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

chapter ten. ?

Case violently gasped. His lungs inflated with air. Yes—yes! Air, sweet air. Sweet reprieve. Inhale–sputter, cough–exhale–a dry, relieved sob. He inhaled ravenously, oxygen clearing his senses like a breeze clearing dense fog.

"You don't want to die," Sir said, his voice a cocktail of malice and fact. "That's how I know you're not going to kill yourself. You're too weak."

He's right, hissed the voice, serpentinizing back into his consciousness. You're weak. Too weak for suicide. We all know that.

Sir stood—Case, still disorientated, sensing rather than seeing the movement. "We can play nice. Make this an easy, amicable situation. How this unfolds is all on you, Casey." Footsteps, a faint reverberation through the concrete and into Case's slack body. "Clean this shit up."

Against the rushing fluid in his ears and throbbing beat in his head, Case listened to the hazy sound of Sir ascending the staircase. The creaking open and close of the door overhead. Followed by what should have been silence—if it weren't for his harsh, uneven breathing.

Holy shit. He almost killed me . . . Holy shit . . .

For a long, long time Case stayed on the floor. Spread out, in a daze. Ears ringing. His body and the basement both seeming far away and intangible.

I almost died.

He swallowed, an unconscious reflex, and felt shards of glass inside his throat. He winced, imagining his windpipe as a caved-in tunnel. But the pain carried him back to reality. He sat up, the blood rushing from his head, shooting green sparks in his eyes. A pause, waiting for the wooziness to fade away.

When his vision cleared, he took in the full disarray of his surroundings. Clothes scattered across the floor. Empty drawers. The dresser on its side but still intact. Case inwardly sighed, knowing he'd have to clean the mess and already exhausted by the work. So instead, he forced himself into the shower, needing to reset and clear his senses.

Hot water eased the aches and tension in his muscles. Case hugged himself under the spray, too sore and tired to bother scrubbing himself clean with soap. He closed his eyes, and his brain bungeed him back to a certain moment before he was strangled: the moment he'd felt Sir's erection. He'd felt it, through both his sweatpants and Sir's denim jeans, pressed firm against his backside—but not for a second had he feared it. No, his terror had been overwrought and defined by one thing: his fear of dying.

I don't want to die.

Case sat on the shower floor, hot water turning lukewarm then cold as it hammered overhead. He brought his knees to his chest, sucking the knuckle of his thumb as he processed the realization he feared death more than rape.

I don't want to die down here . . .

And then, it dawned on him—slowly, like the sun waking up on a winter morning—if he couldn't escape and he was waiting for rescue, then he had to survive. And survival in this basement meant one thing: sex.

You survived a blowjob, the voice reminded him. That didn't ruin you.

Case swallowed involuntarily at the memory. The pain in his throat sharpened, reminding him the cost of saying no. The cost of prolonging the inevitable.

You're not a virgin. It's just sex. Not even that, it's a transaction without intimacy. Intercourse.

Sir could be nice. Sir said so himself: this could be easy, maybe even gentle if Case didn't put up a fight. It wouldn't be the first time Case had sex because someone else wanted him to. Not sex—intercourse.

One thing he was sure of: he wasn't going to die in this basement. He was going to feel sunshine on his skin, and drink sweetly-sour slushees and eat cheesy pizza, and wiggle his toes in freshly cut grass. He was going to finish his senior year of high school. He was going to apologize to Miles' family for being the reason their son was killed. He was going home, back to a family who loved him, and make up for all the hurt he'd put them through. No matter the cost.