Chapter Text
What does depravity smell like? Back in Delhi, it smelled like a nauseating blend of spices rubbed into damp, sweat-through linen. Traces of it perpetually clogged my sinuses, and permeated through the entirety of the brothel. Even with the doors and windows wide open, no fresh air seemed to circulate. Perhaps it couldn’t pierce the thick cloud of misdirected lust that hung low by the ground, clung to us all like a wet tunic, dulled our senses like a prolonged fever.
The summers were especially excruciating. Despite the blazing heat, I would often not see the sun for days at a time, except for a few broken-up rays that made their way past the dirty windows. Everything appeared moist and sweltered; including my entire body, no matter how desperately I tried to keep up with any remnants of cleanliness. Not that the usual clientele was preoccupied with such trivial matters.
Each hot, inappreciable day left me feeling aimlessly vigilant. As if I was standing on the edge of an abyss, and from the darkness within it, sprouted a forest of hands. Strong hands clawing for me, soft hands reaching to touch me, to stroke me, hit me, wring me dry, shape me to their desire. I stood tip-toed and backed into a corner, an endless chasm stretching half a step away from my tired feet, and there was no other place to go except down into their disjointed arms.
Resistance was futile, or worse yet, it brought nothing but ire upon me. I knew it instinctively, it was a thorn lodged deep under my skin, a persistent reminder of begging for food, love, and attention, only to be starved of all three.
Others came and went. I watched as they struggled and resisted – they kicked, and screamed, and bit the hand that fed them scraps. This never lead them anywhere other than the grimy basement floor and a mottled black-and-blue body. So I learned from others’ mistakes; it was almost peaceful, to let them take, and take, and take. Once the script was set, I could anticipate it; the way they would grab me, the way I was supposed to spread my legs wider, how some liked a smile while others preferred crying. I could do it on command. Smile, on command. Eyes welling up with tears, on command. Pleasure, on command. Like a well-trained puppy, was I? One that didn’t truly understand what pleasure was meant to entail. But I knew how to leave my mouth half-open, take deep, shaky breaths, and say harder.
Whatever happened, happened to me. And yet sometimes, a lot of the times, most times, as they were fucking me, I saw myself drifting above my poor, frail body. Like a ghost. A vengeful spirit, perhaps. Or a guardian angel with tied-up hands and lips threaded shut. The boy with his face pressed into filth-soaked sheets could not be saved. I watched the events unfold, and I felt sorry for him, but I could never intervene.
Clients rarely gave away their names, and their faces blurred together inside my mind. But with time, I grew to recognise them by the tap of their footsteps all over the wooden floorboards as I lay limp on the bed after they were done with me. There was a couple, a man and a woman. The bottoms of her shoes sounded sharp and scratchy against the floor. His; quiet and hollow.
She liked to hit me, he liked to sit and watch. She said I was her favourite, because I was obedient, and I followed without complaint; unlike the others. It felt good, to be better than them, to be wanted. And she was beautiful, beautiful in a way that granted a certain level of power to an otherwise powerless woman. I admired the flicker of pleasure in her gaze every time she swung at me. In the moment, I barely noticed the pain; I was floating above the scene anyway. But once I had to return to the used-up husk of myself, it always came back with full force.
One time she walked in alone, unusually angered, then beat me so hard I pissed blood for weeks and couldn’t straighten my back for even longer. Something upsetting must have happened to her, but it was forbidden to inquire about her life. She called me a gem during, and I wondered what kind of gem I would be. A ruby, perhaps. Red as my blood. Red as the streaks along my back. Red as the burning fury I swallowed down, deeper and deeper, until it travelled all the way through my body, never acted upon, never digested. I liked rubies. I dreamt of holding one.
Sometimes, in strolled a pair of brothers with their flat, raggedy shoes tapping against the floor, almost as if they were dancing around me. You look just like my son, one would often tell me. You really do, assured the other. They called me by the son’s name, but I could never quite remember it. Both of them had huge cocks, and the less I enjoyed myself, the more they did. The sound of them coughing up spit made me sick. Owner didn’t particularly like it when they visited, because they inevitably left me useless for the next few days, so he asked them to pay double. Then triple. They did.
There was another one – his footsteps sounded like my knuckles on wood – that loved to see me kneeling in a puddle of his piss as he fucked my mouth. He smelled of sour milk, but at least I did not have to get undressed for him; merely humiliated. What did humiliation mean, anyway? He loved to slap me around, but the pain never lingered for long. When he did hit me, he said, I like to see the flesh ripple. You should gain some weight, that’d help. I remember smiling at him. Maybe you should bring me food, I wanted to say. But that would be against the rules; so I didn’t.
Most of them were cruel or forgettable; but not Nimit.
When he first came in, I thought he seemed old – old enough to be my father, which, as I soon realised, could have been said about the majority of them. But he was different, more peculiar than the majority. Nimit always carried a small, battered book with him – a journal, he explained, where he wrote down whatever captured his attention. A clever sentence, an unknown name, a moving poem. Some of them he copied from other texts, others he swore to have composed himself. He knew some Latin, although the parts of his writing that used it were more shaky and unclear than the rest. Sometimes the words were accompanied by drawings of flowers and leaves or simply nonsensical scribbles. That journal of his, naturally, fascinated me to no end.
I could not read nor write when we met, so he insisted on teaching me. It presented a unique challenge: letters seemed like increasingly bizarre shapes that Nimit made up just to amuse me, yet expected me to somehow decipher. I reckon I was not a particularly skilled learner, but I overcompensated with dedication. Other than servicing or cleaning, there were not many past-times for me to occupy myself with, and I had enough of both. So the idea of reading and writing excited me. I continued the practice, not only while I was with Nimit, but also when I was alone.
Of course, Nimit did not pay solely for the privilege of teaching me how to spell l-o-v-e.
He usually took me to the expensive accommodation, or as we called it, the bathing room. It smelled of damp, crumpled linen lining the insides of the wooden tubs, and of course, a sharp kind of mould, but he didn’t appear to mind, and I barely noticed it after a while. It was much better than the other washing space we were allowed in, so I followed Nimit and his strange requests with great enthusiasm.
All he ever wanted to do was give me long, elaborate baths, and kiss my feet while I soaked in the water, my legs bent and dangling off the edges of the tub. I'd often be battered and bruised when he saw me, so he’d slide his wet, thoughtful hands over my skin very carefully, almost not touching me at all. He was obviously aroused, and I offered to service him in a variety of ways, but he refused them all. I've never seen him naked; sometimes he touched himself, which always happened in the same exact way; his hand slipped under his clothes, and after a few quick flicks of his wrist with no sound leaving his mouth, he was done. This did not bother me; in fact, I was somewhat disappointed he never let me participate.
I liked him. I enjoyed his company. I complied with anything he wanted. Lift your foot, he’d say or, point your toes, good, now spread them apart as wide as you can. He’d caress my foot, lick my soles, suck on my toes, his tongue tickling the sensitive skin in-between them. It didn’t exactly excite me, but since it was far from painful, I would have chosen Nimit over anyone else. If I closed my eyes and got into the right state of mind, it almost felt like a massage. Like he cared.
Sometimes he sat behind me and washed my hair, other times he rested on a bench opposite the tub and watched me. He told me about his life in the city: the juicy fruits he bought at the market, his mother’s excellent cooking, his sister’s horrible husband. It was in moments like these that he seemed the most real to me; when he laughed or chuckled under his breath or stuttered over a particularly exciting part of the story.
One strange day, as he knelt besides the tub I was soaking in, rubbing my outstretched calf, he suddenly looked up at me and said, “I love you.”
A shiver ran through me at once, and I stared at him, perplexed. He’s never offered such a declaration before, so I blinked, I frowned, I smiled, but I could not comprehend it. Did he… mean it?
“Ah. Do not say anything yet!” he exclaimed, getting up quickly. “I have something for you!”
He rummaged through a large sachet, somehow producing a flower out of the depths of it – a single marigold. It was huge and intensely orange, the colour blurring into red near the petals’ edges, as if they were dipped in blood. He knelt again, and offered it to me.
“Before the marigold wilts, I shall be back to take you away. For good,” he said. The determination in his tone surprised me. I withdrew my leg into the bath, and he reached for my hand instead. “I swear it, Arun. There are still… matters I need to get in order first, but I swear it. You would be happy with me. Happier than you are with this.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. My thoughts were scrambled, my cheeks burning, my heart racing. I accepted the flower, and glared at its orange petals, a pleasant, floral scent raising around me along with the hot steam.
“You’re serious,” I said quietly, focused on the marigold. I chuckled nervously. “Please, you mustn’t joke–”
“I’m serious,” he assured, leaning forward to grab my chin gently. “I love you, and it pains me to see you suffer. I give you my word that it will only be a bit longer now. I’ve made arrangements, I– Say you want it, too. Say yes.”
He seemed genuine, pleading, perhaps slightly worried. I tilted my head to the side, desperate to believe that he meant it. Was this not the best outcome I could have ever hoped for? Was this not my one chance of getting out? Of buying mangoes at the market, of laughing at someone’s bad humour, of never having to hear the tap-tap-tap of the piss-man’s shoes ever again?
“Yes,” I said quickly. “Yes! Of course, I love you too!” Anywhere would be better than here, I thought. Anywhere! At least it’d be him, just him, the man that has never hurt me as long as I’ve known him. I could live with that; with him. I could.
Nimit was beaming. He stood up, then bent down and reached into the bath to hug me. His clothes dipped into the water, soaked through as he closed the space between us; I felt him chuckling into my shoulder as he squeezed me tightly. He’s hugged me before, but never like this, never like a heavy weight has been lifted off of him.
“I will treat you well,” he said, and kissed me on the mouth: just a quick, close-mouthed peck, then he was already pulling away. That was alright; I could live with that, too. “Oh, I will teach you everything. I will cook for you. You will meet my family as your own. I told them all about you!”
It was too good to be true, I feared. And yet, hope has already gripped me, and would not let go. So I believed him.
That day, after he left, I took the marigold, and put it in a clay cup on my bedside table.
The following weeks passed with great anticipation and an even greater uncertainty.
At first, I was sure that my new life was approaching rapidly, so I acted accordingly. I barely noticed the world around me, drifting above my useless body through its usual fate, thinking about Nimit, considering the special way he looked at me. I took it upon myself to write any words I remembered how to spell into the journal he smuggled into the brothel for me. I would be happy soon, I thought, and I wrote it down. H-a-p-p-y.
But he did not return for an unusually long time, and I started to worry; sweet hope turning bitter, dread seeping through the cracks of my daydream. He was making arrangements for us, I reminded myself. Maybe it was taking longer than he anticipated, but surely, he’d come back for me. He gave his word. He loved me.
Weeks later, I lay flat on the bed while a man with no face leaned over me. Both his hands were wrapped around my neck, and I had my head turned to the side, my gaze periodically focusing and unfocusing on the cup with a single, dying marigold that wobbled with his every thrust. I watched a single petal fall off the flower as I fought for breath. My throat was dry and closed up, my lips chapped; I was so thirsty. When was the last time I drank something? I didn’t remember.
“Not much different from a girl-whore,” he grunted, almost as if disappointed with the revelation. “Except you’re even cheaper.”
His hands were dirty, his nails weirdly jagged as he wrestled them inside me. His breath reeked of sour anise when he kissed me. He was an awful kisser, which was, of course, the least of my worries.
Whore.
As I mouthed the word silently, I felt myself tear up, because I could not conjure up any vision of the future in which I was anything but that. But I shouldn’t cry; I was dehydrated. Better to hold onto the fluids.
He grabbed a fistful of my hair, dragged me to the side, and smashed my face into the bedside table. My vision shook and dimmed around the edges. Why would he do that? Perhaps I was too far away to keep his interest. The cup swayed dangerously, then fell and shattered all over the floor; I watched as stagnant, yellowed water spilled everywhere along with my blood. It trickled down the table, onto the floorboards, coated the wilted marigold petals, the shrunk up flower head, the dry stem. He kept fucking me as I blinked away the tears. What happened next was unclear; a veil of coagulated blood and a nauseating smell of over-bloomed flowers covered the rest of the unfortunate night.
The next morning, the man was gone, but the blood remained. I was never able to get it all out of the wood-grain.
Nimit never came back. Days and weeks and months passed, and I have not seen him. I preferred to think that he died tragically while setting out our new life, because the alternative – that he changed his mind and did not love me after all – was unbearable.
The day I met Marius was my monthly rest day, which should not mean actual rest; I was merely forced to clean the rooms instead of being taken inside of them. But not one miserable person cared enough to supervise my work – cleanliness did not make much money, which was surely the reason for the place being so consistently foul.
I sat in a quiet corner of the hallway that branched out into many of our rooms, a small candle illuminating the battered book that rested on my thighs. I was reading; I thought that I was slowly becoming good at it now. Before he stopped coming, Nimit wrote a poem in my journal:
golden petals rise
upon the storm’s teary eye
the blossom holds its fire
against the flooding tide
my heart burns for you
with sorrow that will not dry
I assumed he composed it himself, but I couldn’t be certain. One by one, I copied the words onto the next page. I enjoyed how thoroughly I busied myself with the task, bent over the book, holding it right up to my face. I did it again, and again, and again, until the letters were neat enough. On the fourth page over, I added my own verse:
no no that was a lie
I left you alone to die
I chuckled; I figured that if Nimit were to ever come back, he might find the rhymes impressive. If he wouldn’t, well, then it did not matter what he thought.
There was a sudden, loud gasp across the room, which startled me. When I looked up, I saw a man standing on the other side of the hallway, staring straight at me. I've never seen anyone quite like him; tall, beautiful, white-haired, white-clothed, white-everythinged. All white. White as an ever-dry haṃsa, he must have been. One of the other boys stood next to him, but the man bent over, and spoke to him very quickly and quietly. The boy nodded, glanced down, and ran off. The strange man approached me, his stunning water-eyes fixed on me.
“What are you doing?” he asked in Latin, perhaps in an attempt to test me. He sounded as if he had just encountered a wild animal with a miraculous ability to read, which I reckoned was not far off.
I knew that a man of his kind was something remarkable. Something high up there, cushioned, important, powerful. He must have been rich in that foreign, unfathomable way, I would bet on it; not that I had anything to bet with. My hands sweat, and once more, my mind filled with the one thing I should have known better than to allow in: hope. I saw that he wanted me – desire – right there, plain on his face, and I wanted him back. I did. I had to.
“Reading. Writing,” I said, smiling at him. See? I wanted to ask. See how smart I am? See how special? Please understand how special I am.
“Ah! You are indeed. Fascinating,” he said, bending down to see what I've written. “Who taught you that? What’s your name?”
I didn’t fully understand him, but I kept my smile upright, kept myself from frowning. There was no need to show confusion. If he could only see that I was worth something, that I was worth taking… As the others were taken sometimes, swept up by a strange man with a sack full of coins, and never seen in here again. I liked to envision it as a sort of adoption or domestic employment: they got a life at last, they got parents, structure, and routine, and books, and affection.
I took a few seconds to respond. “Arun. Taught myself,” I said after some hesitation. It was true. In a way.
Are you impressed? Please be impressed. I’m unlike the others. I swear it. I’m better. Do you have a sack full of coins? Do you need a servant?
His eyes were wide, blue like the sky, blue like open water, blue, blue, blue spilling out of him and into me. He was staring at me, so I imagined he could do what gods could; see my entire soul, the entirety of me being all at once, and I imagined that at once, he could also make a judgement over me.
Then he said, “My name is Marius. Come with me,” offering his outstretched arm.
His hand was cold and dry, and he smiled at me as I got up from the floor. I expected to be led towards one of the other rooms; but he brought me downstairs instead, towards the entrance – or perhaps now it was the exit – where Owner was sitting.
“I will take him,” Marius said.
“Right,” Owner scoffed. “I don’t care which one you screw, you’ve already paid.”
But I knew immediately that was not it. Marius gripped my shoulder firmly, sending a cool shiver through my entire body.
“No. I will take him,” he insisted, pulling a leather sachet out of his coat. He threw it onto the table, and it made a rattling sound. I gasped in shock. Yes. Yes, there it was. The sack! The coins! Exactly as I’ve always pictured it, except this time, it was really happening, and it was happening to me!
Owner whistled, taking a peek into the sachet.
“Shit,” he drew out, then said to me, “Which deity did you suck off, little boy?”
He laughed, and Marius frowned, either because he found the joke too crude or because he was not able to understand the foreign language.
“Gather your belongings,” Marius told me, and I held the journal up. “There is nothing else? Very well.”
We both took a step forward, but Owner stopped us.
“Wait,” he said. “There are formalities–”
“No,” Marius said again. This time, he looked Owner straight in the face. And he just… kept looking, and looking, as if he was performing a spell. “He is mine now. All formalities have been fulfilled, and you will allow me to take him.”
And he… did. He just did. He took a step back, nodding compliantly.
Marius held my hand, squeezed tight, and walked me right out of there.
Marius took me to a part of Delhi that I've never seen before. Up to that point, I was only permitted to walk within a few streets of the brothel, never further than the nearest barely-market selling discounted, half-rotten produce.
But Marius led me deeper into the city, and soon we were no longer at its squalid edges. Delhi’s vibrant centre waged an assault against my senses: everything was so unbelievably alive. The humid, sun-scorched streets pulsed with a sea of people dressed in colourful, layered garments, the air smelled of a mix of every delicious spice imaginable. My stomach turned and rumbled loudly as I followed behind Marius, my pinky curled into the back-hem of his waistcoat in an attempt not to lose myself in the crowd. He stopped suddenly, and grabbed me by the chin, searching for something in my face.
“You’re hungry,” he said, evidently deep in thought. “What do you like to eat?”
I stared at him blankly, contemplating my answer. “Um. Roti,” I said. Marius seemed exasperated; as if my preference offended him. “Dal, too,” I added quickly, anxious now, struggling to come up with a more appropriate answer that might please him.
“Heavens,” he sighed, shaking his head. “We will fix this… predicament of yours soon. Come, I will choose for you.”
Marius wrapped a hand around my upper arm, gently guiding me towards one of the wooden stalls. As he briefly conversed with the vendor – a short, plump man with pitch-black hair and big brown eyes – I realised that Marius did, in fact, know my tongue. Quite perfectly, at that.
“Mild,” he emphasised politely when the man reached for a sal leaf. “His stomach is weak.”
Was it? I blushed as the vendor handed me the food, the leaf weighed by a hefty portion of warm curry, pieces of colourful, soft vegetables glistening among the light rice and thick sauce. The plump man gave me a substantial piece of a slightly charred paratha, looked me up and down, then added another one.
“Ah, you’re too skinny,” he told me, smacking his lips disapprovingly. “A growing boy! Eat!”
I smiled sheepishly, accepting the meal. I felt myself salivating at the smell, so I swallowed heavily, glancing towards Marius, still not entirely convinced I could indulge. Was it another test of my character? Marius sighed, tore off a piece of the paratha, dipped it into curry, and fed it to me. I chewed slowly, carefully, and the taste filled my mouth in an instant as: it was salty, spiced, delicious. When I hummed with approval, Marius winked at me, dipping the paratha again.
“Yes, good. Eat,” he said, tapping my cheek lightly with his other hand. “I don’t want you hungry.”
I did as he said. The food was heavenly.
I soon learned that Marius was staying at a luxurious merchant-accommodation at the heart of the city. It was a spacious room with the floor covered in intricate but worn rugs. A large, wooden-framed bed sheeted with colourful pillows and blankets stood in the corner; it was so immaculately made, I couldn’t visualise anyone sleeping in it at all. Like a piece of art, I thought, not to be touched or disturbed in any way. On the opposite side of the room, two massive wardrobes leaned against the wall. The doors to one of them were ajar, and I noticed a piece of thick, dark-blue fabric peeking out.
I hovered at my life’s threshold, both literally and metaphorically. Marius stood in front of me, but I was reluctant to follow. It was not fear but guilt that bubbled in my chest at the thought; I felt undeserving of joining a world of what would surely be barely-comprehensible opulence and beauty by his side. Or at his feet, perhaps; I would still not be worthy if that’s where he’d have me.
Marius took a few steps forward. “Take my hand,” he said. “Please. Arun?”
I winced at the sound of my name; it echoed in my skull. Arun. Arun; distorted, Arun; drawn out, Arun; moaned, Arun; panted, Arun; yelled out, Arun; barely squeezed through the teeth. Arun, Arun, Arun. I repeated it absent-mindedly, mumbled it under my breath, my lips moving without sound, and I pulled at the edge of my tunic, rolling the already fraying fabric between my fingers. Arun. Arun, it’s your lucky day again, Owner would say whenever a patron asked for me. And sometimes, this one’s Arun, stated offhandedly, dismissively, while we were lined up against a wall. Good if you want them obedient. Won’t scream. He was right. Screaming never made it stop, but it did make my throat sore. Arun. A-run. Something in my chest tightened. A dry, silent panic rose within me; no sound left my mouth, no tears fell from my eyes. Nothing.
Inside my head, they were still shouting my name, their filthy hands reaching for me, their nails etching deep, red gashes down my arms, down my thighs. Bruises in the shape of their fingers wrapped around every tender piece of flesh they could get to. Scratched into Arun. Wrapped around Arun. Arun, Arun, Arun… Flashes of disjointed hands and faces contorted into smile-less grins swirled before me. I felt ill; feverish. Burning with the truth of what’s already been done to me. Dizzy from cruelty that I knew would go unpunished. I imagined that their hands, with those same sharp claws that so mercilessly dug into my skin, now gently stroked their wives’ cheeks at the other side of the city. It didn’t matter. I should forget all about it. I could still be happy. The thoughts barely felt mine; I wanted to oppose myself, and I wanted to give into myself.
Two cool, tender hands closed around my trembling fingers. Marius’ touch sent a cold shiver down my spine, the sensation shaking me out of the strange trance. I blinked once, twice, thrice, then focused on Marius and realised he was crouching in front of me.
“How utterly fascinating,” he said. “Your own name troubles you.”
I felt myself flush all over. It was my understanding that I did not say anything out loud; was I mistaken? “N-No,” I barely managed to choke the words out. I was breathing heavily, as if I’d just been running. “Call me whatever pleases you. Whatever pleases you, pleases me. I am not difficult,” I assured, shaking my head, digging my fingers into Marius’ hands.
Difficult was the most undesirable of brands for a boy like me; I would not bear it.
“There is no need to worry about that any longer,” he said, a glimpse of something – perhaps compassion, perhaps annoyance – flashing across his face. “You are safe now. Come.”
He smiled, pulling me forward, and I didn’t resist further. I stepped inside, careful to walk around the rugs. Safe. Was I? The notion felt completely alien; I could hardly begin to comprehend it. My mind slid in quiet, unsure suggestions of peace as I’d have liked to know it: a bright, sun-drenched cottage surrounded by lush, green woods at all sides; my feet sinking into warm, silky sand at the seashore; soft laughter echoing through a cluttered, familiar room.
“Ah. Yes,” I said, although I did not understand what I was confirming. I hesitated. “Can I– I have a question. May I?”
Marius nodded towards me expectantly. “Please.”
“What should I call you?” I looked at my feet. He introduced himself by first name, but surely, he would not have me referring to him as Marius. My supposed role in whatever life I was about to lead hung in the air between us. A servant, I hoped. I was good at keeping things tidy. And I didn’t eat a lot, either. Those were, as I understood it, most desirable qualities.
“You may call me Master,” he said, yet there was a strange pause as he pondered my question further. He tilted his head to the side. “You may call me Marius as well. I shall permit it.”
Surprised and encouraged by the streak of kindness, I spoke faster than I thought. “What about father?”
As soon as the word left my mouth, I felt mortified and wished to take it back, but alas, it was already out there.
Marius blinked slowly, narrowing his eyes. “If that is your wish,” he said. “Then certainly, my sweet child. I will strive to fill any role you are lacking.”
I couldn’t control the grin overtaking my face; a father? Not just a Master, but a father! I’ve never had one, as far as I remembered. “Thank you! Thank you,” I repeated, content.
Naturally, I knew what came next, and I did not mind it; Marius had already proven himself to be much gentler than most. Possibly gentler than all. I took a step back, then started to undress. I managed to pull one layer off, but as I reached for my trousers, Marius’ hand clasped around my wrist painfully.
“What is it that you think you’re doing?” he asked sharply.
I furrowed my brows and pursed my lips, trying to identify my wrongdoings. “I– I apologise,” I said, still unsure what angered him. A disturbing thought occurred to me. “Do you not desire me, Master?”
I feared the worst; that I had offended him somehow, that perhaps it was my negative attitude or pathetic longing for a father that repulsed him, and he would not take me now. A sad, sad whiny little thing, wasn’t I? I simply had to correct myself. There was a script to these events, I could still make it work. To my dismay, Marius still looked… irritated. Scandalised, even.
“Um, I– I washed just the other day. But I shall do it again, of course, on your request, I–” I attempted to assure him, but it only seemed to worsen whatever problem I’ve managed to create.
“You think me some sort of savage?” he hissed, painfully twisting my arm downwards, away from my body. I put up no resistance. Something wild flared inside him; like a strike of lightning warping his handsome features for one terrifying, riveting second. “You think me as crass and barbarous as them? Those men? Do you?!”
I shook my head. “N-no!” I said, trying to smooth it over somehow. My heart jumped up into my throat, my voice trembled; I did not mean to displease him, especially this quickly! I scrambled to gather myself. “No, of course not! I apologise, I so sincerely apologise. Master, please, I will do whatever you wish. I will learn, whatever you want, I will– just don’t take me back there. Please. Don’t take me back. I will learn, I can learn fast. I’ll be good!” Panic rose within my voice with every word I uttered.
Marius sighed deeply, then let go of my hand at last. He stood back up, his back straight, his gaze floating somewhere above my head. “Put your clothes back on,” he said. “Or don’t. Those rags belong on the side of the road, along with the rubbish your people keep leaving in their wake.” His lip curled up slightly at the drawn out your people. “Distasteful.”
My head spun; he did not mean it. Or maybe he did. Maybe he was right; I ought to be ashamed. I bit down on my lower lip and tried to calm myself. Don’t be pathetic, I told myself. This needed to be fixed immediately, I was convinced, or else I might find myself out on the curb again. But how? He didn’t want what I knew how to give. So what did he want? Think. Think, think, think.
Good if you want them obedient. Won’t scream.
I took a shaky, shallow breath, and slowly knelt down. I sat on my calves, legs pressed neatly together, and I put my hands along my thighs, wrists up. With my back perfectly straightened, I glanced at my palms, trying to blink away the tears. They fell anyway: one, two, three droplets splashing against my skin. I held the pose. This is how they liked me, how Owner liked to present us to new clients. It was either against the wall or kneeling exactly like this.
“What… is the meaning of this?” he asked after a while, now more confused than annoyed, which I saw as an improvement.
I didn’t dare to move a muscle, tried not to breathe too deeply. “I am yours,” I said in Latin, enunciating carefully. “I swear it. I am yours. I will be good. I am good. Do whatever you want.” I sniffled and shut my eyes, bracing for impact.
Impact never came. There was silence for a while, a long while, my mind filled with the tremble of my own breath as it left my lungs, an inexplicable, terrible ringing raising inside my ears. Would he leave? Would he throw me out? No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t! I was so close to something, anything other than what I’ve endured so far. I kept my position; it was an offering. I was the offering, I supposed. To be applied towards whatever pleased him.
Finally, I heard shuffling, then steps. Step, step, step away from me, then step, step, step closer again. Something thumped onto the floor right in front of me; like a weighty sack being dropped. Marius’ hand slid into my hair at the back of my head, and he pulled me forward until my face was pressed into him at what I assumed to be the side of his hip; his clothes smelled like fresh linen and an unfamiliar spice.
“Open your eyes,” he said. I complied, and looked at him with the most hopeful expression I could muster. He seemed calm now; no storm brewing behind his gaze, no anger forming a line in-between his elegant brows. “It was terribly ill-mannered of me to upset you in such a way. Will you forgive me?”
I blinked, stunned. Forgive him? “O-of course,” I said quickly. “Yes. It is forgiven.”
His hand moved from the back of my head to the side of my face, gliding along the line of my jaw. His fingers lingered on my cheek tenderly. I leaned into the touch, but it did not escalate. “Amadeo,” he said proudly. “You are not pleased with your name, so I shall give you a new one. Amadeo. It means love of God. Fitting.”
I gasped. “Oh, I– I don’t deserve–” I got too choked up to continue.
Marius leaned forward and wiped the tears from my face, both of his thumbs circling over my damp cheeks. “Shh,” he murmured. “But of course you do. You are Amadeo now. My Amadeo.”
My vision blurred except for the two bright stars of his eyes shining down on me. Everything else was dark, everything else was insignificant. Only him. Him alone. “Yes. Yes, Amadeo,” I repeated. “A wonderful name. Thank you, Master.”
I did not believe it; the wildest of my dreams came nowhere close to this. The boldest corners of my imagination never led me towards a path of such grace. I kept crying and smiling, and Marius kept wiping my face as if transfixed on the never-ending dampness of it.
“How beautiful you are,” he said. “Even like this. My dark little Eros, reborn. I can show you the world, if you wish to witness it.”
I nodded, swallowing up a sob. “Yes, of course,” I said. “Of course, I do.”
“Splendid.” He smirked. “Put those on, and join me in the next room.” He glanced down, and I remembered the thud from earlier. Indeed, when I followed his gaze, I noticed a bundle of fabric lying right in front of me – it was a gorgeous dark blue with gold-threaded embroidery. “We ought to start with the language. You shall need it most urgently. The ship departs tomorrow morning.”
Master stepped back, and I let my shoulders drop. The ship? I shuddered at the terrible thought. Right before he turned around, I could have sworn that, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him lick his fingers that caressed my teary cheek mere seconds earlier. It did not disturb me. I looked down at the clothes as he left the room. So be it, I thought. I would prove myself. Whatever it took, I would prove myself. Whatever he wanted, would be his.