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Some childish part of him believes he is gaining night vision from being in the dark for so long. He knows his skin is pale, a sickly blue peeking from his veins that is no longer hidden by what was once a healthy tan.
There isn't much to do here, the place is small and cooped up, it stinks of his own feces but at least he has the decency of having a place for them and, although there is not much to do apart from being in his own head like those boring math classes, sometimes the sun rays manage to sneak through the old cracks of the window and if he tries he can lay in such a way his hand can reach and feel the warmth.
The window is a small thing with rails like a prison, a cardboard placed between the glass and metal to keep the haunting cold out. Or perhaps to keep from anyone peeking in.
Despite not being the only one to have entered this…place, he was the only one remaining. Not like it makes any difference anyway, the girls didn't talk much after the first few dozen times, some would cry, some seemed to forget words and some… well- he can't say he didn't try.
Small mercies, he'd tell himself, a good thing he wasn't born with the body parts to produce a baby. He doesn't exactly know what happens to those girls, if they get to ever see their skin freckle up or darken… Some part of him knows that may not be the case, why else would there be new ones coming in? Why else was he still here?
His ankle hurts, no amount of massaging eases the ache, it has long become part of his bones and there is no use trying to massage it anymore. A lot of parts of him hurt, actually… but, like his ankle, it's just part of him.
The food, if it could be called that, was easier to have when he was alone like now. It was always hard to watch the slop be thrown towards them on bad days or slid over on better ones. It was always hard to watch the others eat, no matter how much he tried not to think it, they looked like pigs.
The door creeps open and he can't even muster the terror he felt so long ago as he listens to the footsteps creep closer. A hand on his thigh, parting his one free leg while the other stays hooked up to the wall for easy access, a hand on his chin that forces him to look up.
He can't bring himself to make eye contact, not with anyone anymore, he never was a fan of it anyway. So when he's made to lift his head, his eyes remain downcast as the man begins to shave away the stubble from his face. The razor looks a little too rusty but just as tempting, the last time he moved his head when it got close enough to his neck hadn't done the trick though and, honestly? He was too tired to try.
Sometimes they shave him down there too, make him look nice and pretty, shave his whole bits if they're bored. Today doesn't seem like that, small mercies, he thinks, it always leaves him itchy.
The client? Buyer? No- they don't buy- the investor? He doesn't really know what to call them, it's not like Rico is the one in charge anymore. The man probably got enough money and sold…whatever this is to some other sick fuck after not only selling him but his friend José like meat in a butcher.
José… when that man was around things were quite bad. Small mercies, he thinks, unable to feel anything despite having watched the man die before his eyes.
He was bigger than he was, perhaps less attractive, he can't remember. José would get used and after the first few failed times of escaping (some with him even) he had broken and cried. Sobbed like any human would and that was the moment he had felt some sort of sympathy for one of the men that fucked his life more than was necessary…
But then José looked at him, noticed him, and like little kids reenacting with toys what they watched their parents do, José had taken his frustrations out on Stanley.
Should he blame him? He's not sure. Some part of him understands… he understands the feeling of control he must have when being the one to do the taking for once. However, Stanley had never really taken such measures on any of the girls so he's not sure if he should be angry.
He's an angry person, he thinks. Anger is harder to conjure nowadays.
The…visitor. Right.
Ah. Who cares?
The man, it's a man this time, females don't come by often. Stan remembers when everyone would fight for the women visitors, they didn't hurt usually, but the women seemed to prefer the men so it seemed to fall on José or him… it hurts in a different way, an exhausting way, no breaks and used in a whole different way.
Stan prefers when it hurts sometimes, anything over those visitors with the long nails and blue eyeshadow who try to be hot and force him to call them different names, acting motherly afterwards like what they had done wasn't revolting.
The man's steps hesitate which makes it all so much worse. Those nervous tend to go either way, angry denial or creepy tenderness where they chase their own high. They usually try to make the most of it which sucks. Hah.
Feeling himself drift, he floats somewhere far away from here, somewhere where…. There's nothing. No small room with jail windows and no roads and no beaches and just nothing. Nothing.
But then his eyes betray him and he feels himself get sucked into his body, the sensation is never great, it feels like a mini panic attack every time. He's looking at the hand touching his shoulder, sliding down, and his brain struggles to connect what he's seeing to reality.
Six fingers. The touch is gentle. Stan feels his heart twisting with the stupid hope he's felt since a young boy and finally looks up. Finally looks into the eyes of another.
Blue eyes, curly beard, birthmark on the cheek.
Another hand touches him, Ford's hand is rubbing his bicep soothingly but the man in front of him is sliding his five fingers up his chest and- Oh. It takes an embarrassingly long time for Stan to realise that both the hands belong to the visitor… a pair of hands, one with an oddity so familiar it should've been comforting.
The hands hold him, pressing him to the ground with fingers threaded in-between. One five in perfect six and two rotten ones on the other side, each resting beside his head as he lays flat on his back. He watches, body moving, and feels himself drift again as he stares at their joined hands.
This time when his mind drifts, it's to the beach… and it smells like rot.
Something about the last interaction must have broken him just like that time José broke or like the other time one of the girls did.
He was broken goods, called all kinds of names. Language was beginning to sound foreign to him so he's not sure what they even called him.
He just knows he couldn't get up anymore, he couldn't eat, couldn't go to the corner to make cleanup easier for them and no matter how much they beat him… he just wouldn't…
He just wouldn't.
They threw him out, didn’t even have the decency to kill him despite the amount of times they watched him try.
Stan was in some street corner, he thinks, the sky hidden by cruel dark clouds but their rain felt like heaven on his aching body. He was cold but he couldn't bring himself to care, it wasn't the first time he was thrown on the pavement… he hoped it was the last though.
Poor soul, he thinks of whoever may find him here, butt naked in a dark alley smelling of piss and being eaten by rats. Who cares?
There is nothing in him, he thinks, his body cannot be used anymore which must be why he was thrown out. No part of him can even find excitement in getting to see the sun again.
As he lays there, dead, he watches the drops of rain fall onto the palm of his hand, selfishly hoarding a tiny little puddle just for himself right in his hand. There is nothing in his head as he closes his eyes, he doesn't think he can think anymore.
It was hard to wrap his head around it. It started with a phone call from home, devastated voices and now here he was in a hospital, unable to look away.
The cops had explained a few times, asked questions that no one could answer before finally leaving them here.
He remembers hearing about an elephant. A baby trapped to a pole by the ankle, unable to break free… Once it grew it was strong enough to break said pole but it never attempted again, still believing it to be weak and trapped.
“He hadn't been tied to anything” the cops had said “apparently they just left him there after…” they were unable to finish.
Stanford stared at the hospital bed. A ghost stared back.
It was hard coming here everyday, hard to hear his mother's anguished cries before she quietened them down just before entering the room. She sat by the ghost's side, brushing his hair softly, face contracting every time it came down in clumps, getting stuck in her long fingers.
Father always stood outside, a coward, Shermie says. Every now and then, though, Stanford will visit later at night to find him sitting by his side, hands clasped and tears silently falling while the other sleeps.
It was hard to know when he was sleeping. Sometimes the ghost would lay awake with eyes closed, sometimes with eyes open, never really making any move for anything. He refuses to look at anyone, doesn't seem to really recognise them from how distant he is, not even when Stanford shows his hands.
The ghost sleeps when told to, eats when fed, from afar he looks almost like a little girl's doll.
His parents discuss cutting his hair, mother asking beforehand but ultimately making the decision for him especially with father insisting, saying he looks like a girl and it would help if they cut it short, make him feel like a man again.
Stanford sits back and watches, feeling his stomach twist as they brush the short hair back, a caricature of the boy they threw out. Filbrick was the one to mess up the hairstyle first, unable to look at it, but with those dark curls (with hints of silver) falling messily… it just makes him look younger.
Sometimes Stanford gets the strength to talk, sometimes he doesn't feel so sick that he has to physically pull back and away from the bed. Those times he talks, he makes sure to speak softly, afraid anything might set him off like the cops and nurses warned him about (nothing ever does), he reads to him or tells him about his life whenever he feels brave enough to (he feels disgusting after sharing anything though, how dare he live up when his brother-) and sometimes he reaches out and gently touches his fingertips with his, afraid any touch will be unwelcome.
Most times, however, he promises. He doesn't know why but it seems to be the only time the ghost looks into his eyes and every time he does, Stanford desperately looks for his twin in his gaze. His family had tried but it seemed something only Stanford could do, only he could promise.
“It will be okay” he will say, planning days ahead of them. He talks about how he can stay with him, their future family outings, maybe some sailing holidays, adventuring in the woods, drinking and catching up, trying karaoke for the first time with him, building a fort again, eating specific meals he remembers he liked…
Stanley's health improves, their hopes do too. Filbrick and Sherman pay everything and anything necessary to get the treatment, Stanford tries to help where he can. He takes small courses and lessons to treat victims like his- like the ghost better and he studies ways to make his life more comfortable in his home.
He dreams of a day he will see his brother's eyes light up again with mischief, see that pale skin glistening in the sun, see that grin and far too loud laugh that always was so contagious… Stanford dreams of a brighter future where his hands stop the shaking, where his brother is by his side just as before, where he can sleep at night without being haunted by what was once his own face.
The day Stanley is finally free to leave they celebrate together, a small hushed thing. Everyone walks on eggshells around him, they spend time together idly, mother far too touchy, Shermie visiting and struggling not to be loud, father too happy to hide his pride at how far Stanley has come and Stanford… Stanford can't wait to have a twin again.
That night he cleans Stanley's room, tidies everything and goes shopping for some comfortable loose clothing.
It was hard to wrap his head around it. It started with a phone call from home, devastated voices and now here he was in a hospital, unable to look away.
Stanford stared at the hospital bed. A corpse stared back.