Chapter 5
It wasn’t long before the door opened again. It wasn’t for rescue either. Oliver didn’t want to cry. He really didn’t, but when he saw that woman from the bus stop walk in again he felt the familiar tightness in his throat, the weight on his back, the fear. It’s a truly different thing, he thought to himself, fear of the certain. With fear of the unknown, you at least have a possibility of a good outcome. Here he was afraid and sure. He didn’t want to cry, but that familiar tightness in his throat begged out and down fell the tears. He looked down.
The woman knelt down, looking at his face. “Oh, dear. Are you crying already?” She rested her hand on his knee. “It's okay baby, you’re not going first this time.”
Anger boiled up inside him. He didn’t even have a specific anger, just the unfairness of it all. But it was anger, and it was like steam trying to escape an over-boiling pot. He circled his tongue, collecting the spit in his mouth. Then, in a move he knew wasn’t going to end well, but he had to do, just to fight it, just to say fuck you, he spit in her face.
The woman stood up slowly. She wiped the spit off with disgust becoming present on her lips. The fear came back. Rolling in waves up his throat. The woman drew back her hand and brought it down on Oliver’s face with a crack. It stung. Not as bad as it would be.
She just looked at him a bit. Still slightly shivering, still wet and bruised. She scoffed and walked over to Peter.
“Now, this time, if you try to escape or hurt me. There will be consequences.” She leaned down to make eye contact with him as she said it. He looked at her with an air of defiance, but, deep down, the fear rolled over in his stomach. The woman nodded at the muscular man and woman and walked over to stand by the cameraman. The two guards walked over with a chain. Some restraint that hooked up to something on the wall. They were more careful this time, taking Peter over to the wall. Pulling the chain up just so. He was facing the wall, couldn’t even see the camera start to record, only hear the same threat directed towards Mr. Stark again. He couldn’t see the woman pull out a whip.
Oliver could though. It had a rectangular edge, perfect for cutting. The woman’s hand tightened around it, the sound of skin on leather the only hint for Peter. He didn’t want him to go in not knowing. Not knowing how much pain to predict, not knowing what kind. He also didn’t want the woman to get mad at him for telling Peter though.
“You’re whipping him? Really” he directed the comment towards the woman, trying to keep his eyes away from Peter “seems dramatic.”
The woman seemed displeased at him talking, her lips forming a tight-lipped frown before responding. “What can I say? I have a flair for the dramatic.” She seemed impatient by it all. By the two boys' protests to their torture, to Mr. Stark’s lack of cooperation. It was annoying her. Good thing she had two people to take that annoyance out on.
She took a deep breath before she started. That’s when Peter steadied himself, and bit down on his tongue, just in case he screamed. The whip cracked across Peter’s back, slicing open his shirt, and underneath, his skin. He let out a noise. A painful, desperate kind of sound as the blood on his back started soaking into his shirt. The chains holding Peter where he stood clanged as the whip cracked again.
Those three sounds repeated, over and over. Unbearable. The crack of the whip, the clang of the chains and Peter’s half whimper, half scream. Peter’s blood soaked his shirt from the crisscross of lacerations across his back. It filled the air with a scent of copper. That, the scent of sweat and leather, as well as the gore of it all, filled Oliver with nausea. He was shaking, they were both shaking. Peter gasped as he was struck again, his legs barely holding him up. He was crying, and Oliver was surprised for some reason. He had cried, why wouldn’t Peter? He was crying and shaking and gasping and simply trying to get through it, and still, the woman kept going. She had seemed almost disinterested at first, but now Oliver could tell, she was simply focused. Now though, she was starting to have fun. With every sound Peter let out, every time his legs would’ve given out had he not been held up, she smiled a little more. Finally, she stopped.
She walked over to Peter, who was only still standing because of the chains holding him up. She placed her hand on his blood, torn up back, causing the boy to flinch and cry out once more. “Shhhh, it's okay, it’s all over now.” Her lips whispered the words right next to his ear.
Peter tried to turn, tried to look at her. “Fuck you.”
She clamped her hand over Peter’s mouth. He thrashed around as much as possible, but she kept him in place. “Shhhhhh, just enjoy this moment hmm?” her other hand stroked his back. Peter whimpered. “You are so much more handsome when you finally shut up.” Oliver clenched his jaw. What the fuck was that. What did he expect? A torturer to not be creepy?
She finally took her hands off Peter, who didn’t bother to speak as she wiped the hand that was on his back on the front of his shirt. The two guards came over and unchained Peter. They had to almost carry him back to his chair. He whimpered when his shredded back touched the metal back of the chair.
Oliver turned to look at the woman. The woman turned towards Oliver. A tightness twisted in his chest. It moved up his throat and he opened his mouth to take a shaky breath in.
“Please?” The only word he could utter. Deep down he knew it wouldn’t even do anything but, he had to ask. He had to keep asking, somehow convinced that the answer may eventually be yes, you can go. She shook her head, with an almost genuine apologetic air. Oliver felt his face scrunch up again. He swallowed down the tears. He kept flipping between angry and hopeless. He wished he could stick to one, it’d be more convincing but, he only had the energy for anger for so long and it took so long to gather the energy again.
The two guards restrained him with the same chains they did with Peter. He held onto them with desperation, as if they would suddenly pull him out of there. They wouldn't, but it was some comfort to at least have something to hold.
The whip cracked against his skin and he felt it peel open, warm blood spilling out. Sound tore from his throat, a loud, unending cry. The smell of leather was stronger when he felt it impacting his own skin. Every impact caught the sound back in his throat, he wished to scream though. Wished to let out all the pain and fear and anger in the most direct way he could think of. Pride was stopping him. He knew he was being watched, knew the woman probably wanted him to scream and by god, if he could take away one thing she wanted, he would. So the cry ended after the second lashing. Instead, he pulled against the chains until his wrists were red and raw. Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek until his mouth filled with his own blood. He focused on the smell of sweat and pretended he was simply in the hot summer sun. If he closed his eyes and pretended, he could hear the birds. He hoped he’d hear them for real again.
Tears pooled and fell. He wanted to hear the birds again. He wanted the worst pain to be scraping his knees on the pavement. Please, let the worst pain be scraping his knees on the pavement.
Eventually, it ended, Oliver didn’t really notice that it happened, too stuck in this faraway place with birds and scraped knees. He still felt it, but it was as if he was watching himself be whipped from miles away. Like he was reading it in some book, thinking it was a terrible thing. Thinking it would never happen to him. He was breathing heavily when he noticed it was over.
The woman came up and placed her hand on his back as well. He let out a sob. “You were quieter this time. It’s a shame, I enjoyed your whimpers and screams.” She brushed the side of his face, he pulled away as far as he could. The woman seemed annoyed and turned back towards the camera as the two guards put Oliver back into his seat. “Another six hours Mr. Stark. Better hurry up. We’re coming to an end.” The red light turned off.
The group left swiftly, leaving Peter and Oliver alone again to stew in their despair.
“Are you okay?” Peter’s voice was rough and small.
Oliver let out a wet laugh, but quickly stopped, it hurt too much. “Never been better.” He tried not to move much as a half-sob half-laugh came out. “We’re gonna fucking die here aren’t we.”e couldn’t control the sobs now. He was becoming hopeless. If they were going to be saved, or somehow let go, it would've happened by now. No one was coming.
“Hey.” Peter was still believing. “Don’t think like that I-” He hesitated “I’ll get us out of here okay? It might be last minute but our graves are far in the future. I’ll make sure of it.” He sounded so sure. Oliver could no longer understand it, but he simply sniffled and nodded. Peter had no reason to lie. No reason to give him false hope, and he felt a little less like he was being buried alive when he believed him. Even if he didn’t really deep down.
“Oliver.” Oliver looked over at Peter, he had determination in his eyes. “We’re going to get out of here.”