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

chapter thirty.

"Right. Well, if you insist on being a sulky brat . . ." Sir left the bed, pulling his legs through his jeans. The buttons on his shirt were left undone, his hairy belly exposed as he patrolled the basement, collecting the books into the supplies crate. Tossing them in, one by one, with a heavy thud. thud. thud.

The sound drilled into Case, each thud winding his nerves tighter. He brought his fist to his mouth, chewing the scabby cuticles to keep his hand from tremoring.

"Did you keep my clothes?"

Sir paused, a brick-sized paperback still in hand, and incredulity on his face. "What?"

"The clothes I was wearing . . . when you took me. What did you do with them?"

"I changed you outta those before I even strapped you into the car."

"Oh." He tried to recall what he'd been wearing that night. A plaid jacket, an old staple he'd worn until it was thin enough to be comfortable in the middle of summer. "So, they're gone."

"Yep." thud. thud.

Case nodded, tearing strips of skin down his thumb. His clothes. His phone. The only personal artifacts he could have possibly brought with him, gone. "If I wasn't here anymore, would you have anything to remember me?"

"An unmarked grave?"

Case got to his feet. Blood rushing like white noise in his head. Airways cinching. "I can't . . ." He slapped himself across the face—

"Hey!" Sir shouted.

But Case kept whacking himself across the face, the head. "God, I can't do this anymore!"

He got into the shower. Turned on the faucet, letting the water blast against him. Cold, ice cold. He gasped, shuddering. Stayed under the stream. The water started to warm, steam beginning to curl around him. He took off the cap for the body wash. Inhaled, filling his head with the summer-fresh scent of citrus.

This isn't okay. This doesn't feel okay.

He sensed Sir's presence behind him.

"What's happening?" asked the big, grown-up man voice.

Case clawed his nails into his forehead. Took a shuddering breath, feeling himself coming apart at the seams. "I don't know. I don't know, I'm so confused."

"Why?"

Because I think I love you. Because I don't think you love me. Because I don't know why I keep telling myself this is okay.

"I can't keep doing this."

"Do you still want to leave?"

"I . . ."

When he couldn't answer, Sir pressed again: "What do you want, Case?"

I want better than this. More than this. 

But the want for something more was too big, too abstract for him to understand. Unable to put things into words, even in his own head, he muttered, "I don't know."

Sir didn't respond. Eventually, Case forgot he was there, and didn't notice when he'd left. Case stayed under the shower until the water went from scalding back to cold. His skin was raw, his body shaking. He crawled back into bed, curling into a ball as tremors pulsed through him. Damp hair stuck to his forehead. From the shower or sweat, he couldn't tell. Something was wrong. He must've been getting sick, or purging a poison that'd coursed through his system.

Case zoned out, not coming back to himself until later that night when the basement door swung open with a bang-thud. He sat up, drowsy and confused, his body responding to the noise.

"Casey! Come up here."

If Sir needed help carrying something into the basement, that probably meant Case was getting another icebox full of food. Which meant Sir was about to disappear for a few weeks again. As Case pushed himself to the staircase, it occurred to him a break from Sir could be nice. He wanted a pause, a reset. Needed one.

The basement door was wide open. A tall, wooden bookshelf was wedged through the doorway.

"This end will be heavy, so get on the other side."

Case ducked under the shelf. Crouch-walked his way through the doorway. He stood, on the other side, in the vestibule between the basement and freedom. For a moment, he was thrown. Toilet paper, stacks and stacks of it, lined one of the walls. Case stared, thinking Sir was hoarding for the zombie apocalypse.

"You got your end?"

"Yeah." Case took hold of the top end of the bookshelf. He repositioned himself, angling to start carrying the bookshelf down the stairs. Hair dangled in his eyes. He whipped his head, clearing the stray locks.

The door—the other door—caught his eye. The second door, the one that'd been locked during his first and only escape attempt, was open. Only slightly. Ajar enough for light from the other side to spill into the holding room.

Case froze.

He could escape. There was no way Sir would be able to catch him now. Not with the heavy bookshelf blocking the way.

Run, he told himself. Go, run, now, he thought, willing himself to move.

But he was paralyzed.

Sir pulled the bookshelf toward him. Case, still holding the shelf, followed. He steered the shelf, his mind racing: What am I doing? What are you doing, you idiot?

He helped Sir navigate the bookshelf into place, setting it up beside the pipes snaking out of the wall. Together, they stood back, observing the final result of their hard work. Sir heaved a proud sigh, and draped his arm around Case's shoulders, pulling him into a sweaty armpit.

"I was thinking what you said. It's not much, but it's more. And it's all yours."

Case nodded, too rattled to fake a smile or mutter a thank you. He wasn't leaving this basement. His one chance, and he'd blown it. Choked. Froze.

That's it, he thought, seeing the rest of his life pan out in front of him. Either he'd end up pissing off Sir and getting himself killed, or he'd simply grow too old to be desirable and would be disposed of like putting a gray-haired mutt out of its misery. I'm going to die down here.

When Sir left, he tried to distract himself by sorting his books into the shelf. When he was done, he'd only filled one row. There were five more shelves to fill. The empty shelves staring at him, he wondered, was this really how little he cared about himself? Forget graduating, or going to college, or building a career or family, or even spending his spare time playing guitar or riding his skateboard just for fun. He'd let his life, the sole purpose of his survival, be reduced to collecting second-hand books while Sir used him for sex.

Was this really how desperate he'd become for companionship?

If this was what he was willing to settle for, no wonder no one else had ever given him more.