to strike.
He could not see the whole of her face— only her profile, the sharp edge of her straight nose and her puckered lips as she took another drag, cheeks hollowing. She wore lipstick, sometimes, but today they were bare and cracked. “Never stopped craving it, to tell you the truth,” she said. “Hits the fuckin’ spot.”
Then, sharp elbow supported on her lawn chair, she extended an expectant hand. Not even bothering to look at him. Her iris, normally tar-black, was shining deep like syrup in the golden light.
“Arm,” she said.
The pet had a feeling he knew what she wanted to do with it. Still, he did not hesitate. He did not even consider it. His pale arm bridged the gap between their chairs, wrist slotting into her long-fingered hand.
“Special occasion?” he asked, perhaps boldly.
She frowned, lines pulling around her mouth. Her fingers, tipped with peeling nail polish, clenched around his wrist. “Watch yourself,” she said. “I’ll put this out on your tongue.”
He shut his jaw tight, knowing it wasn’t an empty threat. Despite this, something about the wafting smell of smoke and sweep of wind through the trees ignited within him some sense of nostalgia, the origin of which he could not place. It was almost comforting, at odds with the impending dread pressing against his gut and the sharp nails digging into his flesh. (Still, what a welcome relief this was from the stale cellar. The breeze might be worth the price.)
He thought he might be able to feel his bones creak under her vice grip. He did not watch— eyes towards the bright fireball beyond the sticks— as she pressed the smoldering cherry to the sensitive skin of his wrist, nestled in the crease where his arm met his palm.
He couldn’t help his flinch and whimper at the burn, which only made her hand tense like a constricting snake. As she lifted the ember, his eyes flicked over against his will— left behind was an angry red circle, stark over the shadows of his veins.
Ginny was smiling. “You always sound so pathetic,” she teased, flicking the stubbed cigarette to the ground. She pressed it down into the dirt with the sole of her flip-flop. It flattened to the earth, crumpled and spent. Only halfway smoked. She hadn’t even savored the whole thing.
His wrist hovered in place even once she released it to reach for the pack. The angry burn stung brighter as she slipped another cigarette out, pinching it delicately and placing it between her lips. Flame danced under the end when she flicked her lighter, thumb running over the gear.
She exhaled and glanced at his exposed arm. “Put your fuckin’ hand down,” she said. He returned it to his lap, face up, as not to disturb it. The burn was sensitive even to the breeze.
They sat in silence for some time as the sun dipped lower. It inched so minutely that he didn’t even recognize its shift until it was already kissing the horizon, sky aflame. By the time the world was dark, Ginny was on her fourth cigarette and the pet was sporting two new simmering burns.
Three resounding knocks shot through the house, sharp enough that they traveled all the way from the front door to the backyard where they sat. Then came the tinny chime of the doorbell, inappropriately cheerful. Ginny twisted around in her chair, squinting through the glass door. “Who the fuck…?” she muttered.
She stood and slipped into the house without casting the pet a second glance, smoke trailing close behind. For some reason, he found himself worrying that the smell might seep into the carpet. She should open a window, he thought, and lean over the windowsill so she could keep it outside, teetering halfway between two worlds. Then the scent might not linger for someone else to recognize. Then he caught himself— it didn’t matter. He wondered why he’d even had the thought at all.
He was content to stare into the void between the trees and listen to the symphony of crickets until he startled at something brushing against his ankle. He lifted his foot up— bare and filthy, as Ginny did not care to give him shoes— and looked for movement. He did not notice any, and the dim light affixed to the wall of the house did not afford him enough light to see. Probably just a cricket or a spider. He cautiously put his foot back down, toes in the grass, hoping it wouldn’t bite him.
Voices floated through the crack in the door as Ginny spoke with whoever had come. Maybe it’s the police, he thought idly. They knocked like a cop. He wondered if they might have anything to say about the state he was in— fresh burns, old cuts and bruises, and all-around unkemptness. When he had been in training he'd imagined he would end up in the home of some richie-rich family— cooking, cleaning, maybe looking after children. Not whatever this was. Not Ginny.
“Not interested,” he caught, and then the firm slam of the door and click of the lock. His posture tightened at the slapping of Ginny’s sandals growing closer as she approached from behind. She sat heavily back in her chair. “Goddamn missionaries,” she said. “All the way out here. At this hour. Dedicated sum’bitches.” She pet at the wild frizz falling over her shoulder, idly tugging at a curl so it straightened and snapped back like elastic. “I wonder if they woulda recognized you. All you folk seem to know each other.” She took a drag of her cigarette, eyebrow raising. “Or are related…” she pondered. “It all seems very incestuous, doesn't it?”
“What?” he asked.
Her lip curled, grinning, though her eyes were mirthless when they fell on his face. The shadows cast by the light made the creases on her forehead especially pronounced. “I wish you remembered things, sometimes, but other times it's more fun that you don’t.”
He hated that she knew more about him than he knew about himself. He really, really hated it.
Black eyes drifted over him, her detached gaze landing by his feet. She revealed her teeth, smiling with more humor. “You aware there’s a snake by your foot?”
Fuck—! He could see its slither, now, and pulled his feet up so fast that one of his knees cracked against the arm of the chair. Pain shot through his shin like a bolt. Ginny snorted with laughter and tilted forward, contorting her body so that her shadow did not fall upon the snake and prevent her from getting a good look at it. It was skinny, striped in bands of yellow, black, and red.
“Is that a coral snake? What’s the rhyme…” Ginny thought for a moment. “Red on yella, friendly fella… red on black, you’re fucked, Jack. Ah, maybe it’s the other way around.” She sunk back into her chair. “Better not let it bite you either way,” she warned.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he muttered, crossing his ankles on the seat of his chair. His voice shook a little with the burst of adrenaline, heart still thumping too fast.
Ginny slipped out of her flip-flops and pulled her own feet up onto her seat, wrapping her arms around her knees. The cigarette still smoldered between two fingers, and a clump of ash fell off the end and landed in the dirt. The way she tilted her head made any reflection disappear from her eyes, dull. “You scared of snakes, Jack?”
He ran his palm over the goosebumps that broke out all down his leg, brushing over the pale hairs sticking out like the fur of a frightened animal. “A healthy amount,” he answered truthfully, even if she was just taunting him. For a moment he had forgotten about the burns on his arm, but they were back to their insistent stinging, impossible to ignore. He shuddered as he replayed in his mind the moment the snake caressed his ankle, himself none the wiser. He imagined what it might feel like for its fangs to sink into his tender heel, to feel the venom run through his veins. Maybe it wouldn’t be so different from the pinch of a needle in his arm.
The snake’s little tongue flicked out, raising its head to look at him with beady eyes. It's not gonna try and jump at me, is it? He glanced at Ginny and knew she would not care if he got bit. Her eyes were similarly cold-blooded.
They both watched as the snake set its chin back to the earth and slithered into a taller patch of grass, disappearing. The blades went still.
“Look at me,” Ginny said.
He obeyed.
Her claw-like hand squeezed his face, nails digging into his cheeks. He wanted to turn away, but could not bring himself to wrestle out of her grasp. She turned the cigarette over in her fingers so that the filter pointed towards him, aiming the cherry towards herself. She lifted it to his mouth, an inch away. He parted his lips without needing to be asked.
“Ever smoked before?”
He shook his head minutely, as much as her grip would allow.
“Inhale,” she told him.
At her command, he did. It burned terribly in his throat and nose. Ginny pulled both of her hands away as he coughed, somehow finding himself surprised as the smoke poured out of his mouth. He grimaced at the foul taste on his tongue, still hacking. When it ceased, and he looked at her through watering eyes, she just looked vaguely bored.
She held out the remaining half of the cigarette. “Finish this,” she said. “I don’t want it to go to waste.”
He grabbed it awkwardly with two fingers, eyeing it warily.
By the time it was burnt nearly to the filter, he wanted to throw up. Each inhale gave him this sort of light-headed rush, like a burst of cold air. He was dizzy even sitting down, and knew that if he tried to stand he would surely stumble and lose his balance.
Ginny did not care to watch him. She was merely staring into the trees. “I’m done,” the pet said, and she turned her head. There was no humor in her face— absent was the sense of sadistic pleasure she usually reveled in. Her eyes bored into him, iced over with something colder.
“Well?”
“What?”
She motioned minutely with her hand, eyes flicking to his arm, like it was obvious. “Put it out,” she said.
He stared down at his own wrist. With his other hand, the cigarette drew closer… and he hesitated. When he glanced up at Ginny, her eyebrows were raised ever-so-slightly, expectant. Dangerous. Go on.
He dropped his eyes. He should be punished for faltering. He selected his spot, a patch of white skin on the outer edge of his forearm, an inch away from another angry burn. The smoldering cherry hovered above the unmarred skin, trembling. He allowed himself a countdown, which he would not back out of. In his head: Three, two, one…
Clearing his mind of all resistance, he pressed it to his skin like an angry bite.
content: pet whump (bbu), institutionalized abuse/slavery, whumpee thinks caretaker(s) is new master, breaking a plate
~~~~~~
Port ran his hands over his bare face, now shaven, pressing his fingers to the patch of faintest pockmark scars on one cheek. The same pale scars could be found down his freckled arms, nearly invisible and imperceptible except under a scouring touch.
He had wondered, for a long time, what had caused them. It always bothered him how he could not for the life of him remember— until one night, after waking up from a particularly vivid nightmare spurred by a violent movie, it all rushed back to him. Barbed wire, he had realized, gasping for air and clutching at the fabric over his heart.
Ginny used to like to restrain him with barbed wire, wrap it all up his forearms. Constant razor-sharp pain only made worse by the slightest twitch. He had passed out, once, with his arms out in front of him. When he came back to himself, he couldn’t see out of one eye, a curtain of red running over his brow. Years later, dry heaving over the toilet as he tended to do whenever those sorts of memories resurfaced, he wished he hadn’t remembered at all.
But that was a long time ago. He shouldn’t dwell on it now.
When he collected himself enough to step out of the bathroom, aromas of spice filled his nose. Something was cooking— what? Sonny was sitting at the table with Tal, speaking quietly with his eyes lowered. Port peered around the corner into the kitchen, stomach sinking. At the stove— Rida, with her back turned, stirring something in a pot. A rice cooker was steaming on the counter. Oh no. He’d taken too long, and she’d gotten impatient, and Sonny wasn’t even helping and what were they even good for?
“Did you shave?”
Port’s gaze snapped to the two sitting at the table. They had spotted him. Tal was slouched casually in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “I coulda sworn you had a 'stache going on,” he said.
“I did, sir.”
Tal nodded vaguely in a way that might have been approval. “I’m trying to grow one, but Rida won’t let me.”
“Trust me, it’s for your own good,” Rida said, still stirring. The scent wafting over him was familiar— some sort of curry, maybe. It smelled good, but he couldn’t help the sick feeling in his gut. It was something Mr. Oz would have liked him to make.
“Whatever,” Tal dismissed. He eyed Port, who was still hovering by the open bathroom door. “Are you just gonna stand there, or what?”
Spurred to action, Port moved stiffly to the table and pulled out a chair. The folder was gone, he noticed. It felt so wrong, sitting around the dinner table with one master while the other was working in the kitchen.
They were normal people. He was not. He shouldn't be here.
“Thanks for cleaning my room, by the way,” Tal said.
“You’re welcome, sir,” Port replied automatically.
Tal threw an arm over the back of his chair and twisted to grin at Rida. Facing away, it was lost on her. “I told you these guys would be worth keeping around.”
“They shouldn’t have to clean up after you,” she said with scarcely disguised ire.
“I didn’t make them do it,” he retorted, turning back around. “Yo, Porter, have you ever ridden a horse?”
The non-sequitur threw him. He had to think about it. “No, sir.”
Tal leaned over the table so suddenly that Sonny flinched beside him, but he didn’t notice or didn’t care. He rested his elbows on the wood and steepled his hands under his chin, looking at Port very seriously. Port leaned away minutely, feeling his back press against the chair. That little rattan piece was poking him again. “Can you say ‘I rode my horse to the pen?’” Tal asked.
The stained wooden spoon clattered against the stovetop as Rida set it down roughly, splattering yellow sauce. “Talha, stop it,” she snapped.
Tal ignored her and folded his hands like he was praying, leaning far enough over the table that he was hardly even sitting in his chair anymore. “Please!” he begged Port.
Rida was standing behind Tal, hand on her hip, fixing her brother with a nasty look. Port’s eyes snapped between the two siblings. Already he was being pulled in different directions, and he didn’t even understand what the point was. He glanced to Sonny, who looked about as lost as he felt, recalling his advice. Which one was meaner? It felt wrong to deny a direct order.
Port ran his nails over the worn fabric on his thighs, feeling them catch. “I rode my horse to the pen…?”
Tal slapped his hands on the table hard enough that the bowl of sugar in the middle jumped and rattled. Sonny flinched harder this time. It startled Port, even, making the hairs on his neck prickle. “Oh, man!” Tal laughed, braced flashing. “I fuckin’ love your accent!”
“Will you sit the fuck down?” Rida asked, exasperated. “You are freaking them out.”
Tal withdrew and sat down fully. “Sorry,” he said, still jovial. “You sound like a cowboy,” he told Port. “I wish I lived in Texas long enough to sound like that.”
Port blinked, bemused. “Do I?”
“Just be quiet,” Rida said, turning to switch the dial on the stove to off. Port didn’t know who she was talking to. “The food’s ready.”
Tal threw his hands up. “Alhamdulillah!”
“I said be quiet.”
“Never!”
Rida pulled four floral plates from the cupboard and spooned a hearty amount of rice onto each of them. The few grains that spilled on the counter set Port’s teeth on edge— he resisted the urge to stand from his chair and sweep them into his hand. Rida scooped a ladleful of curry on top of the rice piles and moved the dishes to the table. With warm food now steaming in front of him, hunger was beginning to override the nausea he had been harboring for the past few days. The yellow color was looking bright and appealing on the plate, especially surrounded by the flower patterns painted along the rim.
When they were all settled, Rida spoke. “This whole thing is very new to me,” she said. “I’ll just get that out of the way.” She pushed at her rice with her fork. “I really thought I was done dealing with his bullshit,” she muttered.
Tal, notably silent, was resting his chin on his hand with his eyes aimed towards the table. His lashes were quite long, just like his sister’s. If he was thinking about the ghost of his father, his face revealed nothing.
This was all new to Port, too. It had been so long since he last had to serve someone unfamiliar— and never so young. He’d gotten used to the way Mr. Oz liked to do things, how to behave around him. “We’re here to help you,” Port said. He ought to sell himself to her. “We can cook. We can clean. We can stay out of your way, if you want, or… or we can be around. Whatever you prefer.”
Rida abandoned her fork and set her chin on her palm, a near-mirror of her brother. She seemed unconvinced, frowning.
Should he keep talking? “If you went over expectations with us, it would be very helpful,” he said cordially.
She just sighed. Tal, seemingly losing interest in the conversation, whispered something under his breath and shoveled a forkful of rice and curry into his mouth. In the moment of silence, something shifted in Rida’s face, and she sat back in her chair, readjusting her posture. “I think I should just be honest,” she said. “I don’t know if you’ll understand this or not. I really don’t like the idea of…” Her eyes darkened with distaste. “…human pets.” Her tongue poked at the inside of her cheek as she considered her next words. “I find it abhorrent. I hate everything about it. Frankly, I didn’t even want to take you.”
Oh.
Oh, that was even worse than he thought. She didn’t even want them.
“I convinced her,” Tal piped up, speaking around of mouthful of rice. “You’re welcome.”
Something like distress must have displayed on their faces, because Rida suddenly looked a little panicked. It was strange to see such an emotion on her. “That sounded bad,” she backtracked hastily. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just trying to say I don’t want to be… ugh. I don’t want to own people.”
“So… why did you take us?” Sonny asked, voice quiet. Port recognized his hurt look. It was the same one he had worn when he told Port, all that time ago, how his first master gave him up.
“I was hoping… I don’t know. I want to help. It felt wrong to abandon you to be…” She motioned vaguely with her hands, rings twinkling. “…tortured.”
The word sent a chill down his spine. An odd choice.
Tal, who was digging around for something in his pocket, rolled his eyes. “Please forgive my sister,” he enunciated with a put-on air of sophistication. “She’s a conspiracy theorist and a liberal.”
“How about I liberate your head from your neck?” Rida snapped, like a switch was flipped.
“Uh, rude.” Tal produced a few pills from his pocket and tossed them into his mouth.
“Can I ask something else?” Sonny blurted, everyone’s eyes falling on him.
“Yes,” said Rida.
He asked the question that had been plaguing Port since he first laid eyes on her: “Why are you wearing a collar?”
Her fingers rose to touch the deep red band encircling her throat. They brushed delicately against the metal ring kissing her skin, tracing the round edge. “It’s a statement,” she said. “A symbol. Of solidarity.”
“With who?”
“Well… with you.”
Sonny blinked, brow furrowed. “Oh.”
Port almost scoffed. He caught himself.
“Stupid, right?” Tal said. “I told you a real pet would think it was stupid.” Rida just scowled at him. “She’s been wearing that thing for years now,” he continued, undeterred. “All it does is make people look at you weird.”
“People look at me weird anyways,” Rida defended. “And I can just tell them to fuck off.”
“Doesn’t it get you into trouble?” Sonny asked.
“I’m an adult woman. I can tell people to fuck off.”
“No, I mean… the collar,” he said timidly. “What if someone mistakes you for a real pet? It’s like a target. I mean, sometimes in public, I…” he trailed off, maybe realizing he was saying too much. The bruise on his nose was all too obvious. It would make sense he thought of it like a target, Port supposed. He himself had not spent much time at all in public, in the years he had been a pet. Most of his memories were from within a house, a facility, a basement. Interacting with these sorts of people— people who had no idea what kind of world they lived in— was like interacting with aliens, or children. But they were just normal. Port couldn’t even imagine it, to be free and unconcerned with it all.
“It’s not usually a problem. Like I said, I can tell them to fuck off.” The corner of her mouth lifted. “Do you ever wish you could do that?”
Sonny looked far too receptive to the idea for a moment before he fixed his face. “I would never say that to anyone, ma’am,” he said bashfully, dipping his head. He was a little liar, but it was the right answer.
“You should try it sometime,” Rida said, skin unmarred.
Tal laughed. “You should practice on her.”
She shrugged, picking up her fork. “You can if you want, Sonny.”
Tal’s expression went flat. “It’s not as fun if you have permission.” He eyed Sonny. “Don’t practice on me, okay?” He winked.
“…Okay,” Sonny said.
“Did you see my wink?” Tal whispered.
“Yes,” Sonny whispered back.
Rida took her first bite of food, so Port felt he could finally eat some of his own. The rice and curry on his tongue was like heaven on earth. He was definitely hungry now, though the taste was even more familiar than the smell. This was certainly something he’d cooked before, at some point, based on a recipe Mr. Oz had given him. He was no longer sitting in this colorful kitchen in New Mexico. He was all the way back in Houston, Texas, being allowed to have his first meal after a long day of punishment.
No. No, back to reality. He was sitting with the surviving members of the Osman family. The sun was still shining through the windows. He was not starved. Still, the thought made him want to start crying, which horrified him. It would be the second time today.
“Speaking of collars, I have a question,” Tal announced. “Do you shower with those on?” Each of his index fingers were pointing in different directions at Port and Sonny’s necks, to the standard-issue collars they had received at the facility. Port wondered what they did with his old one, with the bronze nameplate. Parting with it had been an ache and a relief at the same time.
Oh no, he might actually start crying.
Thankfully, Sonny answered for him, because Port didn’t think he could speak without his voice breaking or meet Tal’s eyes without his own watering over. “Yessir,” Sonny said. It was strictly forbidden for them to remove their own collars. Just the thought of shedding it made him queasy and picked up his heart rate. Surely even touching the buckle would send a shock through him. He’d been zapped for real enough times for the lesson to stick— every pet had.
Tal’s brow furrowed. “Really?” Sonny became the subject of his curiosity. “What do they feel like? Rida said—” Tal reached for Sonny— almost lunged for him, really— hand extended, aiming for his throat, as if to close around it.
Horrified, through the standing tears in his eyes, Port watched as Sonny jerked away— so violently, in fact, that his chair started to tip. Tal pulled his hand back in an instant, startled by the dramatic display, as Sonny raised his own to protect himself. His eyes went large as saucers as he realized he was falling backwards and scrambled to grab for the lip of the table to keep himself upright. The chair teetered and stabilized, though his fingers had also caught the edge of the plate— flipping it over and sending the contents soaring. Whatever didn’t fall into his lap hit the floor, bright yellow splatters and clouds of rice. The plate, as a final twist of the knife, made contact with the tile and shattered, splitting into half-flowers and delicate leaves.
“Sorry,” Sonny and Tal said in the same moment.
“I’m sorry,” Tal repeated, clearly taken aback by Sonny’s reaction. He went as far as to scoot his chair a few inches away from Sonny’s, squeaking across the floor. “I, uh… sorry.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Sonny gasped. He looked mortified, shoulders creeping up towards his ears. His complexion went even duller— all the color ran away from his face. He was frozen, scared to move. If he shifted, more of the food might spill onto the floor. “I— oh, god…” He started trying to scoop the rice and curry in his lap into his hands, but only seemed to only be succeeding in spreading the stains around more.
In all his shock, Port did not have the wherewithal to keep the tears in his eyes from spilling over. He distantly felt a few trickle down his cheeks, though at this point he was no longer thinking about Mr. Oz and instead preparing himself for whatever sort of reaction he was about to witness from Rida, who was absorbing the scene with her mouth agape.
Was the first punishment coming? He’d been avoiding thinking about it, if it would come to this, but now was the moment he had to decide what he was going to do. Did he want to repeat history? Did he want to avoid Sonny’s eyes as he was hurt, over and over again?
No. He wanted things to change. That was the entire point of…
When Rida stood from her chair, Port sprung up, too. Without allowing himself to hesitate, he put himself between her and Sonny. “I’ll help clean it,” he said. Maybe if he solved the problem there would be no punishment necessary. And if it came to it, well… Port’s eyes flicked from her collar to her feet. She surely could not physically overpower him, though the consequences of stopping her might be disastrous. Maybe a punishment dealt by her hand wouldn’t be so bad, anyway, unless she took out a knife, or…
Port realized that, instead of advancing, Rida was backing away from him. The whites of her eyes were visible all around her dark irises, which were darting over his face.
Now Tal was standing, too, and he put himself between Port and Rida. He was very close to Port’s height, if not there already. He was skinny, though, thin wrists and ankles. But Port was too, of course— and weak from not eating.
“I didn’t mean to scare him,” Tal said, eyes similarly wide.
“I- I’m sorry,” Sonny stuttered. Port turned over his shoulder and saw he had wet rice cupped in his palms. He seemed to realize he had nowhere to put it and finally got out of his chair, accepting that the damage was already done. He went straight to the floor, to his knees, allowing the rest to fall out of his lap. He pushed the mess on the floor into a little pile with trembling hands, spreading streaks across the tile. Ceramic pieces scraped. “I… I can still eat it,” Sonny said, voice shaking. “I won’t waste it.”
“Don’t,” Port begged, for the sake of his dignity.
Rida had closed her eyes at some point and was taking a deep breath through her nose. Tal’s head kept swiveling, neck twisting to look at her, then to Port, then to Sonny, and then back to her again. Otherwise, he wasn’t shifting from his wide stance, hands clenched nervously by his sides. His thumbs kept running over his knuckles over and over again.
Rida opened her eyes, steeled. “Don’t eat that,” she said. “It’s okay. Really, it’s okay. Let's just calm down.”
Nobody moved. Sonny’s head was hanging, hair obscuring his face. He was still hunched over, but he’d given up on collecting his mess. He was grasping one soiled hand with the other, a trail of red running over the creases of his palm and dripping in tiny, neat circles on the tile. Fuck— he had cut himself on a piece of ceramic plate.
“Port.”
His eyes snapped to Rida as his name left her lips. He nearly yielded under her obsidian stare, fighting the sudden instinct to let his knees drop out from under him.
“Could you sit down, please?”
He had every urge to obey a direct order, but he also had every desire to defend Sonny. He fought his own cotton-filled mind. “I can help clean it,” he repeated, the only thing he could think to say.
“You don’t have to do that. Please, sit down.”
He sat, and he hated himself for it.
Rida stepped out from behind Tal, who watched her unmoving, and cautiously rounded around Port’s chair. Sonny’s head dipped lower as her shadow fell over him, exposing the crown of his head.
Rida kneeled down in a clean spot. Her skirt swept the floor as she grabbed it to adjust its drape over her legs. “It’s okay, babe,” she said quietly. “I’ll clean it up. You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“It’s okay. Are you hurt?”
He shook his head, hair swaying.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’m okay.”
“Will you take my hand?” Rida extended one, on Sonny’s uninjured side. Her fingers, adorned in rings, were trembling. In fact, her entire arm was. She grasped at her own forearm with her other hand, stabilizing it.
Sonny lifted his head to look at her offering. Port could not see the whole of his face, but his cheeks were still lacking in color. “You'll get dirty,” he said weakly. “My hand is covered in blood.”
“I don’t care.”
Sonny’s hands just hovered, static except for their shaking. Rida slowly, gently, reached to grab his good hand, so that he didn’t startle. He was limp in her grasp. “Let’s stand up, okay?” She lifted from her kneel, giving Sonny no choice but to rise with her.
Sonny was taller than her, but not by a lot. She was looking into his eyes, which, to Port’s surprise, were dry. It reminded him that he still must have tracks on his cheeks, and he grabbed the collar of his cotton shirt to lift it and press it to them, sniffing away the wetness in his nose.
“Go wash your hands in the bathroom, please.” Rida released him. “I’ll bring you a new pair of pants and we can patch up that cut.”
Sonny, with no mind to disobey anymore, wordlessly shuffled to the bathroom with his head down. A few drops of blood fell from his fingertips, marking his path.
Rida’s hand was indeed dirtied now. She went to press her palm to her forehead but just barely stopped herself before she might smear curry and blood in her bangs, muttering something under her breath.
She turned to face Tal, who still hadn’t moved, expression tight. “Let’s ask before we touch people, okay?”
content: pet whump (bbu), institutionalized abuse/slavery
Port’s knuckles turned white, fingers curled around the lip of the sink. “Get a fuckin’ grip,” he muttered to his reflection. It stared back, lips peeled back over teeth, no more collected than before. His own appearance disturbed him.
He couldn’t bear to look any longer. He hung his head, baring the vertebrae of his neck. He ran his hand over the exposed nape, the overgrown hair, the collar. He wondered if Rida would give him a new one or if she wouldn’t even care enough to. His neck was fuzzy and in need of a shave. He needed to cut his hair— Sonny’s, too. He needed to clean himself up. He needed to look presentable. What a terrible first impression he’s made… on both of them.
He watched a sud of soap slip into the black hole of the drain. There was no stopper, he realized. He imagined one of Rida’s rings slipping off her finger, circling the basin, and disappearing into the shadow.
…HOURS AGO…
Port ran the pad of his finger along the top lip of the doorframe. As expected, it was coated in a layer of dust when he pulled it back. Nobody had cleaned that in a long time— he would add it to his list of things to do.
Rida’s instruction to “relax” didn’t mean much to him. What did that even entail? He busied himself by inspecting their new room— it was small, but he was just thankful to have a place to sleep. An empty wardrobe and sparse bookshelf were flush against the wall, and other than the floral curtains draped over the window, there were no decorations. Port thought some art might be nice. He missed the seagull painting that hung in his old room, the one he would stare at when he couldn’t sleep. Sometimes, when he was particularly bored, he would stand with his face an inch away and count each brushstroke.
Taking up the most space was a queen-sized bed pushed into the corner, neatly made with two fluffed pillows and covers with the corners tucked in. Was that supposed to be for them? What a foreign concept. The last time time he slept in a bed was his stay in the hospital, when Mr. Oz had given him that concussion. How long ago was that? Years? He had felt grateful, afterward, that his master even cared enough to get him medical attention at all. Port shook away the memories.
He was sure Sonny would acclimate well enough. He used to always complain about having to sleep on the floor in the beginning, lamenting how hard it was. But the rug was quite comfortable, really. Far more comfortable than tile, or concrete, or a straight-backed chair. He never really got how much worse it could be.
It would be hours until Rida and Talha came home, and with no other directions, Port decided to get a head start on things around that house than needed doing. Sonny helped a little, feeling obligated, but it was clear that he was exhausted and getting hit with the caffeine crash. Port let him doze in an armchair; he was content to do the chores by himself. The house was not large, and there was only so much to do. He dusted, swept, wiped down the counters, washed the dishes, and even took the initiative to clean Talha’s room for him, including folding that intimidating pile of clothes. It was mediative. It kept his mind off the other things.
When he came back to himself, he realized it would be less than an hour to 3 o’ clock. He woke Sonny and told him to shower— the only other thing that Rida had implied they ought to do. Port wasn’t sure he’d have time himself… hopefully she wouldn’t be too displeased. It felt unreal to be back to this sort of domesticity, this simple worrying. He didn’t know how to feel about it.
Was she expecting lunch? She did say there was food in the fridge, but mentioned no preferences or restrictions. When he looked inside, there wasn’t much. Some staple ingredients. A pan of brownies covered in tinfoil. A large bowl of soup. He was familiarizing himself with the layout of the kitchen when he heard the click-rattle of the door. He hastily, quietly, shut the cupboard he had been inspecting just in time to whirl around and watch the door crack open.
Rida’s face appeared— her head poked in and looked around like she was afraid of what she might find. She craned her neck around the shield of the door, eyes landing on Port, and gave him that tight, close-lipped smile. “Hi,” she greeted. “I have Tal with me.”
Port smiled back, face feeling similarly tight. He wondered if he might look as he did in that old photo. The file was still sitting conspicuously on the table, appearing untouched. Rida took his smile as a sign to enter fully, leaving the door hanging open for her brother to follow. From this angle, the wood obscured him— the first thing Port saw was his long flannel-clad leg stepping inside.
As he came fully into view, a few things were immediately obvious. He was far taller than his sister, and skinnier, and significantly less goth. His short hair was the same dark color, though, and sort of spiky-looking like it might crunch underneath his hands. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder, which slid off and dropped to the ground, and his face turned to Port, and—
…Yes, the resemblance was more obvious in him. Not identical— he much slimmer and younger, smooth-skinned. But the brow, the nose, the lips, even the ears… that was all Parsa Osman. The eyes, though, were different. More similar to his sister’s. Rounder, wider, and looking at Port.
Port met them. The boy’s expression— Tal, Rida called him— was vaguely intrigued, maybe surprised. His dark brows were raised quite high on his forehead, one split by a pale scar. He was missing the wrinkle between them that Port had always noticed on his father. Then his mouth split into a bright smile, metal flashing in his teeth. Braces. “What’s up?” he said.
Port blinked, trying to rid his mind of Mr. Oz. “Hello, sir.”
Tal’s mouth shut in a snap, eyebrows raising even higher. He twisted to look at his sister. “He called me sir. Did you hear that?”
“Yes,” Rida sighed. “Don’t get used to it.” Her weary face turned to Port. “I meant to tell you earlier, but you really don’t need to do the whole sir and ma’am thing.”
“Oh,” said Port.
“Says who?” asked Tal.
She fixed him with a glare. “Says me, the head of household.”
Tal rolled his eyes— that little quirk, again— and shot Port a grin like he was in on a joke. “The power’s getting to her head already,” he said, jabbing a thumb in Rida’s direction. Then he paused, eyes flicking over Port. “Digging the fit, by the way. You look like you just escaped prison.”
Port wasn’t sure if he should thank him for the ‘compliment’ or apologize for his state of dress. It was then that the bathroom door creaked open and Sonny emerged, immediately frozen at the three sets of eyes on him. He was freshly showered and wearing new clothes, damp hair sticking to his forehead and dripping on the collar of his cotton shirt. He looked even younger in the attire of a fourteen year old boy.
“Yo…” Tal said, looking him up and down. “Are you Sonny?”
Sonny hesitated like it was an effort to remember his own name. “Yessir,” he decided. “That’s me.”
Tal’s eyes had narrowed. “Are those my clothes?”
Sonny, deer caught in headlights, made no attempt to answer. At his terrified face, Rida butted in. “They needed something clean to wear,” she said, drifting to the kitchen. “I gave them to him.” Then, warning evident in her voice: “Is there a problem?”
“You couldn’t have given them some of yours?”
“Be serious.”
Tal broke into a laugh and swept a lazy hand through the air. “I’m just playing.” He exaggeratedly looked Sonny up and down once more, tilting his entire head. “They look better on you anyway, bro.”
“Um, thank you?”
Rida was very close to Port, now, fixing the countertops with an odd look. She peered into the empty, sparkling sink. “Did you do the dishes?”
“I did, ma’am,” Port said, though the look on her face made him think it might be the wrong answer.
“Oh.” She blinked a few times. “Thank you. You really didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s… what I’m here for, ma’am.”It would have to get done eventually.
Rida grimaced, but before she could say anything more, Tal’s gangly arm extended and pointed in Sonny’s direction. “Can I get in there? I need to piss.”
Sonny awkwardly shuffled aside before Tal kicked off his shoes (which went flying) and bounded into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Sonny jolted at the bang. He had started shaking at some point, though maybe it was just from the chill of his damp hair. He pulled his hands to his chest, only curling further into himself under their stares.
His eyes flicked to Tal’s abandoned sneakers, to the two of them, and then back to the sneakers. He timidly went to collect them, bending to pick them up from the floor. Rida was grimacing so hard it looked like she was actively in pain. When she turned to Port, he faced her somewhat apprehensively. “Were you going to shower?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry I haven’t already.”
“Don’t apologize. I was just wondering.” Her gaze drifted back to Sonny, who was depositing Tal’s sneakers neatly on the shoe rack. “And you really don’t have to call me ma’am. I’d actually prefer if you didn’t.”
“Right. Sorry…“ he shut his mouth. The ma’am hung silently in the air.
The corner of Rida’s mouth pulled down. “After you shower, I think we should eat lunch and have a discussion.” Her brow was still furrowed. “A serious discussion,” she clarified needlessly.
“Okay,” Port said, not liking how grave she sounded.
…NOW…
He consciously untensed his muscles one by one and uncurled his hand from around the sink, feeling the tendons loosen. He tore his eyes away from the void of the drain, focusing on the shining porcelain instead. He shouldn’t keep them waiting too long. He wondered what meal she might want him to make. He could do just about anything she asked him to… he could impress her.
When he got into the shower, he did not wait for the water to heat up. The icy spray took his breath away, but he welcomed it. He felt more alert. Alive.
There were so many bottles in the caddy that he didn’t know what to do with them. He settled for the pump bottle of soap that read 3-in-1 sitting on the edge of the tub. He cleaned himself hastily and shut the water off, stepping out onto the bath mat, which was already damp and cold under his toes from Sonny’s shower. He ran his thumb over the soft fabric of the shirt Rida had given him to wear— so he wouldn’t have to get back into those ugly clothes from the facility, she had said.
content: pet whump (bbu), institutionalized abuse/slavery
~~~~~~
Porter’s first thought: I should leave right now. He could slip out the back door, run far away, and never be found again. Maybe he should be ashamed, or maybe it was the smart thing to do. I’ve come a real long way, haven’t I? With Mr. Oz he had never even dreamed of such a thing. Not until the end.
And with—
He winced against the shooting pain in his head, like a blow to the skull or pliers pulling teeth—
—with Ginny… he never did leave, did he? Not even after she was gone. No. He had stayed, for days, until they found him.
The gravel popped outside underneath the tires of Rida’s car. He was used to it, being left alone, but he couldn’t help but be surprised at how much trust she was putting in them after only having known them for thirty minutes. Maybe she would reconsider if she knew what kind of person he was. He couldn’t get a read on her. Not yet. He wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of her return, especially not with her younger brother in tow.
Sonny, in his peripheral, was standing just as still as him, staring at the closed door. Port thought running away was probably easier said than done.
He needed to break the silence. “I’ve never had two masters at once,” he said.
Sonny emerged from his trance. “Oh, it’s a pain in the ass. You get pulled in different directions sometimes. You just have to try and please both of them,” he said, as if imparting profound wisdom.
That was surely no easy task. “What if I can’t?”
Sonny shrugged. “Kiss up to whichever one is meaner.”
“Why’s that?”
“The other one won’t hit you as hard.”
Port nodded absently. That was pretty good advice, he supposed.
“What do you think of her?”
Honestly? “I don’t know.”
Sonny was silent for a moment. His head canted thoughtfully, eyes sticking on Port. “Are you really six-foot?”
Port considered which response would get a more amusing reaction out of him. He must have taken a second too long to respond, however, because Sonny spun towards him so fast that his hair whipped around his face. “Don’t go silent again,” he begged, suddenly desperate. His mask of nonchalance had slipped entirely. “Please talk to me.” He actually grasped at Port’s sleeve, fabric warping in his grip.
Port nearly took a step back, startled by the intensity of how Sonny bared his distress to him. He hadn’t realized his despondency bothered him so deeply. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. Port just kept fucking up, didn’t he? “I’m really sorry. I promise I’ll talk to you.”
“…Okay,” Sonny yielded, expression pinched.
He could remember well the endless days he had spent alone in the house before Sonny came into his life. He remembered the endless days he spent in the Barn before that, the basement before that, the white rooms before that… and then the wall he hit whenever he tried thinking back any further. Too many times he had thought he might go insane in his loneliness. How cruel was he to subject Sonny to the same thing?
“I’m sorry,” Port repeated, in the hopes that Sonny might truly believe it if he repented enough.
Sonny slowly released his grip on Port’s sleeve, stiffly dropping his hands to his sides. His fingers curled, still, grasping a phantom. “It’s okay,” he said, embarrassed.
Port wanted to move on, for both of their sakes. “I’m really five-foot-eleven,” he said.
Dejection was still written in Sonny’s posture. After a moment: “You are such a liar.”
“Well, it’s easier to round up.”
Sonny stared at him a second longer before turning his sullen face away and wordlessly walking over to the table where their changes of clothes were piled on top. Port followed him, desiring to stay close, and grabbed one of the T-shirts. He tried smoothing it out and decided he should fold it, even if it was already terribly wrinkled. No sense in leaving them all crumpled on the table. Maybe he should fold the rest of the clothes in Talha’s room, too, to make himself useful.
Sonny tentatively grabbed the other shirt from the pile and inspected it, derision crossing his features. He checked the tag sewed to the inside of the collar. “Ugh. I’m supposed to wear this?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
Sonny turned the shirt around and unfurled it like a banner, displaying its front covered in big block letters. Port squinted at them, and read: EAT. SLEEP. GAME. REPEAT. “I don’t want to dress like a fourteen year old,” Sonny said disdainfully, throwing the shirt back onto the pile.
“Is that how old he is?”
“Yeah, Ms. Rida mentioned it. You weren’t listening?”
“No,” Port admitted, folding his shirt in on itself. Fourteen was younger than he’d expected. When was the last time he’d even interacted with anyone younger than thirty? (Other than Sonny, of course… and the two new people he’d just met today.)
“How old do you think she is?” Sonny mused.
“I’m not too sure.” She definitely didn’t look old. Her face was smooth and round, albeit a little scary-looking with that dark makeup. If anything, it gave her an ageless, almost alien quality. “She has an interesting style.”
Sonny huffed, seemingly amused by Port’s comment. “She’s goth. She seems sorta young. Like our age, maybe. That’ll be really weird.”
Port set the folded shirt on the table. He couldn’t resist the opportunity to poke fun. “What do you mean our age? You’re younger than me.”
He didn’t have to look to know Sonny was scowling; he could hear it in his voice. “How would you know?” Sonny asked derisively. “How old even are you?”
Port grabbed a soft, worn pair of sweatpants. “Well, I don’t know exactly.” No handler had ever mentioned it.
“We could be the same age.”
Port eyed him incredulously. “You look about sixteen.”
Sonny scoffed. “I will assure you I am not.”
Trying not to smile, Port stacked the sweatpants on top of the shirt. “You’re babyfaced. Nothin’ wrong with it.”
“Fuck off.”
“I said it ain’t a bad thing. And watch your mouth,” he chided. Sonny said nothing more, which Port considered a won argument, until Sonny’s hand crept into his field of vision— he was reaching for the abandoned folder. “What are you doing?” Port asked, alarmed.
“Finding out how old we are.”
Port did not stop him, but ceased his clothes folding and watched Sonny leaf through the papers with some apprehension. “I don’t think those are meant for our eyes.”
“It’s our information. Why shouldn’t we be able to look at it?” He flipped another sheet and his eyes widened. He had found his prize. “Oh, wow. This is an old photo of you. Your hair’s so short.” He read a little, then grinned wide, crooked teeth peeking from behind his lips. “It has your full birthday in here!” His eyes flicked between the file and Port’s face, comparing the two visages before him. “Guess your birthday month,” he said with more excitement than Port thought was warranted.
“I don’t know,” Port said, entirely uninterested in this game. The headache was pulsing behind his eyes.
“It’s July,” Sonny revealed. “You’re a summer child.” He met Port’s eyes, still grinning. “And you’re 23, for the record.”
That sounded about right. It was hard to believe he’d been… well, not exactly Port, not the entire time, but a new person for so many years now. It felt much shorter and yet much longer at the same time. All those blank spots in his memory. The walls.
“And you’re Caucasian, by the way, if you didn’t know,” Sonny said, snapping him out of his contemplation. He was reading more, eyes bouncing across the page like he was watching a game of table tennis. Port didn’t like the idea of Sonny reading whatever information about him was in there. He didn’t even really like the idea of Sonny knowing his birthday… not that it mattered. It just felt… private. Personal. It was something that didn’t need knowing.
“Not much else interesting,” Sonny announced. “Do you wanna look?”
Port’s brow furrowed even more. Not really. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. “Sure,” he decided.
“Here you go, Caucasian Male.” Sonny held out the single sheet for him. Port grabbed it somewhat cautiously, like simply touching it the wrong way would make him bleed. He steeled himself before setting eyes on the front.
There, in the top right corner, was his own face staring back at him in grainy black and white ink. The shadow outline of a paper clip overlayed the fuzzy edge of his hair. The file looked like a poor quality photocopy of the original document— the entire thing was skewed crooked on the page.
Even with the lost details, his face was stark. A close-mouthed smile, dark blank eyes. He had vague memories of this day. He’d been numb. Drugged, maybe. A bright flash that momentarily blinded him. He remembered how they told him to keep his mouth shut to hide the gap in his smile— that had been before they put the fake tooth in. He ran his tongue over the back of it, feeling the bumps of the metal fixtures glueing it to the real ones on either side.
It was downright unnerving to look at, so he scanned the rest of the document. At the top of the page, in the margin, PORTER was written in thick pencil. There were lines of text printed in the body. It hurt his eyes to focus on them. They didn’t look like full sentences, just tidbits of information. ID, sex, race, DOB. Then numerous thick black lines stretched across the page, like they were scrawled with marker.
“Mine doesn’t say,” Sonny said.
Port lifted his eyes from the page. “What?”
Sonny was no longer smiling. “Mine’s redacted. Look.” He flipped the folder around for Port to see. His was marred by even more black bars, including near the top. “My birthday. They redacted it.”
“Oh.”
Sonny retracted the file, glaring at it. “And I’m Brown Male. Are you serious? Brown?”
“You are brown, aren’t you?”
Sonny’s eyes flashed angrily at him. “Everyone is brown, if you want to get technical about it.” He slapped the folder shut and tossed it carelessly back onto the table. “You get to be Caucasian, I get to be brown?”
Port inspected his own hand. It was a very, very, very light brown. He looked up and appraised Sonny’s dull-colored face— eight months with no sun. It was at that moment Port noticed the light in the house had dimmed. He didn’t realize until his eyes skipped over to the dusty window, beyond which the sun was hidden by early morning clouds.
“You’ve went a little Caucasian yourself,” he said.
“Ugh!” Sonny exclaimed, distraught. He said something in Spanish— cursing, probably, with that foul mouth of his. “Don't say that.” He crossed his arms and turned his face to the floor. Port almost thought he might stomp his foot like a child. “I want to know my birthday,” he muttered.
Port saw little appeal in knowing his birth date or his age, but Sonny was specially talented in making Port feel bad for him whenever he made that sad face of his, no matter the the reason. He looked especially pitiful in this dim light, with that bruise on his nose, and the circles under his eyes, and the way his overgrown hair stuck out from under his hat like he was an unkempt little boy. Port was struck by the desire to wrap him in a blanket and fluff a pillow under his sorry head. Instead, he let his gaze drift to the doors beyond the sofa. It was then, like a signal beacon or divine sign, that the cloud cover drifted aside and the light shifted in such a way that the sun streamed through the glass, casting everything aglow. The edges of Sonny’s hair turned golden.
“Want to go outside?” Port asked.
Sonny’s brow furrowed, distracted from his sadness. He turned over his shoulder, tempted. “Is that allowed?”
“She didn’t say it wasn’t.”
Sonny frowned deeper. “What if it’s alarmed?”
Well… Port hadn’t considered that, but now that the idea was in his head he didn’t really care. He strode to the door, twisted the lock, and turned the handle. Sonny did not say anything, nor did he try to stop him. When Port pushed the door outward, and no alarms blared, he released the breath he’d been holding and relished in the feeling of fresh air filling his lungs.
Sonny was behind him when he turned around, having silently drifted like an apparition. Port beckoned him closer, until their shoulders were practically touching. They both stepped into the sun.
The cobblestone patio was cool under his socked feet. There was more rattan furniture sitting out here, with dirty pillows. The grass looked brown and dead— likely no hope of starting a garden— and the fence enclosing them was obviously weather-worn. But the sky was blue. Sonny was blinking up at it, door wide open behind him. Port leaned to shut it gently.
“I really thought I might never see the sun again,” Sonny said. “When they put us in that van.”
“We got to watch it rise,” Port reminded him. “In the car.” Even as he was trapped in his head, Port had noticed him staring at the landscape, enraptured.
“Yeah,” Sonny said quietly. “Through a window.” A small bird flew by and landed on the fence. It cocked its head, tweeting.
rewinding a few days. porter's experience in the barn.
solitaire masterlist: act i ⭑ act ii / previous
content: pet whump (bbu), institutionalized abuse/slavery, death mention, blood, finger whump, i guess brief allusion to noncon but not really
~~~~~~
This is it, Porter thought. Should’ve run away when I had the chance. Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe my entire life has just been a series of mistakes.
It was pointless to ask himself why he made the choices he did. He knew his reasons. Still, it was tempting to distance himself from it all.
Leaving Sonny had been unthinkable— that’s why he didn’t try running. Asking Sonny to come with him had seemed just as cruel, so… he stayed. When he called the police, all he could do was hope he wouldn’t regret it. The paramedics showed up, too— they were useless, of course. There was nothing to be done. You didn’t need to put a finger to Parsa Osman's pulse to know that he was stone cold dead.
The handlers had separated him from Sonny some time ago— Port had to look into his teary eyes as he was dragged away. “You’ll get through this,” Port had told him. He knew he would probably never see him again, but there was no time to say more. That was fine. Sonny would be better off. Neither of them would remember each other, soon.
It was awfully ironic— how many times had he warned Sonny about refurbishment? Thanks to Port, they were both at risk of it, now. Still, he knew Sonny would be okay. He was more resilient than he gave himself credit for. As for Port… refurbishment was the best case scenario, even if he’d undergone it once before— even if it would scramble his brain even more than it already was. The slate would be wiped clean once again.
(At a certain point, would they just cut their losses and kill him? What if he went too braindead to even remember to breathe?)
Some time after, they had forced him into a bathroom, gave him some amenities and a change of clothes. He’d cranked the shower knob all the way to the left, as hot as it would go. It was painful to even rub the towel over his skin. When he stepped out, the mirror was fogged with steam. He didn’t have to look at himself.
The handler had put him back in here, since then. His sense of time was all skewed— he wouldn’t even try to guess how long it had been. He knelt on the floor, static in his contemplation. The tiny room they had left him in was uncomfortably hot. Sweat was breaking out on the back of his neck and under his shirt, like flames licking at his skin. A reminder he was still alive. He couldn’t stop shaking.
He would just wait until someone came to hook him up to the drip again, to lobotomize him. Or maybe just kill him. Somehow, as the thought washed over him, even that seemed fine right now.
The lock on the door clicked. His head snapped up. He returned to the present, to the reality laid before him. Suddenly, the possibility seemed much too close.
There stood the intimidating form of one of the handlers. His wide frame nearly filled the doorway. Port stared at the man’s boots, waiting for a command, or simply to be grabbed and dragged wherever he needed to be.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” the handler said. “I always knew you would end up back here.” His weight shifted to one sturdy leg, leaning against the wall. His disciplinary switch dangled from his belt like a threat, brushing against the doorframe. “Do you remember me?”
Port glanced at his face. The man was not quite grinning, but almost. There were deep creases from his nose to the corners of his mouth. Port’s eyes flitted across his other features, trying to jog his memory. He had not seen this man today. Was this one who had trained him in the past? Everything from before Mr. Oz was fuzzy— all the faces blurred together. Trying to pin down the memories was like trying to hold water in a sieve. They mostly came in flashes and were tainted by how sick he’d been in the aftermath of the second wipe. Maybe if he tilted his head to view him at another angle…?
…No. His face was not ringing any bells. “I’m not sure, sir,” Port said.
The handler’s expression did not change, but his eyes roamed over the body kneeling before him. He hummed, low. “I remember you.”
Port did not know what to say to that. Sometimes it was better to just let them talk.
“This is your second time here.”
“Yessir.”
“You were at WRU before that.”
“Yessir.”
“That’s where I met you. Years ago, before I quit and came here.”
“Oh.”
“I guess it makes sense you wouldn’t remember me. It was the early days, when you were still fresh. Imagine my fuckin’ delight when I saw you had been sent here for refurb." He chuckled. "I had a feeling.”
Port had little interest in whatever this handler had to say about him. It was poor form to ask questions without permission, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “What’s going to happen to me?”
The handler tilted his head thoughtfully. His lidded eyes did not reveal much. “Depends.” He turned his hand over to inspect his neatly trimmed fingernails, running a thumb over them.
Something didn’t look quite right. Port blinked, refocusing. His hand only had four proper fingers, a stump where the pointer should be.
“It’s funny,” the handler said. “You were shipped here in the first place because your original keeper died, too. I read your file... but it didn’t mention how.” His mouth quirked into that not-quite-grin again. “Was that a suicide, too?”
Something cold trickled down his back. That part of history was best left locked away. “I don’t know, sir,” he said, voice even. It had taken him a long time to even remember her name.
The handler huffed. A sigh, or a laugh? His eyes were piercing, but Port met them unflinchingly. “You seem to be taking it pretty well,” the handler commented.
“I don’t remember it, sir.”
His eyebrow raised. “I mean Osman’s death.”
“Oh.” He blinked again. Focus. “It’s— it’s hard. I haven’t really wrapped my head around it.” Thinking about it made him sick. The blood in the carpet. The mingling grey matter. The smell, like pennies. Would it ever come out?
The handler pushed off the doorway, then, and stepped fully into the room. He slid the door shut behind him. He strode to Port, shiny boots growing closer, towering over his hunched form.
“WRU likes to sell the problem-pets to us for real cheap,” he said. “Practically pennies on the dollar. Even then, they still make more profit than if they were to decommission you.” He motioned with air-quotes, but the missing finger made it look off. “It’s good for them, because they don’t have to deal with the liability no more. It’s good for this company, because they get the fodder without having to do the work. But fuck us, right? The handlers who actually have to deal with you psycho sumbitches? Pain in my fuckin’ ass, all of you. That’s why I’m not in the refurb department. I know firsthand what kind of crazy comes in. And of course they don't put that shit in the files, so we don't get scared off."
The handler was pacing, circling Port. He was hyperaware of the footsteps behind him, how close they were, how high-up his voice was. Port braced himself, in case he might get a boot to the ribs. “Some of you are violent little fuckers. And a guy won't find out until he's between your teeth.”
The handler circled back around to his front, face was creased with distaste. He thrust out his hand and Port flinched, hard. But the hit didn’t land— no, he was just displaying the pink stump of his missing finger. “Remember me yet, you fuckin' asshole?”
Oh. The faintest memory. Chunk of sour flesh in his mouth. Sensation of blood spilling down his throat. Wet copper. Port had had a few dreams like that, where he bit down on the fingers of a faceless someone who had wronged him and never, ever released his jaw, grinding his own teeth into dust. He had thought they were just that— dreams.
Port startled again as the handler dropped into a crouch in front of him. It was unnerving to be on the same level as him, now, to be able to meet his eyes this closely. Hatred burned within them. Port’s heart was pounding, but his training kicked in as the handler reached for his hand— he did not flinch, did not resist. The handler unstuck Port’s arm from his side and gripped his trembling palm tight, pressing painfully on the tendons. Port winced, fingers twitching. His own absences were on display— the missing pinky and first joint of his ring finger. “Guess karma is real,” the handler said, smiling.
He couldn’t help but jerk as the handler brushed his thumb over the scar-tissued ends. It took everything in him not to try and pull his hand away. He grimaced at the violation of the sensitive remains of his fingers, tiny criss-crossed nerve endings firing all wrong.
“Does it hurt?” the handler asked. “You’re shaking. I know I get tingles sometimes. Phantom itching.”
“Yes,” Port gritted.
“What did this?”
“I can’t remember,” he said through his teeth. White-hot sting. Skin splitting. Bone separating. One, two, three, four times. Four joints. He closed his eyes against the flash, blinking a second too long.
That earned him a swift smack in the mouth. The handler had let go of his hand, at least. He was able to draw it back to his chest, cradle that vulnerable part of him. The pain radiating from his lip was worth it.
The handler was scowling. “Don’t be a smartass.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” Port insisted.
The handler popped him again for that. He blinked away the reflexive eye watering as the handler stood up, unfolding back to his full height. His face was humorless. “Do you even remember what you did to deserve it?”
“No,” Port answered honestly. “I don’t.” It could have been anything. It could have been nothing.
“Do you think you should still be punished? Even if you can’t remember what you did?”
His brain throbbed against his skull, his heart against his ribcage. His lip was aching. His fingers were twitching. His shirt was damp. The shaking did not cease. He wanted to be done with this conversation, just get it over with already— get to the part where the handler was going to hurt him. He clearly wanted to, and honestly, Port would deserve it.
“Answer me. Would that be justice?”
“Yes,” Port said. “I think so.”
The handler regarded Port mildly, looking down his nose. “Interesting.” He crossed his thick arms and paced back and forth a few times, boots squeaking over the tile floor. “You know what my supervisor said?” he muttered. “That I should just be glad it wasn’t my dick. Hilarious, right?” He scoffed. “Lesson learned.” He stopped and looked at Port, who was staring at him blankly. "But you don't care, do you?" He bared his teeth in a smile. “I came to tell you we may have a new keeper lined up for you already.”
His heart stopped. Really?
“We’re not sure if it’s going through or not. And if not…” He bent down, bracing his hands on his knees. “We’re putting you through the wringer again. Third time’s the charm, right?” He laughed. “Sounds like retribution to me. You won’t even remember how to wipe your own ass. Thank god I won’t be the one has to mop the floor when you start pissing all over yourself.”
Port’s mind was racing too quickly to care if the handler was threatening him or not. “Who?”
“I don’t know, a janitor.”
“No— who’s my keeper?”
“Oh. It’s a secret.” He winked. “I feel sorry for 'em. They have no idea what they’re getting into. I reckon they might as well be signing their own death warrant." If they knew his history, they wouldn't take him. Nobody would.
“What about Sonny?”
“Who?”
“The boy I came in with.”
“Why, do you care about him?” There was a dangerous sort of look in the handler’s eyes that convinced Porter to stop asking questions.
solitaire masterlist: act i / act ii ♤ prev / next
content: pet whump (bbu/institutionalized slavery), medical stuff (g-tube), discussion of past infant death
♤♢♧♡♧♢♤
Mr. Oz had never been one to talk extensively about his family. Port figured, at first, it was just because he didn’t have much to speak of. But as he got to know him better, he realized it was because the topic as a whole carried with it plenty of baggage his master didn’t want to unpack— dirty laundry he didn’t care to air out.
The things Mr. Oz did share tended to disturb him. His father: dead and decomposing in a cemetary he never visited. His mother: dementia ridden and wasting away in a home he didn’t frequent. Extended family: status unknown, across the ocean in a country he wouldn’t return to.
Port learned to brace himself whenever Mr. Oz brought up his wife and kids. It started as wistfulness, sometimes, but it was like watching a train crash in slow motion every time. The faraway stare and standing tears in his eyes would give way to the shouting and rising color in his cheeks, like watching metal twist and mangle, smashing whatever was unfortunate enough to find itself on the tracks.
But somehow, the one thing that stuck with Port the most was the one thing Mr. Oz had shared like it didn’t matter to him at all.
“I’m an only child,” he’d said, in response to Port’s question. (This was back when, naïvely, he thought asking about family might be a good way to get to know him. He learned his lesson quick.) Mr. Oz rubbed at the stubble on his chin in a way that made Port think he was simply pondering over the next clue in his crossword puzzle. “I guess I wasn’t always,” he continued. “I had a sister, but she died a long time ago.”
Port was shocked into momentary silence. “I’m sorry,” he said, after a beat.
Mr. Oz lifted his eyes from the newspaper like he was surprised Port had even offered condolences. “I was young,” he said, shrugging. “I didn’t really get death, yet. This was before we even came to the United States.” His gaze roamed over the puzzle for a few seconds and he scribbled something in the margin. “She was a baby. Came and went so fast I could barely miss her.”
Something tugged at Port's heart. Was that supposed to be a comfort? Mr. Oz’s eyes remained on his paper, but they went out of focus, looking beyond it. “Hell… I haven’t thought about her in forever. She died of malnutrition. It's really messed up. Everyone blamed my mother.”
Port could not think of anything else to say other than: “That’s terrible.”
“It was only once I had kids of my own that I realized it was never her fault at all. My sister probably had, uh…” He clicked the end of his pen once, twice. “…this genetic disease. Cystic fibrosis. I don’t think they knew how to diagnose it at the time, let alone treat it.” His eyes darkened. “If I had known…” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have married Noshin if I had known.” He scratched at his nose, squinting at his paper. “Anyway... What does this even mean?" he muttered, tapping the point of the pen on it.
Port was still stuck on the image of his sister. He imagined holding a baby girl in his arms, running a hand over her soft fuzzy hair like a peach. Then he imagined her going limp and cold and...
“I’m sorry that happened,” Port said.
“Thanks,” Mr. Oz said dismissively. His gaze drifted away from the crossword, skipped up to Port. “Do you know—? Woah.” Discomfort crossed his features, a wrinkle between his brows. “Like I said, it was a long time ago. If I had known you’d be so affected, I wouldn’t have said anything.”
“Sorry, sir,” Port apologized, swiping hastily at his face. “I just think it’s sad.”
“It’s not your story. No need to cry over it, bud.”
~~~
The carpet cleaner fizzled over the stain like rabid saliva, eating away at the remaining traces of spilled milk.
“Thanks,” Tal said.
“You’re welcome, sir,” Port replied as he wiped it up. This was in his comfort zone. He had no issue cleaning up after others, even if the movement made his body twinge and ache in the aftermath of the seizure.
“You, uh, don’t actually have to call me sir,” Tal said. When Port looked over to him, he was running his fingers through his dark hair, swiping all the way from his forehead to the base of his skull. It was floppy today, like he hadn’t slathered on a pound of hair gel. He was sitting on the far end of the couch, legs pulled up so his heels pressed into the cushion. “I think I’m over the novelty of it.”
“Okay,” Port said. Whatever his master wanted, he could adjust.
He stood and brought the spray bottle back to the cupboard under the kitchen sink. It occurred to him that the bowl of cereal had been mostly full— Tal hadn’t gotten the chance to eat much. When Port returned to him with a fresh bowl of cereal and spoon in hand, Tal’s eyebrows raised with something like surprise, pulling at the scar splitting one of them. He took the offerings silently.
“I can go back to my room,” Port said, not wanting to disturb his peace any further.
“Wait. You can sit with me, if you want.”
Port thought of Sonny, who must still be deep in sleep. He thought about how he did not want to face him when he woke up. “Okay," he agreed.
“Do you want cereal?”
A few minutes later, Port had himself situated on the other end of the sofa with his very own bowl of Froot Loops. In his peripheral, Tal’s brown eyes were flicking to him at regular intervals, carefully not moving his head. Port stiffly spooned the first bite of sugar into his mouth, feeling self-conscious of Tal watching him eat. He tried to chew as quietly and discreetly as possible, as if it made any difference. The sheer artificial sweetness was shocking his tastebuds. It was rough over his sensitive tongue, still swollen from how he had bitten it, and his jaw was sore.
Unsure of whether or not he should try to make conversation, he pretended to be interested in what was playing on the TV. He watched Daffy Duck get blown away with a shotgun, head disappearing into a puff of smoke. When the cartoon cloud dissipated, the duck was unharmed. Must be nice.
“I’m sorry about the other day,” Tal said, unprompted.
In a controlled manner, Port turned his stiff neck to look at him. Tal faced him in turn. His discomfort was well-concealed, but still visible in the slight furrow of his brow.
Port hated to be apologized to. There was only one thing he could say. “It’s okay, sir.” No, not sir. This isn't Mr. Oz. “Talha,” he corrected himself.
The boy looked away, sheepish. “Seriously, I just wasn’t thinking. I know it’s not okay to grab at people. I’m gonna apologize to Sonny, too, when he wakes up.”
“Thank you... it’s okay.” To their credit, neither of the siblings had yet laid a violent hand on them. But it would happen, sooner or later. Someone would lose their temper. And then...?
Port tried for a smile— All is forgiven, it said. Tal's face did not change. His eyes stuck on Port like he wanted to say something more, but he peeled his gaze away and turned back to the TV, to the flashing colors. He grabbed a pill bottle from the coffee table and unscrewed it in a smooth motion, shaking a couple capsules into his palm.
It didn’t feel right to leave the conversation off on that awkward note. “Do you need to take those every time you eat?” Port asked. He ought to learn dietary requirements, anyway.
“Pretty much,” Tal said, after dry swallowing the pills. He shook the bottle for emphasis and the little capsules rattled around inside like a maraca. “They’re enzymes. They help me digest food because my stupid pancreas no-workee.”
Port’s brow furrowed. “What happens if you don’t take them?”
“Bad shit.”
“Oh.”
“And I mean that literally. I could also starve to death, hypothetically, but it would take a while.” Tal seemed obvious to Port’s disturb as he scooped a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “Wanna see something cool?” he asked, still chewing.
“Sure,” Port said, with some apprehension. He watched in shock as Tal lifted his shirt to reveal his midriff. Above and to the left of his navel was a piece of plastic, like a snap, protruding from the plane of his stomach. The circle of skin surrounding it was maybe slightly rawer than it should be, but looked otherwise healthy.
Tal poked at it with his finger. “I call it my second belly button,” he said.
“Wow,” Port decided on, at loss of what else to say. He sort of wanted to avert his eyes, even if there wasn’t anything very disturbing about it. “What's it for?”
“It’s a g-tube, for nutrition. It goes straight into my stomach, though I haven’t been using it lately because I’m eating more. Through my mouth,” he specified.
Port wondered if Tal could pour cereal milk into it, but decided not to ask such a stupid question. “Is it for your, uh… cyst-ic…?” He could not remember the full name, though he suspected Tal might have the condition ever since he saw the pill bottles and various medical equipment around the house.
Tal’s eyebrows raised, and he dropped his shirt. “Cystic fibrosis?”
“Right, that’s it.”
“You’ve heard of it? Did Rida tell you?”
“Yes. I mean no. Um…” I shouldn't have even brought this up. “Mr. Oz— I mean— your father… he mentioned it,” Port muttered.
Tal’s eyes went a little wide, but his expression was otherwise blank, straight-mouthed. “He talked to you about me?” he asked, after a moment.
“Not really... It just came up once or twice.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Not really,” Port repeated, pinned under Tal’s round-eyed stare.
Another beat of silence, punctuated by the sound of an explosion coming from the TV. His next question hung in the air like he wasn't even sure if he wanted to speak it aloud: “What was he like?”
This was not a conversation Port wanted to be having this early in the morning. Or ever.
He must have hesitated for too long, because Tal cut him off right as he opened his mouth. “Never mind,” he said, dropping his eyes. He scraped at one of his cuticles with his thumbnail, face unreadable. “You don’t have to tell me.”
content: pet whump (bbu), institutionalized abuse/slavery, thinking about dead whumper, meeting new caretaker(?)
Somehow, Port was not prepared for this moment. He knew— for however many hours it had been, now— that he should have been steeling himself. Still, he had not managed it. His chest constricted every time he thought about it. This did not feel real.
Surely this was all just some elaborate conspiracy constructed to convince him to crack. But if this was the truth, if his master's children were really behind that door, he was being condemned to a special kind of torture. How could he look them in the eyes? Would they be the same ones he had met nearly every day for the past two years? Would they be the ones he had shut his own against, in the very end?
It kept playing out behind his eyelids.
He could hardly even look at Sonny. It felt wrong to speak to him, like the mere act of opening his mouth would lay bare every disgusting thought inside of him, like they would slither over his tongue and out from between his lips past the gate of his teeth and plant themselves in him, who never deserved to get wrapped up in it all.
Standing on the stairs before this strange house’s blue door, staring at the flannel on this social worker’s back, it was hard to keep up the pretense that it was all just a ploy. He now belonged to them, the next generation. This would supposedly be where he spent the rest of his life— but knowing how things typically unfolded around him, surely some tragedy would strike sooner than that. There was no way this was it. That there was no hitch. That he was just… moving on.
It was clear he needed to act like a proper fucking pet. As the social worker's arm arose, knuckles knocking on the paint, Porter resolved to act normal. He cleared his mind. For five seconds, he thought of nothing at all.
The door opened too soon, creaking inward. In the sliver of open air, half a face appeared. Its single dark eye, the focal point, was the first thing he fixated on. He did not have time to look away.
It was… unfamiliar. As the door opened wider, he released his breath. This woman... she didn’t look much like Mr. Oz at all.
Her eyes— they were dark, yes, but too round and large in her face. Her lips were too full, jaw too soft. Her hair was the same color, but chopped at her chin, bangs so short most of her forehead was on display. Her nose bore some resemblance, maybe, but the shining ring in her septum distracted from it. She was short— he had to look down at her.
And— what was that around her neck? A deep red stripe across her throat, color of blood. A collar.
A collar?
He took a second look at her face. Was this a pet? No. She was surely Parsa Osman's daughter. The resemblance was there. He would recognize it anywhere, even through the cloak of a generation gap. It was hard to place, but there was a certain harmony in her appearance. Something subtle about the slope of her features. Her nose, her complexion, her black hair and eyes.
“Ms. Rida,” Beau greeted. “It’s good to see you again.”
Rida’s fingers, adorned with silver rings, curled around his offered hand. Those would certainly leave a mark. “You, too. Good morning.”
“Right— it is morning, isn’t it? I’ve been up so long it feels like noon.”
“How productive,” she said lightly. Her gaze slid over to Port. She regarded him from underneath those lidded eyes with an expression he couldn’t quite identify. Her dark-painted lip curled. “I see you’ve brought... them.”
Beau must have caught some contempt, because he hesitated. "Yes," he said.
Then her lips stretched, thinning, turning up at the corners. If this smile seemed a little disdainful as she pulled the door open wider, he could hardly blame her. He and Sonny were not an easy sight. Surely she had been expecting something more… dignified. “Come in, get out of the cold,” she said curtly.
“Thank you,” Beau said. “We do have some things to discuss. It shouldn’t take long.” He turned his head briefly over his shoulder as he stepped foot in the house, smiling in a way that was probably supposed to be reassuring.
Port forced himself to follow Beau inside before his chest collapsed in on itself— before he might find his feet stuck to the ground.
In the few seconds he’d known Rida, he’d expected the house to be dark and moody, like her long black skirt and knit sweater. But no— it was open, glowing, and splashed with color. He spied multiple potted plants and various decorations, including a wood carving on the wall by a set of doors leading out to the patio. On a rod above them hung curtains that nearly swept the floor, pushed aside to allow for the sun. The aroma of coffee lingered.
The reality still had not settled into the creases of his brain. It all felt like a set piece. There must be people hiding behind the furniture— crouched near the couch, curled under the curtains, waiting to jump up and surround him and take him out for good.
“Take your shoes off, please. We can sit at the table.”
Port stepped out of the yellow sandals— they were too small for him, toes hanging over the edge— and arranged them neatly by the rack next to an askew pair of sneakers. They were noticeably bigger than the little black shoes next to them.
The only thing differentiating the living room from the kitchen was the switch from hardwood to vivid patterned tile, splitting the floor in half. Rida guided them to the wooden table, a chair for each of them. A plant hung from a hook in the ceiling above it, vines spilling over the edge of the pot and drooping like green ribbons.
“Do you want anything to drink? Coffee? I already have a pot on.”
“Sure, I’ll have a cup. Thank you,” Beau said, pulling out his chair.
Rida looked expectantly to Port and Sonny.
“Um, yes, ma’am,” Sonny said, dipping his head. “I’ll have one, too, please.” That would be his third cup of coffee today, and it wasn’t even 9 AM.
“No, thank you,” Port said.
“Water?”
“I’ll take water, ma’am. Thank you.”
Her back was already turned to him. The cupboard door smacked against wood as she crouched to grab a cup and two mugs. Glass clinked on the tile counters. She pulled a pitcher from the fridge and filled the cup, not quite to the brim.
Port sat himself at the table along with Sonny and Beau, chair legs sliding across the tile. The back was woven wicker and scratchy, rogue rattan pieces poking at him through his thin sweatshirt. He eyed the couch from this new angle. Nobody was hiding behind it.
“Is Talha here?” Beau asked.
“No,” Rida said, placing the cup in front of Port. It, too, was colorful. Crystalline, tinged-blueish green. Port ran his thumb over the textured surface when Rida turned away again, letting the cool sensation seep through the acrylic to his fingerprint. “He’s at school,” Rida said, pouring coffee. “He wanted to stay home, but I made him go.”
Beau’s mouth lifted. “Does he usually try to skip?”
She huffed. “Yeah. Tries.” She set the steaming mugs in front of them, with a spoon for each. She grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge. There was already a small bowl of white sugar in the center of the table, a delicate silver handle sticking out of it. Rida finally planted herself in the fourth chair, which creaked under her weight. “I thought it would be better if he was away while you two got settled in. He... has a big personality,” she explained vaguely.
Beau’s smile stretched thinner. “He is excitable, isn’t he?”
Port shared a look with Sonny. He wondered if Talha might look more like his father.
Sonny sipped tentatively from his mug. He eyed the sugar, but seemed unwilling to take a spoonful. Port knew he preferred his coffee sweet, so he reached for the bowl of sugar and nudged it gently towards him, scraping across the wood. Sonny’s mouth pulled, sheepish. He timidly scooped a spoonful and tilted it into his coffee.
Rida was watching, but did not comment. She might have grinned— it was hard to tell, as she seemed to sport a permanently bothered expression. She placed her hands flat on the table and looked to Beau. “What is it we need to go over?”
“Let’s get into it,” Beau said. He set on the table a folder Port hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. He opened it and smoothed it flat, unveiling a small stack of paper. The topmost document was in a print too small and too dense for Port to even attempt to make out. “Just a few things."
~~~
After some formal introductions, legal talk, document signing, and more chatter, Beau gathered his things and said his goodbyes. He took a moment to shake Rida’s hand again, then, oddly, shook Sonny and Port’s as well. He even grasped Port’s hand with two of his own, encasing it in his warm palms. He met his eyes in what was possibly supposed to be a significant look. Port returned his smile politely. A corner of the card Beau had given him in the car was poking at the soft skin of his hip where he had tucked it into his waistband. He thought about tearing it up and flushing it down the toilet.
After Beau left the folder with Rida’s copies of the documents lying on the table, she followed him to the door and shut it gently behind him. She stood there for a moment, unmoving, palm still pressed to the paint. Her shoulders rose and fell.
Port glanced at Sonny. Nerves were written all over his face. He lifted the mug to his lips and took an anxious gulp of what must be the last bit of coffee remaining, his wide eyes meeting Port’s over the rim. Port tried to smile, aiming for something comforting, but he must have severely missed the mark because Sonny only looked more freaked out.
They broke eye contact as Rida finally turned, crossing her arms over her chest. She leaned against the door, back pressing to it, peering at them through her long lashes. She tilted her chin down, lifted a hand, and started biting at her black thumbnail. “All the way from Texas, huh?” she asked around the nail between her teeth. Port pictured her accidentally biting her entire thumb off and was subsequently revolted at himself for even imagining such a thing.
Be normal, Port repeated to himself like a mantra. Be normal. Sonny opened his mouth to speak, but Port beat him to it. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, very normally. He wondered if he should stand up to address her, but decided to remain seated.
She tucked her hands into her armpits, nearly swallowed by her sweater. The silver ring in her strange collar glinted as she tilted her head. “Heard you got some of that nasty cold snap.”
“We did, ma’am,” Port said. “Mighty cold, but not so bad.” He’d been numb, either way.
“Mighty cold..." she muttered. "You don’t have anything with you.”
“Pardon?”
Her eyes flicked around like she was missing something— to the shoe rack, the table legs, their hands. “You didn’t bring anything?”
Were they supposed to? They hadn’t exactly been given the opportunity to collect things. When the police showed up, after Port called them, they were hustled out the door and forbidden from returning inside. “We weren’t able to, ma’am.”
Her eyebrows raised. She was missing half of each of them, the ends closest to her temples, like she’d had an accident with a razor. It made them look tiny. “They didn’t even give you a trash bag to throw some clothes in?”
Now she was mad at him. They were already off to a poor start. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he apologized, trying not to cringe. “We didn’t— they didn’t—“ He gave up on trying to explain himself. “We don’t have anything. I’m sorry.” They’d be lucky if she even provided them with toothbrushes.
Her face shifted, though she still seemed to be wearing that perpetually irritated look. “It’s not your fault,” she said. “Of course you wouldn’t…” She trailed off and dropped her head. She ran her fingers through her short bob and adjusted the way her bangs rested on her forehead. “I don’t know what I expected.” She shook her hair out a little and lifted her chin again, expression lighter. “Have you eaten yet?”
“Yes, ma’am.” At least he could say that much. “Mr. Beau took us for breakfast.” Even though he’d hardly ate, she shouldn’t be obligated to provide them with a meal. He had little appetite. The thought of putting anything in his mouth, splitting something with his teeth and feeling it press against his tongue, made him nauseous.
“Good.” She finally pushed off the door with her shoulder, clucking her tongue. “You poor things looked freezing out there. And you’re skinny, too. That doesn’t help.” Her gaze was lingering on Sonny, an odd look in her eyes. “You, especially.”
Sonny curled in on himself, singled out. The small hairs on the back of Port’s neck stood on end. Already, he felt the need to defend him. Please, no more of this, he begged whoever might be listening. Don’t target him.
“What happened to your face, babe?” she asked.
Oh. The bruise on Sonny’s nose was quite obvious in the light shining through the windows. Port couldn’t help but shut his eyes against the reminder— the image of that stranger laying his hands on Sonny. His own hands, in his lap, clenched into fists against his will. He imagined they were wrapped around the man’s throat. He imagined he could feel the pulse quicken under his thumbs through the crepey skin. He imagined squeezing until it went still. He let the urge wash over him, trying not to let the disgust at himself show on his face.
When he opened his eyes again, Sonny had lifted his hand, brushing against his nose like he might be able to feel the fuzzy edges of the bruise under his fingertips. “What?” he asked.
“Oh.” Sonny was like a deer caught in headlights. “I don’t know,” he said, refusing to elaborate.
Rida’s suspicious look didn’t go away, but she also didn’t press the matter further.
~~~
She gave them a tour of the place. It was awfully short— the house was quite small. Cozy, he supposed, would be the word. They had already seen the main part, the open living room and kitchen. There was only one floor, and three bedrooms: the one allowed to them, near the front of the house, and the ones belonging to her and her brother in the back. She let them poke their heads into each. Hers managed to look dramatic even with the sunlight streaming through the window, an extravagant canopy draping around her bed like a queen’s. Talha's room, on the other hand, seemed particularly messy even for a school-age boy’s. The sheets on the bed were crumpled and shoved to the side. Empty plastic bottles and various bric-a-brac littered the floor. There was an intimidating pile of clothes pushed into one corner next to what looked like a small rug rolled up and leaned against the wall.
Rida sighed at the sight, pressing her temple to the door frame. “I told him to clean.” She rocked her head back and forth, earrings swaying. “He’s still organizing his shit. He used to live in the front room, where you’ll be staying now.” A thought seemed to come to her as she craned her neck up to look at Port, eyes flicking from his feet to his chest. He suppressed the urge to hunch. She didn’t even reach his chin. It felt downright wrong to be looking down at his master. Mr. Oz had been slightly taller than him. And before, with… well. He’d usually been sitting. Or kneeling. Or curled up on the floor.
“How tall are you?” Rida asked.
“Six feet, ma’am,” he said. He might actually be shorter, but that’s what was on his paperwork. He remembered how a handler made him stand with his heels against the wall, inspecting which numbered mark touched the top of his head. “Five-eleven…” he had muttered, pressing on Port’s hair with a hand to flatten it. “I’ll round up. You’re welcome.” Then he’d smiled at Port like he was supposed to be grateful or care about that at all.
Rida clucked her tongue. “Tal’s clothes should fit you. He’s tall. That kid’s grown two inches in the last month alone.” She picked her way to the precarious pile in the corner of the room. “Too many tall people in my life,” she lamented. She selected a few pieces of clothing, threatening the structural integrity of the pile. “There are some older clothes, too, so Sonny will have smaller things to wear."
Port couldn’t help but be amused at the disgruntled look that crossed Sonny’s face at being small. It passed by the time Rida turned around with an armful.
“Will he be okay with us wearing his clothes, ma’am?” Sonny asked.
Rida rolled her eyes, and— wow. Port could really see the resemblance in that little quirk. “He’ll be fine,” she said dismissively. “I’m sorry I don’t have any new clothes for you. I wasn’t sure what sizes you are, and… well, I thought you’d have some already.” She once again looked them over from head-to-toe. “We can go shopping, soon, and get rid of those ugly things you’re wearing.” Port peered down at himself, at the dingy grey.
Ugly.
After that, she showed them the laundry closet and the bathroom and finished by setting Talha’s clothes on the kitchen table by the abandoned folder. “Okay,” she said with an air of finality. “I hope you two can settle in. I’m, uh… heading out.”
Already? She hadn’t even gone over rules, or expectations… maybe they were just supposed to figure it out. Before either of them got a chance to respond, she had already grabbed her car keys from a hook by the front door and slipped her shoes on— the shiny black ones. “There’s food and water in the fridge. You can drink from the tap if you really want to. Um…” she dragged a hand down her cheek, thinking of anything else she should say. “The remote’s on the ottoman. Feel free to shower. I’ll be back around three. With Tal.” Her keychain jingled in her grip. “Is there anything else you need?”
Port blinked. “Is there anything you’d like us to get done while you’re gone?”
Rida fixed him with a blank stare for a second. “No. I just want you to relax.”
Okay. That wasn't going to happen. “Yes, ma’am," he said.
Rida stared at him for a moment longer, before her hand settled on the doorknob. She said: “Goodbye." Then the door opened, and shut, and she was gone. She had not even cast a parting glance over her shoulder.
