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Hansel 4(2)

By:Ella James


I think as I sag down onto the mattress that this time, she didn’t come on my face. I don’t remember. Did she?

“You’re pathetic! Sick! Disgusting! I had a surprise for you but fuck it now, Hansel!” She grabs my left wrist. Jerks. I try to sit up, but I’m too dizzy. Fucking Viagra.

“I’ll leave your door open. You can wait in the foyer. I’ll be back tonight sometime with a surprise you don’t deserve!”

My eyes are rolling back into my head as she stomps out the door. I wait for it to slam, but…nothing.

*

I’m not sure how long I’m out, but when I wake up, the first place my eyes go is the door.

It’s open.

Holy fucking hell.

For a little while, it’s enough to just lie there and imagine. But soon, the curiosity turns to fear. Why did she do this? What’s in the foyer? Can I even walk that far?

I push myself up on my elbows, and the room tilts. Not as much as before.

I look down at myself and feel the cloak of shame fall over me.

I did this to myself: not just the sharp hipbones framing my dick—but all of this. It’s my fault that I’m here. I could blame Mother. I could choose to hate her. But why? It’s true, what she says: I could have ended up somewhere worse than here, where the worst things that happen to me are that Mother feels me up and I decide to wash my food down the drain.

I don’t like this room, so I could hate her for that, but it doesn’t look like that’s necessary.

I pull the brown sheet over myself and turn my body slowly so my legs are dangling off the side of the mattress. The door is right in front of me. I can see the shadows from the torches in the hallway. I can smell the smoke.

Mother left the door open.

She let me out.

I wonder if something happened to Boy Blue.

I never liked that little prick, but…fuck. Mother can be a bitch. More than even he deserves. I wouldn’t put it past her to do something terrible to him.

I wonder, as I get onto my knees on the floor, what I did to prompt Mother to take Boy Blue as her roommate anyway. She never told me. I just woke up one morning, and there he was.

I crawl over to my desk. Every time I move, I imagine I can hear my bones creaking. That’s how tired and broken down they feel.

I’m crawling because I know I can’t just get up. The other day, I had a nightmare— The other day, I tried to get up and I couldn’t do it.

I don’t know how long ago that was. A few days, I think? But I’ll admit it: things have gotten worse since then.

A few more seconds of my kneecaps trembling against the rug, and I can reach the desk. I walk my hands up one of its legs, then grasp the drawer in the middle. I balance on my heels, like a fucking frog with a hard-on, and try to pull with my biceps while I push with my thighs. I grunt a little as I stand. I mutter a curse as my dick hits the desk. I fucking hate Viagra.

I’ve got clothes somewhere in here—the brown shirt and pants she gave me when she put me in this room—but I glance around and I can’t see them. Things are still spinning. My eyes feel heavy.

I have to make it to the foyer, have to see what’s going on, so I start toward the door.

The first few steps are haunted by my memories.

I’m sitting on the side of the bed with my legs dangling off. They say I have to sit like this to get my strength back, but I never do. Not unless the nurses bully me into it. It’s been two days since I woke up. Two days that feel like two hundred—in my mind. My body, on the other hand, feels as if no times has passed since I got here. I feel nauseated and dizzy. Every time I flex my legs or shift my shoulders, my heart beats too hard.

“So what do you think?” asks the woman in the chair beside my bed.

I look down at my bare calves. They look strange, the skin so dark against the white gown. I wrap my right hand around the bed’s rail, squeezing weakly. The other one is in a sling. I like the sling. I think of it like an offering. A bloody sacrifice rejected by the god of her. They can sew it up and wrap it up in bandages, but it will always bleed. I wish she would have taken it.

“Do you want to live at my house?” the woman asks.

I swallow. Damn her fucking voice. It makes my eyes ache and sting. Makes my mouth hot. She looks at me, and my throat tightens. I wish she would just leave.

Instead, she leans forward. “I’ve got three great daughters, Luke. They would be your sisters. Foster sisters.”

I want to make a crack about that. I’ve seen pictures of her ‘great daughters’. They look like great fucks to me. I wonder if saying that would make her leave.

“I don’t need sisters,” I whisper, avoiding her face with my gaze.

“Lucas, you’ve got no one. Is there anyone who cares for you?”