Chapter Thirty
It wasn’t the fancy prison Russ had constructed for him and it wasn’t prison prison, but Drew still felt every bit the caged animal that came with staring at the same four walls day after day. It would have been bearable, or so he believed, if it hadn’t been for Morton.
Frederick Morton was in his late forties, well built, grouchy and, there was no way to get around it, homophobic. His constant cutting remarks, from Drew needing a babysitter lest he get a paper cut, to long expositions about the risk of him taking the 'easy way out' because of his inherent weakness, made clear his feelings on Drew’s orientation.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a big deal if Morton wasn’t in there with him almost every waking hour. Another officer took over at the weekends and Morton went home to his wife, a brief reprieve.
“She prays for you,” he liked to tell Drew. “Prays for your soul. She’s more forgiving than I am. She thinks someone like you can be saved.”
The other officers were almost invisible compared to Morton, who was relentless not just in his words but in his deeds. Like barging into rooms like a bull for no other reason than to startle him. He especially liked to do so at night, shining a torch in Drew’s face and yanking off the bedclothes under the guise of making sure he hadn’t slit his wrists in the night.
The longer it went on, the more convinced Drew became that Morton was actually attempting to drive him to suicide rather than protect him from the eventuality. The idea of weeks of this, let alone months, was enough to strain his soul. He tried sounding out one of the other officers about it and Cora too on one of her infrequent visits. The officer shut him down quickly, not wanting to get involved. Cora listened, somewhat sympathetic, but he could tell it wasn’t her priority. She had other things, other cases. And his slow torment at the hands of his protector wasn’t high up on her list.
When she came back on her next visit, she seemed taken aback. “You’ve lost weight. Are you eating?”
With constantly disrupted sleep, he’d lost his appetite. When he tried to brush it off, she became more insistent, and he admitted, ashamed to feel himself tear up, that Morton’s behavior had only gotten worse since she’d last been there.
“I’ll have a word with whoever his supervisor is, see if something can be done.” She sounded doubtful, and he didn’t hold out much hope.
The weekends were his only reprieve, when he could lie on his bed in uninterrupted bliss, knowing the worst that would happen was the officer on duty would knock quietly on the door and ask if he was okay.
Monday morning and the change of the guard was imminent. He’d forgone breakfast, sitting out in the living room staring at the fish tank. It was supposed to be soothing but as time went on, he identified more and more with the fish. Trapped between four walls, circling and circling, with nothing but the occasional sprinkle of food, and the mammoth interruption of someone tapping the tank and sending them scurrying for cover.
He had his back to the door when it opened to herald Morton’s return. He could feel the tension in his shoulders, his hands clenched, fingers digging into his palms as he waited for the taunting to start.
“Drew?”
He started at the voice, leaned around the chair to peer at the door.
“S-Sam?”
Had he lost it? Had his mind fractured and broken, and he was seeing things that weren’t there?
“Hey. I, um. Hi.”
He didn’t think a hallucinated Sam would be that tongue-tied.
“You’re here. How are you here?”
“They were short-staffed, I’m on loan from my team.”
“You’re… you’re my protection detail?”
“Temporarily, yeah.” Sam stepped closer. “How have you been?”
It was too much, and he pulled back around into the chair, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around him. Sam, undeterred, grabbed the chair opposite him. “Drew?”
“It’s good to see you,” he managed, staring at a spot on the floor.
“You, too. The weekend officer was worried. He said you were really quiet. You barely ate.”
“I haven’t been sleeping. And I guess my appetite’s not been the best.”
“I thought maybe it was that guy, Morton. I met him last week for a handover. He’s a real charming piece of work.”
Drew choked a laugh at that, horrified to find it morph into a sob. Leaning forward, he pressed his head against his knees, willing himself to pull it together.
“Hey.” Sam was crouched next to him, a hand on knee. “Drew, come on, talk to me. Whatever it is.”
He couldn’t, shaking his head hard enough to dislodge the tears from his eyes.
Sam’s hand slipped under his chin, tipping his head up.
“You’re exhausted. Do you know what you need? Sleep, and lots of it.”
Sam had him on his feet seconds later, slipping an arm around him to prop him up.
“You can’t be here,” Drew said to him. “How can you be here?”
“Because you need me to be, that’s how.”
With difficulty, because Drew’s body wasn’t at its most cooperative, they got into his bedroom. Sam picked him up with ease and set him on the bed. There was a momentary hesitation before he climbed up after him, gathering Drew into his arms.
“I’ve got you. Now sleep.”
“Sam…”
“Go to sleep. We’ll talk when you’re ready.”
He couldn’t talk but neither could he sleep. Instead, pushing against Sam, he let all the anguish of the previous few weeks come to the surface, in cries and sobs muffled against Sam’s chest. Sam’s hand alternated rubbing circles on his back and stroking his hair, his touch a comfort he’d craved. Would Sam be there when he woke, or was this all some sort of messed up dream?
Drew slept fitfully in his arms, murmuring under his breath, twisting and turning. Stilling sometimes, his whole body seizing as if in fear. Sam tried soft words and gentle hands but nothing seemed to soothe him.
He could see and feel that Drew had lost weight. And with the dark circles under his eyes, not to mention his unkempt hair, he couldn’t help but be reminded of Matt at his worst.
Drew woke a few hours later, his body tensing as his eyes searched the room. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it, and lay back with a sigh only to jump when he came into contact with Sam.
Turning his head, he stared at him open mouthed for a good ten seconds.
“Drew?” Sam asked.
“You… I thought I’d dreamed you.”
“Not a dream, see.” And he pinched the back of Drew’s hand lightly. Drew jumped at the touch, pulling his hand away. “I don’t understand what you’re doing here.”
“They were short of staff, they asked around for someone to make up the shortfall and Thomas offered it to me. So here I am.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.” Drew ran a hand through his hair, grimaced, and turned his face away. He seemed embarrassed by Sam seeing him so unkempt.
“Being cooped up like this can be really tough,” he tried. “You lose any sense of self, of time, of routine. Just you and your thoughts.”
Drew snorted and didn’t look around.
“How do you and Morton get on? They were saying he’s been with you five days a week since the week after you got here.”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters, Drew,” Sam replied, keeping his voice even and resting a hand on Drew’s shoulder.
Drew yanked himself out from under Sam’s hand, shoving off the bed and turning to face Sam. “Keep your hands off me.”
Sam, about to follow him, sat back instead, raising his hands up slowly. “Okay, Drew, okay. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”
He knew anxious Drew, he knew scared Drew, but he wasn’t sure what to make of this angry, frightened young man who was such a contrast to the person he’d walked away from only a handful of weeks ago.
Drew didn’t seem to know what to do with his declaration. He glanced at the door, then back to Sam. “You shouldn’t have come.”
Before Sam could form an answer, he’s stepped through to the bathroom and shut the door. A moment later the shower turned on.
Moving to sit on the side of the bed, he listened, hearing nothing but the hum of the shower and the scattering of water. When ten minutes passed and Drew didn’t emerge, he started to get concerned. Pacing to the door, he knocked loud enough to be heard over the noise.
“Drew? Are you okay in there?”
There was no reply.
“Drew? If you don’t answer me, if I don’t hear your voice, I’ll have to come in.”
Still silence. Putting his hand on the handle, he pushed inside.