"NO! Please, please, don't do this. Please! Trey! TREY! Help me. Please! Somebody help me."
Trey fought against the wire that held him tied against the pole in the abandoned, partly demolished stable.
"Did you know that psychic pain is ten-fold more powerful and lingers longer than physical pain? Actually, mental scars rarely leave the mind. They are always there, hiding in the back of one's mind, pressuring, pushing the person down."
The whisper was like a caress of frog skin against his ear.
Trey grimaced, his lips curving down in disgust, while the knuckles of his curled hands turned white.
"TREY! PLEASE!"
"Ah. What a sweet voice your sister has. And she looks sweet too, with such smooth skin and those big eyes. It's a shame that she's too old for me. I would have loved to lose myself in her four, five years ago."
Trey fought stronger, more furiously, blood dampening the fabric of his torn shirt wherever the wire pressed against his body.
"Would you like to know what they are doing to her?"The man leaned over Trey. "They are tearing her apart, enjoying themselves in her."
Trey stubbornly stared in those cold eyes and while the knots of the wire pushed deeper into his flesh he memorized the narrow face, the evil arch of lips to the smallest detail, because someday, someday... The nails cut in the softness of his palm.
"SOMEBODY, PLE-"
Silence descended over the barn, and it was so loud that a sharp pain pierced Trey's ear drums. His rushed breath accelerated, his cheeks puffed as the tape on his mouth kept him from exhaling, and he fought with the darkness that started to over take him.
"Oh, no, you don't."
Taking a deep breath, Trey pushed himself forward, his forehead touched his knees, his scalp damp and his breath rushing in and out of his lungs. In the light from the crack of the closetdoor he stared with eyes sticky from sleep at the white linen dotted with small flowers that covered his trembling legs.
It was just a dream of a distant memory, nothing more.
Just a dream.
He blinked a couple of times, while his shaking, handcuffed hands went into the right pocket of his hoodie. In the darkness, Nash had unclasped the handcuffs from the bed on which Trey had spent the night, tied Trey's hands together and pushed him into the closetHe'd given him another Valium and a sleeping pill, and put a vial into his hoodie's pocket so that Trey could reach it in case he needed additional sedatives, which of course he did. So pathetic.
Trey tugged the vial out from the pocket and popped the cap open. On the palm of his hand he shook out the tablet, tossed it into his mouth and swallowed it. Slowly the trembling left him, but images of the past still lingered. They were always there in the back of his mind, not as clear as they used to be, the colours washed out and images of Steve's face a little blurry, but they were still there haunting him as strongly as they did in beginning and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't chase them away.
Not even the years spent lying on a comfortable couch in a psychiatrist's office or the time in a mental clinic-- when he had lived in a small white room with metal frame beds and a peephole in the door had helped. But after two years of being under constant scrutiny he had started to pretend that it was helping.
Trey closed his eyes, leaned on the wall of the cabinet and pressed his cheek against the smooth wood.
A confrontation with Steve should, in theory, help. Liam, his psychiatrist of eight years and part-time lover, who had used his vulnerable state as a fifteen-year-old boy with a crush – a fact which Trey liked to point out whenever he needed to extort something from Liam--had said that Trey should face his demons. And that was exactly what Trey was trying to do. But he had only managed to get himself tied up and stashed in the closet.
The worst part was that he could only blame himself for getting into this situation, his stupidity, and his stubbornness which hadn't allowed him to leave even when it became obvious that he had the wrong man – a man who, despite the torture that Trey inflicted on him, wasn't going to talk.
Through the crack he looked into the empty room, trying to judge from the light that was pouring though the window what time it was. Twelve, one o'clock?
With his tied hands and legs, he could crawl out of the closet, but then what? There was nothing he could use to free himself, Nash had placed all the sharp objects out of his reach, on one of the kitchen cabinet's highest shelf, and the handcuff key had gone with Nash. Also, his backpack with his cell phone was still behind the couch and there wasn't a way to reach it with his constricted arms.
If this had been a good neighbourhood, he might have tried to get out of the flat and get help from the neighbours, but here, they were more likely to check if their doors were locked or take advantage of his situation than give him any help. He was screwed.
He lay down on the closet floor and made himself as comfortable as he could on the pile of linen and clothes. He felt drowsy lately, and it wasn't just the pills;it happened a lot when he found himself in stressful situations. He closed his eyes, focused his thoughts on the good things, on the good memories.
He didn't know when his brain shut down and withdrew from reality or how much time had passed since he had closed his eyes, but a noise made him jump up and he felt his heartbeat speeding, thudding in his chest and his body shivering. He pushed himself up and peeked through the crack. It wasn't dark, but it wasn't light either. He saw a shadow on his knees on the floor beside the door. It picked itself up and staggered toward the closet in which Trey lay hiding. The grey light coming through the window dispersed the shadow of the man coming closer and shaped out the features.
Trey released a breath he didn't know he had been holding. It was Nash. He frowned. And something seemed to be wrong with him.
Nash opened the closet's door, grabbed Trey's hands and pulled him out. He fumbled with something in his pants pocket, a groan escaping his throat, then his fingers were at Trey's wrists.
The key slid into the lock and turned.
Trey shook the handcuffs off and then his numb fingers were at the tie around his ankles, tugging and pulling until the rope fell off.
"Take your things and go." Nash started to dig though the pile in the closet.
With his legs wobbling, Trey went to the couch and drew his backpack the only thing he had brought with him. He sat down and looked toward Nash. "Are you going to let me go?"
"I just said it." Nash pulled a bag from the closet and threw some things into it. "Go."
Nash was letting him go? Just like that? Trey pushed himself up. And why was he questioning Nash's words instead of using this opportunity to disappear from this apartment? Was he still hoping to learn Steve's whereabouts? Was that what kept him from running through that door? "Nash?"
"What's wrong with you? Just go already!" With right hand Nash zipped up his bag, while he pressed the palm against the right side of his torso, his thumb touching the lower rib.
Yes, what was wrong with him? Trey pulled himself up. His legs still felt like jelly and he would probably have to rub his arms to get rid of the tingling sensation. He put his backpack on his shoulder. His head hurt, probably because of the pills and all that sleeping, and his mind felt sluggish and blank. He would take emptiness over the intensity and clearness of thought anytime, but right now he needed to think things through, and his brain didn't want to cooperate.
Nash threw his bag over his arm, pushed himself up and took a few steps, then doubled over.
"Nash?"
"Get out! Get out now!" Nash straightened. "And don't come back."
Trey tottered toward the door and through it, closing it behind him. He rushed into the elevator and spent the descent to the ground floor rubbing his arms and legs. He stepped out of the elevator, his step more firm than it had been moments ago, and went out of the building. He looked around, there were quite a few people on the street, searching for a place where he could take time, unnoticed, to decide his next step – no, where he could wait until Nash came through the door and follow him. His eyes zoomed toward the opposite pavement, a few steps to the right was a brown bench used by people waiting for the local bus. He went there and sat down between an old man and a girl, and then he waited, his fingers gripping the backpack's strap, his gaze on the apartment's entrance door.
The hour passed and there was no sign of Nash. Trey chewed his bottom lip. He was sure that Nash's packing had meant that Nash was leaving the flat. This waiting was a stupid idea, the whole Steve thing was a stupid idea, but... but he just couldn't give up now. Turning around would mean that everything he had done to this point, for this, was in vain and he couldn't afford that.
The wrinkle between his brows increased when he spotted the longhaired brunet who had visited Nash yesterday, disappearing though the entrance door. He and Nash had a deal of some sort, didn't they?
Twenty minutes later the brunet came back through the door. He stopped on the pavement, looking around, he turned left and right, stepped right, then turned and rushed to the left, his head down and his hands curled.
There had to be something wrong. Trey stood up and, like he was taking a stroll, crossed the street and went into the apartment building. He used the stairs to get to the third floor.
He stood by the brown swinging door for a couple of moments, observing the hallway through the cracked glass pane of the door. He wiped his clammy hand against his pants a few times before he pushed the door open and left the dark stairway.
His heart raced in his ribcage, faster and faster with each step he took toward Nash's apartment door. It wasn't closed, not completely, and Trey pushed it open.
The bed was pulled out from its frame, cabinet and closet doors gaped open, the drawers lay tossed on the floor, their contents spilled beside them, along with the fabric and even the wadding from the couch and mattress.
"Nash." Trey whispered. When there was no sound, he made a quick tour of the bathroom, which was empty and just as messy as the rest of the apartment, then, as if fire was burning his heels, he rushed out of the flat and back into the stairway.
What had happened? And where was Nash? Trey slid down into a squatting position, his heart still racing in his chest, his breath fast and shallow. He took another pill, which he probably shouldn't have done, but his body was already so accustomed to them that one more couldn't make too big a difference.
Why had the brunet trashed Nash's apartment? Trey leaned his elbows on his knees, his legs carrying all the weight despite their shaking, because even though he hadn't showered or changed his clothes in more than two days, there was no way he would have propped himself against that wall, stained with vomit and probably piss.
Shit. He closed his eyes and hung down his head. What was he going to do now?
The sound of something hitting against the metal rail drew his head up and he tilted it, listening. A heavy silence descended over him and as he strained his ears, he could hear quiet sounds of deep breathing. It could have been just his imagination. He stood up and, careful to make as little noise as possible, he went up the stairs and peeked around the corner.
It wasn't just his imagination, since there on the stairs, with his head leaned on the rail and his chest moving rapidly, half-sitting, half-lying down, was Nash.
Trey came closer and leaned over Nash. "Are you... are you all right?"
"You should have left." Nash looked up, his face a tired, stern mask.
"I did."
"But you came back, because you still want to know where Steve is?"
Trey squatted down on the lower stair, before Nash. "You admit now, that you are not Steve?"
"I might as well." Nash's lips curved into a ghost of a smile.
"You do?" Trey stared at Nash, he could feel his hopes rising from the ash in which they had been trampled, the thought of finally getting what he tried to get for the last two days making his head dizzy. "Will you tell me where I can find him?"
Nash nodded, the beads of perspiration at his hairline glistening in the weak light. "But under one condition?"
"What?" Trey had to restrain himself from grabbing the lapels of Nash's light jacket.
Nash pulled his hand out from under the edge of his black jacket, showing his palm to Trey, the blood oozing between his fingers. "You have to help me."