Title: Walk Through The Fire
Summary: A normal life was what he had craved for.
Voices inside his head vehemently told him what to do. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t stop them. It was too strong for him to try and control. He had given up when he was fifteen, he couldn’t control them no matter what; they were driving him to do things and now, they were driving him to things he’d regret. He had no control over his body and that scared him more than anything.
There had been times when he had woken up after a week of being out of it, a laugh was deep in his head and he was writhing in agony. He looked around the room that he had been given by social services when he was found covered head to toe in blood, he was taken into a home where they subdued him and for a while, the voices stopped, but then they fought their way through the barrier the medication and after a while, he had to stop taking it because he couldn’t afford it – they spent all of his money.
Today was one of those days, he didn’t know how long he had been out of his body for, but all he could remember was a black fog clouding his vision. He stood up slowly and the laughing started when he crumbled over with pain, it felt as though he was being stabbed twenty times with different rusty implements. He looked around as he fell and cried out in pain, he crawled over to the bathroom slowly and tried to stand up slowly, his legs buckling under him, his body aching in pain, throbbing. His head was pounding and as he looked in the mirror, he saw the blood and bruises stuck on his face. He groaned and looked at himself in the mirror and shook in fear.
As was expected when he awoke from one of his ‘turns’, he was soaked in urine and dried sweat, but rarely was his jeans covered in blood: he turned sideways against the mirror and looked down, a sob ripping through his chest, he knew exactly what had happened and he didn’t need to ask them. The pain was speaking louder than their words ever could.
“It wasn’t our fault,” One of them smirked, he hadn’t given them names: that would make them real. “You were irresistible to a few men.” He heaved into the toilet and gagged, nothing was coming out though as they spoke of what they had done to him.
“They enjoyed your pathetic body more than anyone else ever would. Hell, we even enjoyed it. Got $50 out of you, cheap whore.” The most dominant voice spoke, breathing down his neck, scaring him. “They like you, and we’ve said they can use you again. You get to feed our addiction,” he laughed menacingly against his ear.
What addiction? He didn’t know. He didn’t know a lot of what they did to him – he couldn’t bring himself to ask.
“First of all, you need to get yourself cleaned up, we’re going out. Got a little job for you to do,” he felt his body being thrown towards the shower, he had no control over his body, it wasn’t what scared him the most about these voices – it was when they left him alone for too long, when they made him sit on edge, watching and waiting for him to crumble so they could pick up the pieces.
“We’ll take away your pain after this one, I promise we will,” the young female voice – the oldest voice in his head. His best friend at times and worse enemy at other times. He didn’t know what to make of any of this anymore.
“Please, stop now,” he sobbed, resting against the shower wall and pulling his clothes off as best as he could without hurting himself. “This isn’t fair, you need to go now!” He scratched at his temples, dried blood and old scratches were in place from when he had done this many times before.
At night when he couldn’t sleep, during the day when they were telling him to do things – against his will. It was a part of him now, to claw at his head, as though by removing them from his brain, he could somehow make them disappear, but still they were here and as tormenting as ever.
“No can do, buddy,” the first voice was back again. “You know we love you, you know we need you like you need us. We make you who you are. Make you something more than that weak, pathetic little boy. We saved you, and we can save you again, or we can just through you back into that old life. You don’t want to go back to that, do you?” No. The answer was simple, indirect. He didn’t want to go back to his childhood life. He hated that – he was left in his bedroom for days on end with nothing, no food, no water, no clean clothes or a toilet. While his mom sold her body and his dad waved the drugs in front of her face, trying to push her to earn more.
When they remembered that they had a son, they’d give him the scraps of food that were left from their parties, or food that was past its sell-by date. A bowl of water that would have to last him until the next time that was gone within the first few minutes of it being put down, and fresh underwear, still nowhere for him to relieve himself. He was just a pet to them, a toy that they could play with as they pleased – to give him hope that things could change then snatch it away cruelly.
That’s when the first voices started to come, from nowhere, they’d make him do things that even his parents wouldn’t do. They’d make him hurt himself, they’d beat him up, until one day they took over and at the age of ten, after spending so long in a room with barely enough to sustain a normal child, killed them both.
He was covered in their blood, sat there until they had told him to clean himself up, take some money and run away, and they’d take care of him from now on.
It was true that he had owed them his life, but he couldn’t do it anymore. He didn’t want to be under their thumb – not after everything they have put him through. Not after what he had been made to do.
A normal life was what he had craved for, it felt so long ago when he had watched people in the streets, watched a couple holding hands and longed for that.
Now, he was trapped as though his parents were still here; and growing up in that room where he was rotting, just to be sold off as another investment for his dad.
Used to please people, instead, it was just the voices in his head that wanted the pleasing.