Bad Life

Matt stared at George in a daze. I did the same—blankly staring at him. George gently stroked Matt’s cheek and said, “Go on—show us how you did it.”
“Don’t!” I sprang up from the chair, shouting. It wasn’t Jerome who’d brought Matt here, nor was it Jerome’s game with me that had summoned him. It was George’s doing!
“Don’t move, Matt!”
“If you don’t—”
George smiled viciously.
“I’ll cut off your hand.”
Matt’s face drained of color. With tears welling, he turned to me. My fearful premonition surged, and I blurted, “No, Matt! Don’t—”
George chuckled. “Or shall I sever your foot?”
That threat struck home. Matt’s eyes blazed red as he whirled toward me. The moment he rose, I toppled the chair and scrambled backward—only to be seized by the men surrounding us. They grabbed my collar and hair, hauled me to Matt’s feet, and flung me down. Matt fumbled forward, trying to climb onto me. Unable to shove him {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} away for fear of hurting him, I gripped his wrist and begged, “Matt, please—don’t make me do this, okay? Please…”
“But my fingers…” Matt sobbed.
“Take off his pants,” someone snarled.
I held Matt’s wrist, whispering, “I can’t… please…”
We couldn’t withstand the stares pouring onto us. We stood in the glare of bright lights, surrounded by unfamiliar men leering at us with sick curiosity. One demon even exposed himself and began to rub against his erection.
But more humiliating than any of them were the faces of the top-floor boys watching—curiosity, excitement, mockery gleaming in their eyes. It was the same expression the four had worn in the stable when they forced me to submit. The same faces I’d seen when they watched me spread on the barn floor.
I glanced at George, Simon (시몬, Simon), and then Jerome (제롬, Jerome). My gaze halted at Jerome. He had left the stable, saying he never wanted to witness such horrors again. So perhaps—even now—he still despised this. I reached out to him, my other arm pulling Matt into my embrace as I screamed, “Help me! Help me, Jerome!”
In a drug-blurred memory, I heard Jerome’s voice during our forest walk: “When I reach out, you grab my hand. From now on, whenever I extend my hand, you must grasp it. Understood?” His kind tone echoed in my mind. I remembered holding his cold hand, walking again. He’d said he truly cared for me. Fixating on Jerome, I pleaded again, “Please, Jerome—help me!”
Jerome pointed at himself, bewildered. “Me? Why? What’s wrong with him?”
Before I could answer, Simon strode forward and kicked me hard in the head.
“Don’t strike his face, Simon.”
George’s distant voice buzzed in my ears. “We need to record the video.”
Simon paused mid-blow, then ceased, turning away. The door slammed behind him. Exhausted, I collapsed to the floor, shielding Matt until Simon departed. As soon as Simon left, Matt clung to me and whispered frantically, “Ray, I—I think I’m going to die… we’re going to die.”
“Fuck…” I murmured.
“I’m sorry, Ray… Acacia… he… Ray… I…”

Matt slipped his hand inside my pants. My body stiffened.
“I need to do it with you…”
Lying there, dazed, I turned my head. Jerome still stood over us, staring. He said nothing, but Matt wrapped his palm around my cheek, forcing me to look at him, then kissed me.
My mind reeled. I couldn’t fathom this madness. Without waiting for my reaction, Matt peeled down my pants, spread my legs, and began to rub his erection against my thigh. Pain made my mouth drop open, but no scream escaped. My groin burned and stung, though it felt unreal—like a nightmare. When Matt thrust, his testicles slapped against me, jolting me back to reality.
“Matt…” I whispered, staring up at him.
“Stop.”
“Ray… ah…”
“No.”
I gazed numbly at my splayed legs.
“Please…”
Suddenly, the camera lens loomed in my vision—George’s camcorder, grin wide as he filmed Matt moving and me helpless. I stared at the lens.
“Don’t…”
I remember little of the filming—only flashes of the red recording light flickering, the lens zooming into my face, then greedily capturing my mouth smeared with fluid. Close-ups of the incestuous birthmark between my legs—and perhaps shots of my exposed buttocks. The haze in my memory came from drugs. After Matt climaxed and I lay limp, George injected me directly.
The men who’d seized me initially treated the rape as tender enough—kissing and gentle caresses, very different from the workers. I recall many men’s warm lips and obscene tongues still lingering in my mouth. George and Jerome refrained from touching me to the end: George sat on a chair, enjoying the spectacle through the camera, while Jerome, arm in arm with George, watched me silently. He never missed a moment of me receiving two penises or licking unknown men’s toes. His face looked alternately embarrassed, confused—or perhaps it was mocking.
Before it was over, I blacked out—suddenly slumping face-first onto the vinyl floor.
When I awoke, I was in the van. Reclined in the seat with a blanket over me, my wrists were cuffed and hands wrapped in cloth. My stomach churned from emptiness.
I pushed myself upright, my neck cracking. In the dim window’s reflection, I saw the dog collar around my neck—I gave a hollow laugh. The man in the passenger seat turned at the sound. It was Jerome. He looked uncharacteristically disheveled—his hair mussed, tie loosened, face scarred and pale.
I stared at him wordlessly. Jerome smiled gently.
“You don’t look too bad.”
I met his chilling green eyes and asked, “What about Matt?” My throat ached but held.
“I let him go,” Jerome said, unbuckling his seatbelt and leaning back. He held a water bottle.
“George said he had no more use for him.”
I looked at the offered bottle.
“Liar.” James was still dead.
“You killed him.” They’d layered the van floor with vinyl to dispose of him like trash. I’d expected to die there too—when would George finally kill me? He hauled me around like a dog but never quite finished the job.
“Simon almost did it,” Jerome said, offering me the bottle.
“I sent him away—gave him some hospital money. Here, drink.”
He tilted the water to my lips. I turned away, glaring.
“Hey.”
“Hmm?”
“What’s so funny?”
My voice was steady. Jerome grinned, flawless and handsome, but said nothing.
“Does killing feel good? Since I killed your friend, you killed mine—are you happy?”
“Yes.”
This time Jerome answered.
“I enjoyed killing your friend.”
I said nothing, staring. Jerome cocked his head, puzzled.
“You enjoyed killing my friend, too, didn’t you?”
“He deserved it,” I snapped. “That bastard got what was coming.”
Jerome only laughed. I instead lapped at the bottle’s rim with my tongue. He hesitated, then refilled it for me.
It was the first water I’d drunk since being abducted from the motel. I gulped desperately, letting it spill down my chin and neck. Parched to the brink of fainting, I drained the first bottle quickly. Jerome’s eyes widened, and he fetched a second. Only after two bottles did my thirst ease. I used the cloth-wrapped hands to wipe my mouth and neck.
“By the way, Raymond…” Jerome trailed off, chin in hand, watching me closely. He smiled, then the smile faded into embarrassment.
“Why did you ask me to help last night?”
“What?”
“You asked me to save you.”
I shot him a cold look.
“Because you thought I would.”
“Then why?” Jerome asked, genuine curiosity in his eyes.
“Why should I help you?”
“You have before.”
He fell silent. As if he didn’t remember, I said nothing more.
“Reach out… and I will catch you.”
Jerome had said that. As though he would always be there if I reached out. So I gripped his hand, stood on my own feet, marveled that I could walk—and dreamed that night of endless walking…
It was all a delusion. I was a fool. Jerome had nursed me back from drugs only for his own benefit, not mine. I was the idiot—suddenly forced into porn with Matt, talking nonsense. There was no need to explain any further. I sealed my lips.