#boxboys

Sam’s ragged breathing fills the silence between them as he just stares, for a moment. Suddenly remembering where he is, Sam straightens, fumbles with his shirt to make himself look half decent, not sweaty and flushed with his old cat shirt stuck to his back.

“Good-” he gulps down a breath. “Good evening. I, uhm, I wanna sign up.” 

“Oh.” The receptionist musters him, eyes scanning him top to bottom. Sam’s face is burning from more than exertion now. 

“Am I wrong here?” 

“Oh, no no. It’s only- Are you of age?”

“Twentyone.” Sam mumbles, deflating with every second he stands in the shining emptiness of this fake marble hall. It had to be fake, right? 

The woman smiles, pleasant but empty. "Alright. I do need your ID information for our records nonetheless and-” she put a clipboard and pen on the pristine counter, “These are some additional information we need for your check in.”

Check in.

As if signing your very life away was as easy as simply checking into a hotel. Three nights as a pet please. Yes, with breakfast and room service, thank you.

Suppressing a snort Sam fumbles his wallet out of his pocket and plugs his ID from it with shaking fingers. He holds it out to her, arm straining over the counter and on his tiptoes.

“Here.” He says, short but polite, before snatching the clipboard and pen from the counter.  

“You can sit in our waiting area to fill this out.” She gestures to the right without looking up, already typing away one handed, eyes scanning his ID.

The area reminds Sam of a doctor's waiting room, only far more luxurious. Three leather couches stand around a low wooden table, dark and polished. Pet magazines are neatly laid atop it. The tv in the corner plays wru ads on mute. In the corner stands a water dispenser that looks more expensive than all of Sam’s possessions combined. If he would try to drink from it now, Sam knows he would throw up.

He sits down with a soft squeak of leather. The pen scratches over the paper with every word. 

Known allergies: None.

Known  pre-existing illnesses: None.

He is halfway through the first sheet, medical history,  when the dialing of a phone number catches his attention.

“Yes. We have a new acquisition, yes. I need a handler to pick him up, finish the check in. Quickly. Yes.” 

Why quickly? Sam finishes the first sheet in a scribbled hurry. 

“Samantha Higgens?” Sam cringes at his deadname. Whatever, soon it’ll be gone for good right? “Have you informed family or friends about your decision?”

Sam bristles. “How’s that your business?” 

She smiles, very patiently. “We offer a service to inform your bereaved about your choices and answer any questions they might have. Most people find it reassuring to know that no open questions remain for the people- that might have them.” 

 The people that might- worry about him. Miss him.

There is no oxygen left in Sam’s lungs, all of a sudden. The room is way too big and his hands are shrinking, skin too tight over his bones. His brain sloshes around inside his skull. 

“No.” He hears himself say, voice high and tight. “I- I’ll text her myself.” 

The elevator door dings and boots clip over the marble floor with each approaching step. Sam fumbles his phone out of his pocket, hands shaking so bad he nearly drops it. 

Warm fingers steady his own.  When Sam looks up he finds himself face to face with a man near his forties, smiling down at him. He grips his phone tighter. 

“There we go.” The man flops down next to him, eyes crinkling. “The last message, hm? I can’t imagine how brave you have to be to write those.” 

“Huh?” Sam’s face crumbles in confusion, his impending panic attack stopped dead in its tracks. “Who, who are you?” 

The man's brown eyes grow serious without losing their warmth. He is handsome in a way Sam rarely finds in a middle aged man. Dependable looking. Save. “I’m your primary handler. Call me Mister Wilson.”

Sam shakes his outstretched hand on instinct. “I’m- well that won’t really matter once this whole pet thing starts, right?” 

Mister Wilson hums, pleased. “A quick learner I see. I think we will have a great time together. The smart ones are my favorite.”

Heat floods Sam’s face and he drops his gaze, pressing the start button on his phone repeatedly to do something with his hands. 

Mister Wilson lets him fumble until his nervousness morphes back into despondency. He opens his messenger app, closes it again. Opens it. Closes it. Sam stalls for time and they both know it. 

“Little one,” Mister Willsons begins softly, “you’ve gotta be brave one last time now. And after that, I promise you, you won’t have to worry about a thing.”

With a big sigh and his heart beating against his throat so violently he wonders if Mr Wislon can see it, Sam pulls up his aunt's chat. There are at least five voicemails she must have sent after Sam stormed out the door, after their fight. And after demolishing the room, she never stopped complaining about giving up for him. 

Whatever is on there he won’t listen to it. They’re just gonna be a continuation of her never ending accusations anyway. Telling him what a burden he is. How he should give up his dreams of becoming a designer and get a proper job. Whenever she hits a bad mental health spot she turns into a broken record player of soul crushing bitchery!

But when she has a good streak she-

Sam shakes his head so abruptly Mister Wilson startles beside him. 

Fingers shaking with anger punch in the first word. 

Delete it. 

Type a new one.

Delete it.

Try a third.

His fingers aren’t shaking from anger when he finally hits send. His phone screen is slippery with tears. 

I’m sorry. 

I can’t do this anymore. 

I’m becoming a pet. 

I love you.