The Flesh Cartel - Episode #4: Consequences

there.”
    It was a good answer, perfectly articulated, so perfect it was obvious Douglas had said it
    because he’d known it was what Nikolai wanted to hear. But it wasn’t the truth. Or at least . . . not the whole truth. Nikolai could see it in the boy’s eyes. He’d get to the heart of the matter soon enough.
    “Fair. But then . . . when you found your food, you seemed confident enough in the belief that
    eating it like a dog wouldn’t draw my ire. So why weren’t you similarly confident that I’d approve of
    you sleeping like one?” He flicked his eyes to the kennel. Untouched. Unslept in. Some slaves, like dogs, came to love and feel safe in kennels. Their use in humiliation and punishment couldn’t be
    understated, but that wasn’t all they were. He liked having them available for both purposes.
    “There’s . . .” Douglas averted his eyes a moment, gaze drawn to his tray, but then settled them
    squarely back on Nikolai’s chin, decision made. Brave boy, so honest. “There’s a lock on the door,
    sir. I was afraid . . . I was afraid someone would lock me in and leave me there.”
    “You don’t want to be left alone anymore.”
    “I . . . I mean, if company means . . . means . . .” He hunched in tight on himself again, broke a
    corner off a slice of toast and chewed it nervously. “Means being . . . used , then . . .” A shrug, as if perhaps he secretly knew he’d pay that price to be let out of the dark, no matter what he’d just said.
    “But I . . . I miss Mat and I miss my friends and I miss school and I miss Pattie and Mike and I even
    still miss my parents and I’m . . .” He shrugged again, sniffled, looked vaguely horrified that he’d revealed all that unprompted. He was clearly on the verge of tears. Quite the sensitive subject for
    him, then, and rightfully so.
    He looked up from his tray but didn’t quite make it to Nikolai’s eyes again; this time, his gaze
    stopped somewhere around the tip of Nikolai’s nose. “And I just want to go home. Sir.” Another
    nibble of toast when Nikolai remained silent. “Even if it really is all gone now.”
    Nikolai sighed through his nose, his chest swelling with ill-advised but utterly uncontrollable
    affection for the boy. “I’d like for you to see this as home.”
    Douglas pounded both fists down on the table, rattling the supper dishes. “Then let me see my
    brother!” He looked shocked— scared —at his own raised voice. The passion there. The anger. The
    fear. “Please. Sir,” he concluded at a whisper.
    Nikolai leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands. “You’re not going to want to hear this, but I
    think you put too much emphasis on your brother when it comes to your sense of belonging. You’re
    together for now under my roof, but what if I’m forced to separate you? If you go on to different
    places? What if he dies and leaves you behind like your parents did? Like your foster mother did?
    What if . . .” Nikolai leaned forward, laid a gentle hand over Douglas’s where it lay, trembling,
    beside the tray. “What if he doesn’t want to see you? Where would you find your meaning then?”
    Douglas yanked his hand away.
    But his bravery ended there. No vehement denials—he settled instead for a sullen, almost
    mumbled, “That would never happen.”
    Nikolai nudged the glass of orange juice closer, until Douglas took the hint and drank. A hesitant
    sip at first, but then the taste hit his tongue—he made a soft little noise in the back of his throat and his eyes fluttered closed and he drank and drank.
    “Were you ever capable of conceiving,” Nikolai asked as Douglas finished his juice, “that your
    parents would leave you alone at thirteen years old?”
    Douglas slammed his cup down. “They didn’t leave me; they died . And I wasn’t alone.”
    “But could you imagine it? Could your thirteen-year-old brain wrap itself around the idea that
    maybe one day they would leave for work in the morning and simply not . . . come . . . home?”
    Douglas’s fingers tightened around the cup until they turned white. He stared hard at it, at them.
    But eventually, he conceded, “No.”
    “And your brother, too. Had you ever been able to conceive of a time when he wouldn’t be
    there?”
    “But he was ,” Douglas snapped. “He stayed. He could’ve gone to Vegas, trained with Coach
    Darryl years earlier, fought in the UFC. They offered him a contract. He told them no. So he could
    stay.” Ah, this