Brandon Sullivan Aesthetic
(This is a teaser from the reworking of Sylum Story: Proof of Life)
Memories gradually filtered forward through the cotton wool his brain had been trying so valiantly to shrug off.
After the Baptism, he’d gone back to the hotel with the full intention of relaxing, ordering room service, getting some sleep, and heading back to London the next morning. He’d even made arrangements to spend a little time with Henry, then pick up Dino and head over to New York, where a big Wall Street firm called ‘Finlay and Sullivan’ had been putting out feelers about K&R Insurance for their foreign offices and representatives.
In the hotel lobby, where he’d been trying to organize a wake up call on an antiquated phone system that worked only when there was a full moon, he ran into Mendoza, and they’d wound up in the hotel bar, drinking far too many neon colored concoctions and reliving old adventures.
At some point, they’d been joined by a little blonde haired slip of a girl who reminded him a bit of Alice.
What the hell was her name…?
She’d looked like a good stiff breeze would blow her off her feet, but she’d been chatty and cute.
When she’d tried luring him out of there with the promise of a night worth remembering, Mendoza had buggered off, telling him to go for it and not give a damn about the consequences for once.
Seriously, what the fuck was her name?
She’d sounded American.
Not fake American, like the local hookers sometimes used on the tourists.
Real American.
He could remember Mendoza paying their tab with the bar tender, then nothing.
At all.
Sissy!!
Yes!
Her name was Sissy!
She’d probably put some shit in his drink when he wasn’t looking.
Fucking bitch!
A low moan from his right hand side had Terry suddenly aware that he wasn’t quite as alone as he’d imagined.
Pain shot down his arms in trying to turn and see who else was in there with him, yet he forced himself to move, feeling a lot like a worm on a fishing hook.
To his astonishment, he found another guy strung up much like he was himself, but with two notable exceptions.
One, the bloke was bollock naked.
And two, his feet were almost flat on the ground, though not quite low enough for him to take his own weight.
Terry had naturally seen a whole load of shit in his life, the great majority of which he could never, ever find adequate words for, or wish to reiterate in polite company. Much of it no one would ever understand anyway, unless they’d been there or they’d endured it for themselves.
So he knew full well what rape looked and smelled like.
The female and the male variety.
He also knew what repeated beatings did to a body.
And what it took to inflict pain and humiliation at various intervals, until the victim was broken and longing for death.
If the guy hadn’t made a sound, he’d probably have though him dead.
“Mate! You awake?” Terry hissed. Not that he’d wanted to deliberately force the poor bastard into consciousness, but maybe the guy could at least tell him where the hell they were at.
A slightly louder groan was his only reply at that point.
“Mate!” he hissed again, fighting like a bitch not to dwell on whether he’d personally end up the same way before Dino found him. “C’mon, Mate! You still alive there?”
How his unfortunate companion in captivity went from being slumped in defeat, chin on chest one moment, to fully alert and awake the next, complete with a snarl of defiance and what appeared to be an ungodly light in his eyes, was nothing if not terrifying.
And for a split second, Terry was convinced he’d been shackled alone with a monster, until he realized his still mushy brain was playing tricks on him and forcing adrenaline through his system when it should’ve been conserving the stuff for later.
Preferably his first opportunity to escape.
“Who the fuck are you?”
It wasn’t, typically speaking, how most kidnap victims greeted their fellow hostages, but Terry knew he couldn’t be choosy. “I was about to ask you the same.”
“Brandon.”
“Got a last name too?”
“Sullivan.” He coughed. Winced. Coughed again.
“I’m Terry.”
“You my rescue? ’cause you suck at it.”
He sounded remarkably good for someone who’d clearly been through hell. “Sullivan? Wait, like in ‘Finlay and Sullivan’?”
“Guess you were my rescue.”
Terry thought him fair dinkum for not freaking out. “Didn’t know your friend Finlay had a full on situation in progress. He made it sound like all he wanted was a chat and some information on insurance.”
“Fucking asshole!”
Brandon said it like it was old news, and Terry knew he’d obviously missed something else that had been going on. “Is he why you’re here?”
A gentle shake of the head. “I came for my sister. Found her and Finlay fucking in my bed. She got upset and ran away with this rich piece of Eurotrash who brought her down here. Calls himself a Roman. Says he’s from the Caesars, or some bullshit like that. Aurelius, I think. Not sure that’s his name. Richer than God. Said he didn’t want money for Sissy’s life.”
Terry’s stomach hit the floor with a squelch. “Your sister is Sissy?”
“Was. He killed her right in front of me here, just before you were dragged in. Guess he used her to get you here. She was so naive. Always thought sex meant someone cared enough about her to give a damn.” He snorted and cringed in pain. That was when the tears began to fall. “Death gets him going. Mister Eurotrash. Fucked me over her body while you were being prepped for him.”
It was hard to know precisely who Brandon was crying for, but in the end Terry realized it probably didn’t matter. It was all the same thing really. Part of him wanted to see the bloke’s face better, figure out what that light was making his eyes shine. If they could look at each other properly, there was chance they could connect like men and not like victims.
