Oubliette: A Gay Romance

Prologue

Jeremy

"Help! Somebody help me!"

Jeremy rattled his cage. Padlocked in a dog crate hardly bigger than him, he was on the verge of tears. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know the reason for his brutal abduction, the explanation for his imprisonment just as elusive.

To put it simply, Jeremy was frightened out of his fucking mind. Forced to fold his legs to his stomach, his feet were past the point of numbness. They were deadweight to him, like concrete blocks used to hold down corpses in lakes. Moreover, he was alone. There were no other prisoners to reassure him that his captors wouldn't turn to torture or murder. He was going mad. It had been over two days since he last glimpsed the sun. A chill was setting low in his bones.

He was also stuck inside a cliff. Not on it. Inside it. Not wanting to think of his misery, Jeremy considered his plans for escape. Just for something to do.

Plummeting straight into a crashing sea, the cliff offered no hope for freedom. A ninety-eight-foot drop guaranteed he'd bash his brains out if he hit the water. As if that weren't enough, rogue waves threatened to drown him, spitting up foam and sea salt. But he knew he wouldn't get that far. A dying torch was his one light. It cast the alcove he was in into near-total darkness. He wouldn't make it past the word 'go.'

He also wondered when he'd next see the people that held him here--although he had a feeling they could see him right now. He imagined hidden cameras, with wires picking up every breath he took.

The thought made the young man shiver. His abductors were likely sickos that got off on suffering. Of course, Jeremy had had his fair share. Upon grabbing him, his first kidnapper had punched him in the gut. Then Jeremy wet his pants from fear. His ice-cold jeans were stuck to his thighs like glue. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't slide them off.

Plus, he'd only slept a couple of hours, dreading his stay in this hellhole. What if his captors forgot him? Would he starve? Or freeze in his own piss?

He cried in earnest. What could he have ever done to deserve this? Oh, yes. He was a drug dealer. Though he'd done it to pay his grandmother's bills, it still wasn't right.

Now, truly, he was paying the price. Karma was having fun with him.

Damn it, Gram-Gram! Why'd you have to die? If only there were someone who'd notice I'm gone!

He pulled hard on the roots of his hair. It fell in a platinum swoop, dangling before it ended at the tip of his nose. He'd gotten the haircut a year ago, all buzzed on one side, just to shock the old woman. Then she'd surpassed him by shaving her whole head for chemo, back when she was still her joyful self. 'Guess I beat you now,' he remembered her saying, with the triumph one possesses after winning a marathon. How her eyes had twinkled then, the dimples in her grin on full display.

A scraping sound brought Jeremy out of his reverie. The alcove's stone lid rolled open, letting in the light of the full, snow-white moon. Standing at the entrance was a rotund brunette. She brought dinner.

A meal! Thank God! He hadn't eaten since he came here. All he'd had was a bowl of water.

The woman, who was dressed as a maid, set the tray down in front of his cage. She kept her head bowed; her facial expression was neutral.

"The master will speak with you once you finish eating. He wants to know why you've trespassed."

Jeremy scoffed. He'd seen no fence, no sign. And 'master?' Weren't lords an outdated notion? Although, considering the hospital on the cliff looked like an abandoned castle, perhaps such titles were still possible.

Jeremy finished chewing, having savored every bite of his dinner. "What's his name?" It had to be something British, right? Weren't all lords British?

"Orwell," she answered. "He gave up his family name due to scandal. That's all I can say."

"Huh. A secretive man, isn't he?"

She removed his plate. Moments later, the alcove lid closed, and darkness fell on Jeremy once more. Now feeling even more squished inside his crate, he tried leaning back. But he couldn't get comfortable no matter what he did.

Jeremy awoke to the murmur of voices. They came from outside, growing in volume as they approached the alcove. One voice was a smooth, deep baritone, like the richest of whiskies pouring into a glass. The other was high and scratchy, full of cobwebs like a dilapidated hallway. If there were ever a voice to stand for antiquity, that one would be it.

A minute later, the alcove lid rolled open once more. The two figures stood silhouetted by the moonlight. Even though one was much taller than the other, it appeared he--for it was a male--had a torch. He held it above the short one's head much like how a servant would. That would mean that the mysterious lord, this forsaken man by the name of Orwell, was a man even smaller than Jeremy himself. Jeremy pouted. Talk about a let-down! One would assume that if they ever met an aristocrat that the fellow would be somewhat imposing.

The alcove lid closed. The two men stepped toward the crate, lowering the hoods of their windbreakers. They were in moods as equidistant as their voices. The tall man, a wrinkled old fellow with white hair and a mustache, smiled in wicked glee; the shorter one, a sullen, raven-haired man in his mid-thirties, grimaced like he would rather be anywhere else.

"See, Master? I told you I got rid of the problem," the old man chuckled. "Found him wandering our lands. Decided to take him for a spin." He laughed, cackling at such a grating pitch it made Jeremy plug his ears.

The lord sighed. He shook his shaggy head, like he couldn't believe his servant had done such a thing. "Ivan, what have I told you about abducting people? I have the evidence I need anyway."

"Do you? Last I heard, you needed some guinea pigs for a little tweaking."

"That's none of your concern. I could always perform it on rodents."

"But aren't people best? You said it yourself."

"Um, excuse me?" Jeremy asked.

"I wish you'd stop helping me. It complicates things."

"But you always complain how you're drowning in work! Let me alleviate your troubles, darling. As much as I can." Ivan put a weathered hand on his lord's shoulder, squeezing it gently.

Lord Orwell batted his hand away in alarm, practically shuddering. "Do not. Call me that."

Jeremy raised an eyebrow. What was going on between these two?

"And I know why you really took him. You want to torture him!"

Jeremy's jaw dropped. So he was right about these guys!

"Why, master! I would never!"

"You would, because you've done it before!"

"Um, hello, excuse me?" Jeremy's voice was but a whisper.

"What?! What is it?!" Orwell yelled.

Jeremy choked on his words. "Can you.... both turn around so I can use the restroom? I.... need privacy."

Sure, the question was stupid, but who knows? Acting small and pathetic around other bullies had worked for Jeremy before.

And like those other times, it worked in this situation, too. Somehow. The storm in Orwell's dark eyes cleared. "Oh. Of.... course." Orwell did as Jeremy asked, presenting his back to him. "You as well, Ivan."

Ivan sneered at the young drug dealer. "I don't know, sir. Suppose he tries to run. What then?"

"Simple. We take him to the lab." The lord spun around, enough to glance at Jeremy. "Think on that, why don't you?" The tempest in his gaze returned.

Jeremy shuddered. So much for that last-minute escape plan. And here he'd made a makeshift key from a chicken bone at dinner. Without another word, as soon as they turned their backs again, he unzipped his fly until it popped open. He was surprised. Guess his jeans had managed to dry off. With the limited amount of space he had, he squatted as best he could, leaning forward until his dick had a path to the ground. He squeezed his eyes shut to hide his embarrassment.

And with that, he took an unplanned piss in front of two other men, both of whom he didn't trust as far as he could throw. He burned with shame at the thought of them staring, all because he hoped that their promises meant something. Gram-Gram had always said he was naïve, but this was a lot, even for him.

After what felt like an eternity, Jeremy finished. He redid his zipper. After opening his eyes to find both men still turned away, he couldn't help his relief. "Ok. I'm done."

Thankfully, when they faced him, neither laughed.

"Why are you here?" Orwell growled. "This property is off-limits. We don't take kindly to trespassers."

Jeremy scoffed. "A trespasser?! Me? You need to put up signs!"

"We did. There's a sign several miles out that says 'Private Property.'

"That's it? It's almost like you want people here! Besides, I never meant to walk over to begin with!"

Orwell crouched, leaning in toward Jeremy. The youth could almost see the whites of his eyes. "Is that so?"

Jeremy gripped the bars of his crate until his knuckles were white. "Yes, Lord Orwell, sir!" he spat in a mocking tone. "Or whatever the fuck it is you call yourself!"

Orwell raised an eyebrow. He pursed his lips in a thin line, like he was trying to think of something to say. "You've got quite a mouth, don't you?" he ended up grumbling.

With that, he stood up straight, head aloft, like he hadn't just been at a loss for words. "Well, then. Since you clearly have so much to say... why don't you explain how you got here?"

Jeremy scoffed. He might as well get on with it, then.

Chapter 1

Two Days Earlier

"I don't know, kid," the police officer hummed. "A lot of people been disappearing. They were homeless, so I don't know if they'd have family searching for them. You, on the other hand...."

Jeremy nodded. If only the cop at the gated entrance knew what he'd been through. The twenty-two-year-old was on the cusp of losing his apartment, with no life savings to see him through a month. He had no real job. Gram-Gram's medical bills flooded his mailbox. And now that she had passed, her funeral expenses, too. In total, he was out eighty thousand. Only by dealing drugs could he hope to save his ass. ".... Right. Well, I have a client who requested a delivery. Along the coast. You know how pizza customers are. Very.... eccentric."

The older man picked his nose, distracted by the newspaper in his lap. "Uh-huh. Guess any weirdo can order pizza if they want." He sniffed, eyeing the young man's faded Porkie's Pizza™ uniform. Thank God for that part-time job sophomore year. "Tell you what. Slide me a five and I'll let you through. Even though the place is off limits after dark."

"What?"

"Oh, did I say five? I meant ten. Hand me ten or it's no bueno."

"I--um--o-okay." Jeremy fished in his pocket for his wallet. He grabbed it, taking out two crumpled bills. ".... Here."

The officer grabbed them, double-checking the amount. "Alright." He pressed a button for the gate. "Oh, one more thing."

Jeremy sighed. What did he want now, more money? He wasn't swimming in bills.

"Stay away from the hospital on the cliff. It may appear abandoned, but someone lives there. Not all folks get that. They think it's fun to go exploring there." He stared hard at Jeremy. "Haven't seen one person come back. Know what I mean?"

Jeremy nodded. No hospitals. Got it.

"Oh, and kid?"

Jeremy stopped.

The officer's eyes softened, just a little. "Thanks for the tip. Stay out of trouble, you hear?"

Jeremy sighed, walking through the checkpoint. If it were only that easy.

The deal went down just like any other. Jeremy gave the client her pills quickly, handling them with an ease that only came with years of practice. Despite the obvious legal and moral drawbacks, Jeremy took pride in being a dealer. He knew what his clients wanted, which drug was the most popular, and the chemical effects of his opioids by heart.

In these moments, he could almost convince himself he was happy. That he was happy giving people long-term addictions. Happy giving them horrific deaths. But it had to be worth it if others became so giddy they wept. Felt real, honest happiness for the first time in their lives. Didn't everyone deserve to glimpse paradise? To see the face of God?

Jeremy groaned. Who was he kidding? He was tired of this shit. No matter if his actions killed one hundred people or no one at all, he shouldn't be doing this. But it was too late to turn back. He'd devoted too much to this trade, fallen too deep into its darkest recesses. No matter what he did, he'd never be able to wipe the slate clean. And at the end of his life, he'd burn in Hell. Then Gram-Gram would spend eternity wondering where he was. Because she'd be in Heaven. And he'd be screaming.

Large rain drops fell. Seconds later, they poured in overpowering sheets, soaking Jeremy to his underwear. Well. This was just fantastic. Shivering, he took out his phone. He was so not walking back to the gate. Perhaps he'd find a road. Get a taxi. Skip the checkpoint altogether.

Then his heart dropped into his stomach. No bars. He was fucked.

Jeremy wanted to cry. He was so exhausted; his steps wobbled. His dragging gait filled his shoes with water. And how long had he been walking, one hour, two? Was he even headed in the right direction? His hope dimmed more each moment.

One wrong step, and the damp ground collapsed beneath Jeremy's feet. Recovering from his tumbling, he rubbed his sore shoulder. Then he gaped as lightning flashed upon something strange. Something distant yet tremendous, with a silhouette carved from night itself.

Out of all things to expect to see on the northern cliffs of California, a real-to-the-touch fortress wasn't one of them. However, Jeremy soon realized that it wasn't a fortress at all. It was a psychiatric hospital.

As lightning flashed once more near the cliff's edge, Jeremy studied the structure's architecture. Intense ocean winds had distorted and waterlogged its thin plaster walls. Said wind and rain had drained the building of all color, turning it a dull grey that screamed 'melancholy!' Its sarcophagus was missing chunks, with these horrific gaps large enough to stick an arm through. Meanwhile, the surrounding property was barren as if cursed. Not even a single blade of grass grew here, leaving the earth bald as a skull. Instead, trash and dirty needles decorated it, leaving a dirty, rusting mess.

Jeremy's anxiety peaked as he examined the ruins. He couldn't believe his bad luck. He had to get out of here. Before something happened. Before--

There was a faint whirring sound. It grew closer. And closer. Then Jeremy realized--that the rumbling on gravel, the rattling puff of an engine--was a van. Big. Black. Windowless. And it was coming at him.

Jeremy froze. He wanted to run. Yet his legs weighed a thousand pounds.

As the van crept closer, Jeremy's heart pounded out of his body. His would-be abductors would tie him up, throw him in the car, and strangle him to death. Or, more horrific, keep him alive to drain him of his blood, all before hanging him from a meat hook.

Somehow, he started running. He dragged his feet in a painfully slow trot. He staggered and tripped. His jeans tore. His skin split against the rocks. Dips and pockets in the earth broke his stride, losing him precious seconds.

The engine grew louder. Closer. He couldn't keep this up. The van rode on his ass.

Out popped a gloved hand. It grabbed his shirt. Wrenched him toward the vehicle. Jeremy was toast. Any moment he'd die. He closed his eyes. Braced for the worst.

The hand punched his ribcage. He almost passed out. Pissed himself. Great. Now he'd wrecked his jeans. So not fashionable.

The hand dragged him in. It was a bumpy ride--the car flipped him as it drove over rocks. Jeremy wanted to puke. His stomach flip-flopped. He couldn't catch his breath. He kicked his legs. Struggled to find balance. He was running out of air. Jeremy panicked. Was this the moment?

Then relief came. Air rewarded his depleted lungs. He stopped flailing about. Grabbed the back seat.

As his senses returned, he heard a tinkling sound, like metal on metal. A tiny vial rolled right in front of him. It held a mysterious red liquid, one simply labelled: X.

Then the van hit a bump. He smashed his temple into the doorknob. Everything went black.

Chapter 2

Orwell

Orwell's face turned pale as the moonlight. This was not good. Their captive knew too much. Sure, it was mere bits of what they were up to, but it was more than what he wanted the world to suspect. Ivan was the only other person that took part in his project. Each was to say nothing of it to the grave; the information they'd learned was to stay locked away in digitally encoded journals.

Now Orwell had a choice: kill their prisoner or make him their newest test subject. Yet he didn't want to choose either. Perhaps it was because the young man was broken. The way his shoulders were slumped, and his eyes downcast--why, he wished for death. But Orwell had seen plenty of captives like that after a day or two. So, why now? Why this hesitation? And why this ache in his chest, seeing the young man so morose?

Orwell was quiet for a long time. He didn't want to do this. At last, he murmured: "Ivan, ensure our prisoner stays locked up." He sighed. "I need another test subject, after all."

The shock on the youth's face was like a punch in the gut. The lord wanted to clasp his abdomen; the blow felt so real. What was this emotion? It was.... It was guilt! That one thing he thought he'd never feel, the one common folk talked of like it defined humanity. Who would have guessed he was capable of it?

Then the young man cried, and Orwell felt his own version of distress.

"No, I can't take the crate anymore!!" the young man exclaimed. "Please! I can't even stand!" He began sobbing uncontrollably. "I want to stand! Please!" He broke into a million little pieces.

Good God. Now the prisoner was just.... ugly crying. Gross. "I suppose," Orwell said begrudgingly. "I suppose you can have a bigger crate."

The captive stopped. Instead, his eyes shone as he gazed up at Orwell. It was as if the inventor had performed a miracle.

Orwell was speechless. He found his stomach twisting into knots. His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, he feared it would stop. "Oh, don't give me that!" he shouted. He turned his black eyes to stone, putting on his scariest expression. "You'll be in chains. And I'll make sure they're our heaviest ones."

Now the captive looked confused. And do you know what? That was good enough for the lord. Confusion was, officially, good.

Orwell blocked off his emotions, thinking nothing. The last thing he needed was the prisoner reading his mind. Seeing him as vulnerable. As human. "See to it his cuffs are tight," he ordered. "He has narrow wrists. We don't need him slipping out and forcing our hands like the last one." He shot the prisoner with a hideous glare. "Now do we?"

Color fled the prisoner's face. If he assumed murder where there was none, then all the better. And it was effective. His eyes had become the size of dinner plates. Orwell saw they were light brown.

Wait. Why am I noticing such things?

Ivan tightened the prisoner's cuffs. Then the trio began the torch-lit procession to Wentworth. If there was one thing the facility excelled at, it was covering up the wretched activities Orwell and Ivan were up to inside. None of it was holy, or for the benefit of mankind. It was therefore fitting that the building's exterior, as well as its history, was as rotten as them both.

Orwell kept his eyes glued to the young man. There was something about him, something magnetic. The prisoner had slim but well-built thighs, highlighted by his tight, torn jeans. He had full buttocks; the sort you could rest your head on. Mile-long legs set a slow, trudging pace, reluctant to face what lay ahead. He had small feet based on the size of his shoes, making the lord wonder if one could fit in his palm. To his surprise, he found his mouth watering.

After what felt like an eternity, the trio reached the hospital. The lord remembered when they'd first moved here. Back then, it had mild signs of decay. Now, after five years, the building was falling apart. It was like the seasons sped up over here, doing their worst in a flash of cosmic fury.

Hence, the structure was a ruin. It sported deep cracks in its walls and foundation. What scraps of paint that remained, that of a bluish grey, were peeling and grimy. The gutters, meanwhile, were swollen with earth and dead leaves. Countless shingles had fallen to the ground, making the scattered rubble look even worse.

Carved in bold letters, framing the rusted double doors of the main entrance, were the words:

Wentworth Hospital

Let All Souls Be Healed with Loving Care

The doors opened with a booming creak. The reception area that greeted them was intact, at least. The windows for people to speak through were in pristine condition. Pictures drawn by patients in dull markers and crayons still decorated the walls. A gleaming banner hung from the ceiling, wishing Peter a happy birthday. Lastly, a sign marked the entrance to the hallway, declaring, YOU ARE SAFE HERE.

Ivan put the captive down. He peered at him with a twinkle in his eye, grinning a predatory smile. Orwell rolled his eyes. Lovely. The prisoner will shit his trousers now.

"What do you think?" Ivan asked. His mustache twitched. "Average, no?"

"S-Sure," the prisoner stuttered. "Seems.... normal."

Ivan smirked. "Well, what if I told you, it wasn't?" Now he was positively giddy, the way he paced back and forth like some great orator. "What if I told you this place were tainted by death?"

"Ivan," Orwell said crossly. "Don't you think he's been through enough?"

Ivan's eyes burned a hole through Orwell. He cleared his throat ever so slightly. Now he was suspicious of Orwell's protectiveness. Great. "No." He cleared his throat again, louder this time. "As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted...."

Orwell scowled. If only servants could still lose their tongues for insubordination.

".... Wentworth was once the epitome of progress. There were no lobotomies here, no straightjackets. Instead, staff gave patients pills. Taught them how to manage their symptoms. And for twenty-three years, everything was well. Until one night...."

"Something so bad happened it made the whole hospital close?" the prisoner guessed.

Ivan nodded. "Yes. On September 24th, 1999, at 10:13 P. M., there was a carbon monoxide leak. It killed the patients and staff as they slept. But that wasn't the end of it. Weeks later, when someone went to check...." The servant paused. "They found everyone's corpses rotting, half-eaten by rats. They had migrated inside, attracted by the stench of decay." He chuckled, and the prisoner shivered. He leaned in. "You could say they'd had quite the feast."

The prisoner retched.

"Ivan!" Orwell hissed. "That is quite enough!"

"What? You've never been bothered by the tale."

Orwell gestured to the prisoner. The young man shook like one of the dead leaves.

Ivan's eyes gleamed with sick, twisted joy. "Ah. Pardon me. I never meant to cause distress."

Orwell narrowed his eyes. He laid a hand on the prisoner's shoulder, realizing all too late how intimate the gesture was. The prisoner stared at him, bewildered. Tears formed in his eyes.

Orwell stepped away, ashamed. Causing upset was the last thing he wanted.

Ivan caught the movement, raising his eyebrow. "You must be tired," he said instead to the captive. "Come with me. I'll show you your room."

The captive followed reluctantly. The trio went further into darkness, seeking this mysterious room in a labyrinth of hallways.

A scream jolted Orwell out of a deep sleep. He leapt out of bed, grabbing the gun he kept next to his pillow. Loading the barrel, he realized he got little rest these days, whether it was due to his experiments, a chemical spill, or a rat invasion. He sighed. Where was a nice nap when you needed one?

With his gun now loaded and aided by night vision goggles, he ran into Wentworth's central hallway. It was the one area that connected all others--the kitchen, morgue, library, body chute, staff room, headquarters, chapel-turned-lab, and rec room for patients. It also provided a shortcut to the former patients' rooms--right where their captive was, smack dab in the middle.

Loud squeaks greeted him as he ran further down the hall. He hoped he wouldn't step on a rat's tail. After all, their stamina had contributed much to his experiments. He didn't mind that he risked their attacking him by running around like some headless chicken. Hyper-intelligent swarms had been roaming here for decades. They were self-aware enough that they knew ten of their own could overpower a grown man. And if they desired, they could eat one alive, reduce it to nothing but a pile of bones. It was enough to make Orwell respect their raw power.

Refocusing his thoughts on the matter at hand, Orwell doubled his speed to the patients' rooms. The scream had come from there, from this young man who suddenly made him feel things again. To care once more about another person.

Orwell reached the captive's room, his hands shaking as he unlocked the door. He kicked it open, leaping straight to the prisoner's bedside.

Even after feeling that apparent fright, the prisoner was still asleep. He tossed and turned on his mattress, flinging the blanket off himself, muttering something about a gram-gram. A cookie? That was it? Oh, for God's sake! And to think Orwell had come all this way!

Furious, the lord shook the prisoner. He shook him quite hard, in fact. When that didn't work, he leaned into his ear, yelling," Wake up! You're having a nightmare!"

The prisoner woke with a start, then screamed when he saw there was another man in the room.

"No, you idiot, it's me!"

The prisoner screamed even louder.

"Good God, the lungs on you! You know, forget I walked in here! I'm going to turn around--"

"Why are you in my room?!"

".... What?"

"Why--are you--in my room?!"

Orwell was at a loss for words. He cleared his throat. "... I heard a scream come from here. I was just coming to check. To see if you were, uh, okay."

The prisoner stared at him in disbelief. "Since when did you care about me so much? I'm your prisoner."

Orwell clamped his mouth shut. He couldn't exactly tell him it was because he made his cold heart beat again, now, could he?

Jeremy continued staring skeptically, eyebrow raised. "Whatever! I don't care why you're in here." He pointed to the door. "Just get out! It's weird you're in my room, anyway."

So. This was the thanks he got. He let out a deep breath. "Fine," he said stiffly. "I hope the rest of your sleep is as terrible."

He turned to walk away. Right as he was about to open the door, Ivan popped his head in.

"What's the bloody problem in here? I heard screaming."

Orwell crossed his arms, shrugging. "I don't know." He took off his goggles, sighing. "I'm going to the lab. The both of you can return to bed." He glared at the prisoner with all his might. "And I better not hear any more screaming. Got it?"

It seemed threats still worked with the captive. He nodded with vigor, the tiniest bit of fear in his defiant eyes.

That was just what Orwell needed. "Okay. Good." He walked out. Looked like it was going to be another long, sleepless night.

Chapter 3

Jeremy

Jeremy awoke to a knock on his door. Blinking away sleep, he yawned, listening to find out who was on the other side. Turns out, it was the maid.

"Good morning, sir," she chirped, in a much sunnier tone than the last time they'd met. "The lord would like to invite you to breakfast. Today's special is an omelet over rice. I made it meself, so you'd best bet it'll be good."

Jeremy furrowed his brows. An actual meal? With Orwell? What was this world coming to?

"Um, okay. I-Is this a trap? Or--I mean, your master--didn't seem happy with me last night."

"Ah, that's the lord for you. Don't take it to heart, dear boy. I've known him since he was a wee one. He's always been a wet blanket."

Jeremy snickered. His captor? The bizarre, terrifying Orwell? The way this lady described him; he was no more than a cranky pussycat.

"Anyhow, do come over. Lord knows you need meat on your bones. I know you've been starving."

Jeremy chuckled. At least someone around here could be accommodating. "Sure. I'll come over. An omelet sounds fantastic."

There was a pause, but Jeremy could sense the maid's smile. "Thank you, sir. I'm sure the dish will satisfy."

There was a jangle of keys, and the door unlocked. As the maid's footsteps faded, Jeremy opened it. He felt like a new man. Orwell would not intimidate him today. No matter what he said. No matter what he did.

It was clear Orwell hadn't gotten any sleep last night--the bags under his eyes were prominent and puffy, colored dark grey from hours spent up doing God-knows-what. A strong, dark aura rolled off him in waves. It made the air almost unbreathable, smothering it like the fumes from a raging wildfire.

Jeremy sighed. So much for being brave. The lord was twice as scary when he hadn't gotten his beauty sleep, and if he didn't know any better, he was directing that fearsome aura at him. And why was Orwell so pissed, anyway? Did the man exist to get angry for no reason?

Feeling two intense eyes burning a hole in his skull, Jeremy kept to his meal, pretending not to notice. He scratched at the grooves on the wooden table, picking at his plate. With the barren walls cramming the four of them in this tiny room, he felt suffocated. There was no way out of this situation.

He glanced up. Orwell was still glaring like he'd done something horrendous. Jeremy wracked his brain. He couldn't recall saying one bad word to the man. He never meant anyone ill will, even when they were assholes to him.

"So, then. You're probably wondering why I called you over," Orwell began. He tapped his fingers on the table, eyes glittering menacingly.

Still puzzled by the strange development of sharing a meal, Jeremy nodded.

"I am very upset with you," the lord emphasized. "I came to your aid last night and did not get the gratitude I deserved. For that, you will be punished."

Jeremy almost coughed up his food. Punished? What did that mean?

"You cannot leave your room. And you will get no dinner tonight."

Jeremy was shocked. His stomach was screaming for food. "You can't do that! I'm already starving!"

Orwell crossed his arms. "You made your bed. Now it's time you lie in it."

"What the hell did I do to upset you?! I don't understand!"

"You could've thanked me!" he exclaimed.

"For what, showing up naked?!" Jeremy stood up. He threw down his napkin. "I'm going. This is ridiculous."

"Fine by me. Just know Ivan and Elizabeth are your chaperones. You are going nowhere by yourself."

Jeremy stopped in his tracks. "You want to know something, Orwell?"

Orwell put down his glass of brandy.

Jeremy pointed a finger at him in scorn. "You're a cruel man! You keep me cooped up like a prisoner, with no food and water, like you want me to die. Do you want me to die?! Because I don't know. I don't know whether you plan on shooting me, stabbing me, or letting me kill myself when I can't bear it! Already, I can't stand it!" He wiped away tears. "How do you sleep at night?!"

Orwell sighed, pinching the bridge between his brows. "I see asking one question at a time isn't your forte." He handed his now-empty glass to the maid, Elizabeth. "No, I don't plan on killing you at once. No shootings or stabbings. I sleep by closing my eyes and counting sheep." He chuckled dryly. "Does that answer things?"

Now Jeremy was even more furious. "Did you just joke?!"

"What's wrong? Got no sense of humor?"

Jeremy lunged across the table. Yet he didn't get far. Ivan and Elizabeth restrained him, using all their strength.

Orwell poured himself another glass of brandy. "Take him away. I say we've talked enough."

Jeremy thrashed and struggled against the two servants. He tried clawing, biting, anything to escape. But it was no use, for it was two against one. And Jeremy, with his tiny size, could never compete.

They dragged the young man away. Jeremy, to his credit, continued to fight his retainers, because damn them, someone gaining control of his bodily autonomy was the last thing he'd allow! If he could fight them off that was. And it was clear that wouldn't amount to anything.

Ivan and Elizabeth tossed him into his room. Elizabeth gazed at him with guilt in her eyes, while Ivan was annoyed.

"You guys can't be serious!" Jeremy exclaimed. "You're going to do what that jerk says?!"

Elizabeth walked away, shaking her head.

"God, why is Orwell such an ass?! I didn't do anything wrong!"

Jeremy heard Ivan mutter something behind him. "I don't know who's at fault, sir. I wasn't there."

"And who does he think he is, anyway?" Jeremy pulled his knees to his chest. "Ah, well. It's not like I can do anything."

There was a long pause. And then, Ivan sighed.

"I say you can," the servant concluded. He checked for anyone listening. "You could defy him. Go exploring."

Jeremy glowered. "What I need to explore is the kitchen." His stomach grumbled. "I didn't eat my omelet. All because of stupid Orwell, glaring at me and taunting me and--" he shivered. "Ugh. What a creep."

"Then--blast my wretched old heart! I'll leave the door unlocked. It doesn't matter what the master says. I'll ensure you won't starve."

Jeremy's ears perked up. Was that true? He hadn't known Ivan to be so.... nice. "But you could get in trouble."

Ivan nodded. "I suppose. Although he misses much when his back is turned."

Jeremy raised an eyebrow. He wasn't entirely convinced by what Ivan was saying. Then again, he was hungry.... "You'll actually leave it unlocked?"

"I said yes, didn't I?" the old man bit back. "Just--wait until night falls. I'll convince the lord to go to sleep for once."

Jeremy pondered the servant's words. But not for long. "Okay. I trust you."

Ivan pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Excellent. I can assure you; you won't be disappointed."

With that, Ivan closed the door. Hesitating for a moment, Jeremy jiggled the knob. The door gave way. He reclosed it, feeling relieved. Turned out the old man had kept his promise.

Chapter 4

Ivan

Ivan's plan was falling into place. Jeremy, the little idiot, was busy right now exploring the hospital out of bounds. He hadn't the slightest clue what would happen next. Of course, he'd lose his way trying to find the kitchen--Ivan had locked the door. And of course he'd find his way to the storeroom, as it was the one entrance Ivan had left lit up and open for access. All the dumb blond needed to do now was find the place. It was just a matter of time. And a matter of patience. The brat would be moving slower than a glacier.

Meanwhile, Ivan was in the lab alongside Orwell, injecting rodents with the crimson serum from the vials. The rats shrieked at each prick, seizing up at the fourth pump into their tiny veins. Stabbing the needles into their abdomens, pushing down the syringe tops--such simple, fluid motions. They were beautiful. But they were nothing compared to his beloved.

The servant noted Orwell's beauty as he scowled at the brazen display of cruelty. His long eyelashes, dark and delicate, framed his eyes, pairing perfectly with his bushy brows. He had a perfect triangle for a nose, long and noble as the day was long. Even his sullen frown had its special charm. There wasn't a day Ivan wished to go without seeing it. Yes, yes. There simply wasn't anyone more entrancing than his master. Especially when he was upset. Like right now.

"Ivan, you're only supposed to inject them once. What do you think you're doing?"

Ivan put down the twitching rat. "Nothing. I'm contributing to our experiments."

Orwell sniffed. "We're supposed to watch the effects over time. You know that."

"But it's just so boring to wait. Why not do it now and measure them? And then you can finally unleash your--"

"Ivan! It's about wearing them out slowly." Orwell closed his laptop, gripping a clump of his hair by the roots. He tapped his knee, like he always did when angry. "They're not supposed to know they're dying."

"But--"

"And brown rats only reproduce at five weeks, and this is a limited colony we're working with. I'm not waiting another month because you decided to off twenty for shits and giggles! Understand?"

Ivan purred. Yes, sir. "Right you are, master. As always."

Orwell sneered and went back to his notes. A while went by before Ivan--only injecting the mice once now--spoke up again. "I wonder what that our young captive is doing."

Orwell sighed. "Twiddling his thumbs. You locked the door, right?"

"Oh, of course, sir. Though I wonder if our prisoner is smarter than he appears. Perhaps he fashioned a lock pick?"

Right-o. Idea implanted.

Orwell scratched his scalp. "Shit. We need to check his room, don't we?"

"If it helps ease your mind, darling."

They both jumped up from their chairs at the same time, rushing for the entrance. They hurriedly zipped off their hazmat suits.

"And for God's sake, don't call me darling. You know that pisses me off."

Ivan smiled. "Of course, Master. Whatever you wish."

Not that it mattered, anyway. He'd wear him down soon enough.

Chapter 5

Jeremy

Jeremy waited with bated breath as darkness fell. Once he was convinced it was far enough into the night, he crept outside his room. Turning into the hall, he was uncomfortably aware of how alone he was.

Only he wasn't alone. Not with all the swarms of rats around him. Their squeaks, their pitter-pattering little feet somewhere in the void, sent chills down his spine. His heart sped up. Splashing through dirty puddles with rapid footfalls, he paid little attention to the closed doors on either side. He never ceased to wonder what lay beyond, deciding it was best not to know. After all, it was curiosity that killed the cat, right?

Jeremy sighed. Come on now, where was the damn kitchen? It sucked enough that he'd gone two days without eating--why did it have to be so hard to find one freaking room?

As he turned the corner, he saw a light on in the distance. Unlike the other rooms he'd come across, this one had the door open. Strange. Did that mean a person was in there?

His stomach gurgled. Against his better judgement, he kept moving. He hoped that whoever was inside was a cook. He was too hungry to think.

Stepping into the room's glow, he was at once disappointed with what he found. Upended tables, old dingy slabs, a ramshackle pile of well-used chairs and desks--why, this was a stupid storeroom!

Seeing a random pencil laying on the floor, Jeremy picked it up. With all his rage, he threw it at the window, setting off the loudest alarm he'd heard in his life.

Jeremy jumped out of his skin. Once again, even when his life depended on it, he couldn't run. He stayed glued to where he stood for quite a while. Then he heard voices shouting.

"Over there, Master! I see him!"

"By Jove! He really has escaped!"

Still frozen, Jeremy picked up the pencil once more. Right then, he noticed there was a string attached to it. It must have triggered the emergency system when he threw it. But who would set it up like this?

Strong hands grabbed Jeremy's shoulders, hoisting him up high over someone's back. He looked down at whoever it was. It was Ivan. Wait. Ivan?!

"You traitor! You promised I'd be safe!"

Ivan scoffed. "I promised nothing!"

"Stop. The both of you." Orwell glowered, positively seething. He turned to Jeremy, focusing all his pent-up rage on the poor young captive. "I thought I was clear on this being off-limits, but it seems I wasn't." He clenched and unclenched his fist.

Orwell stepped closer.

Jeremy couldn't help but swallow, breaking out in a cold sweat.

"It's back to the alcove with you," the lord hissed. "And this time, you'll never see the sunlight again."

The alarm seemed to blare even louder.

Jeremy's heart dropped. "N-no. No, wait. I can't go back there. You can't make me!"

"Yes, I can!" Orwell pointed Ivan away, far down the hall. "Take him. I don't want to see him anymore."

Jeremy felt as wretched as he had when Gram-Gram died.

With those fatal words uttered, Ivan began carrying him down the endless hallway. Jeremy would have started crying, except he didn't want to feel any more pathetic. But he did feel sick. He would have thrown up had it not been for Ivan's shoulder pushing on his diaphragm. It squeezed it like a vice.

As Ivan carried him outside and down the stone staircase, Jeremy continued to not struggle. Knowing he was going to die in a cage had taken the fire out of him. He may as well roll over and surrender to fate.

Chapter 6

Orwell

Trying to work in the lab that night, Orwell felt tremendous guilt. His treatment of the prisoner had felt too cruel, even for him. So, the boy had gone exploring out of bounds. Why did that have to equal putting him behind bars? Orwell grabbed clumps of his hair. God! Sometimes he was such an idiot.

And yet it was when he was beating himself up for the fifty-seventh time that he wondered: why was he being so hard on himself? He was Orwell the Inventor, The Diabolical Engineer! What use did he have for feeling bad? Or feeling empathy for others? Lord knows he hadn't felt it before this lithe-legged captive, with his soft brown eyes, well-shaped thighs, and a perfect plump peach for an a--

Oh. Oh no. Was he caught in the throes of desire?!

Could it be that he liked the prisoner? Ridiculous. He didn't know his name. And he hadn't felt anything since the accident. For years, he'd shut his heart off. That was why he'd never given Ivan a snowball's chance in Hell, though the bastard tried every chance he got.

And what use did he have for love? It would get in the way of his experiments. Distract him. It might even cause him to hang up his hazmat suit, all for a supposedly happier life. What rubbish! His life was here, alongside his rats, his vials, his secret serum....

But then, the lord remembered something. He'd spent the past five years working toward his grand unveiling. Yet all he'd ever felt while doing it was stress, anger, and confusion. Most of all, he could recall this vague, aching emotion. Loneliness.

Wait. This couldn't be! The experiment's results were his life's work. It was supposed to bring him peace, knowing he'd unleashed his vengeance upon the world. It was his legacy. What he wanted more than anything. Right?

At that moment, Orwell felt a dark presence behind him. He rolled his eyes. "What is it, Ivan?"

Ivan cleared his throat. He stepped up to the desk. "Nothing, Master. I wanted to see why you've been down here so long. I know you put in long hours, but this is strange, even for you."

Orwell sighed. He knew as well as Ivan that the servant had no concern for him in his cold, black heart. No, Ivan had another reason for checking in. One that would preserve his interests in Orwell's grand unveiling, while ensuring nothing would derail it.

Wait. If Ivan were here to check in on things going according to plan, to ensure that their prisoner was still being thought of as such--

Oh no. Oh no, no, no. He couldn't let Ivan figure out what he was thinking. No matter what.

"No reason. Work is taking a bit. And the rats aren't cooperating."

Ivan sneered. "Oh? The rats aren't cooperating?"

Orwell swallowed. "Their bloodlust is making them agitated. They squirm around too much to inject." It was a bald-faced lie. Plausible, but still a lie.

Ivan used all his height to tower over the much shorter man. He leaned down until his bony face was inches from Orwell's, his needle-toothed scowl all the other man could see. "You've managed these rats for years. And you're saying they squirm too much?"

Orwell nodded.

Ivan narrowed his eyes. "I see."

The servant backed off.

Orwell exhaled.

Ivan slammed Orwell's head on his desk, knocking the air from the lord's lungs.

"What are you hiding?! Tell me!!" Ivan roared, grinding Orwell's head into the polished metal.

Orwell struggled to breathe. "I don't know what you're.... talking about...."

"Bullshit! You're a wretched liar! Now tell me what's going on!"

Orwell's skull was pressed harder and harder into the desk. "I.... Ivan...."

"Say it! Now!!"

"F-fuck.... you...."

Orwell swung wildly behind him, clawing a gash in Ivan's throat. Ivan jumped off, pressing his paper-thin flesh to stop the bleeding.

Orwell caught his breath. He felt the side of his scalp, knowing there'd be a bruise there later. How nice.

Ivan glared at him, seething with rage. Never had he looked so angry. "I will find it out. Mark my words."

Orwell rubbed his scalp. "Fine. Then I'll tell you." He inhaled. "I have feelings for our prisoner." There. It was out.

Now Ivan was red-faced, balling his fists until his knuckles were white. "You can't be serious! What does he have that I don't?!"

Orwell drew a blank. All he knew was he wanted the captive in his sights, preferably in his arms. That he suddenly wanted to kiss him. Unravel him. And that he would rather make him laugh and not cry. "I don't know!"

"Is it because he's younger?! Better looking?! Do you love him or--"

"Ivan, I said I don't know!"

There was dead silence. The tension was so palpable it was almost solid.

"But I'm going to go get him," Orwell said slowly. "And you're not going to stop me."

Ivan stood there, not saying a word. Instead, his eyes burned as he willed his master to submit.

Yet Orwell didn't bend. For once in his life, he didn't care how Ivan felt. He had made his decision. He was going to let his captive free. No one deserved the punishment the young man had suffered.

Orwell fetched the windbreaker slung over his chair. As he put it on, he addressed Ivan:

"Don't wait up. I'll be making up for lost time down there." He pushed each button through its slit, deep in thought. "Keep the lights on for me, would you?" It wasn't a question.

Orwell headed for the door. Without so much as looking back, he began his march outside.

Chapter 7

Jeremy

As Jeremy fell asleep that night, he traveled to another time and place. A time and place where things were warmer. Safer. Back when Gram-Gram was still alive. Before she got cancer.

Jeremy recognized the bungalow as soon as he saw it. Gram-Gram's house. With its terra-cotta roof, eggshell walls, and wild front lawn, it was the perfect symbol of suburban life. The place where a person could grow up free from harm, get a decent education, go on to live an ordinary life. Those things.

Jeremy found himself walking up the front steps when the door swung open by itself. Instead of finding the entryway with its lights on, as he always had upon coming home, he found an endless black hallway. It had a negative aura, thicker than the heaviest fog. Like something.... evil.

Unable to face what lurked inside, Jeremy tried turning around. Instead, he found himself being sucked in. Before he knew it, the darkness had swallowed him.

As the darkness propelled him down its passage, the walls shrank around him, squeezing him until he thought his bones would crack. It wasn't long before Jeremy found that he couldn't breathe, the air pushed from his lungs by overwhelming force.

And then, as he was close to fainting, the darkness spat him out.

Gasping, Jeremy rolled onto his back, thankful to be alive. He opened his eyes. Asbestos popcorn ceiling, jade green wallpaper with tiny pink roses--yep, this was the kitchen. Everything was in its proper place, even the island with its fake cracked marble. And as he pushed himself off the floor, he realized Gram-Gram was, too. She was in front of the stove, cooking fried fish for dinner. She had her back turned to Jeremy, humming softly.

Jeremy rose up to his full height. He started trembling. He was so scared and so happy. Gram-Gram was here, and as healthy as he remembered her. Her figure was still full, if not plump, with her silver hair styled into an angled bob. Her chunky rings even glittered under the ceiling lights as she flipped the fish in front of her.

Jeremy hesitated, grasping for something to say. "Um.... Gram-Gram? Is that.... you?"

Gram-Gram muttered something.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Butter." It came out as more of a sigh than a word. "Need it."

Jeremy searched for the butter but couldn't find it. Strange. Normally she'd have it out on the counter. He walked up to the fridge. He peeked inside. As he craned his neck inspecting the drawers, Jeremy heard, clear as day:

"Jeremy? Sweetie?"

Jeremy turned around, half-frustrated. "Yeah?"

"Have you been dealing drugs?"

Jeremy screamed. She had no eyes, no nose, her face half-eaten by rats. The rodents were on top of her chest, neck, crawling on her head, piling on her like she was the center of a feast. She lurched toward her grandson, her arms flopping lifelessly, the pan on the stove popping like firecrackers.

"Have you been dealing drugs?"

Jeremy had nowhere to run except back into that hallway. And he wasn't going back there. But he wasn't going to look at Gram-Gram, either. Not with what those disgusting rats had done to her sparkling eyes. Her warm smile. She had no lips to grin with anymore.

Jeremy stared at the floor. He focused on his shoes. He noticed the holes he'd worn into them.

Jeremy noticed a stench that he instantly recognized as death. "Have you been dealing.... drugs?"

Jeremy kept his eyes squeezed shut, backed up against the refrigerator, his teeth clenched. "Yes.... Yes, Gram-Gram. I've been dealing drugs." He choked up, a lump rising in his throat. "I'm so sorry."

He heard something resembling both a cry of anguish and a sigh of disappointment.

"Yes, I know. But we couldn't pay the bills, we couldn't--" He wiped at his eyes. "I had to do something."

Gram-Gram shook like she was going to cry, too.

"I got desperate. I'm sorry. That's.... all I can say."

Gram-Gram collapsed into a thousand pieces like she was ash and paper. Rats exploded out of her as if she were their nest, flooding the room with their muddy gray fur.

Jeremy jumped up onto the island, shaking off the swarm dangling from his ankles. He'd never seen so many rodents before. He almost threw up just staring at them.

"Oh God... Oh God... I'm so sorry.... I'm so sorry...."

"Jeremy! Jeremy, can you hear me?!"

Jeremy whipped his head around. Who was shouting? Because this voice was different. It was a living one. It rang out in a deep baritone, like the smoothest of whiskies pouring into a glass.

Chapter 8

Orwell

As Jeremy awoke, Orwell felt relieved. He cupped the young man's face, never feeling as giddy as he did then. The captive was okay. He felt like laughing out of sheer joy, so sure up until this moment that he'd broken him. That whatever reason he had for being happy was gone now that his prisoner's sanity had snapped.

"Thank the Lord you're alright," he murmured, sweeping the captive's hair behind his ears. He leaned in, his lips inches from his prisoner's. "I was beginning to think you'd never wake up."

The prisoner looked like his brain had stopped working.

"Um. H-Hello?" Orwell snapped his fingers. No response. Strange. Usually when he made his move, the woman would swoon. Was it different with a man?

Moments later, Ivan came rushing into the alcove. He stopped when he saw what was going on.

"What. Are. You. Two. Doing?"

Orwell froze, wide-eyed. Shit.

The lord wasn't sure what happened next. It was a blur, those next few seconds in which Ivan stormed over, closing the distance between himself and the two. All Orwell knew was he was suspended above the ground, thrust up against the wall, running out of air faster than he could imagine.

It took him a second to realize Ivan's hand was wrapped around his neck. The old man's teeth were clenched, the fire in his eyes a roaring inferno as he went about extinguishing his master's life over the next few minutes.

"You idiot!" he exclaimed. "He's our prisoner!! Treat him like one!"

Orwell clawed at Ivan's grip, his lungs burning, the pressure in his skull building.

"You think it's okay to seduce him behind my back.... You think nothing of me, don't you?!"

Orwell kicked his legs, trying to hit Ivan wherever he could. Stars burst behind his eyes. He lost the strength to move.

Tears formed in the servant's eyes. "Why?! Why do you hate me so?! What did I do to deserve this?!"

Everything was going dark. He wouldn't last much longer. The old man was determined to break his neck.

Orwell faded in and out. In and out. Any moment, and he'd fade to black.

Ivan let go. He crumpled to the ground, his head cracked open.

Orwell slumped to the rocky floor. He coughed, receiving precious air. The world came back into focus.

That's when he saw it. The prisoner's hands and clothes were bloodied. He had a rock in his grip.

"You saved me," Orwell whispered, his vocal cords strained. "Why?"

The prisoner shrugged, staring down at the stone. "I.... don't know. I couldn't watch someone die," he murmured. "And you let me out." He scratched his scalp. "S'pose we're even."

Orwell's heart stuttered. To think someone he'd treated so horribly would save him....

"You're a good soul. Tell me, what's your name?"

"Um, it's.... Jeremy. Jeremy Fitz."

Orwell nodded. Jeremy. A fitting name, for such purity.

"I'm Orwell. But you knew that."

"Yeah," Jeremy chuckled. "I did."

Orwell smiled. It was nice to see Jeremy's face light up. Anything except those distressing tears.

There was a long, loud groan. Orwell and Jeremy looked over to see Ivan rise like a zombie, the wound--or rather, hole--in his head still seeping blood. He wobbled, blinking, looking far more his age than ever before. He pointed a shaky finger at the two of them, grimacing in pain, resembling a phantom about to conjure an omen.

"This isn't over," he hissed. Putting a hand to the ugly gash in his cranium, he hobbled away, casting a long shadow over the alcove floor.

Jeremy and Orwell stood there, shell-shocked. They huddled closer, latching onto each other for safety.

And as Orwell observed the anxiety etched on Jeremy's face, he cursed Ivan, hoping his threat wouldn't come to fruition.

Chapter 9

Jeremy

Over the next few days, there was an uneasy peace. Ivan didn't show his face, and Orwell kept to himself. Which made Jeremy curious: what had that been about, Ivan claiming Orwell was seducing him? And what was it with Orwell almost kissing him when he'd previously shown no interest?

It was so sudden. Jeremy wasn't even sure if he wanted romance. First off, he wasn't gay. Sure, he'd noticed Orwell's good looks upon them first meeting--but that didn't mean anything. Anyone could observe that a man such as him was attractive, men, women, whoever.

And his actions didn't change Jeremy's opinion of him either. Who cared if the lord had let him out of that horrible alcove, he was the one that put him there to begin with! He was a horrible man. A vicious, cruel, inconsiderate master of a creepy dump for a hospital and nothing else.

So why did Jeremy's heart skip a beat when he entered the dining room one night, only to see the table lit with candles, and Orwell sitting alone with a smile on his face, as if he'd been waiting just for him? "Please, sit."

Jeremy stood frozen, open-mouthed. Was this for him? And was Orwell in his right mind? Perhaps he'd lost a few brain cells being choked.

Orwell's smile faded. "What's wrong? Is this too much?"

Jeremy grabbed a chair, deciding that very thing. "Did you do this?" he asked instead, afraid to know the answer.

Orwell chuckled. "Well, I had Elizabeth make the dinner. But the candles, the tablecloth--that's me." He beamed with pride. "Managed to not burn myself in the process."

Jeremy blinked at Orwell, his head spinning.

Orwell's brows knotted, lips twisting in dissatisfaction. "You seem overwhelmed."

Now it was Jeremy's turn to chuckle. Very nervously. "Me? No, why would I be?" Underneath the table, he wrung his hands, white knuckling the arms of his chair.

Orwell picked up his wine glass, swirling the red liquid in his grasp. "Hm." He took a drink, his black eyes examining Jeremy, as if he were figuring out if he liked that response. He put his glass down. "Well, you look nice. As always."

To his surprise, Jeremy flushed. It was just an everyday compliment--why was it affecting him? And it wasn't like he was dressed fancy--he was still in the same Porkie's Pizza™ uniform and ruined jeans he'd arrived in days earlier. He no doubt reeked at this point.

"What do you like to do in your spare time?"

That was certainly out-of-pocket. "... What?"

"What do you like to do? Your hobbies."

Jeremy paused. Never had he expected his captor to care. ".... I don't know. Sewing?" It was true. He did like to sew. Sort of.

Orwell nodded, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Ah. That's nice."

Jeremy rubbed his arm. "Yeah."

They said nothing as the silence stretched, weighing the room down with awkward tension.

"Anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable?" he asked, like he was the owner of a fucking hotel. It was so.... weird. "This is my estate."

Jeremy narrowed his eyes. While they were on that note-- "Why do you own this place, anyway? Who left it to you?"

"No one. I bought it." Orwell took a bite of his roast chicken.

Now Jeremy was curious. Who in their right mind would buy an abandoned psych ward? Especially one where a bunch of people died? "Why?"

Orwell paused while cutting his next bite. "I suppose its history appealed to me. I was fascinated with death after the accident--" He shut his mouth, gazing at his plate.

Jeremy was stunned. An accident? Orwell didn't look like he had ever been severely injured.

"What do you mean?"

Orwell put down his fork. His eyes appeared haunted, and Jeremy regretted asking. Even if he hated the man, he didn't want to make him relive any trauma.

He was surprised when Orwell continued.

"It was a beautiful summer day, five years ago," the lord began in a whisper. "I had joined my parents for a vacation in Hawai'i. We were out boating with our entourage. It was an all-out extravaganza. We had firebreathers performing. A live band. Dancers. We wined and dined ourselves until we were shitfaced. Sunned ourselves on waters of a pristine, turquoise hue." He stopped. "Then the engine blew sky-high."

Jeremy leaned in, stunned at what he was hearing.

"People were screaming. They jumped into the water; the flames were spreading so fast. I could see them flailing in the waves, struggling to keep themselves afloat."

Orwell sniffed. His eyes filled with tears. "Then Ivan pulled me in to get me away from the fire. He and I grabbed a broken piece of wreckage, but others weren't so lucky. One by one, the screams died off. Then it was.... bodies near me, bobbing like the boat, just.... too still for words."

He started crying in earnest. Jeremy got up to comfort him, but Orwell put his hand up. "Be seated. I'm alright."

Jeremy reluctantly did as he was told.

Orwell wiped at his eyes. "My mother died in the fire. And my father drowned. Elizabeth was staying at our hotel, so she didn't have to experience what Ivan and I went through." He chuckled mirthlessly. "Funny how the rest of us lived, isn't it?"

Jeremy was speechless. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was an accident. It was investigated for foul play, and I was suspected at first. But I was let go, and the case was filed away as an unfortunate tragedy."

His heart sunk even further. "That happened to you?"

"Yes." Orwell's eyes darkened even more. "But that's in the past. I'm not concerned with it anymore." He drummed his fingers on the table.

Jeremy somehow had the feeling that wasn't the case. Lord knows watching Gram-Gram become a withered skeleton on life support would haunt him for the rest of his days.

"You're not the only one who's lost somebody," Jeremy murmured. "I lost my grandmother to breast cancer. It was horrible." The memories flooded Jeremy's mind. He struggled to keep tears back. But it wasn't easy, knowing the pain wouldn't fade for many years.

Yet seeing her lose her chatty, cheerful self would remain with him forever. Witnessing her become a speechless, dull-eyed shell still made him wake up from nightmares of being back in that other hospital, trapped in an endless loop watching the one person who'd raised him suffer as pain wracked her entire body. And Jeremy didn't know if those night terrors would ever stop coming.

Orwell furrowed his brows. "I apologize. I can't imagine the pain of that." He took a deep breath. "Guess we have something in common, huh?"

Jeremy chuckled dryly. "Yeah. Guess so."

There was another long silence. This time, the air was filled with sadness.

A few seconds later, Jeremy broke it. "She's actually the reason why I'm here."

Orwell raised a brow. "Okay. Consider me curious."

Jeremy tapped his palm on the table. So. He was going for it, then. "Um.... I came here to make a trade," he said hesitantly. "It was for cash to pay off my grandmother's debts." He scratched his cheek. "She had a lot."

Now Orwell was suspicious. "And what was this trade?"

Jeremy clamped his mouth shut. Crap. Shouldn't have worded it like that.

The lord narrowed his eyes. He drummed his fingers on the table. Then he leaned back in his chair. "As you wish. We all have our secrets; who am I to pry?"

Jeremy relaxed. Guess he was off the hook. Even so, he was filled with guilt--he didn't like hiding things from people he cared about. Especially something as big as dealing drugs.

Wait. Did he care about Orwell? Oh, good God, he was getting soft. This was his abductor who had him locked in a dog crate! Twice! Ab-duc-tor!

Yet his emotions were starting to tell him something entirely different than what his head presented. That this man could be sensitive. Caring.

Jeremy flushed as thoughts drifted in unexpectedly--him holding hands with Orwell. Sharing a kiss with Orwell. Embracing him like he depended on him for life and livelihood. Inhaling his scent. Sharing a bed--

Whoa, whoa, whoa. He needed to back. Up. And he wasn't into men! He. Wasn't.

"Well, I'll have Elizabeth clean this up. Unless you want to talk more." Orwell looked at Jeremy hopefully, waiting for his answer.

"I'm good. I need to.... think things over." Like his sexuality. "I'll need some quiet."

Orwell nodded, perturbed. "Did I do something wrong?"

Jeremy shook his head.

Orwell toyed with his fork. He pricked his thumb on the points. "Alright. I won't keep you." He rang a bell for the maid's attention.

Meanwhile, Jeremy sagged in his chair, lost in thought.

Chapter 10

That night, Jeremy was swept up into a dream unlike any he'd had before. For the first time, he thought of Orwell. In his mind's eye, the lord stood propped against his bedroom doorway, hands in his pockets, bare-chested as he stared directly at Jeremy. His black eyes smoldered like flaming coals, giving off so much heat that Jeremy couldn't bear looking at him. His eyes were so dark, so intense, piercing through his soul like he'd saved him for dessert.

Smirking, Orwell strode over. He pulled the young man into his lap, lips brushing his neck as he straddled him.

Jeremy gasped. Orwell's abdomen was so tight. It was so rigid, so warm.

As the lord whispered sweet nothings into his ear, he shivered, biting his lip. Just when he thought he couldn't take any more, Orwell tugged up his shirt, grazing his skin with astonishingly smooth fingers. It wasn't long before Jeremy's manhood rose, begging for relief.

Orwell slowly lowered his hand to the tent in Jeremy's jeans. He stroked it gently with his index finger, making the other arch his back.

"Oh, come on," he whimpered. "Please. Please."

Orwell brushed away the hair dangling in Jeremy's face. He kissed him up and down his neck with unbearable tenderness.

Jeremy woke up, drenched in sweat. At that same moment, there was a knocking at his door. A familiar baritone rang out:

"Are you alright, Jeremy? You're making a lot of noise."

Oh, crap. Orwell. He was here! For some reason.

Jeremy cleared his throat, fanning himself. "Yeah! I'm fine!" he said a little too loud. "It's open!"

Orwell walked in. The air left Jeremy's body when he saw the lord dressed in nothing but swim trunks and sandals, his pale chest almost the same as it appeared in his dream. The only things that were different were the patch of black hair above his pectorals, as well as a small paunch. The young man's mouth watered.

Orwell smirked, again like in his dream. Only it wasn't filled with the same heat. "Well, look at you. You have bedhead."

Jeremy felt the tangled locks of his hair, mortified. "Oh."

Orwell laughed, but not cruelly. "It's alright. I find it endearing."

Jeremy still combed his hair out the best he could. No way was he looking half-assed around a shirtless Orwell.

The lord tugged on a piece of his forelocks, blushing. "I was wondering if you wanted to go to the beach," he said hesitantly. "I want to get over my fear of water, and I could use some.... moral support."

Jeremy was surprised. There was a beach around here?

Seeing his confusion, Orwell clarified: "I-It's more a cove, to be honest. Very well-hidden."

Oh. Ok. Seemed legit. "Sure, I'll go. Just let me get ready." Jeremy turned in bed, searching for the jeans he'd stripped off.

In response, Orwell threw a pair of swim trunks to him. "They should fit you. I'll be waiting outside. So.... yeah." He cleared his throat, quietly chastising himself as he walked out.

For his part, Jeremy's cheeks turned piping hot. He wouldn't survive at this rate.

Their trip down to the cove was a short one. By the time they got there, the sun had barely risen, casting long, black shadows over the moss-covered ground. The cove was hemmed in by a cave roof resembling a cathedral's dome, stalactites glistening. Water droplets fell from their rocky tail ends, pinging on the water.

Jeremy was in awe. Never had he seen a place like this. And the area was so quiet. It were as if nothing lived here. "It's beautiful!"

Orwell smiled, pleased with himself. "I like to find peace here when I'm able. Or sit and think when things become too much." He frowned. "Lord knows it's been that way lately."

Jeremy touched his shoulder. "I'm sorry. Wish I could make it better."

"Don't be. You're already here."

The young man's heart skipped a beat.

"Now, come on! Last one in's a rotten egg!" The lord ran into the water, diving below the waves.

Jeremy was puzzled. Didn't Orwell say he feared water? Also, could he even swim?

By the time the lord resurfaced with a shit-eating grin, Jeremy was suspicious. "Alright. What's going on?"

Orwell pushed his hair out of his face. "What do you mean?"

"You said you were scared of this stuff. You don't need me here."

"Well, I want you here. Is that enough?"

Jeremy groaned. How did he know just the right words to say? "At least tell me why you brought me."

Orwell glanced down at his reflection. ".... I thought I ruined our date by telling you what happened to my family." His expression turned melancholy. "That it was too depressing."

Jeremy's heart wrenched. That wasn't true! He'd managed to find someone who understood grief. What loss really meant. "No, not at all!" He knelt to the lagoon, dipping his toe in. "I feel closer to you since you shared."

"Really?"

He nodded.

Orwell seemed to ponder that statement. Then, finally: "Well, uh, come on in. Perhaps we could make this place.... hotter." He waggled his eyebrows.

Jeremy snorted. He stepped into the water, swimming up to Orwell.

For a few moments, they each treaded water, otherwise frozen to where they were. Neither made a move. It were as if both were anticipating something to come. Waiting for some signal. A divine intervention, anything to show that taking action was the correct choice.

Then they started kissing each other, and to Jeremy, it was magic. The lord's lips were softer than he could have imagined, and as the kiss deepened, he was enraptured by its taste. Orwell smelled like smoke and pine needles, the scent overtaking him like a fire in his veins. Goosebumps broke out on his shoulders and back, an electric pulse spreading through his body. Before he knew it, he was aroused, aching for the kind of relief that could only come from another's touch.

Finally, they broke off the kiss. They stared deep into each other's eyes, oblivious to their surroundings. "Um.... We should.... take this to dry land, huh?" Orwell murmured. His pupils were blown.

Jeremy was breathless. "Right. Sure." No one had ever looked at him like that. And he was loving every minute of it.

Laying in a sweaty heap on the cavern floor, Jeremy and Orwell breathed heavily, coming down from the most euphoric experience of their lives. Their necks and chests were covered in bruises. Claw marks tattooed their shoulder blades. They laughed at the absurdity of it, the sheer feeling that it had produced. There'd been so much; none of it had been containable.

Orwell chuckled. He sighed contentedly, watching the sun shine through gaps in the cavern wall. "Well. You enjoy it?"

Jeremy cleared his throat. It was still sore from earlier. "Yeah." He grinned. "Definitely."

The lord gazed at him tenderly. He reached over, combing his fingers through Jeremy's blond tresses. "Good."

Jeremy swallowed. How could gentle touches like this feel so damn soothing? But most of all, who'd have guessed Orwell could be so loving? So kind?

"You know, I was nervous bringing you here," Orwell said. "Wasn't sure how it was going to go." His eyes crinkled. "But it went well, so.... I'm glad."

Jeremy smiled. He was glad too.

Chapter 11

Having made love several more times, Orwell and Jeremy returned to the hospital. They made sure to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to tip anyone off to their absence. Skulking through the facility, they avoided the puddles in the halls, sending rats scattering to and fro. It was all they could do, with the rodents squeaking and chittering as much as they did.

Suddenly, up ahead, they saw Elizabeth sweeping the floors. She was happily humming to herself, taking her sweet time, dusting the windowpanes and their glass. Looking up, her mood changed instantly. She stomped over to them, like a demon about to take their souls.

"There you are, milord! I've been looking all over for you! Where in the dickens have you been?!"

Orwell chuckled nervously. "Elizabeth! Um.... I've.... I've just been, uh--" He scratched his scalp. Then looking between Jeremy and the very peeved maid, he suddenly straightened his shoulders. "I've been with Jeremy. And we had a wonderful time, thank you very much."

Jeremy couldn't breathe.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "Doing what?" she asked, like the lord was suspected of some terrible crime.

The two men blushed. The blood flow reached their ears. Then it went to their necks, as they each fought hard against awkward smiles.

Elizabeth's eyes widened. "Oh. Oh." She fell quiet, her hellish edge gone as quickly as it had emerged. She seemed to think it over for a moment. Then, she nodded. "Well. So long as it's not hurting anyone." She nodded again, more certain this time. "Alright. If you two are happy, that's what matters." She smiled.

Now Orwell was the one who was surprised. "Really?" He relaxed his shoulders. "Th... Thanks, Elizabeth."

The maid chuckled. Her eyes shone with warmth. "Anytime, love."

After eating their very cold breakfasts, Jeremy and Orwell went back to Jeremy's room. Having said their goodbyes as Jeremy endeavored to catch some sleep (he had, after all, been up since dawn), they had trouble parting. Perhaps it was because they were, even now, kissing each other breathless. But before it could escalate further, Jeremy pulled back. Breathing heavily, he stood in the doorway, speechless.

"Um.... I should probably.... rest now." Not that he felt like it. Quite the opposite, in fact.

But Orwell didn't move away. Instead, he took Jeremy's hand, gently brushing his lips over the young man's knuckles.

Jeremy almost fainted. How could one simple act unravel him?

"I--uh--um--" Oh God. Why was he like this?

Orwell smiled, gazing at him like a precious jewel. "See you later. Have a good rest."

Jeremy nodded, heart hammering. Since when were feelings this... big? "Uh, yeah. You too."

Orwell chuckled. He winked, walking off.

Jeremy's stomach was filled with butterflies. He hoped it would never end.

Jeremy awoke to the smell of smoke. Murmuring to Orwell that he was trying to sleep, he rolled back over in bed. Then he found that he couldn't breathe. He started coughing. Hacking. He opened his eyes. Turns out the lord wasn't there holding him in a tender embrace. No, the smell came from something far worse. Something suffocating. Stomach-churning. Blistering in its heat. It was.... It was--a fire!

Jeremy leapt out of bed. He ran to his door, tried turning the knob. But it wouldn't open. It was locked!

Jeremy gripped the roots of his hair. What could he possibly do in a situation like this?! If he didn't figure out something soon, he'd die. And death wasn't something that he wanted to face. Not after having the best morning of his life.

Jeremy put his ear to the door. It was warm on his cheek--he hissed in surprise at the sensation. But maybe, he thought, if he listened closely enough, he could hear the flames crackling. Be able to pinpoint their location, so he could avoid them and not get burned. It wasn't a genius idea, but hey, it was better than nothing.

So Jeremy went ahead with his super-smart, amazing plan and listened for the fire. The flames sounded not far from his room. He needed to get out. Like, yesterday.

Picking up a metal paperweight, Jeremy bashed it on the locking mechanism. He did this repeatedly until the lock gave way, swinging the door open. Tossing the paperweight on the floor, he ran out, right into a hallway blocked by flames. Shit. He'd have to take another route.

Turning around, Jeremy raced in the opposite direction. He sped down the hall toward the hospital entryway. Along the way, he noticed a strange trail of clear liquid on the floor. But it wasn't water. From it came an overpowering, unmistakable smell--petroleum. Jeremy stopped. This fire--it was an act of arson! But who would go about committing something so unspeakable?!

Jeremy started running again. He needed to get away. And fast. For all he knew, this whole place could explode.

Making his way into the entryway, he stopped when he saw a horrifically burned figure. The figure was spilling petrol from a jug on every object in the room, from the chairs lining the walls, to the reception desk and walls, to the banner hanging from the ceiling wishing Peter a happy birthday.

Jeremy retched. The whole room stunk of the stuff. And apparently that sound was enough for the burned figure to turn, revealing his half-disfigured face to the young man. Only half of a mustache left made him recognizable.

Jeremy gaped. "Ivan?"

Chapter 12

Jeremy couldn't believe it. Ivan was here. And he was a terrifying sight. His new burns, raw and bloody red, had to encompass at least thirty percent of his body. It was a miracle he was even walking, let alone that he wasn't in pain. He was grinning fiendishly like a madman, and Jeremy was starting to suspect that he'd lost his mind. His theory was confirmed when the old man uttered a howling cackle. It was one that echoed through Wentworth's twisting halls, a testament to a man broken in body and soul.

"Why, hellooooo, Jeremy," Ivan crooned, stepping closer to the young man. Jeremy backed up against the wall, his eyes wide with panic. "It seems we meet once more. Why don't you tell me what you've been doing with Lord Orwell, hmm?"

Jeremy was tongue-tied. Words escaped him.

"Look at the shame on your face!! I knew it!! You whore! You fiendish slut!!" Ivan roared, his face almost matching the color of his burns. "How could you do such a thing, knowing Orwell is mine?!"

"Y.... Yours?" Jeremy was aghast. Since when had there ever been a relationship between the two? "I think--I think you might be mistaken."

"Oh? And how might that be?" Ivan's eye twitched. Jeremy wasn't sure if he should give him an answer.

"Um.... Well..... Ivan....." Guess he really was doing this. "It's just--I don't think Orwell ever liked you like that," he stammered. "I never saw him return your affections.... So, uh....." Damn. He really had no sense of self-preservation.

Ivan emitted a noise somewhere between a cry and shriek of laughter.

Oh. Oh fuck. "Ivan--just.... just put down the can, okay? I'm sure you don't want to hurt any--"

Ivan splashed Jeremy with the can of petrol.

Jeremy screamed. All it would take was one match and he'd be ablaze.

Jeremy heard shrieks from further down the hall. It sounded like multitudes shouting, as if their senses had fled them ages ago.

Who, or rather, what, ran into the entryway was absolutely sickening. Out of the flames came running dozens of men and women, all naked, emaciated, bald, and burned. How they were alive, let alone moving, was a mystery that the young man couldn't solve.

It took him a moment to realize that they were also splashing petrol everywhere in sight, slicking the floors with the unbearable scent.

Oh no. Oh no-no-no-no-no. This was not how Jeremy wanted to go.

But before Wentworth could be set ablaze, Orwell and Elizabeth spilled into the room. Orwell's clothes and hair were singed, the top layer of his skin burned in several places. Elizabeth was the same. As the lord coughed for air, he happened to look up, and his eyes brightened. Even in this unbearable, terrifying tragedy. "Jeremy!"

Jeremy's heart soared. "Orwell!" Thank God he was okay! Regardless of his burns, he was still able to walk and talk, so that had to count for something. Even the maid was alive, so at least no one had died.

However, with the emaciated masses coating the hospital in fuel, that wouldn't be the case for much longer. And something made Jeremy suspect something was up. Perhaps it was the way Ivan now stood, completely calm, his shoulders and back ramrod straight. It was too controlled for Jeremy's liking.

Ivan's eyes gleamed. His grin reached from ear to ear, splitting his face in half. He turned to Orwell, almost giddy in the way he celebrated his triumph. "Tell me, Orwell, who are these people? I think Jeremy may want to know."

"Not now, Ivan!" Orwell growled.

"Oh, what's wrong? Scared of what your lover might think? Of how he might consider you, once he learns the truth?"

Jeremy rubbed his arm. "O--Orwell? What's he talking about?" He felt like his legs were about to give way.

Orwell clammed up, not saying anything. But the longer that the others stared at him, the more his anxiety seemed to reach a fever pitch. At last, he sighed.

"Alright," he murmured. "I'll tell you. These.... people, this crowd.... They're my patients. Ivan and I have been experimenting on them."

Jeremy's heart dropped. "'Experimenting'? What do you mean?"

Orwell took a deep breath. His expression was that of deep pain. "Torture," he forced out. "Starvation. Erasure of identity. Th-that's why their heads are shaved. And.... experimentation on them with strains of a fatal disease. Meant to be released into the world as a pandemic."

Jeremy didn't know what to say. At first, he laughed. He laughed desperately, crazily, in a half-hearted attempt to convince himself that what Orwell said wasn't true. Because it couldn't be. It couldn't be! It had to be a joke. Just a sick, twisted, horrible joke from the kindest, most tender, most respectful captor--

No. No, it wasn't a joke, was it? Orwell was serious. Because, like it or not, Orwell was still his captor. And Jeremy was his captive. Who had been abducted. To be used as--as--

Jeremy looked at the rampaging crowd. Their emaciated, burnt forms. Their wild, inhuman rage. He retched. Vomit spewed out of his mouth, covering the floor, mixing with the petrol. Now the room reeked of gasoline and betrayal.

Ivan laughed. "You see that, Orwell?! Now no one will ever love you! Watch as your life's work goes up in flames!!"

The raging mob tore apart the chairs. They smashed the reception area. They shredded the banner. They fought amongst themselves, clawing and biting, tearing away dead skin, bashing each other's faces until they spilled blood.

Orwell's face went blank. His eyes were dead--he simply had no fight in him, his spirit broken by Jeremy's rejection.

Jeremy, for his part, was still reeling from shock. He couldn't believe Orwell had done these things. He only had one thing to say: "Why?" he choked out.

At first, Orwell said nothing. He was a shell of his former self, completely hollow inside. It was a miracle he said anything at all when he spoke: "I was blamed for my parents' death. I wanted revenge. To make the world suffer as I did." His lip trembled. "I had the money to do it. The resources. I just--hated everyone. Until you came."

Jeremy started crying for Orwell. But not out of love. Or pity. No. It was anger. Anger that this man--this monster--felt he could kill the world to right the wrongs of his parents' deaths. It was disgusting. But given the time he'd spent with him, Jeremy couldn't help but not view him as entirely bad. The lord's hatred was understandable. He had been wronged. But the way he handled it--

"Where did you keep these people? These--these are whole human beings!"

"In the oubliette," Ivan explained. "It's a dungeon we have in the hospital. Just open the trapdoor in the top, toss someone in, and forget about them. Quite handy, really." He smiled as if he were describing something pleasant, like the weather outside.

Jeremy shook his head. This was insane. "Was this supposed to be how I was going to end up?!" he exclaimed. "This entire time?!"

Orwell looked at him with the saddest stare he'd ever seen. "Not after I let you out of the crate."

The color left Jeremy's face. He didn't know what to say. He just. Didn't. Know.

At that point, he was done. He couldn't take any more. He stormed toward the entrance, not looking back.

"Jeremy! Jeremy!" Elizabeth shouted. She caught up to Jeremy, put her hand on his shoulder.

Jeremy shrugged off her touch, glaring at her with all the rage he could muster.

"It's about Orwell. The torture wasn't his idea. He wouldn't do such a terrible thing by himself. Ivan forced him!" She pointed at the servant.

"Oh, but infecting the whole world is okay?!" Jeremy pushed her away. "You're all insane! I'm leaving!"

"Jeremy! Wait!"

But Jeremy didn't listen. Instead, he started running, bursting through the double doors. Continuing his run, he sped across the dirt, running as fast as his legs could carry him.

It wasn't until Jeremy had been going for several minutes that he thought to stop. Turning around in the middle of the great, barren plain, he was shocked to see Wentworth ablaze. It was like nothing he'd ever seen. A great ball of fire towered over the dirt, a wall of smoke and flames that blocked out the sun. Casting the land in a deep, dark shadow, it were as if day had turned to night, foretelling only great doom and despair. The crackling, the smell-if Jeremy thought the scent of gasoline was overpowering before, it was mind-meltingly intense now. And it seemed like it was about to get worse.

Wentworth was still on the verge of blowing up. And as far as Jeremy could tell, there were no other people outside. But that would mean Orwell was--that Orwell was--

"Trapped," he whispered. To his own shock, his eyes filled with tears. The lord--his former captor, ex-lover--wasn't going to make it out. Not at this rate. Not when the hospital was so thoroughly engulfed by fire, immersed in flames blocking off all exits.

So when Wentworth blew to kingdom come, he shouldn't have been surprised. Yet Jeremy gasped. Orwell was dead. And Elizabeth. All those captives. Even Ivan. No one had made it out alive except him.

Jeremy began crying. Sobbing. Too late, he realized that he'd felt something more for Orwell besides just lust. Something beyond just physical attraction. It was love. Honest and pure. Plain and simple. And he had reason to believe that Orwell had thought of him in the exact same way.

As the outer shell of the building succumbed to the inferno, Jeremy composed himself. He had cried a wellspring's worth. He might as well start heading out. Where to, he didn't know. As for how he was going to pay off his grandmother's debts.... Well, he supposed it was back to dealing pills.

A few hours later, his legs scratched and smeared with dirt, Jeremy arrived at the toll gate watched by security.

Immediately upon being spotted, one of the guards came out to greet him, concerned by his hobbling stance and the vacant look in his eyes. The older man took off his sunglasses, leaning down to Jeremy's level. He stashed the glasses in his shirt pocket. "Are you alright, son?"

Every memory rushed into Jeremy's head. And he wailed.

THE END

Oubliette

A Gay Romance

Copyright © 2025 tex Adams

All rights reserved. This work is copyrighted by the author and hence cannot be redistributed in any form, including but not limited to non-commercial and commercial uses. Any resemblance in this work to places or people, real or imagined, living or dead, is a pure coincidence.

Works Cited

Hall, Rayne. Writer's Craft: The Word Loss Diet. "Chapter 1: Let's Start to Begin," pg. 7. 2013-2014. Accessed Oct. 15, 2024.

Hall, Rayne. Writer's Craft: The Word Loss Diet. Pgs. 7-48. 2013-2014. Accessed Oct. 15, 2024-Feb. 19, 2025.

Hall, Rayne. Writer's Craft: Writing Gothic Fiction. Pgs.8-10,14-29,33, 37, 38-41, 45-47, 48-49, 51-53, 55-57. 2019. Accessed Oct. 21, 2024.

I would like to give a very special thank-you to my beta readers Dee and Cheryl. This book would just be a half-baked draft without your guys' constant encouragement and support.

About the Author

tex Adams is a nonbinary author living somewhere in North America. Their favorite things are eating spicy food, writing, thrift shopping, and getting lost in their new favorite anime. They have a serious passion for gay romance and have always sought to write one of their own. This is their very first novelette.