Mind Labyrinth, Book 1, Chapter 2 (Part 2)

Warnings: A lot of sexually charged scenes with a minor (nothing explicit), sexual harassment/violence, child abuse, mild gore

In the following month, the winter frost had fully melted to give way to the bountiful spring. If there was any time of the year Vincenzo dared to call St. Michael’s beautiful, it was during this season, where the lawns would be finely trimmed and the bushes would sprout the most colorful flowers. Busy bees and hummingbirds visited every flower, drawing nectar before buzzing away to attend to their business. Vincenzo smiled as he watched them before bringing up his leather bound notebook. Using the Linguistics book, he managed to decipher the alphabet and basic syntax, but a lot of the words were head scratchers. One of the words he thought meant ‘fire’ actually meant ‘passion’, and now he had to go back and re-translate the parts where he mentioned that. Some of the sentences in the earlier sections changed completely.

As he continued to work on the tome, the new cricket team decided to invade the area, laughing and jeering among themselves like a troop of baboons. He didn’t think people hung out at the central fountain. That was why he was there! Why were athletes always so loud? He put his face in his hands and suppressed a groan. He continued working on these translations, idly contemplating on just relocating to the library. He was sure he wouldn’t be bothered there. He closed his tome, but before he could leave, he was approached by two of the guys. Both of them sat on either side of him, way too close for comfort. Vincenzo sat sideways so he could place the the books on the rim, half of his leg submerged in the fountain.

One of these knuckleheads, he easily recognized as one of the boys who was in the polo team. He was a grade above him, and Vincenzo hated that. Did polo skills translate to cricket even? Whatever, he didn’t want to know how these boys liked to play with their balls. His companion, the one sitting in front of him, was new, though. It was likely he moved to the school for the cricket team. He was a French man with a large nose, handsome only in comparison to everyone else.

“Bonjour, young man.”

Vincenzo looked around, wondering who he was referring to. He pointed to himself in question.

“Yes, yes, I was referring to you. What has gotten you preoccupied this afternoon? Reading? Writing?” He tilted his head to peer at the open notebook. “You have a beautiful script. It suits you.”

He stared at the man for a beat, tilting his head to the side. Nobody had ever talked to him in this way.

“You’re…” He made a face, trying his best to sound out the words. “…flirting. With me? Mon chéri, that’s a dangerous game you’re playing. If the word gets out that you’re a homosexual, you’re signing yourself up for three more years of hair pulling and name calling.”

“But I’m not a homosexual. You foreigners have such odd ideas of things! Do you see any beautiful girls in this school? None, yes? How are we supposed to get sexual experience? You’ll graduate a full adult, expected to bed girls, without never having touched a body in your life. What happens at your honeymoon?”

Vincenzo understood the image he was painting. “Premature ejaculation.”

“So your poor wife leaves you for the pool boy, yes. If we get experience among ourselves, then our future wives and girlfriends’ heads would explode in pleasure and they’ll swear to whatever god they pray to that you’re the best lover they’ve ever had, while still maintaining your image as a good, respectable man. See, a string of lovers makes women suspicious. But a talented newcomer is highly praised.”

This conversation was absurd. Vincenzo’s face flushed, and as he thought about it more, laughed in surprise. “Wait. Your proposal is that in order to be talented at straight dating, you should experiment with gay sex?” 

“I would not put it so crudely,” the French man said, scoffing. “Think of it as… resourcefulness. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, as they say.”

Vincenzo used to wonder why a great number of heterosexual men participated in gay sex while in boarding schools and prisons. It wasn’t that they were gay, he realized. It was because of hormones. In the wild, particularly during breeding season, male animals would compete and fight to the death to establish dominance among their peers. He recognized that as the inane food chain his schoolmates struggled with daily. But, for some reason, he forgot another component of it: sexual desire. He looked at man like he just handed him the holy grail.

“Alright, you got my attention, Frenchie.” Vincenzo gently lowered his books to the ground, careful not to get them wet or dirty. “What are you proposing?”

“I kiss you,” the French man leaned down to move his face closer to Vincenzo’s. He breathed hot against his lips, and Vincenzo shivered. “And you like it.”

Vincenzo bit his lip. He wasn’t sure if he was mentally prepared for this encounter, but his curiosity took the front seat. He intended to come up with a witty one-liner, but nothing came. All the words died along with any pretense that he was still the young, innocent child that just loved to play and read. He nodded weakly.

The man kissed him. Vincenzo inhaled sharply against his lips, face entirely red with. It wasn’t the fiery explosion or the candy sweet smooches they described in fiction. It was flesh against flesh, a type of physical closeness that singed his skin with its intensity, head light and dizzy. It was his first kiss, but he felt like he’d known how to do it by instinct. They devoured each other with lips, tongue, and teeth, and when the man sucked on his tongue, Vincenzo’s back shot up and he moaned in response. He pulled back, the back of his hand covering his mouth while he looked at him with wide eyes. The man chuckled.

“That good, hm?” He didn’t pull back. He placed his bigger hands on his waist, squeezing and massaging. He drew close again, nibbling all over his jaw. Vincenzo threw his head back and gripped a handful of his hair, whimpering, putty in his hands. “You’re stunning, and so responsive. Mm, you smell like sunshine and vanilla too. If you were a girl, I would’ve left my girlfriend for you! What a waste to give such a beauty a cock.” 

“Just kiss me again.”

They kissed again. It was difficult to think. He drowned in a pleasure he’d never known. It wasn’t pure, like when he read a good book or made a funny joke. It was intense and compelling, and in that burning moment, he desired more, more, more. And then, he heard the other boy speak up.

“You promised I’d get a turn too, Claude,” his companion said.

Claude, the French man, groaned. “I suppose I did promise that.”

Vincenzo’s blood went cold in an instant. He pulled back, glancing over his shoulder at the hunched over, blushing man that accompanied him. Vincenzo thought that they just decided to sit there, but now that the missing piece fell into place, everything made sense. He made an attempt to stand up, but the boy grabbed his wrist and pulled him to his lap. He remembered he was one of the boys that chased him into the forest not too long ago. This dynamic felt demented.

“Hey!” He struggled to get away from him. Vincenzo met his eyes with nothing but a mean-spirited smile, eyes wide as he locked eyes with him. “Weren’t you one of the guys that fed me horse shit? Are you really so horny you want me to stick horse shit down your throat, motherfucker?”

The boy looked shocked. Whatever arousal he got watching him earlier was replaced with a familiar rage. He grabbed Vincenzo by the throat, and without warning, shoved him into the fountain. Vincenzo heard the chorus of outrage from the surrounding audience seconds before he was submerged. The boy held him down to the porcelain floor. In his surprise, he spat out a huge air bubble. His vision whitened. He couldn’t breathe. He gripped the boy’s wrists and attempted to pry him off him, legs kicking and thrashing, before the boy was pulled away and a mysterious silhouette pulled him back above water.

He inhaled sharply. When he got the oxygen he needed, he coughed and hacked out all the water in his lungs. In the background, he could hear talking, but there was too much water in his ears. Everything sounded muffled and distant. He could tell the boys were cleared out of the area. Finally, when he could stand upright, he took a good look at his savior. He was a middle aged man dressed like a teacher. He wasn’t ugly, but he was indistinguishable in a crowd. He had the sort of face that looked happy and dull. He didn’t recognize him at all, and he wasn’t interested. He probably came in along with the batch of new students. Vincenzo looked down sheepishly, squeezing out as much water out of his damp shirt.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

“Don’t mention it. I’m happy to do things for you. You’re Vincenzo, right?”

The man looked at him with wide, expectant eyes, vibrating with anticipation. Vincenzo felt like he was under a microscope.

“…Yes. Who are you?”

“It’s, uh, Walter Webb — yes, W.W. I happen to be the, uh, new Vice Principal. A pleasure to meet you.”

Vincenzo squinted. “What happened to the old one?” 

“Ah… I don’t pry into matters like that too much, I’m afraid. I just knew that they needed a new one. I used work at the High School the other town over, but the pay was better here, so I resigned and moved. I’m glad I did. I’m meeting all sorts of nice chaps over this side of the county.”

Vincenzo didn’t know what to say to that. He nodded. Walter looked alarmed by his apathy, and hurried to take off his coat. He draped it over him.

“You looked terribly cold after your trip to the fountain, dear. Will you, ah, be able to get to the dormitories safely? Do you need anything else?” 

“No, no, Walter… I’m fine. Thanks for the help… again.” 

Vincenzo picked up his tomes and headed straight for the dormitory. He looked over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of Walter staring directly at him and waving to his retreating figure. 

What a strange encounter.

***

There were years that felt like his body hadn’t changed at all, and there were years where it changed entirely. This was one of those years. He couldn’t believe how he looked in the mirror anymore. Just a couple years ago, he was five feet and five inches, and now, he shot up a whole seven. Instead of the thin and spindly limbs of his youth, his figure finally took on a more definite shape, tiny around the waist. He had different expressions too. He no longer looked tearful, afraid, or vulnerable. Instead, he looked sharp with condescending, thick-lashed purple eyes that bore right through you. He used to dislike how soft he looked, but he admired all his features now. He was beautiful. People understood this and admired it, even when they didn’t explicitly like him.

He still went through class to class like a ghost, but it seemed as if word spread about his encounter with Claude. Some boys threw shy looks at him from where they sat, trying to work up the nerve to talk to him. Vincenzo received gifts and favors, largely in secret. He was most of the High School students’ dirty little secret, technically. They fought for his attention like rabid coyotes, but they were too ashamed to even admit it they wanted it to their friends. That sort of secrecy suited him just fine. He didn’t want to be associated with them either. His looks were a highly sought after commodity in a drab place like this, and he didn’t intend to catch any feelings when the current business model was so profitable.

He wondered, day in and day out, if he was a prostitute. He didn’t have sex, even if some encounters felt dangerously close, but he did provide a unique sort of companionship. Boys liked to gaze at him, hold him, and test out what kissing would be like. Some of them just wanted someone to listen to them — often, this ended up with full heaving sobbing about their fathers or whatever, and Vincenzo had to actively resist from pointing and laughing. The other ones, the future Lotharios of the world, tried to impress him with tricks and jokes, sometimes with cringe worthy attempts at seduction. If he kept his mouth shut, they could pretend he was a cute girl with a short haircut were impressed by their secret talents, like their bad juggling or their in-depth knowledge of Pokemon cards. These fools were the most pathetic, really. Vincenzo didn’t know if being locked away from girls was bad because they never learned to be attentive to people’s emotions, or if it was good so they wouldn’t be exposed to these circus acts.

Even with affairs as silly as this, he still fell victim to the violence that befell people who dared appear in a maladjusted man’s fantasies. Sometimes, when he didn’t want to go further with kissing or when he didn’t accept a hasty love confession, their first impulse was to hit him. One slammed a door in his face and broke his nose. Another punched him straight in the gut, knocking all the wind out of him.

He was in such a situation now.

This boy — Alex was his name — was above him. He was a heavy, beefy man, and Vincenzo’s bed dipped when he was on it. He was currently right on top of him with his hands tight against Vincenzo’s throat, strangling him. Vincenzo’s limbs were all limp, hand dangling at the corner of the bed with no fight left in him. Prior to this engagement, they had a civil enough relationship. Vincenzo hadn’t been aware of the deep feelings that he harbored for him. They had a whole argument, with Vincenzo arguing that he didn’t truly love him while Alex refuting it and claiming that he could learn and accept Vincenzo for what he truly was. That triggered a nerve in Vincenzo, and almost like a dare, he listed off every disgusting and grotesque thing about Alex like a grocery list, and why he hated him for all of that. It seemed like his knightly claim of loving him no matter what didn’t hold any water against insults about his bad teeth and his small dick.

“I’ll kill you,” Alex cursed, nose flaring, spittle dripping from between his gritted teeth. “I’ll kill you, you stupid, evil whore. You think you can just play with my feelings like that? I gave you my entire heart and you just — you just fucking spat on it!” 

“It’s a stupid heart anyway. Worth absolutely nothing! As dead and bland as you are,” Vincenzo choked out, eyes drooping as his vision began to blur. His face was a deep red, going onto blue. “You shitheads always threaten me with murder, but you never follow through. If you want to kill me, just do it. Come on, what’s the matter? You can cum on my corpse. I know it’ll still be warm for a few glorious minutes.”

Alex’s hands didn’t let up. The world spun for a few seconds, and Vincenzo felt his consciousness slip. Goodnight, sweet prince. He hoped this one would be the winning lottery to his death.

***

Vincenzo woke up to his room lit entirely in red.

Except, it wasn’t his room anymore. It was decorated in more feminine and dated ways. It was twice as large despite being the same attic room. She had a bookcase, a display case with statues of houses and planes, and a sketching table with a half-finished drawing of a castle tower. She had another table across the room, filled with all sorts of gadgets that he knew she made herself. Even all over the walls, she had drawings of architecture from different eras of the world taped all over. They were all signed with her name, “Heather O’ Malley.” From what Vincenzo remembered of Heather, he thought she was a deranged witch who performed magical rituals naked under the moonlight. This Heather struck him as brilliant, even just through the possessions she owned. She didn’t own a single fiction book. She read dense books about History and Architecture, and their effects on human civilization. He supposed at the time, a woman that wanted to enrich her mind so badly came off as a witch to everybody who knew her.

He remembered, after he was poisoned, that he dreamed he was a sullen-looking girl. She stabbed both of her parents fatally, then killed herself after. Vincenzo could see her now, separate from his body and in a much lighter context than before. She was lying down on a fur rug on the floor and reading a book about air planes. The Salamander-like creature that ate him so long ago was on the ceiling, watching over her with as much interest as it did with him. It was much smaller than the one Vincenzo encountered. It looked about the size of a big iguana. Vincenzo watched the two of them from her bed. Neither of them noticed he was there.

“Heather…” the creature said, guttural voice familiar.

“What is it, Algrogath?”

“If you are truly miserable in your room, why do you not just… leave?”

“I can’t leave, Al. They lock my room and put me under surveillance. You know that.”

“Why do you let them do that?”

“They’re… my parents. I hate them, but I’m not going to survive out there, not with my reputation.”

“What if I gave you the power to?”

“What kind of power?”

“The power to escape, and to survive.”

Reality glitched, and the geometry shifted. All the furniture, as well as Heather, were now on the ceiling. Gravity wasn’t, however, so Vincenzo fell on what was normally the ceiling. He rubbed his lower back, then continued to watch the scene happening. Heather, armed with her drawing chalk, drew the summoning circle he saw in the book. Her precision with drawing architecture helped her construct a perfectly symmetrical circle and pentagram. As she conducted her ritual, her father burst into the room and punched her straight in the face, skewering the angle of reality to the blow of his impact and knocking her out instantly.

The room went black.

Vincenzo stood there in the darkness until a spotlight above shone on him. Across the room from him, another spotlight lit up to show Heather on her bed, propped up and tied up to her bed frame with a rope around her stomach. Her legs thrashed and struggled to escape her binds, but she knew it would be futile. The look on her face was horrid, as if she’d given up on all hope. In her last attempts to assert herself, she screeched so hard it was piercing enough to shatter glass. She screeched, again, until it dropped down into loud, desperate sobs. Her body shook with misery.

The light turned back on.

Vincenzo was back on his bed, clothes disheveled from his last awful encounter. He couldn’t move from where he was lying, but he could see the woman in black sit down on the side of his bed and peer into his face. He recognized her now. Heather. There was a nasty gash at the center of her face, presumably from the butcher’s knife she used to kill her parents. It dripped black blood down her face, droplets on his clothes and sheets. She touched the side of his face, and it was cold, like death.

“You are the next one,” she said, with a voice hoarse from lack of use. “You are the outcast. You drink all the poison. I pity you, truly. It is not an existence. There is nothing but damnation at the road ahead of you.”