[He Who] Say[s] Nothing
I... don't know what particular synapse was firing in my brain to produce this.
Blood looks so striking on fair skin; as the crimson liquid wells up from a wound, the pale membrane becomes a delicate canvas on which one can create and design whatever one wishes, as long as they have the imagination.
Harvey Specter does not lack in imagination.
Harvey Specter is an artist and Mike Ross is his newest canvas.
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Michael Anthony Ross: Twenty-four years of age; five feet, nine inches; short, dark-blond hair; blue eyes; only child of Charles and Denise Ross (both deceased); grandson of Helena Ross; last seen on Tuesday, the eighteenth of November, at 10:35 p.m. as he departed for his late shift at the local all-night diner; missing three days; no foul play is suspected. Any information leading to Michael’s safe return will be rewarded.
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Defiant eyes glare up at him, the ocean-colored depths bright with hatred, despite the agony that lurks just behind the false bravado they are projecting. Harvey places the tip of his knife beneath the strong chin held up in a display of insolence, as a sign of rebellion in the face of the pain Harvey is inflicting. He presses up, nicking the soft skin, and watches in a sort of detached fascination as the resulting drop of blood trails slowly down the blade. An accidental whimper escapes his subject’s lips as Harvey pulls the knife away, gliding the tip over their bitten and bloodied surface, and presses into the warm mouth just past them. He lets the blade rest atop the young male’s tongue, watches as the saliva gradually accumulates as he tries not to swallow lest the knife slip to the back of his throat.
Harvey asks him, mockingly, why he looks so frightened now.
The boy says nothing.
Eventually, the knife is removed from the boy’s mouth. Harvey trails it downward, over the still defiant chin, down the delicate skin of the neck, past the dip in the hollow of the throat, over the pectoral muscles, stopping at one of the small, pink nipples. He presses in, watches as the knife splits the puckered flesh. He delights in the pained gasp that fills his ears, glances up to smile at the wide cobalt gaze as it fills with distress. He smiles, dark and cruel, and twists the blade.
The scream hurts his ears.
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Michael Anthony Ross: Twenty-four years of age; five feet, nine inches; short, dark-blond hair; blue eyes; last seen on Tuesday, the eighteenth of November; missing ten days; no foul play is suspected. Information leading to Michael’s return is requested and will be rewarded.
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An obstinate gaze meets Harvey’s cheerful countenance when he enters the guestroom. Michael’s wrists twist as he begins anew his fight to escape, the thick ropes securing his wrists to the bedrail above his head chafing and abrading his already raw flesh. Harvey clicks his tongue in teasing disapproval, slides his fingers over the restraints and circles Michael’s wrist, rubbing his thumb over the redness there. Michael snarls, expression filled with that sort of fearful hatred Harvey craves.
Harvey asks Michael if he has been a good boy while he was away.
Michael says nothing.
Harvey kneels on the bed, lips slanting in bemusement as Michael’s struggles increase, the pink edges of his newly healed wounds highlighted by the single lamplight as he twists and turns. Harvey slides his hand deliberately down Michael’s arm, his fingers dancing over the gooseflesh rising in his wake. He skims lightly up the graceful neck, marred with beautiful discolorations-some in the shapes of his own fingers, others wider, made by belts and ties and, in one case, a rope-before he cups Michael’s cheek, his thumb smoothing firmly over a prominent cheekbone.
Michael spits at him.
Harvey laughs.
Screams fill the air.
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Michael Anthony Ross: Twenty-four years of age; five feet, nine inches; short, dark-blond hair; blue eyes; missing seventeen days; no foul play is suspected. Volunteers for search teams are requested.
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Harvey begins giving Mike privileges-limited time for private showers, unescorted use of the restrooms, a few hours unbound from the bed; he even gives Mike one of his old button-ups to wear.
Mike’s eyes become more conflicted, wary of each glimpse of benevolence, the distortion of his views of kindness skewed by Harvey, who just smiles through it all and asks why Mike seems so unhappy to be with him.
Mike says nothing.
He glances at the door, then at Harvey, blue eyes dull.
Harvey laughs and tells Mike he isn’t forcing him to stay. He opens the door himself and walks to his bedroom.
When he returns half an hour later, the door is closed and Mike is curled on the couch.
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Michael Anthony Ross: Missing twenty-four days. Search teams have been implemented.
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Harvey moves Mike to his room. Harvey tells Mike he should be thankful, grateful even, that he is special-none of the others had made it this far.
He bows his head.
Harvey smiles.
Mike says thank you.
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Michael Anthony Ross: Missing thirty-one days. Search teams called off; presumed dead.
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