A/N: This series is less a series and more a disjointed selection of short stories about my favourite original character, Jason Bexley. They're all written from his POV, in the form of diary entries. In fact, that's exactly what they started out as, diary entries at diaryland.com. Please remember that it's all fiction. Also, Jason has his own cannon, and every story I write about him will be consistent with it, unless I state otherwise. So, I guess if you've read about Jason in one of my fan fics, this series will have all you need to know about him.

~Boy Whore - Prison Sex~

When I was seventeen and a half, I went to prison. It was for a number of things, actually, prostitution, drug use, possession, dealing. (Although the last charge was a lie, I'd been trying to give it away, not sell it) What happened, is that I got picked up by an undercover cop one night. He took me back to a hotel room and asked if I had any heroin. I did, as it happened, shot up and offered him a hit. It was then that he revealed what he was.
The cop, I forget his name, was a real bastard to me. It seemed that he had a personal vendetta against all 'fag whores,' probably because he'd been in the closet so long himself. As he cuffed me, he hissed in my ear, "We're getting all of you fucking faggot whores. You're all getting what's coming to you." Me, being the smart arsed idiot that I am, replied with, "Come the fuck out of the closet, already, because you were hard as fucking metal when I was kissing you, you cunt." Or something along those lines. At the time, it earned me a fat lip, but I was soon to regret that one comment more then I've regretted anything else in my life.
This officer was the one in charge of my case. He recommended three months in a juvenile correctional facility, but as they didn't have any places for me, insisted I be held at the regular gaol until they did. The judge, another homophobic fuck, agreed, and off I went.
My lovely officer must have blown someone really powerful, because he was the lucky one to escort me to my cell that first night. He opened the door, and inside were these three huge men, two rapists and a murderer, as luck would have it. "Look boys," the cop said, "I've brought you a pretty little faggot as a present. Share him around, there's enough for the lot of you." He shoved me in, then walked off. Laughing.
The men surrounded me, closing in on me. I've always been too thin, and all the London street fighting tactics I'd learnt by then weren't going to do shit against these three. I was terrified.
"What's your name?" One of them asked. There was no way I could answer him, I was paralysed with fear. To make me talk, he backhanded me, sending me flying to the floor. Next thing I knew, he was kneeling above me and my pants were around my ankles. "I said, what's your fucking name?" he yelled, grabbing my hair and lifting my face up. I finally managed to tell him, and he slammed my face into the concrete floor. "And is it true that you're a faggot whore?" I whimpered, and squeaked out a tiny yes. Lying wouldn't help. Not that the truth would be of much advantage anyway.
"Well, you're about to find out what we do to pretty boy faggot whores in here, Jason my pet," he snarled. Then roughly, brutally, he raped me.
It was the first rape of many, many that I was subjected to. When he was finished, the other two had to have a go. Then they amused themselves by beating the shit out of me, pissing on me...all sorts of lovely stuff. I was in there for three days, with those...men. No, not men, animals. In that three days, I wasn't allowed to sleep once. Constantly I was being raped, tortured or screamed at. I didn't stop bleeding the entire time, and I don't think I stopped crying.
After the three days, one of the guards twigged to what was happening. I think they all knew from the start, actually, but they'd been turning a blind eye. I was, after all, a fairy. But this guy finally spoke up, and god, I wish I knew his name, because I would do anything for him for getting me out of there. I was in the infirmary for three weeks, slowly recovering. I needed a number of stitches, I had a few broken ribs, two black eyes, bruises all over, some internal damage, god...I can't even remember most of it. Of course, I was also going through pretty bad withdrawals, so my time in the infirmary was pretty incoherent.
After I was mostly healed, they transferred me to the juvenile centre, where I should have been from the start. I was in a cell with a quiet kid, my age, who left me alone. I thought things would be ok from then on. I had didn't have that long to go. I could survive.
I was so fucking wrong.
Word got around quickly that I was gay, and immediatly I started getting beaten in the exercise yard and sexually abused in the shower. I can barely even call it rape, though; I went along with what they wanted just because I was so fucking scared. Little notes like, "Jason gives awesome head," and "Jason fucks for free" were scrawled all over the bathroom walls. It was humiliating, but I dealt.
Then Ruddock came along. He was the head guard, and at first he was really kind to me. He offered me protection, stuck up for me, kept the other kids away, stuff like that. But, of course, he expected something in return.
I must have still had some pride buried in me somewhere, because when he took me into his office, locked the door, and propositioned me, I told him to fuck off, and that I was going to tell people what he'd asked. God, it was stupid. I was on my knees in an instant, his nightstick bashing me over the head repeatedly, until I couldn't stay upright. Then, when I collapsed, he fucked me with it while he knelt above me, jerking himself off.
Every night I was escorted into his office. Every night he invented new ways to torture me. He'd cuff me over the desk and beat my arse blue while wanking, then fuck me with the nightstick again and again. He'd make me kneel on thumbtacks while sucking him off. He'd...oh, Christ, I can't say half the things he did. He liked thinking up different things to put inside me. His gun was a favourite, he'd screw me with it, make me blow it, cock it and hold it against my crotch, threatening to pull the trigger. I still haven't gotten over my terror of guns. The mere sight of one paralyses me.
This happened to me every night for almost two months. I wanted to die, every time I saw him I prayed silently for him to just hurry up and kill me. I honestly, honestly didn't think I'd survive that place. Thought for sure I'd be leaving in a body bag.
I lived, obviously. I got out, and went back on the streets and cried a lot and had awful nightmares, nightmares that have never left me. My emotions seemed to dry up, I became cold, hard, like a machine. The way I'd get through the pain when they were hurting me, would be to switch off, turn my mind inwards and go numb. I was like a robot, and when I got out, that stayed with me. At the slightest hint of pain I could escape me body, I could handle *anything* like that. I was cold.
That's mostly gone away, now. It's been about two years since I've been free, and I don't know if I've been healing, or just repressing. But it's getting better.
Sometimes, though I don't think the nightmares will ever permanently leave me, I go a while without them. I don't need to leave the light burning all night anymore. I don't lay awake at night listening for Ruddock's footsteps approaching.
But it's still hard sometimes. A lot of the time. It'll always be inside me, this broken thing. Prison did that to me. And there is no going back.