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Left Unsaid	By : ElleSmith Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male > Heero/Duo Views: 1020 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: GUNDAM WING is a Registered Trademark of Bandai, Sunrise, Sotsu Agency & TV Asahi. This work of fiction was written for non-profitable purposes.

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
Chapter 09: TR
Heero's recollections of the grueling fourteen hours spent at the hands of the WFLM in the National Museum of Natural History were nothing but a pain-soaked murky haze occasionally igniting with erratic snapshots rupturing the fog. It was like looking at whatever was happening through a distorted lens; time and space twisted and blurred, becoming almost indistinguishable. No real linear pattern, no clear visuals... just snaps of reality flashing sporadically in the dark. It was one big bloody mess, intense and brutal – the makings of a nightmare.
It was dark. Visions of a misty dimness skewed and spiraled... the world around him swaying constantly from side to side as though hanging by a thread. It was hard to see, to focus... he could barely think. A part of his somewhat conscious mind supplied him with a reason: he was severely concussed... lying in the dark, unable to move. Yes... that made sense. He and the rest of the hostages sat huddled in a dark and remote corner in the back of the IMAX Theater at the museum's ground floor, hidden from sight behind the partition holding the large screen. Seven burly men had dragged them there at gunpoint after the 13:00 PM show – the last before closing time. He vaguely remembered Elizabeth whining that she wanted to eat and that Cassandra had promised that they were going to have lunch now, but then all hell broke loose and... He couldn't recall, but he knew that by 13:30 PM, the museum doors had closed early for the holiday, the exhibition halls were emptied, thirteen visitors had never left the IMAX Theater and none was the wiser. An hour later, the WFLM started making demands.
Another image burst into the darkness. He could see himself dashing forward, leaping into a hopeless fight. He had tried to fight them when they came for the first hostage, about to drag the frightened young woman behind the IMAX screen to be executed. It didn't end well. They overpowered him five to one. As he was launching an attack on one thug, another slammed the back of his rifle into the left side his head, splitting the skull. Blood had gushed out in torrents. White-hot pain erupted from nowhere, flooding everything like a nuclear explosion. He must have collapsed to the floor and blacked out for a moment, because suddenly it was dark... and quiet... only a shrilling beeping sound ringing in his ears.
There was a dim sensation of firm hands searching his body, roaming over him callously, rummaging through his pockets and feeling him up for hidden weapons. They found his sidearm and his Preventer badge...
He was yanked off the floor; the world tumbling wildly around him. Then came the brutal beating – more pain overwhelmed every single cell in his body; an upsurge of blazing agony blasting through him with each pounding. Two burly men held him up by his dangling arms, forcing him to sit on his knees, head sagging down low, while a third and a forth bully delivered an endless beating, right there, in front of the horrified eyes of the eleven remaining hostages, including his daughter and her nanny. The beating was merciless... their solid limbs pounding into him again and again. White flashes splintered the darkness surrounding him, pain slicing through his semi-conscious mind:
The back of a rifle slammed into his kneecap, crushing it. Another rifle smashed into him from behind, hitting the back of his thighs forcefully, shattering his femoral shaft bones. A kick to the gut... A punch to his face... More pain... again, and again, and again... He didn't utter a sound.
They wanted him to tell them who had he been assigned to guard. They had already figured it was Elizabeth, and they wanted to know why. He didn't tell them... not one word... and just kept taking the beating. He didn't know for how long. He couldn't remember anything but the pain. Everything else faded away... drowned-out by the loud ringing in his ears and the sheer agony tearing through him... until Cassandra's voice suddenly pierced through the torment with a frantic, helpless shout:
"It's Darlian!" she screamed, crying desperately; "Elizabeth Darlian! The senator's child! Please! Let him go! Please! You're killing him!!!"
And they let him go, releasing him from their crushing grip. He crashed head-first onto the floor, collapsing like a corpse. His whole body had numbed, but still throbbed. His head was swimming; the darkness crept up on him in small, persistent waves. He remembered the feeling of blood sheeting down his face; more of it caked his hair, which was plastered uncomfortably over his forehead. Lying prone on the floor, he glared up at the foolish young nanny through half-lidded eyes and bloody bangs, furious that she had broken-down and revealed the true identity of his daughter. It didn't matter though, because a while later the woman was also dead – the third to be executed. There was nothing he could do... nothing. He was barely conscious... drifting in and out of blackness.
He recalled the silence after Cassandra was shot. It was a grieving, stunned silence disturbed only by Elizabeth's tears and heartbroken sobs. She wanted her nanny... she couldn't grasp what it meant losing her. Her wretched wails stirred something in him... urging him to move. It was so hard dragging himself off of the floor... crawling towards her... gathering her into his arms for the first time. She was so heavy... a burden. He felt sick and threw up, whirling his head aside so he won't heave all over his daughter. She was still sobbing... her cries piercing his heart like a sharp blade. It hurt so much seeing her weep over her beloved caregiver.
His stomach churned uneasily and his heart pounded painfully. Sympathy for his daughter's pain swamped him with helplessness and grief he hadn't felt since early childhood. Repressed sensations emerged from a dark abyss he hadn't approached in years. They rose from the pit like acid vapor. Unbearable anguish washed over him, flooding his eyes with tears. He didn't know how to soothe her, but he ached to ease his daughter's hurt just as much as he had yearned for someone to soothe him when he had cried... before the tears ran out and his heart became arid.
She was his flesh and blood... her pain was his... wholeheartedly.
He sat leaning heavily against the theater wall and held Elizabeth cradled in his arms, trying to offer some kind of comfort without really knowing how. Holding her pressed securely against him felt like the most natural thing to do, so he held on tightly.
He was so relieved when the small girl finally fell asleep, exhausted from tears and hunger. Silence fell... at least for a while. He must have drifted off again, because the next thing he could recall was jerking awake at the sound of a girl screaming.
By then there were eight people left, including Elizabeth and himself: an African American family of three: a mother, father and a young son; a teenage couple – a boy and a girl; and an older man. One of the guards was trying to haul the teenage boy away. The girlfriend was shrieking hysterically: "It's not time yet! It's not even his turn! No! Don't! Please!"
He gaped at the chaotic scene dazedly before his concussed mind was able to connect the dots and assess the situation. The boy wasn't being dragged for execution... no; the darkness gleaming dangerously in the guard's eyes suggested that his plans for the boy were of a different kind... and the poor kid was terrified, trying to resist being dragged away. He wasn't much of a fighter, his physique too awkward and lanky.
Elizabeth woke up and started crying again. Her helpless sobs blended with the panicked squealing of the boy's girlfriend. His head hurt... so much. He just wanted them to stop...
His body shrieked in protest when he moved. His thigh bones were fractured... they flared-up with sweltering pain when he tried to stand, still holding Elizabeth cradled in his arms. She was so heavy... He struggled up to his feet, swaying from side to side. He handed Elizabeth to the young African woman sitting next to him, holding her own small child. She looked up at him in silent understanding and accepted his daughter into her arms as well.
He turned around, wavering woozily, fighting waves of nausea and pain, yet somehow he managed to walk on two fractured legs towards the guard dragging the teenage boy away. Jolts of flashing white pain exploded behind his eyes with each agonizing step.
Two other guards stepped forward, weapons cocked and ready to fire at him. Heero ignored them. He flung a hand forward and grabbed the impious thug's hand tightly, stopping him. The guard whirled around, angry. He returned the man's gaze evenly, not even a slight falter in his voice as he whispered quietly: "I'll come with you. I won't fight."
The older man frowned warily, studying him with dark eyes. He ran his disgusting gaze up and down his body doubtingly.
"How old are you?" he asked gruffly, but had already let go of the boy. The frightened teenager hurried to scramble away, back to his girlfriend. Everyone was watching. He could feel their eyes on his back.
"Old enough to know what I'm doing," he replied calmly, looking the burlier man straight in the eye; "Young enough to be what you want."
The guard grabbed him forcefully by his chin, turning his head left and right, examining his bruised and bloody face.
"Alright," he finally determined, and let go. He gestured with his hand towards a nearby emergency exit door. "C'mon," he grunted, and he followed the man silently. He could still feel every eye in the room on him as the door closed behind him with a final 'thud!'
He now stood in the Human Origin exhibition hall adjacent to the IMAX Theater. It was dark; only dim lights shone inside various human-size glass display-cases containing ancient human skeletons, and over numerous stages exhibiting reenactments of prehistoric habitats scattered along the large L-shaped hall. Dozens of pairs of glass eyes were there to greet him, gleaming eerily under faint illumination. From the ape-like Homo-habilis, to more advance forms in human evolution and finally the Homo-sapiens... they all stared at him mutely as the guard ushered him forward at gunpoint. The rifle's barrel poked his back, constantly bumping into him as he wobbled tiredly towards one of the primal habitats.
His memories from that point on were sketchy... images he had fought hard to suppress. Everything seemed to suddenly be moving in tense slow motion. It was like he was watching a movie about his life and not really experiencing any of it. He saw himself being stopped at the foot of a stage bearing a display of a savanna-like habitat where a group of Homo-erectus loin-clothed males were standing around a fresh animal kill.
A hand grabbed him hard by his shoulder. He was whirled back around, away from the stage, facing the guard again.
The man reached down to unbuckle his own belt and unzip his pants. He let them drop to his ankles along with his boxers, exposing his hard manhood.
Heero looked up, meeting the man's dark eyes.
The thug glared at him sternly. He stared back stoically, knowing what was expected of him. Slowly, he knelt down in front of the man. His left kneecap exploded on impact as it touched the floor. He winced, closing his eyes. He could smell the unpleasant acrid scent of the other man's groin. He licked his parched lips to dampen them... and took the man's erect phallus into his mouth. He didn't think. He just did it... he didn't know for how long. All he remembered was trying to resist his gag reflex.
The man's hand suddenly yanked a fistful of his blood-clotted hair, stopping him. He pulled back, releasing the man from his mouth, and looked up. The brute tugged his hair, turning his head around. He got the hint and turned on his knees to face the stage, wavering heavily. It was a low stage, reaching just below his waist. There was dirt on it; dry tall-grass, gravel and rocks. He stared at them dazedly, and reached two trembling hands to unbutton his black jeans. He fumbled with the zipper with anxious fingers.
He didn't want to do this...
He pulled his pants down along with his underwear in one swift go, exposing his behind. The room was freezing. The cold bit mercilessly into his privates. He fixed his numb gaze on the earth-covered stage.
He didn't want to do this.
A strong hand shoved him down by his back, titling his torso downwards forcefully so that his chest slammed against the stage below, colliding with dry soil and grass. Dust bellowed up in the air by the force of the impact, filling his nostrils. He coughed. Gravel and dirt scuffed his face, scarping his already bruised cheek.
Bent over the stage, sitting on his knees, his nude behind was pointed towards the man. Firm hands grabbed him tightly by his hips, steadying him in a crushing grip. He felt the man lean over him heavily, his hard erection poking his anus; slick with his own saliva... but not wet enough.
He flung a pair of desperate arms forward over the stage, gripping two large prop-rocks. He curled his fists around them tightly, denting the hard-foam surface. He closed his eyes, his jaw clenching, and braced himself for the pain that was to come.
The man forced himself inside his body... slowly. Screams and tears built up inside of him, but he fought them off, pushing them back... refusing to succumb. The pain intensified with each agonizing inch. Then, the man moved, thrusting in deeply. Smoldering-hot pain erupted and his mind splintered into a million pieces scattering all around. He didn't mean to scream, but after a while all he could hear were his own tortured shrills echoing in the dark...
"Are you enjoying yourself, little boy?" his rapist wanted to know and he had gritted a pitiable 'yes' through clenched teeth, tears squeezing out of his eyes.
DID YOU? The Voice wanted to know; it bombarded the air around him, echoing within the dim Human Origin hall. Heero squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, shaking his head in denial against the dirt-covered stage.
"No..." he strained to speak over the pain; "I had to do it... I had to... I didn't want to... I had to..." he whispered pitiably, his fingers curling frantically around the prop-rocks he was holding onto. The foam had long caved under his crushing grip. Sharp metal wires dug into his flesh, biting his skin, drawing blood. He was still being violated; his behind was on fire. He wanted it to end. Everything just... end.
"I had to do something... I had to... I... I had to..."
DID YOU EJACULATE?
The man was still thrusting into him forcefully.
"...yes..." he whimpered, eyes closed... ashamed.
DID YOU ENJOY IT?
"No!" he howled, mortified, raising his head up and shaking it frantically. "No..." he whispered weakly, drained, and rested his head back down against the dirty stage, dry earth and leaves scraping his cheeks. "I just wanted him to... to stop... already..."
YOU THOUGHT HE'D STOP IF HE SAW YOU COME?
He nodded helplessly, eyes closed, tears streaking his bruised cheeks.
IT WAS SELF DEFENSE, the Voice deduced.
"He didn't... stop... just kept... going..."
HOW MANY TIMES?
"I don't know... don't know..." he murmured weakly, so tired of the violation; "I lost count... There were... there were... three of them... different one... each time... again... and again... I... I didn't fight, so..."
They took him separately and then at once. He was forced to go down on one while the other fucked him from behind and the third watched, jerking off. They let him rest for a while after he had lost consciousness, but once he was awake the torture resumed.
"T-they... they said... they didn't even like boys... t-two more... they... wanted me to... to moan like a girl... so loud the others will hear... they took turns... three of them... in every habitat... taking turns... apes... watching me... dead eyes... watching... in the dark... they fucked me... like a girl... and everybody was watching..."
The nightmare faded to black... arms releasing him from their painful grip around his hips. His ass didn't hurt so much now... just throbbing. Finally, he could rest. Alone in the dark, he could finally sleep... drifting... drowning... fading away... melting into the silence...
But then the Voice was back, vibrating through his core... digging in deeper... and deeper... violating him as well.
WERE YOU ABLE TO SEXUALLY PERFORM SINCE THE RAPE? It demanded to know.
He thought about it for a moment, trying hard to retrieve something solid out of the fog obscuring his mind. He remembered walking unannounced into her office once day, still clutching the negative HIV test results in his fist. He had taken the test three months after the rape and once he got the results he felt so relieved that suddenly all the anger and depression stepped aside for a moment and all he wanted to do was pin her against the large leather sofa in her office and reclaim all the things he had lost, and could never get back...
"...yes..." he whispered, moaning; "I... yes... I did..."
WITH A MAN OR A WOMAN? The Voice inquired sternly.
New images flashed in his head, more snapshots: Nights of quick, hot and shameless passion... repeated attempts to reassert, reconnect... regain control. His aggressiveness knew no bounds. It was too much... he was too much... and...
"I hurt her..." he answered blearily, ashamed.
WOULD THAT BE RELENA DARLIAN?
"...yes..." he admitted bashfully. Relena didn't like it... said he was not himself. He never meant to hurt her... never... not the way they had hurt him... but he was so angry... so... wounded. He needed her to take the pain away... make him himself again, but she couldn't. Something had changed... he was still hurting. He had to look for relief elsewhere.
"There were others..." he recalled vaguely; "dunno who... I was always... I... I was... drunk..."
DOES RELENA KNOW?
"...maybe... probably... I was with her assistant too..."
DOES SHE KNOW ABOUT THE RAPE, the Voice clarified and Heero paused, and then shook his head.
"No..." he whispered almost inaudibly; "No one... knows..."
He was so terribly injured that the bruising around his hips and genitals simply blended in with the rest of the horrors. One doctor had carefully asked him about the anal lacerations, but he refused to confirm the man's suspicions. It. Never. Happened.
YOU HAVE TO TELL HER.
"No! No... No... I... I can't... no..."
SHE HAS TO KNOW.
"No... Please... no one needs to know..."
YOU CAN'T KEEP THESE THINGS BOTTLED UP, HEERO. YOU'RE GOING TO TELL HER. TALKING IT OUT IS THE ONLY CURE.
"No!" he cried out piteously; "Please..."
YOU WILL TELL HER WHAT THEY DID TO YOU.
"No... No... I can't... don't make me... she doesn't need to know... no one needs to know..."
WHY? BECAUSE YOU ASKED FOR IT?
He was sobbing now, unable to stop. He was so ashamed... he didn't want anyone to know... They all heard him... moaning… calling out like a whore... The cavemen were watching... they saw... they knew... no one should ever know... he had to do it... he had to...
"I had to... I had to..." he wailed over and over; "I'm sorry... I had to... I'm sorry..."
WHY ARE YOU SORRY? The Voice asked harshly; IS IT BECAUSE YOU FEEL ASHAMED FOR ENJOYING IT?
"I didn't! I didn't!" he shrilled, horrified by the accusation; "I... I didn't... it... it... I had to do it... I had to or they would've killed me... I couldn't die... I couldn't die..."
DID YOU WANT TO DIE?
"...yes... yes... every time... with each one of them... but I couldn't... I couldn't fight... and I couldn't die... I just... I... I had to... to do it... had to live..."
SO YOU ASKED FOR MORE.
"Yes..." he whimpered miserably, nodding his head in disgrace; "Every time... again... and again... there was no one else left except me and Lizzie... there was no one else they could hurt... and still I... every time and... and again... again... just don't kill her... please... I'll do it... I can... I can still move... I... I'll move... I... I will... anything... please..."
YOU COOPERATED.
"Yes..."
YOU WERE THEIR WHORE.
"They called me a faggot... laughing... The apes were watching... they saw... always watching... like I never left that place... Don't look at me! I didn't want it! I... I had to do it... I'm sorry... I'm sorry!"
YOU BOUGHT YOUR DAUGHTER'S LIFE BY OFFERING YOUR ASS LIKE A RANDY WHORE.
"I'm so sorry!" he cried, whimpering brokenly; "I'm sorry..."
YOU DID ALL THAT FOR YOUR DAUGHTER BUT THEN RELENA LET HER DIE. HOW DID THAT MAKE YOU FEEL?
An ache pierced his heart sharply, bringing back a painful dose of reality, and Heero gasped, jerking into full awareness. The museum vanished. The apes were gone. It was dark... and he was alone... no more bad men touching him. He was alone; alone and... He was still tied down to that chair; naked, vulnerable... utterly exposed... violated by words.
The Voice was still talking.
WERE YOU ANGRY? It demanded urgently, but he couldn't answer. Words vanished, replaced by hurt. He could never answer that question...
"Urgh!" a scream was torn from his throat; he only realized it when he heard it echoing in the dark. He sounded like a wounded animal. A gush of agonizing white-hot eruptions wracked through him. He was being electrocuted again.
"No! Stop!" he shrieked, terrified; rendered completely helpless by the overbearing pain blazing through him in persistent hot currents. The pain compelled him to speak... it was the only way to stop it.
"I... I wasn't angry..." he wailed weakly; "no... I... I... not... not angry... not at her..."
The pain decreased, receding slowly until it was gone. He slumped gratefully into the reclined chair, sighing feebly, relieved. The Voice was right... talking made it better... made the pain stop. He should just keep talking... keep the Voice happy...
WHAT DID YOU FEEL THEN? The Voice asked more softly this time.
"...ashamed..." he whispered without even thinking. The words came out freely... speaking on their own... saying things he never meant to say... just as long as he kept talking...
WHY? Was the subsequent question. He had to think about that one for a while, his mind drifting, searching the raging seas for an answer.
"Be...because... because I... I felt... I... I was... I... I was... relieved..."
YOU WERE RELIEVED THAT YOUR DAUGHTER DIED? The Voice marveled accusingly.
He couldn't answer that. He couldn't... He was so ashamed... he couldn't... so the pain returned, the world exploding into burning white again.
"—yes!!!" he cried out in agony, convulsing in his restraints; "Yes! I'm—I'm sorry... yes..."
The pain receded once more, the tension dissipating from his shuddering muscles. He wheezed harshly, unable to speak. Everything hurt.
WHY? The Voice still wanted to know.
"B-because..." he panted shallowly, struggling to form words he didn't even know he had in him; "b-because..." but he couldn't get those words out... he couldn't.
BECAUSE WHAT? The Voice threatened and he knew that if he won't answer it soon the pain would flare-up again.
"Because... I... I was... I was... I was... spared..."
SPARED?
He nodded his head weakly, tears of shame streaming down his gaunt face.
"Yes... her death... it spared me from... from being... her father... from... from bringing a life... into... into this world... seeing her grow... realizing... what kind of a world... this is... She... she... Elizabeth died... she died... happy... playing... They... they said... it was... painless... she didn't feel anything, just... slipped off... away... peacefully... without... without ever... she never understood all the... all the ugliness she saw... that night... at the museum... she just... she died before she was old enough to understand..."
UNLIKE YOU, the Voice determined and he nodded, agreeing.
"Yeah..." he sniffled quietly, the tears calming somewhat; "She... she... she will never be damaged... like... like me..."
DO YOU THINK THAT BRINGING CHILDREN INTO THIS WORLD IS SELFISH HUMAN BEHAVIOR?
"...yes... very..." he mumbled wearily, wishing to sleep. He was so tired of talking... feeling... breathing... hurting... so tired...
"We're... we're not... we don't ask to be... born..." he said, slurring the words out blearily; "never ask to... to... to suffer through... through this... life..." Another cold grip of sadness curled around his heart, squeezing out more tears. "M-my m-mother... she... she never should have... never should have had me..."
AND RELENA SHOULDN'T HAVE HAD YOUR CHILD?
He nodded, crying silently.
ARE YOU ANGRY WITH HER FOR GOING THROUGH WITH THE PREGNANCY, FOR BEING AS SELFISH AS YOUR MOTHER?
Again he nodded his head, weeping miserably.
HOW DOES IT FEEL TO FINALLY ADMIT THAT?
"I... it's... it's just another... another reason to... to... to hate... myself..."
ARE YOU ASHAMED FOR FEELING THIS WAY?
He gave another weak nod of his head, shedding more tears of shame.
AND ARE YOU ANGRY THAT YOU HAD TO SUFFER THROUGH THE SHAME OF BEING RAPED IN ORDER TO PROCTECT A CHILD YOU NEVER WANTED, A DAUGHTER THAT SHOULD HAVE NEVER BEEN BORN?
"...yes..."
AND THEN SHE DIED... AND YOUR PAIN BECAME OBSOLETE, IRRELEVANT... USELESS. ARE YOU ANGRY FOR THAT TOO?
"...yes..."
YOU SUFFERED FOR NOTHING, the Voice concluded. RELENA HAS LET YOU DOWN. SHE HAS TORN YOU DOWN.
"...yes..." he wept.
THEN TELL HER THAT.
"I can't... I can't..." he moaned feebly; "Please... just... let me... sleep..."
The emergency door closed behind him with another loud 'thud!' and he was inside the back of the IMAX Theater again. He was naked. After all three men had taken turns with him, they wouldn't let him put his clothes back on so he held them balled up against his groin, hiding his nakedness. People were looking. He kept his head bowed, avoiding their prying eyes, as the bully who had taken him first nudged him forward at gun point. He was ushered limping towards the rest of the hostages, shoved so hard he nearly dropped the clothes each time the rifle poked his bare back, causing him to stumble. His arms were trembling, his knees shaking. Blood ran down his naked thighs. He was so cold, so tired. He just wanted to lie down... and sleep.
The man finally let him be and walked away. He stood there for moment, dazed, his eyes searching the room until he found his daughter. She was lying on the floor next to the little African toddler; the two were sleeping, curled together like twins in the womb. They were covered by a man's large coat. He vaguely recalled seeing the toddler's father wearing that coat.
Relieved that he didn't have to tend to her right now, he found himself a secluded corner and slowly laid himself down on the floor, his back pressed against the wall, and curled into himself, hugging his clothes against him. He could not close his eyes even though fatigue begged him to surrender to slumber. People were still watching him in silent trepidation. He stared back numbly. The teenage boy he had saved was looking at him uneasily. Their eyes met and the boy looked away, ashamed. Heero closed his eyes. He was so tired...
Someone approached him. His clothes were pulled gently out of his weak grasp. He curled inwards even more, pulling his legs up to his chest, hiding in a futile attempt to keep a shred of dignity. He struggled to open his eyes, blinking repeatedly until they opened. His right eye was swollen, refusing to fully open. His vision was blurry and it was dark, but he could make out the dim silhouettes of two women leaning over him – the teenage girl and the toddler's mother.
They dressed him, gently, guiding his bloody legs into his boxer shorts, carefully raising his hips slightly off the floor to pull them up to his waist. He let out a small whimper and cringed; it hurt so much. They helped him into his jacket, carefully turning him and lifting his trembling arms into the sleeves. The white Sherpa-fleece-lined collar was bloody, but the fabric was soft and warm. The warmth beckoned him to sleep, but his tense muscles refused to relax. There was so much pain. He looked up sluggishly, struggling even with this small movement. The African woman was leaning over him, gazing at him sadly. Her eyes were tearful and her dark face was streaked with tears. He realized that he hadn't seen her husband when he walked back into the theater. Only the man's coat remained, covering both their children.
His eyes watered with grief-stricken tears. He was so sorry. His bloody lips parted, but he could not form a sound. The woman smiled at him sadly, accepting his sympathy. She folded his black jeans and placed them gently under his head as a cushion. She caressed his face gently, weeping silent tears, and pulled away. The teenage girl gave him this guilty look and then walked away as well, back to her boyfriend.
He rested his head heavily against the makeshift-pillow and closed his eyes, sighing. He begged sleep to come and take him away from this nightmare...
Bright white light flooded everything, blinding him, hurting his tired eyes. The projector hanging above the chair has been switched on. Heero moaned, closing his eyes and turning away, grimacing under the painful assault. He blinked, struggling to adjust to the light. His head was lolling to the side, facing away from the unbearable glow.
Dr. Sloan was there again, standing next to the instruments tray. He picked up a plastic mouth-guard and slipped it into Heero's mouth forcefully. Somewhere within the mess cluttering his mind, Heero managed to register that his jaw didn't hurt as badly as before. Sloan must have given him some antibiotics via the IV still dripping into his vein.
The doctor turned to the ECT machine and adjusted the dials. Heero lay limply on the reclined chair, watching him numbly. It was a while before his mind was able to process what was about to happen, but by then it was too late. Sloan flipped the switch and the machine came to life again, pumping 150 volts of electric currents into him repetitively. His naked body stiffened, jerking off the chair. It remained arched rigidly up in the air, held down by the leather straps. His fingers curled, fists clamping. His jaw clenched tightly around the mouth-guard. His Prussian blue eyes flew wide open, staring unseeingly up ahead. He writhed in his bonds, muscles convulsing. He was moaning helplessly into the mouth gag, letting out muffled sounds of pain and distress. He started gurgling, choking on his own saliva.
While his patient squirmed helplessly on the chair, Dr. Sloan circled around it, pulling a few levers to maneuver the reclining chair into a different pose, tilting it to a near sitting position so that Heero's legs were now down and his torso slanted slightly upwards. The ECT machine whirred loudly; Heero was still being electrocuted. Now seated more or less upright, the sickly gurgling stopped; he was able to breathe again. Drool dripped down his bristly chin.
Sloan reached under the chair and retrieved a set of leg-rests. He attached them to the bottom of the chair. There was a metallic stirrup at the edge of each one. The reclining chair was thus transformed into what looked more like a gynecologist's chair. Using gloved hands, he unfastened Heero's convulsing, bare, legs from the restraints holding them down to the lower part of the chair. The young man's toes were curled tightly, his legs stiff as a result of the consistent currents being fed into him by the ECT machine. Sloan placed each rigid leg on the designated holder, slipping Heero's heels inside the stirrups and thus spreading his legs wide apart. He secured each leg to its holder by tying leather straps around Heero's thighs, knees and ankles.
Heero was aware of none of it. All he knew was the searing pain of electrocution. His jaw was clenched tightly around the mouth-guard, saliva foaming at the corners of his mouth. Spasms tore through his bound limbs and his back was still arched off the chair, as stiff as a board.
Dr. Sloan approached the ECT machine again. He readjusted the dials regulating the electric currents and lowered the voltage. Heero slumped back down against the chair, though his muscles still convulsed feebly under the weaker currents. His pained, bleary and tearful blue eyes followed Sloan's every movement as the man reached for the instruments tray.
"Do you know that most serial killers and rapists claim that the intimidation factor of a knife is far greater than that of a gun?" Sloan asked casually as he picked up a sharp tool. He held it up, showing it to Heero. It was a surgical knife.
"Most rape victims who see a gun scream for help, yet hold a knife to their throat... and they're dead quiet." He turned the knife left and right, allowing it to catch the light from the projector. The blade gleamed coldly.
"You see, knives elicit a more severe emotional reaction than a gun... Perhaps because there's a fear of disfiguration and non-lethal pain that may drag on..." he explained calmly and dipped the tip of the blade into Heero's naked hip.
Heero's eyes widened with horrified realization of what was to come. Images of autopsy reports he had read during the investigation flashed faintly before his wide-open eyes. Images of deep and shallow scars, evidence of painful yet nonlethal cutting, floated dimly in the back of his head and he moaned against the mouth-guard, shaking his head helplessly.
The knife traced an invisible line across his naked body... not hard enough to slice through the skin, just teasing. It stopped when it reached his upper arm. Heero looked up. Sloan was now standing over him, looking down at him with a smug expression.
"I would like to hear your personal take on that," he said, smiling slyly; "but not right now," he added and withdrew the blade; "some other time, perhaps," he promised and turned back to the instruments tray. "I have different plans for you now."
Heero watched him through pain-clouded eyes. He was still being electrocuted, though more mildly. Dr. Sloan set the knife back down on the tray. He reached for something resting in a lower compartment inside the medical supply cart and drew out a rectangular, plain white box. He placed it on the tray and opened the lid. Heero watched nervously, but the lid was hiding the box's content from his limited line of sight.
"Contrary to what you might think," Sloan resumed as he reached into the small box; "Male rape is not about the sex, or even an indication of sexual preference," he spoke informally; "You'll be surprised to know that the majority of men who rape other men self-identify as heterosexuals. Rape is violence. It's about power, domination... control."
He pulled an item out of the box: a long, blunt object. He turned to Heero, smiling creepily.
"I am not like those men at the museum, Heero," he declared; "I'm not a sexual-sadist, nor am I a rapist," he added firmly as he presented Heero with the object he is holding: it was a thick phallus shaped vibrator.
Heero gasped sharply through the mouth-guard. He started thrashing in his restraints, distraught. Sloan chuckled quietly, dismissing his patient's distress with a laugh.
"Don't worry," he assured him, smiling arrogantly; "it might look daunting, but it's not much bigger than an average penis... I'm sure you've handled worse." He smirked. "This is merely a therapeutic instrument," he explained in an eerily easygoing manner; "You're not like the others... Like I said, I am here to help, not torture you, Heero. I'm here to help you face things you've buried and neglected."
The doctor placed the dildo back down and walked towards the ECT machine, turning it off. Heero's body sagged lifelessly into the chair. He released a small sigh of relief as the pain dissipated, but the relief lasted barely a moment. His eyes followed Sloan anxiously as the man approached him again. He pulled out the dribble-dripping mouth-guard from Heero's mouth and Heero gasped loudly, like a drowned man coming up for air.
The older man smiled down at him reassuringly; the kind expression was grotesque. He watched helplessly as Sloan reached for a syringe resting on the instruments tray and filled it with pinkish liquid from a vial. Heero started panting, wheezing in distress. Sloan injected the drug into the IV line and Heero squirmed, moaning weakly in protest as the renewed dosage spread rapidly through his system like wild fire.
"It's okay," Sloan soothed him gently; "This will help."
The Magic Potion began to take affect almost immediately. Numbness and pain flurried simultaneously, drowning out his mind, sizzling in his soul. Heero's pupils dilated despite the harsh light raining from above. His body wilted into the chair and his head slumped limply to the side. He stared ahead dully, dazed, and watched the doctor with a blank, semi-aware expression.
Sloan smiled, pleased, and turned back to the tray. He picked up the vibrator again.
"Surviving perpetrator events, such as rape and cruel torture, will most likely lead to psychological disorders," he explained while reaching for a tube of lubrication gel also resting on the medical supply cart. He flipped the lid open with one finger. Heero watched mutely... apathetic.
"Taking into account that you've been the victim and perpetrator of many violent events, it's only natural that they will take their toll on you, Heero," Sloan continued his lecture as he poured a generous amount of lube on the vibrator. "You see, there's a building block effect no amount of denial can stop," he explained while smearing the gel across the length of the thick dildo; "Traumatic experiences build upon each other... they accumulate over time, increasing the chance of developing PTSD, anxiety and depression – as you have," he glanced at Heero, who gawked back dully.
"You've been avoiding your personal horrors for too long... which caused you to develop what we call a 'fear network', composed of interconnected, trauma-related memories. Even trivial trauma-related stimuli can stir a cascading fear response... you flash back to the past. The flashbacks cause you great stress, which is why you suffer from repeated panic attack episodes."
Heero's eyes watered with tears that spilled uninhibitedly down his hollow, stubbly, cheeks. He lay still, weeping noiselessly.
Sloan turned to him again, leaning forward into his face.
"Do you know what day it is, Heero?" he asked calmly, but didn't wait for an answer. "It's Christmas Eve," he informed his victim haughtily, watching Heero carefully for his reaction. The young man stared back stoically, though his blue eyes clouded with dark pain, gleaming with tortured tears.
"And every Christmas you go through the same thing," Sloan accused; "descending into an underworld of tumultuous and destructive behavior on the anniversary of the end of the war, what happened in DC... and the loss of your daughter," he determined critically; "In the trade we call such behavioral repetition TR – short for Traumatic Reenactment," he explained and straightened back up. He circled the chair, holding the lubricated vibrator as he made his way towards Heero's open legs.
"It's not uncommon with patients suffering from posttraumatic stress," he continued and stopped between Heero's spread legs. He looked up at the young man, smiling conceitedly.
"A part of your psyche simply... splits off. It behaves autonomously, reenacting the trauma. It belies structural and functional deficits in the stress-coping mechanisms of your right brain... that's where your anxiety at this time of year stems from, Heero. You can't fight it," he said; "You're unconsciously forcing yourself to relive traumas you've refused to deal with... from early attachment trauma you've experienced in childhood – being ignored by your mother – to vulnerabilities you've felt later on."
He positioned the vibrator at Heero's opening.
The feeling of something slick, hard and cold registered somewhere within the fog clouding his mind. Panicked, Heero resumed squirming in his bonds, letting out small, pathetic whimpers. Sloan ignored him and pushed the artificial phallus slowly into Heero's anus; a careful, unhurried, penetration.
Heero's body stiffened with terror. He was moaning hysterically now, thrashing wildly in his bonds, whimpering helplessly in distress.
"They say that trauma retires to the past only after being experienced directly in the present," Sloan informed him calmly, still pushing the dildo in one careful inch at a time. His eyes were focused on the penetration with sick fascination.
"While I am not a firm believer in the role playing therapy technique, I do believe that reenacting the moments you've been avoiding might help us make our most significant breakthrough yet," he looked up, smiling warmly at Heero. "Obviously, I can't reproduce every detail of the event... but I can still help you recapture the essence of the original experience. A symbolic processing of traumatic experience should suffice."
He held Heero's pained gaze for a moment, smiling reassuringly.
"We will work through it together," he promised; "I can help you face and embrace your suffering and transform hopelessness into healing... You'll see."
Sloan pulled the dildo back a bit, and then thrust it back in, repeating the motion until a steady rhythm was formed. Heero thrashed crazily on the chair, sobbing loudly, afraid. The cavemen were back. Those loin-clothed brutes... they ganged-up on him, hooting and hollering loudly. Strong, hairy bodies surrounded him, hands grabbing him forcefully from every direction, forcing him down on his hands and knees... rubbing against him in a chaotic, feral dance. They fucked him like animals, shrilling and squealing loudly... tugging his limbs hungrily, grinding him against the dirty earth, fucking him down to the ground. He was yanked and tugged in every direction, tumbled and hauled like a scrap of meat caught between the jaws of a ravenous pack of wild wolves. They ravaged him, picking his bones... leaving nothing behind but a bloody, broken and grotesque mess hardly even recognizable as himself. The horrendous nightmare repeated in an endless cycle, tearing horrified shrieks from Heero's throat. He screamed helplessly, until there was no more voice left in him.
*     *     *
Miles away, Relena lay in her hotel room bed, holding her cellphone in her hand and gazing miserably at a photo of Heero and Elizabeth displayed on the smartphone screen. Her pale and unmade-up face was streaked with tears. She stared dully at the picture, her miserable blue eyes focused on Heero's handsome profile as he leaned before his daughter, looking down at where he was tying her shoes.
And then, without warning, the phone rang. Heero's caller ID appeared on the screen and Relena's breath hitched in her throat. She hesitated, afraid to answer the call. Slowly, she raised the phone up to her ear. She remained lying curled on the bed, and answered it.
"...hello?" she whispered dreadfully.
"Don't speak, just listen," a cold, stern voice commanded; "He wants to speak to you," it said; "Say one word and he's dead."
Her heart pounded fearfully in her chest. She bit her lower lip down, and waited. She knew that the call was now being tracked by Preventer. Her job was to keep it connected for as long as possible so they could get a fix on the right cellular towers.
There was some rattling from the other side of the line. The phone was being moved, handed to Heero no doubt. She could hear quiet, pained wheezing... they were Heero's.
"L-Lena..." he rasped weakly; his voice was hoarse, she could barely hear him. He sounded weak... defeated. "...you... there..?" he asked despairingly and released a heavy, tortured groan; he was in terrible pain. Her heart caved. She had never heard his voice tremble so fearfully before. She wanted to call out his name, soothe him, but she restrained herself, and listened. She sat up slowly, the phone pressed against her ear, and waited.
It was a while before he spoke again. Finally, he let out a low, pained moan. She feared that he was being tortured at that very moment, and tears welled in her eyes. She covered her mouth with her hand, holding back a sob and struggling to keep quiet as she was ordered.
"I... he says I... I have to... tell you..." Heero whispered, groaning silently. He gasped for air, struggling to speak. "I... I have to... to tell you... so he'll... so it... so they'll... stop..."
She swallowed the lump in her throat, listening anxiously. Her heart palpitated so fast, so hard, she was certain it would burst out of her chest. Was this it? She wondered. Was Heero going to choose her?
Mournful tears flooded her eyes. Was he going to die?
"Th—there—" he coughed, groaning "—were... three... there were... th-three... of them... at... at the... museum..."
An unbearable pressure was building up in her chest. She didn't want to hear the rest of it... but she had no other choice but to listen.
"They... they... I let them... for her... for Elizabeth..." Heero mumbled, crying; "I... I'm sorry... I... I'm letting them... now... they... they're—" he stopped, gasping sharply, and then let out a small, pathetic sob.
Silence fell. She couldn't breathe. She waited breathlessly, her chest aching, crushed by an excruciating burden.
"They're raping me!" Heero suddenly cried out; "again... and again! And again! Urgh— I'm sorry!" He was panting out the words in a frantic jumble; "I'm sorry Lena! I can't fight back... I have to do it... I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm... I'm... I'm sorry you... you have to know... I'm letting them, but she'll die anyway... I'm so sorry... she died... with my gun... in my home... I'm so sorry, Lena... I'm sorry... I... I didn't mean to be this way... I didn't want to be like them..." His words faded into incoherent sniveling. She had never heard such a heartbroken, tortured sound.
"I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I just want them to stop... please... make them stop... the apes—please... I—I— they're hurting me! I can't stop them! I'm sorry! I don't want to do this... I have to... I'm so sorry... Don't hate me... don't leave me... Lena... plea—"
There was more rattling as the phone was moved again. The call was disconnected. Silence fell. Relena continued sitting on the bed, holding the phone against her ear – frozen in shock.
*     *     *
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