Empire of Lies
but it’s been the highlight of my day.”I say nothing. I can’t play the ‘let’s pretend this isn’t happening’ game right now. The signs of reality are far too strong, too unforgiving.
“Michael?” He shakes my shoulder. “Michael, you’re zoning out again…”
I can’t help it.
He’s currently chained to the metal pole behind the washing machine, and I’m free to roam about this small, windowless room. For now.
Five hours from now, I’ll be chained and he’ll be free. It’s a rotating punishment, a twisted, psychological experiment that weighs heavily on my mind every single day.
“Michael, can you please talk?” He begs. “Say something…Anything.”
“What did he make you do earlier today?” I ask him a far more important question. “Who was up there when you went?”
He shakes his head, and he starts to answer, but no words come out. Just cries.
He’s always been the more emotional one between us, although getting passed around and sexually abused will break down any person. Even me at this point, but I’ve stopped letting it show.
Tears have never saved me or given me any grace. They’ve never stopped our Uncle Avery from using us like pets, torturing our minds on a daily basis, or offering us up as options for his sick and perverted friends.
They come every other day like clockwork, dressed in their thousand dollar suits with pictures of their families tucked into their designer leather wallets. They exchange pleasantries over a cup of coffee or tea on the “luxurious” side of the house, and they say things like, “Lovely weather we’re having,” or “How many rounds do you think you’ll go today?” It’s all coded conversation, a way to ask which one of us they want, how rough they plan to be.
That part of the house is right above us, and we’re only privy to see it when these men stop by. Our uncle always has us ready and waiting for them. Freshly groomed and showered. Left alone naked with packs of condoms, a bottle of lube, and a soundproofed bedroom.
For most of the men, me and Trevor are just sex. For others, we’re the subjects of the pictures that they store in the hidden folders of their phones. And for the more depraved group, it’s a mix of sex and a side of violence—a session of jaw punching and forcible submission, the kind that lingers in the mind years after and shows up in the middle of morning breakfast.
There’s nowhere we can go, no one we can tell.
Occasionally, he lets us upstairs to watch crime shows and cook food. He also allows me to use one of his laptops to play chess whenever one of his dogs chews up one of the real pieces. (“You’re one hell of a chess player, boy…”) From the newspapers that he lets us keep from time to time, I’ve caught sight of the world outside this hell a few times.
Our lives revolve around his basement, and no matter how many cans of air freshener I spray, it always smells like rotten fish and dried vomit. The scent is trapped under the wallpaper, woven into the threads of the fraying carpet.
The scent of hopelessness…
There are a few rats that join us here or there, but they always die after a few weeks, thanks to the boric acid and antifreeze drops that he occasionally sprinkles in the corners. It’s enough to weaken them at first taste, to drain them of their energy should they try to make it up the steps for water, but it’s never enough to kill them at once; he does this to constantly remind us of who is in control.
The only things he can’t seem to kill—besides us yet, are the spiders that roam freely. They come and go at their will—slipping under the tiny cracks of the wood near the far end of the basement. They avoid the poison and weave their cobwebs under the abandoned furniture—trapping their prey and staying focused solely on themselves.
They’re the ultimate survivors, the smartest players in the game.
“She’s going to come back for us…” Trevor finally stops crying, wiping his eyes. “She’ll eventually come back and get us, right?”
I nod, even though I don’t believe at all.
I stopped hoping for our mother’s return years ago.
She was gone, and I never wanted to see her face again. I’d never be able to look her in the eye and give her any form of forgiveness for dropping us off here and moving on with her life. For never coming back.
I doubted that I would ever be able to accept that she honestly thought that we’d be “far better off” with Uncle Avery. I wanted to believe that she had no idea how big of a monster he truly was when she dropped us off at his doorstep in the middle of the night, but something told me that she knew.
Beepppp! Beepppp! Beeppp!
The timer on the washing machine goes off, the signal for us to switch places. It’s time for Trevor to roam freely and be at my uncle’s beck and call if he needs something upstairs.
I unlock Trevor’s handcuffs, but I don’t let him lock me in.
Instead, I slip the key into my pocket. Walking upstairs, I leave the basement door cracked, not sliding the lock it into place like usual.
“It’s Trevor’s turn to be up here, Michael.” My uncle scoffs as I walk into the living room. He’s still dressed in a suit, poring over this week’s edition of The Wall Street Journal. I notice that he’s stolen a few new pens from his company, where he sits on the board of directors: Goldman Sachs.
“Do I need to remind you how this system works?” he asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“No, sir,” I say. “He’s throwing up, so—”
“Ugh.” He cuts me off. “Of course. Sometimes, I wish you were more of a weak bitch like your brother. Go take him a towel and a cup of water when you’re finished cleaning. I still want him to sleep with me