Oh, Pain, Oh, Pain.
CJ's head felt like it was empty. He hated that. He hated how frustrated he felt, how cooped up he was inside a cell which was locked inside a warehouse, and he was one out of thousands of faces. How was he supposed to make himself known? Thankfully, he didn't care. He wanted out. He wanted the sharp jab of a knife against his skin. He wanted to feel the warmth of blood trickling down his body. He wanted the bruises that came after, the scars that were left. He wanted to feel the pain of someone not giving him a choice as his body was a canvas of skin and blood, of tears and sweat. He wanted to hear hitched breath of the other, the way the skin tore -- all of it. He needed it. He didn't need it. It needed him. He had an addiction. At one point, well before Alvin took the reign into his life, his father had him diagnosed. Something he kept tidied away from other people's thoughts. A long time ago, a psychiatric told his father that he was an avoidant-type masochist, one who purposely caused trouble or put himself in the line of failure to receive the pain he craved. And it wasn't wrong. CJ would break cups, or not do chores, or do anything that would piss someone off. He'd purposely create hazards that would result in a hard backhand across the fact. He'd get a slap, a kick in the groin -- anything to curb these needs that took over his life, claimed his mind, wrapped him around in cotton wool until he couldn't breathe. So what was he going to do to get it? He wasn't the type to hurt himself, because where was the fun in that? He could know his limits, know when he didn't want more. But someone else? He licked his lips at the thought of someone just holding him down by the neck, hands tied up and out of the way, back exposed to a line of fire of some sort, the way the fire tickled his skin, but at the same time, burnt and felt so good. Or maybe it was the sharp tip of the knife trailing down his spinal column, dangerously close to permanently disfiguring him. He figured masters wouldn't want a slave unable to move, walk or feel, so that was save, but the thought of it. He didn't realize that he was up on his feet, face pressing against the bars as he watched masters go by. Here and there someone stopped, but nobody cared to bother with him. Finally, CJ got the best of himself and spoke up, not really caring who heard him. Disrespectful, agitated, needing to be put in his place -- that's what he sounded like. And that's how he'd get what he wanted. CJ tried to manipulate the system. Often, he'd succeed. "Bet you can't make me say stop." It was a challenge. It was a dare. He wanted to see if someone would step up to the plate, accept the challenge he gave out. After all, the chances of CJ saying stop were slim to none, if at all.
