Page 71 of Boy of Ruin
Gray eyes and brown hair. Her soft voice. How she didn’t speak at first when Mom brought her home. She didn’t speak, and she smelled bad, and she looked tiny. Gaunt.
I didn’t know those words then, when I was just a kid. But now I know. She looked…sick.
My knees were knobby, and my leg had been broken and I was skinny. Probably not much bigger than I am now in terms of that, but I push that thought aside because I’m not in the cage right now. I’m free.
But she…she was worse off than I was.
And now?
I dip my head, pressure building behind my eyes. If I kill myself, no one will save her. No one knows her name. No one knows how much she means to someone. To me.
They could be hurting her. Starving her. Beating her.
The creak of a floorboard outside of my door has me flinching and I drop the pen and the notebook, scurrying back against the wall beside my small bed, my knees up to my chest as I try to inhale. Exhale. Breathe.
Breathe.
My bladder almost loosens, and after pissing so many times in a crate, sometimes I wonder if I know how to hold it anymore, but I fucking try.
I try now, and when I see who it is coming into my room, it becomes a little easier. My heart slows down, just a little, and the fear isn’t so bright on my tongue.
It’s her.
The younger sister. She’s nineteen, two years older than me, but she still lives here, and I hear him yelling at her. Her father.
My foster father.
I hear her crying in the room next to mine, and she tries to muffle it in a pillow, but I know that sound well. I do the same thing.
She doesn’t crawl into my bed like the older sister. She doesn’t grind her pussy against my leg and scream for her dad. Watch and laugh as he drags me to that cage.
She doesn’t do any of that, and sometimes, when she can, she brings me food in that crate.
But they always know.
Because sometimes I have to…use the bathroom in there. And they seem to know when she’s fed me.
I’ve watched him hit her for that.
Now, she folds her arms across her chest and glances over her shoulder, as if she’s scared he’ll find her in here.
Silence stretches between us. Maybe they aren’t home right now. They don’t talk to me.
She turns back to look at me, her bright blue eyes holding mine. Bright but…dead. As if she’s barely there.
Barely holding on.
I know that feeling.
But she’s dressed in fitted jeans, a black t-shirt that shows her pale skin, but she’s not starving. She’s got big tits, straining against her shirt, and thick thighs, touching in her denim.
She might not have it as good as her older sister, but she still has it better.
She glances at the notebook with the red pen slashed through it. At the pen itself, which rolled against the wall adjacent me.
Biting her lip, she looks back up at me. “Are you hungry?” she asks quietly, her voice so soft. Shy.
I clench my jaw, and I can feel the emptiness in my stomach. Like a pit. I just got out of the cage last night. They didn’t feed me.
