#asonarium

It wasn't the worst memory from the orphanage, but the uncanny similarity of his current situation drew it out from the depths of his mind and pulled him in.

Free time at the orphanage was chaotic but refreshing. The overseers were mostly off duty and would leave the boys to their own devices. As long as the boys didn't leave the premises and returned to the dining hall by dinner, nobody cared what they did or where they went.

That day, Weave took the chance to wash the towels. His parents had taught him to do good when no one was watching. Something about “what you are in the dark.” That lesson was so long ago, but he still made it a habit.

But the caveat was that no one was watching his back.

Weave set the basket down in front of the washer and took a break to stretch. The moment he relaxed his shoulders, a hand clamped over his mouth. He was yanked backwards into a circle of boys.

Them again.

He tried to kick, flail, and yank his arms free, but it was useless. He was hopelessly outnumbered by these boys who were twice his size. And though he screamed against the hand over his face, there was no one to hear him as the boys carried him into the storage closet. He hardly had a moment to breathe when the boy lifted his hand off Weave's mouth before it was replaced with a bundle of rags. 

The rest of the boys brought Weave to the back wall, forcing him to his knees and wrenching his hands behind his back. One last time, he struggled in vain before they tied his hands and feet to a pipe along the wall. And once more as they opened the door to leave, he screamed with all his might against the rags in his mouth.

Weave’s suffering was all fun and games for the boys. It brought them so much joy just knowing he was having a terrible time.

The room was dark, cold, and damp. Between the cramped space, the cloth wrapped around his face, and the panic crawling up his throat, he could barely breathe. 

Time ground to a halt. Had it been hours, or had only minutes passed? Maybe years? No, that was ridiculous. If it had been years, he’d be dead. But he felt like he’d grown bigger. His clothes felt different around him. 

No one would look for him until dinner time. What if he died down here and nobody even noticed? A lonely, unwanted orphan. The runt of the litter. A parasite to society-

No!

He tried to yank his hands free again, but the clothesline felt heavy on his wrists.

Heavy? No, they would dig into his skin. But how would he know that if it was the first-

It wasn’t the first time, was it? The boys would continue their cruel games for a good chunk of the year. It would only get worse.

Weave let himself sink into the stone floor. Stone? But the closet was made of wood. So why…

Now he remembered. He had a life outside those doors. He escaped the orphanage. He had a tough life on the streets, but a kind family took him in. It was difficult to adjust, but they stood by him through it all. And one day, he sacrificed his freedom to save them.

He hoped they would find him.

But for now, he was locked up in a boiler room, not a storage closet. It was odd for his captors to do this. They were usually more precise and clinical. Perhaps they were seeking fun and games too, this time.

Only his child self would keep him company. He willed himself to reach through time and space to assure the scared little boy that he wasn't alone.

It gets worse, but it gets better too.