Cold. I’d never gotten used to the cold. The bugs were always present exploring the dark space which worked out for the times I didn't get to eat. My bladder integrity had become steady seeing as I had no bathroom, regardless there were still accidents. I think she liked knowing I had them. I didn't mind the box too much. It gave me time to think. It felt like a condo compared to the first one. Wooden and full of splinters which she grew tired of removing. The metal was far more aesthetic, cold, and surgical. It was soundproof here. She never wanted me to know she was coming. I suppose it added to the thrill of it all.

She let me out for work usually, depending on how much sick time I had, which was a good thing with the economy and all. I had gotten used to constant cramping from being in one position for so long, but my mother used to do far worse to me when I didn't appreciate it.

My father left when I was five years old. I never really understood until much later why. My mother did her best to take care of me, how the clothespin on the tongue fit in I’m not sure but in her mind, it made sense. I never thought the pain was unusual; I grew to appreciate it. Once I realized she didn't care if I cried or not, it was easier. The world doesn’t hate you if you cry, it just doesn’t notice.

I never knew what a normal mother was supposed to do until I went to school and until then she flourished. It was easy for her to explain my injuries as childhood mishaps.

“Boys will be boys.” She'd speak. “He’s so clumsy.”

She laughed. It was the same laugh she had when my head was in the vice.

My mother made cookies for me. Naturally I was excited as I hadn't eaten for a while. I didn't assume anything given my age and how the dynamic had become familiar to me. She told me that they were done and to take them out of the oven if I wanted one. I could taste them as I opened it, heat blasting my small face. I reached in and grabbed the pan. For a split second I was completely happy, at least until my hands melted into the pan. Screaming, I ran around the kitchen. My flesh roasted. I was unable to let go. Eventually the pan cooled and with peeling hands I got my cookie. Off the floor. Deep inside, I think she knew if she hurt me too bad there would be questions. She hurt me just enough to get the point across how meaningless I was.

Blinded by the sudden light, the lid swung open. My migraine started immediately. Squinting, I saw her expressionless face. Only one thing truly made her happy. She had laid out my clothes on the bench as usual, neatly folded and pressed. I went to the corner where the hose and bucket sat. I lathered up and began to rinse off. She watched as I bathed. I wondered what she was thinking. She checked her phone, then began to inspect me. Cold hands tend to my wounds. It made me feel loved that she always treated me. She applied some ointment to anything that concerned her. Last night was mild so I didn't need stitches, which I appreciated.

I quickly dressed, concerned I may be late. I went up the stairs and took a bottle of water from the fridge. She liked knowing I was properly hydrated. Grabbing my phone off the charger, I went to my truck. She usually made sure I was out on time so I wouldn't be late. The shelter opened at nine, which left me plenty of time. I had considered grabbing something to eat but knew if she knew shit would get very real for me later.

I arrived at work and headed in. I needed to start with the morning feeding. They hadn't eaten since last night and I'm sure they were hungry. I could honestly relate. I retrieved the food bin and started my rounds.

Bingo saw me coming and barked excitedly. He had been in the shelter for months, and his hope of adoption lessened day by day. I opened the pen and patted him on the head, comforting him. Placing his food, I made sure he had enough water until the next round. I hugged him before I left. The warmth felt good, with no flinching.

I never understood how people could just abandon something with such unconditional love. I've heard it said we don’t deserve dogs. I fully agree. We fucking don’t.

I was home before her and was glad. I needed to decompress and clean my box. The smell was getting to be a little much. It reminded me of the pens at work. I flipped it on the side, rinsing it out, and letting it drain. I hoped it would dry before bedtime. I stripped and kneeled in the corner waiting for her arrival.

I heard the key in the lock as she entered. She could be a minute or two depending on whether she wanted to freshen up or not. I listened to her steps to the bathroom, urinating, and toilet flushing.  I hear no shower, so we must be start early. I didn't notice any tools laying out so I didn't know what to expect.

She walked behind me heels clicking on the tiled floor. Sighing, she jerked my head back, twisting my neck. She looked in my eyes, and I opened my mouth. Hacking, she spit. I tasted her lunch and my stomach growled. She paused for a second in consideration. She pulled me to my back; my legs pinned as I fell. She straddled me. A slight sneer on her face. Hips slowly grinding, hiking her skirt. She gyrated, gauging my reaction. She pulled my head up so I could watch her on me. She always liked me to see what I'd never had. Her face was close enough to see mine in her eyes. She bit my lip, drawing blood. She stood and stepped on my stomach, heel leaving a mark.

She walked to the counter, opening the drawer. I heard her rattling around, searching for something. After finding it, she returned. The knife held close to my eye, the dull side lifting the lid, sliding under, being careful not to cut. I wanted to blink. She switched to the left eye, circling, waiting for me to flinch. Not today.

She signals me up and to the workbench. Pushing me forward, she cuffs my hands. She opens the cabinet. Smacking my ass she giggled. The smell of rot and sweetness hit me. Then she holds a jar of maggots in front of my face and shakes it. The maggots writhe in protest, disturbed from their meal.

The jar sat near my face, several seeking freedom and their next meal. She picked up the jar and shook them out on my ass; she hummed cheerfully setting the jar on my back. She left, ascending the steps and closing the door. I could feel their wriggling need for me. Seeking warmth. My hips jerked in denial; I clenched squashing the few I could. I am tired, sticky and exhausted. I fell asleep to dreams of rot and my mother humming. Could they survive there? Would I see blood spots in my shorts as they ate, any pain? These thoughts filled my restless sleep.....

Despite everything, I managed to make friends. There were no sleepovers or birthday parties but somehow, I managed.  Once Kenny House decided it would be cool to throw rocks at cars, which seemed reasonable to my nine years old logic. It sounded fun. Hiding in a nearby tree, we waited. The Caddy rounded the corner, fire engine red and screaming. We threw the rocks, which pinged off the windshield and the side. The car swerved, hitting the curb and taking out a mailbox. Kenny jumped down and bailed, as I struggled to get down. I fell and tripped as the firm hand grabbed the back of my shirt.

I couldn't hear the conversation from the kitchen where Mother put me. I could see her nodding and agreeing, never raising her voice. She thanked the driver for not involving the police. The door closed. She approached, sighing and shaking her head. She pointed at my pants, which I quickly removed, assuming my bent over position at the table. I waited for the belt but instead she went to the garage.

She returned with a sanding block she used on the furniture. Sandpaper faded from use. The first swipe stinging, I twitched. I knew better than to cry by this time. Having no steady rhythm, she continued. By the seventh pass I felt the blood welling, running down my legs, pooling on the floor. By the tenth I saw white barely able to stand. Wiping as if drying a dish, she poured the salt on. I held back a scream as the burning caused my bladder to empty.

Mother blew on my wounds as if cooling a cake or blowing out candles. Avoiding my puddle, she smiled and patted my head. The next morning as she pleasantly hummed in the den, I mopped the kitchen, cleaning up the mess I’d made. The blood made her feel like a mother. The pain wasn’t the point. She walked by and patted my head.

I woke up to an empty jar and there was no pain, the cuffs were gone, and my clothes were placed on the bench. I got dressed and went to work.

The chair sat in the basements center, red ominous upholstery threatening. She patted it. I sat and tilted my head back in anticipation, the chair creaking. I notice the red thread hanging from her mouth, silver needle catching the dim light. Steadying my head, the needle pushes through the lower lid. With several tugs, my eye closes. She kisses my blindness. I came the whole time, she says. Tear and saliva mix on my cheek. She runs her hand across my jaw lingering. Easing her thumb in my mouth, I tasted the needle. Turning and humming, ascending the groaning stairs. Leaving me half blind and fully naked.

I was fourteen the day I found him. Dirty and starving, he ran to me. I petted him and gave him some of my water. I couldn't leave him despite not knowing how Mother would react. He may manage to survive, but the odds were against it.

I entered the house. She was standing at the sink in the kitchen, jeans rolled up, a bandana holding her hair back. She turned to me and smiled. Looking at the dog, she took him from me. I hesitated at first but felt by this time I had a good read on what her intentions were. She kissed his forehead.

Mother took him. She called him Lucky. He didn’t know how true that was.

The next day when I got home from school, he had a collar with his name on it. Sparkling letters caught the light as he ran around excitedly. Mother took something from the oven, placing it on the counter. She cut the roast and placed it in his bowl, blowing on it. When it cooled, she put it on the floor. Lucky ate greedily, emptying the bowl and looking up. She snapped her fingers and he sat.

“Good boy.” she said, smiling at him.

I went to bed hungry. Again.

I woke up and went downstairs, the backdoor open, Mother sitting on the porch. The sun caught her face, as she read the morning paper. Lucky ran around the backyard, threatening squirrels he’d never catch. She lowered the paper and looked at my face. Calling Lucky over, she clipped the leash on the collar and handed it to me.

“Walk him.” She ordered.

He smelled everything, pausing and pissing on every tree. I thought about how loved he must feel, how happy, how safe. I was jealous. Back home, she snapped her fingers and he ran to her. Didn’t ask if I was tired.

“Close the door you’ll let the heat out.” She said. I did.

I sat on the floor. Lucky’s tail was wagging as she scratched his belly. I laid my head on her shin. She let me. Then she said go make dinner. I went to the kitchen, refrigerator humming loudly. I opened it, just Lucky’s bowl containing last night’s leftovers. Congealed fat and small shreds of meat. She called from the living room to bring it. She took the bowl and set it on the floor in front of him. He licked it clean in five seconds. She looked at me.

“Good boys eat what they’re given.” I nodded. My stomach growled and I sat on the floor.

She orders me to the table in the center of the basement. I lay on it

of course, and she gets out the cuffs, not unusual for a Friday night. She liked the rougher stuff on the weekend, because I'd have more time to heal if it got out of hand, which it normally did. She cuffs my hands and feet and places the mirror above so I can see exactly what she’s doing. Setting the bag near my feet she takes the syringe from it. She saves the anesthetic for special occasions and i feel my stomach sink. She sets it to the side and brings out the straight razor and shaving cream. Rubbing it on my groin, I instantly harden, cock angry and ready. She smiles and gives it a quick flick with her pointer finger. Carefully she shaves me. Stretching out my scrotum, she continues until I’m as clean as the day I was born.

She injects my balls with the painkiller and looks at her watch, tapping her foot impatiently, checking her phone and setting it near my feet.

Hlding the scalpel in front of my face, she winks at me. Blue eyes playful and smiling. Then she cuts, stretches out my sack, and removes one of my balls, humming as if washing dishes. She puts it in the jar and begins closing me up. I worry I may bleed out, but she hurriedly stitches and soon it slows to a trickle. I smell the alcohol as she pours it on my wound, still feeling nothing. She uncuffs me and I sit up. Tilting the jar back she eats it, chewing greedily and nosily, grinning.

The phone buzzes. I look at the screen.

Derrick: “We still on for tonight? Reservations are at 8.”

Our eyes meet her mouth opens and I grab her hair jerking her head to the side. She’s quick and manages to stab me in the chest before I bite. My teeth sink into her tearing her tracheae as I twist my head, blood spraying, covering my face and splattering the ceiling. It drips like crimson rain, warm and red. She steps back and swings again, but I block her hand, holding her still. Her eyes in panic as she realizes just how fucked she is. Weakening, she slides to the floor.

I stand and check my wound, open and bleeding. My feet slip as they hit the blood-soaked floor but somehow, I regain my balance. I throw the phone against the wall breaking it into pieces, which clatter loudly on the tiles. I open the box. Grabbing her ankles, I pull her closer, I pick her up under her arms and look into her blue eyes. Setting her on the edge she rolls in. I begin to get dizzy while I arrange her. Closing the lid, I climb on top and hold her for the first and last time.

THE END