Humiliation
All the physical pain, the blows, the kicks, he can take. He falls to the ground that is both chilly and wet, but he can take it. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how much he bleeds. But he can’t handle the humiliation that follows. It’s too much for him to take.
The violence stops and he stands up. The man lets him stand up. But then the hands appear, from nowhere it seems to him. Cold, groping hands, in places they shouldn’t be. But he can’t do anything to stop those hands. Too shocked, too frail to fight. He feels weakness in his knees and not in a good way.
The hands, those violent hands, grow bolder and the feeling of sheer disgust overwhelms him. It makes him gag and shiver and cry in pure emotional pain.
At last, when pushed against the cold brick wall, he starts fighting back. Knowing it’s hopeless, pointless. His call for help echoes from the walls, nobody can hear him. And then, he can’t even shout anymore. The mouth is on his, the sickening taste of alcohol and bitterness like a slap in his face.
One bite leads into punches. Too many punches for him to take.
He feels numb, too numb to protest anymore, he stands up, shakily, again. Clothes vanish, but he can’t fight. He’s too tired to try, to even think. Sharp pain finally hits in.
He’s on his knees. The penetration makes him cry in pain. It’s too hard, too sudden, too humiliating. The hard member intruding his privacy makes him feel ashamed.
There are others, too. Each takes their turn and he waits for it to stop, sobbing quietly, endlessly. He feels dirty, worthless. They seem to be in no hurry, it lasts and lasts and lasts.
But then, finally, it comes to an end. Left there alone, lying on the wet ground covered in his own blood and their fluids, he cries until there are no tears left in him to cry.
There’s a warm, comforting hand on his shoulder as he stirs. He winces and retreats, remembering again, feeling frightened.
“It’s alright, Xabi, it’s me.” He looks at him, really looks at his face. And it is Stevie, belated and worried-looking. He melts into his arms, humiliated, dirty and ashamed, but in need of a rock to support him. His rock.
The violence stops and he stands up. The man lets him stand up. But then the hands appear, from nowhere it seems to him. Cold, groping hands, in places they shouldn’t be. But he can’t do anything to stop those hands. Too shocked, too frail to fight. He feels weakness in his knees and not in a good way.
The hands, those violent hands, grow bolder and the feeling of sheer disgust overwhelms him. It makes him gag and shiver and cry in pure emotional pain.
At last, when pushed against the cold brick wall, he starts fighting back. Knowing it’s hopeless, pointless. His call for help echoes from the walls, nobody can hear him. And then, he can’t even shout anymore. The mouth is on his, the sickening taste of alcohol and bitterness like a slap in his face.
One bite leads into punches. Too many punches for him to take.
He feels numb, too numb to protest anymore, he stands up, shakily, again. Clothes vanish, but he can’t fight. He’s too tired to try, to even think. Sharp pain finally hits in.
He’s on his knees. The penetration makes him cry in pain. It’s too hard, too sudden, too humiliating. The hard member intruding his privacy makes him feel ashamed.
There are others, too. Each takes their turn and he waits for it to stop, sobbing quietly, endlessly. He feels dirty, worthless. They seem to be in no hurry, it lasts and lasts and lasts.
But then, finally, it comes to an end. Left there alone, lying on the wet ground covered in his own blood and their fluids, he cries until there are no tears left in him to cry.
There’s a warm, comforting hand on his shoulder as he stirs. He winces and retreats, remembering again, feeling frightened.
“It’s alright, Xabi, it’s me.” He looks at him, really looks at his face. And it is Stevie, belated and worried-looking. He melts into his arms, humiliated, dirty and ashamed, but in need of a rock to support him. His rock.