Author's Note: Squaresoft owns characters and I own plot. Warning: really disturbing content although nothing graphic. This is the result of my inspiration being from movies like *The General’s Daughter* and *Boys Don’t Cry* and the like. And just for the record, no, I did not mean to seem sound similar to Persephone’s work; I came up with the idea before I read any of her stories so hopefully no one’ll say this is idea-stealing or something. Careful what you read. But if you don’t care, enjoy.

Connecticut

Chapter Seventeen

By Jamaica

He was thrown roughly into an empty warehouse. His back connected with the cold hard floor. He pushed up on his elbows and stared dizzily at the attacker, no, attackers. There were six of them.

Squall felt his breathing sped up. He could imagine what he must’ve looked like right then: eyes wide open with shock, mouth slacking, and a tiny bead of sweat gliding down the side of his face. The six men stared down at him, all with odd grins on their faces save one. A few rubbed their hands together. And one on the side had a rope and gags in his hand.

“No. No.” Squall jumped up when the realization struck him hard. He made a mad dash as to break through the barricade. *Please let me go.*

Futile thoughts run free. Several arms caught him and pushed him back onto the floor. They held down his arms and legs. One of the free ones stepped up to him, smirking.

“Now now, calm down.” He said. “This is actually up to you, you know. If you cooperate it won’t hurt one bit.”

“Yeah, pretty boy. Come on, it’ll be fun.” Another agreed.

Squall didn’t know what he did. He didn’t care, either, but apparently it wasn’t the answer they were looking for. The first guy’s eyes narrowed. He flicked out a switchblade and jumped on top of Squall. He slammed right between Squall’s legs, causing Squall to scream out in pain.

“See, I hate it,” the guy with the knife slashed at Squall’s sweatshirt, “when people like you” – slash – “just” – slash – “won’t” – slash – “cooperate.”

Squall’s shirt was in tatters by now and blood decorated his chest in slivers of red. One of the guys who’s still holding his arms down yanked the garment off of his body and threw it aside. The rest jeered and hollered. Squall felt the acute thin pain soaring throughout his body. He took in a sharp breath, then struggled harder to free himself from their grasp.

Somehow he bucked the guy with the knife off of him and got one of his legs out. He immediately kicked up, knocking one of them on the head and heard him fall. Squall then shook free of the other two. He made a second attempt to bust through the door, remarkably knew where it was even though he couldn’t see it.

And he was stopped the second time. Someone caught him from behind, latched his arms together behind his back. The burden turned him around. All he saw was a flash of light, then the solid pain as a fist collided with his nose. He clearly heard the bone crunch and shatter. Waves of dizziness attacked him from the pain. He closed his eyes.

“Little slut, dare hit me! This time you’re going down for good!” Punches landed in his abdomen and stomach, causing him to lose his breath.

“Hey, man, look, why don’t we just sedate him then –“

“It’s more fun this way,” a voice from the side, the very first one he heard, said. “Spread him out.”

He was again thrown onto the floor. Someone grabbed his hands and he felt ropes tied tightly around his wrists, where they were anchored into the ground. Then, deft fingers were unbuckling his belts. Soon his pants were yanked away, along with his boxers. Cold wind whipped around his naked body as his ankles were secured in the same fashion his hands were. They had him spread eagled on the floor. At last the one with the gag came up and firmly pushed it in his mouth.

The action made his already burning face hurt even more. He couldn’t open his eyes even if he wanted to. The men shuffled around and taunted.

“Ooh, nice . . . I like to get my hands on that . . . you will, idiot . . . why’d you gag him? That mouth sure look pretty . . . just for a few minutes, stupid, then we’d take it out and . . . he got a very tight ass . . . ha ha, wait till I beat that pussy in . . . . .. ”

“*Now* let’s sedate him.”

Squall felt acid bile gathering in his throat and lodged there. He also wished to be deaf, which unfortunately was not granted. A small sting suddenly invaded his left arm. It was minute, comparatively to the pains emanating from his chest and face. A minute later, a numbness enveloped his body, chasing away all the fire blazing in him. His never-opened eyes remained tightly shut. Waiting to drift off into unconsciousness.

He wasn’t expecting that. He thought he’d simply be lying on the hard cement with scraps of metal and rock under him until daylight breaks and someone finds him. The drug must’ve been either cheap or designed to be that way, because it wore off much much quicker than he previously assumed. *Too* quickly.

Waves and waves of pain originating from his sore rear and the end tip of his spine surged inside him, ripping his nerves and muscles into shreds. He moaned loudly, afraid to move and even more afraid to cry out for help. They could be near still. If they hear him awaken they’d . . ..

*Stop thinking!* His mind screamed. Images flooded his eyelids, causing him to twist and groan in reflex, which only made the excruciating pain worse. Unlike what he, again, assumed, the drug didn’t knock him out completely. It simply dulled the sensation around his sensitive nerve fibers, yet he was conscious, and sensed everything. Every single thing that had been done to him, forced on him, he knew. The expression of the men when they fulfilled themselves using his body. Their dirty words, worthless insults. Their cruel laughter and his own helplessness due to the side effects of the drug. Everything.

They burned.

Squall opened his eyes after a long struggle, and stared at the black night sky. He never could imagine that the steady rhythm of his heart could bring stabs into his every vein and artery with persistence. He twitched under the dark night, trying to out-battle his own perceptions.

He failed.

After what seemed like a lifetime, he realized that the men weren’t coming back. They simply deserted him, abandoning him in the street to . . . what? Die?

Another wind picked up. Even though it’s quite warm to the average, it added tremendous chill to Squall’s bare torso. He only then realized that they put his pants back on but left off everything else. In the month of December in Connecticut, that was enough to get more than goosebumps. *I have to move. Get off the street.* He doggedly thought in the logical part that’s left in his brain.

With what he perceived as inhuman strength, Squall rolled over and pushed his upper body up on his elbows. He immediately regretted the decision because it put some unwanted pressure on his backside and waist, but he didn’t falter, only moaned aloud again. Absentmindedly, he slid his left hand downward to get more leverage, only to feel it slip into a pool of liquid.

That’s when he looked down at himself for the first time. Bruises and cuts covered his fine exposed skin. He felt fluid still seeping out of his body, gluing the pants’ material to his leg with moisture. He was submerged in a large puddle of blood.

Which explained why he was losing his strength fast, and the fact he was freezing.

Squall felt another wave of dizziness attacked his head. He tried to get up, but that only intensified the feeling and he saw the ground shift abruptly up. The last thing he saw charring deep into his mind was a pair of glinting amber eyes.

A couple of yards away, in the shutters of an abandoned warehouse, another pair of eyes fixed on the figure lying immobile on the ground. It was full of sympathy, regret, and guilt. The eyes were so light, that they looked almost clear. There was water swirling inside the pastel blue.

And above, the beautiful stars twinkled romantically on the black veil of peace.

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