Caleb groaned as he rolled over, pulling the sheets into small fistfuls. He peeled open his eyes but it remained dark. . . someone had turned the lights off?

The sheets smelled different. They were dusty? They didn't smell of the familiar scent of the vanilla cigars Griffin smoked-- the smoky, sweet aroma that clung to the bedding Caleb had been cocooned in for the past few days. Caleb was laying on his belly, so he wriggled his arms underneath him and pushed himself up onto his elbows-- just to have a sharp, slicing pain jolt through him. He crashed back down, gasping in pain and his limbs starting to tremble as his mind started to wake up a little more. 

His mind flooded with memories-- the dull ache from calloused fingertips as they dug into his arms, the soft cloth sliding over his eyes, the cool hands all over his skin as they tried to forcefully arouse him, the sharp, slicing pain of being penetrated--

A muffled, tearless sob escaped him. . . it was a deep, guttural wail of despair. Again and again the animal cries tore themselves from his throat; if it were up to him, he'd keep silent and not draw attention to himself and just bottle it all up inside so he didn't have to deal with what he was feeling-- but no. His body wouldn't allow him to shut down again. He had to get it out.

* * * 

Caleb was exhausted. He lay sprawled across the bed, still unsure why the sheets smelled stale and no one had come to bother him. . . did they not care anymore? Marjory? Oliver? No one cared? Had he been too much of a burden? He'd apologize, if only someone would come--

No one did. Caleb cried until no more liquid would come from his eyes and his throat would make no sound. He again tried to push himself up, this time moving much slower and sucking in a breath with every move he made. He pulled himself to the edge, trying to swing his legs over.

But instead, his deft body spilled over the edge. He landed on the floor with a thud, and a plume of dust billowed up around him. He pried open his swollen eyes and glanced around. . . still dark. But through the faint light that drifted in through the heavily curtained window, he realized he was in some different room. 

Momentarily forgetting his pain, adrenaline surged through him and he hauled himself to his feet. He stumbled over to the door and tried the knob. It was locked. He felt around the inside of the knob and then the entire door frame, but felt no way to unbar the door.

He was trapped. 

He sank down and pounded his fists into the wood, sending up clouds of dust that he choked on. "Why?!" He tried to scream, but it came out only as a hoarse, cracked whisper. "Why did you throw me away?!"

He cried as he crawled over to the bed, bumping into a dust-cover clad armchair as he passed. He didn't get back into bed-- he crawled around it, used what little strength he had left in his legs to push the bedframe away from the side wall, and tugged the heavy comforter off the bed. He wrapped it around him and jammed himself down into the crack he'd created. He knew there had to be cobwebs and mounds of dust back here, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He felt a shallow sense of safety here, cocooned in the dusty, heavy blanket and jammed in between the wall and bed so tight he couldn't move. He tried to imagine it was his mother's arms that held him so firmly, but that just made his heart ache so much more. 

After a while he calmed, and his mind started to clear a little. He lay with his eyes closed, listening for any sound outside the door. There was nothing. Not a footstep, not a voice, not even the heavy rumbling of the AC units turning on all over the huge mansion. Was he even in the house? Had they moved him? 

He felt discarded. Oliver must have been disgusted by him and decided to throw him out. 

A thought flashed across his mind so fast he almost missed it-- but it left a burning spark of hope in his chest. 

Would he be allowed to go home?

                   Part 32 Coming Soon