Jainy

As his favorites, we had always held a common bond. We lived practically the same life, day-to-day. He didn’t get quite as much use as I did—but then again, I was older, more experienced.

But our bond went farther than that. I had been the one to clean him up when he first arrived, the one who warned him against Armel’s evils, the one who pressed a searing kiss to his forehead and begged him to pray that God would make him ugly within the next five minutes.

I think I fell in love with him the moment I met him.

And whether he prayed or not, God didn’t make him ugly. He stayed beautiful, and Armel decided to make him his.

Once, we had discussed why. Why had Armel chosen us to be exclusively his? Because when Armel chooses favorites, he shares them with no one else. The others despise us, because they think our lives are easier than theirs.

Oh, how easily they forget how their first times were. For us, it is like that every time. For us, there is never an end to the brutality.

But, yes. We talked about why. When I commented that I couldn’t begin to imagine why he’d choose me—with my dull green eyes, my odd multi-colored hair, and my sickly, curved figure—Arevik had solemnly murmured, “Because you’re absolutely beautiful”.

Those words meant so much when he said them. Even now, they bring tears to my eyes when I remember it. But not bad tears.

He had then expressed that Armel probably wanted him for his eyes—those beautiful blood-red eyes that Arevik himself hated. I knew why—after all, he’d had bad experiences with them even before they attracted Armel.

I didn’t say anything on the matter; I merely nodded shortly. But my mind raced as I thought of all the other reasons—all the things about Arevik that I absolutely adored. His fat cheeks that hadn’t yet shed their innocent roundness; his pudgy child-fingers, thinner now than when I’d first met him; his thick, lustrous chocolate-brown hair that I ran my fingers through when I held him; his delicate, fey-like limbs; the flush that rose to his cheeks and the beautiful smile that split his lips when he was truly happy… I could go on forever. Everything he did was entrancing; he had me captivated, and I stayed awake for many long hours replaying his every move in my head, storing the sweet memories away for a time when I’d need them more desperately.

And it was on the cold, unforgiving nights, covered in blood, that I clung to him for dear life, tears pouring from my eyes. Those were bad tears—Armel tears. He would simply gather me into his arms and rub my back until I cried myself to sleep. He’d give me gentle kisses, little-brother kisses—on the cheek, atop my head, just at the corner of my mouth. Arevik comforted me with his sweet love, so different from Armel’s brutal and wicked lust.

But I knew all along that Arevik’s feelings were completely different from mine.

It was ridiculous, how strong he was. He was too young to have gone through all those things, but he was still able to hold everything together. I didn’t know how he did it. How could he be strong enough for the both of us, when he needed to be? He was only a child…

We were both children.

Every time it was cold, questing hands and a scalding tongue and a knife that carved detestable things into sensitive flesh and an empty heart.

“Please… please stop, sir,” I weakly raised my arms up in defense. I didn’t know why I did it; over the years, I had proven the futility of protest time and time again—so why try now?

Curious brown eyes stared at me; the hands paused for a moment. “Something to say?” he asked in his deep, dark voice, that made me shiver from fear.

“Please… stop touching me. Stop hurting me. Stop coveting me,” I whispered, knowing that never in a million years would he actually obey me.

He gave a dark chuckle. “I don’t covet you… I own you,” came the silky whisper, and any other protest I might’ve had was quickly stifled by a hot, questing tongue and an open mouth.

“…Do I deserve this?” I asked, unwillingly breathless, when I was finally allowed to have my mouth back.

Armel gave a quiet shake of his head, his long curly hair spinning around his face. My eyes widened—he admitted his evil, he admitted that he was wrong to do these things… but yet he still did them!

“No. No one deserves this,” he whispered, kissing my temple gently. But then the moment was over and it returned to being fast and hard and brutal and in the end it hurt even more than normal, if that were possible.

That night, Armel cried in his sleep. I couldn’t move—I was in too much pain, and besides, he had a tight grip on me—so I resigned myself to lie there until he woke up and let me leave.

My shirt—or what was left of it—was soon soaked through with salty tears.

“I don’t pity you,” I told Armel, not caring that he couldn’t hear it. “I don’t pity you.”