They Will Come

As consciousness returned, the slave's first sensations were of the softness beneath him and the covers over him. The panicked fear shot through him as he opened his eyes, expecting his master to be there, demanding his pleasure. Instead he was greeted by the sight of a sunlit room.

Everything was clean and sterile, except for the tangled sheets that covered him. The undersheet had been pulled out of position at some point, probably while he was caught up in a nightmare. It was a hospital room, and he wore a sweat-soaked hospital gown. He remembered what had happened, the police officer who had found him, but there was no joy for him in the memory. There was no personality in anything surrounding him, no sign of the hopes he had dreamt of. No one there to see if he was alright.

He stood, his legs shaky beneath him, and went to look out the window. Hospital gardens stretched to a high wall and beyond it the tall apartment blocks and business centres of a city loomed. Patients wandered the gardens, looking at the flowers or in conversation with visitors. Strangers smiled in the sunlight. It was the first time the slave had been able to look outside in so long, he had almost forgotten that there could be beauty in living things.

There was a soft knock on the door behind him, the first sign of courtesy he could recall. He turned, seeing a tall, black man in a smart suit in the doorway. The man offered what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile, but the slave hugged his hospital gown closer, grateful for the meagre protection it offered. Strangers smiled at him when they looked at his body, imagining doing to it anything they wished. The slave couldn't help the fear that it would happen again, with this stranger.

"I'm glad to see you're awake," the man said, "I'm Detective Ashborn." He offered his hand, but the slave shied away from the contact. Physical contact meant pain or, worse, the vile pleasure of being brought to orgasm by his master's touch.

"I know what you've been through must have been terrible," Ashborn went on, lowering his hand again, "but I'd like to ask you a few questions, if I may." The slave didn't think Ashborn could have any idea what he was talking about. He sat down cautiously on the bed, watching carefully as Ashborn sat a discrete distance away, not wanting to frighten the slave more.

"You don't have to be afraid anymore," Ashborn said, "We've got enough evidence to put those men away for life, along with anyone who associated with them, but anything you could tell us would be helpful." The slave still remained silent. To say anything would be to confirm that it had all happened, that all the foulness and filth was real. He could still feel his master's touch, taste him, feel him inside. The dirt wouldn't wash away.

"How long were you there?" Ashborn asked.

*Your life began when you were brought here. Nothing you were before matters now. The past is gone. *

"Forever," the slave whispered.

"You don't remember a time before you were in that place?"

A face came to his mind, smiling with kindness rather than lust. *I will always look after you. I will always come for you. * The e she shook his head. He didn't want to think about that time. It didn't matter now. The past was gone.

"Anything you can tell us, no matter how small, might help us get in touch with your family. Do you have a name?"

"Slave."

"You're not a slave anymore. You're in Seabury Memorial Hospital and no one here will hurt you. You don't have to be afraid. You're safe from the men who hurt you. You're safe." He was speaking as though the slave was a child, and in truth he felt like one. A child separated from all that was familiar. Stranded and alone.

"Now, do you know your name?"

He knew the name of who he had been, but that didn't matter anymore. He could never go back to being that man, with confidence in himself and faith in his family. That name no longer belonged to him. He shook his head.

"Well, is there anyone you know who we could contact? Anyone who would want to know that you're alright?" Again the slave shook his head. His family had abandoned him, why would he want to go back?

"OK then. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your ordeal. If you don't feel up to answering, I can come back another time." He paused, but the slave made no sign either way, so Ashborn went on. He took a picture from his pocket and showed it.

"Was this the man in charge of the operation?" It was the master. He pulled his legs onto the bed, hugging them close to him, remembering the touch that could offer intense pain and unwanted pleasure.

He nodded. He could feel Master's hands on him still, stroking and caressing him like a pet. Feel the disgusting fluid the master pumped into him. Feel the filth spreading until it covered him, was under his skin. Until it contaminated everything he touched.

"How many others were there?" Ashborn was asking. "How many others . . ."

"Just Master," the slave answered, "I was his. No one else was allowed to have me. But they beat me, the others. When I'd disobeyed or displeased or just because they could. They hurt me."

"When we found you . . . The condition you were in, was that normal?"

The slave shook his head. "That was punishment. I spoke when I shouldn't. I hoped." He hugged his knees closer, the mantra filling his head as it had done so often in that place. "They will come for me," he whispered, "They will come for me."

"And we did," Ashborn said, "a rescue came and your safe now." But he didn't understand. The police weren't the rescue he'd been hoping for. They weren't the ones who should have been there. Who promised to come.

*I will always come for you. *

Scott, why didn't you come?

***

". . . guilty verdict is almost guaranteed. A good many people, including the families of those involved and several of the police officers who invaded the operation, are pushing for the death penalty. In the meantime, those youths held prisoner in the complex are being reunited with their families, with the exception of one young man who is still in Seabury Memorial Hospital undergoing treatment. In the sporting news, racing driver Mick Whatson is being hailed as 'the next Tracy' after his dramatic victory in the Grand Pris yesterday. Alan Tracy gained the title of world champion before suddenly retiring from the sport eight years ago in order to spend more time with his family. One can't help but wonder how such an adrenaline fiend is coping away from the excitement of the race track."

John managed a bitter smile at the irony as the news reporter went on to discuss football and which countries had the best chances in the World Cup. Alan had found a good deal of excitement, too much. Poor kid. John thought of the abused slaves rescued from the elite brothel organisation, and was glad that some people at least could have their happy reunions.

He turned off the news and switched on the communicator instead to give his evening report. Not that there was anything much to report, but the procedures had to be followed.

"Go ahead, John," his father's face appeared on the screen, "What's the news?"

"Nothing that should really bother us. There was a factory fire in Wellington, New Zealand, but the local authorities seem to have got that under control. Other than that, it's been pretty quiet." Which is why he'd been watching the evening news and had caught that idle commabouabout racing drivers.

"Are you OK, John?" Father asked, his forehead creasing in concern.

"Yeah," John answered, "there was just a mention of Alan on the sporting news."
Father closed his eyes, breathing deeply over the sadness and grief that still touched the whole family. "I miss him too, John," he said, "I miss him too."