Chapter 3: The Hollow Days
The silence lasted three days.
No engine idling at the curb. No shadow on the porch. No fist against the siding. Just the old house groaning and the tap-tap of the dead ivy against the glass.
Silas told himself it was a relief. He finished painting the living room, the flat gray soaking up the light. He completed his data grids. He ate another cold tin of beans. He told himself this was peace.
But by the second night, his skin felt too tight, like parchment stretched over a drum. The hum beneath it, the curse, wasn’t quiet. It was restless. It was starving. It had been fed on attention, good or bad, for years. The total absence was a new kind of torture.
He lay on the bare floorboards of the living room, away from the stained velvet sofa. The chill seeped through his sweatpants. He stared at the humming chandelier, its crystals holding distorted reflections of the room. His body had other ideas. His cock was hard, a thick, aching line against his stomach, already leaking a wet spot onto the fabric. He hated it. He hated the sheer biological clamor of it, the way it responded to the void where Marcus’s harassment had been. As if his own wiring had been crossed so badly that persecution now registered as stimulus.
He rolled onto his side, curling in on himself. It didn’t help. The pressure built, a needy, stupid throb. He squeezed his eyes shut. Images flickered behind his lids. Not the good ones—the safe feeling, the bubble bath. The bad ones. The true ones.
He shoved himself up, padding into the kitchen where the composition notebook lay. He brought it back to the living room floor, the pen cold in his hand. He opened to a blank page. The date meant nothing. He just started writing, the pen digging in.
The gangbang. My nineteenth birthday. Dad said it was a rite of passage. He was drunk. His breath smelled like copper and bourbon. He had Gabriel and two of his work friends there. Marcus was there. Of course.
His hand trembled. He kept going.
They were all laughing. Music was too loud. Dad’s fingers were thick, they pried my jaw open. I remember thinking I would bite him. I didn’t. Gabriel was laughing, saying ‘chug, chug, chug’ like it was a beer. They passed me around. Marcus held my hips from behind. His voice was in my ear, saying ‘you’re such a good boy for us, just take it, you’re so good.’
A drop of sweat fell from his brow, blurring the word good. He wiped it with the back of his hand, smearing the ink.
I couldn’t breathe. I choked. Tears and snot and spit. My belly felt swollen, tight with it. They didn’t stop. Four pairs of hands on me. Holding me down. Pushing into me. And the worst part. The worst part was my body. It got hard. I moaned. Not from liking it. From being too full. From the sheer fucking sensation of it. But it sounded like liking it. They heard it and cheered.
His handwriting deteriorated into a jagged scrawl.
After, they left me on the floor. Sticky and cold. Marcus came back with a towel. He wiped my face. He said ‘see? you can take all of us. you’re ours.’ I didn’t feel like a person. I felt like a container. A dump. A cum dump. That’s the word. That’s what I was.
His hand cramped, fingers locking around the pen. He forced them open. He read what he’d written. The words vibrated on the page, ugly and true.
The physical need in him hadn’t subsided. It had coiled tighter, fed by the memory of use. A feedback loop of shame and arousal. He was panting. He looked down at the tented fabric of his sweatpants, the dark wet spot now the size of a silver dollar.
A sound escaped him, half-sob, half-groan. He shoved his hand down the front of his waistband, his fingers closing around his own overheated flesh. It wasn’t pleasure. It was a grim necessity, like lancing a wound. He stroked, fast and rough, his head thrown back against the floor, eyes squeezed shut. The images wouldn’t leave. The hands. The voices. The feeling of being utterly occupied, of having no space left in his own skin for thought.
His hips bucked off the floor. The friction was brutal, efficient. He was chasing the emptiness that followed, the static. He thought of Marcus’s face that last day on the porch, the drowning look. He thought of his own name in Marcus’s mouth. A bitter, acidic heat gathered at the base of his spine.
“God,” he gasped into the empty, gray room. “God. Marcus.”
His orgasm ripped through him, a shockwave of pure physical release utterly divorced from joy. He spilled over his own fist and stomach, shuddering, his back arching off the floorboards. Then it was over. He lay there, breath sawing in and out, staring at the ceiling. The wetness cooled rapidly, sticky and uncomfortable. The hum under his skin dampened to a low, post-storm thrum.
The shame was immediate, a total immersion. He had gotten himself off while writing about the worst violation of his life. He had cried out his brother’s name.
He pushed himself up, disgusted. He went to the kitchen, wet a ragged dish towel with cold water, and cleaned himself up with mechanical strokes. He balled up the sweatpants and threw them into the corner, pulling on a fresh pair.
The notebook still lay open on the living room floor. He couldn’t look at it. He went to the front window, peeling back the edge of the curtain. The street was empty. Dark. Quiet.
The silence wasn’t peace. It was just a different kind of screaming.
The next morning, he made a decision. He couldn’t live in the tomb. The curse needed something, some outlet, or it would turn inward and make him replay the past on a loop in his own skull. He had to prove he could exist among people without being consumed. He had to test the lock on the cage from the outside.
He showered, scrubbing his skin until it was pink. He chose dark jeans and a plain black hoodie, the fabric worn soft. A uniform of anonymity. He looked at his phone, dormant on the charger. No messages. No calls. He pocketed it. He picked up his grandmother’s set of keys, the metal jangling in the quiet.
Stepping onto the porch felt like entering a different atmosphere. The air was crisp, carrying the smell of wet earth and distant woodsmoke. He locked the door behind him, the new deadbolt engaging with a solid, satisfying thunk.
He walked. The neighborhood was a patchwork of neglected homes like his own and neatly kept cottages. He kept his head down, hands in his pockets. His senses felt hyper-alert. The crunch of gravel under his sneakers. The bark of a dog two streets over. The feeling of space around him, of not being walled in.
He walked for twenty minutes, until the residential streets gave way to a modest commercial strip: a laundromat, a tired-looking hair salon, a convenience store, and finally, a coffee shop called The Grind. It was a nondescript box with a large front window. He could see a few people inside, scattered at tables. A neutral ground.
His heart hammered against his ribs. This was the airlock. He took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and stepped in.
The warmth hit him first, carrying the rich, bitter scent of coffee and the sweet, greasy smell of pastries. A folk song played softly from tinny speakers. Three people in line. Two college-aged kids studying at a corner table. An older man reading a newspaper by the window.
Silas kept his gaze on the menu board behind the counter, his head buzzing. He could feel it immediately—the subtle, magnetic pull of his presence seeping out. The hum under his skin, placated by his walk, now perked up, reaching tendrils into the space around him. It wasn’t intentional. It was physiological, like a fever radiating heat.
The woman in front of him, mid-forties with a patterned scarf, half-turned as she received her change. Her eyes, previously focused on her wallet, drifted past the barista and landed on Silas. They lingered for a second too long. She blinked, gave a small, confused smile, and hurried away.
Just be normal. Just get a coffee. Leave.
He shuffled forward. The barista, a guy maybe his age with gauges in his ears and a name tag that read “Jamie,” looked up. “What can I get for you?”
“Medium black coffee. To go.” Silas’s voice sounded rough, unused.
“Sure thing.” Jamie’s eyes, a warm brown, met his. Then they didn’t look away. They traced the line of Silas’s jaw, dropped to the hollow of his throat where the hoodie zipper was pulled low, then back up to his hazel eyes. Jamie’s casual customer-service smile faltered, replaced by something more open, more intent. He leaned slightly on the counter. “That’s it? No pastry? Our almond croissants are pretty fire today.”
“Just the coffee.” Silas looked down, pulling a crumpled five from his pocket.
“Cool, cool.” Jamie didn’t move to get the coffee. He was just looking. Silas could feel the attention like a physical weight. It was different from Marcus’s predatory focus or Gabriel’s greedy curiosity. This was simpler, more bewilderment than calculation. “Haven’t seen you in here before. You new around here?”
“Yeah. Sort of.” Silas placed the five on the counter.
Jamie finally moved, but slowly, as if pushing through water. He grabbed a medium cup, filled it from the fresh pot, put a lid on it. His movements were deliberate. He slid the coffee across the counter, his fingers brushing Silas’s as he took the five. A tiny, electric jolt. Jamie didn’t pull his hand back.
“That’s four-twenty-five,” Jamie said, his voice lower. He was still holding Silas’s bill, his other hand resting near the coffee cup, effectively boxing Silas in at the register. “So… seventy-five cents change.” He made no move to get it.
Silas could feel the dynamic curdling. The two students in the corner had stopped murmuring. He could feel their gaze on his back. The older man with the newspaper had lowered it, watching over the top of the pages.
The hum inside him surged, pleased at the gathered attention. It wanted to lean into it, to pull it closer. Panic fluttered in Silas’s throat. This was how it started. A look. A touch. A seemingly innocent question.
“Keep the change,” Silas said, his voice tighter now. He snatched the coffee cup, careful to avoid another touch.
Jamie’s face fell, just a little. The open fascination flickered with hurt. “Oh. Thanks, man. Hey, I’m here most weekdays if you… you know, want a coffee.”
Silas didn’t answer. He turned and walked quickly toward the door. He could feel every eye in the place on him—the students, the old man, Jamie’s wounded stare burning a hole between his shoulder blades. His skin crawled with the intensity of it. It wasn’t desire, not really. It was a gravitational pull he couldn’t control, warping the space around him, making simple transactions weird and loaded.
He burst back out into the cold air, sucking it in like he’d been drowning. The door swung shut behind him, muting the folk music. He leaned against the brick wall of the building, his hands shaking. The coffee was scalding hot through the paper cup.
He’d done it. He’d been among people. And it had worked, and it had been a disaster. He’d proven he could walk in and walk out. He’d also proven that the curse didn’t need a Marcus to orchestrate it. It could turn a bored barista into a captivated, slightly desperate stranger in under a minute. It could make a room full of people subtly orient themselves toward him, a human magnet they didn’t understand.
He took a sip of the coffee. It was bitter, too strong. Perfect.
He began the walk home, the encounter replaying in his mind. Jamie’s face. The feel of his fingers. The quiet room tilting on its axis. It was a small, contained version of the old chaos. He had controlled it only by fleeing.
As he turned onto his street, his phone buzzed in his pocket. A single, violent jerk against his thigh.
He stopped walking. He pulled it out. The screen glowed with a notification.
A text message.
From Marcus.
The preview showed just the first few words: Saw you at the coffee shop. You looked…
Silas’s blood turned to ice. He looked up, his eyes scanning the street, the parked cars, the windows of the neighboring houses. He saw no one. But the feeling was back—the dense, familiar pressure of being watched. The silence was over. The drowning man had come up for air, and he’d been following him all along.
The drowning man had come up for air, and he’d been following him all along.
Silas didn’t open the text. He shoved the phone back into his pocket like it was a live insect, its vibrations still buzzing against his leg. He walked the last block to the house with a stiff, military precision, his coffee sloshing hot over his hand. He didn’t look around again. Looking would make it real. He fumbled with the new key, his fingers numb, finally stumbling into the vestibule and slamming the door shut. He threw the deadbolt, the sound a sharp, final crack in the stillness. He leaned his forehead against the cold wood, breathing hard. The scent of fresh gray paint couldn’t mask the older, deeper smells of the house. Of memory.
He spent the day in a state of wired paralysis. He scrubbed the kitchen sink until the stainless steel shone. He re-organized the empty cabinets. He ignored the phone burning a hole on the counter. Every quiet moment was filled with the image of Marcus’s car, a shadow at the curb he’d somehow missed. Watching. Seeing him interact with Jamie. Interpreting it. The hum under his skin had gone silent, replaced by a cold, drilling dread.
As evening bled into night, exhaustion hit him like a sedative. It was a thick, chemical slump. He dragged himself upstairs, falling into bed without bothering to change. The silence of the house was a physical pressure on his eardrums. He prayed for dreamless sleep, for the black and total void. He got the other thing.
The dream wasn’t a memory. It was sharper.
He was back in the rec room of the old house, the one with the green shag carpet that smelled of mildew and stale beer. The bass from the stereo was a physical thump in his chest. He was on his knees. The carpet fibers scratched his skin.
“Open up, fag.” Damian’s voice, slurry and hot, came from above. His father’s hand, calloused and thick, was wrapped in his hair, not guiding—forcing. “Birthday boy gets the first taste. Show your dad you’re grateful.”
Silas tried to turn his head, to speak, but his jaw was pried open. The taste of salt and skin flooded his mouth. He gagged instantly, tears springing to his eyes. Damian grunted, a low, rhythmic sound that vibrated through Silas’s skull. “That’s it. Take it. You love this, don’t you? Sick little fucking queer.”
The degradation was a cascade, each word a stone dropping into the pit of his stomach. His father’s free hand squeezed his cheek, hard. “Swallow it. Every drop. You’re a fucking drain.”
Then Gabriel was there, laughing, his fingers digging into Silas’s hips from behind. “My turn, my turn! He’s all loose for me, right Uncle Dam?” The sudden, burning stretch as Gabriel pushed in, no patience, no care. Silas cried out, a muffled sound around his father’s cock.
“Shut up, whiner,” Fredrick said, kneeling in front of him. He smacked Silas’s face, not hard, but demeaning. “You got two holes. We’re using ‘em.” He fed himself into Silas’s mouth, the head bumping against the back of his throat, making him choke. They were spit-roasting him, a term he’d heard them laugh about earlier that night. He was a piece of meat on a spit, turning slowly in the fire of their attention.
The sensations blurred into a single, overwhelming tide of violation. The smell of sweat and cheap cologne. The sour taste of pre-cum and beer. The brutal, rocking rhythm that took his body and used its mechanics against him. His own traitorous arousal, thick and leaking onto the carpet, was a source of their delight.
“Look at him,” Gabriel panted, pounding into him. “He’s fucking loving it. Leaking everywhere.”
Then Fred, his father’s work friend, with fingers like sausages, was pulling Gabriel away. “My turn to breed the boy.” His voice was a gravelly rumble. He was thicker, heavier. The stretch was agony, a raw, burning pressure that made Silas see white spots. Fred didn’t move fast. He pushed in deep, impossibly deep, and stayed there, grinding. “Gonna fill you up, kid. Make you carry it.”
Silas’s belly began to swell. It was a visible, taut curve under his skin, a grotesque pregnancy. He could feel the heat of it, the impossible volume. It was going to split him open.
“He’s so full,” Damian muttered, watching from a chair now, his own pants open, a look of crude satisfaction on his face. “Look at that. Like a damn tick.”
Through the haze of pain and suffocation, Silas’s eyes found Marcus. His brother was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, just watching. Their eyes met. Silas’s were pleading, drowning. Marcus’s were calm. He unfolded himself, walked over, and knelt in the mess of the carpet beside Silas’s head. He smoothed back his brother’s sweaty hair.
“You’re doing so good,” Marcus whispered, his voice a surreal counterpoint to the grunting and slapping flesh. “You’re taking it all. You’re so good for us.” He kissed Silas’s temple. “Just a little more. You can take a little more.”
Fred was grunting now, a bear-like sound, his pace becoming jerky, frantic. “Gonna seed you deep, boy.” The hot, pulsing flood was a shock, wave after wave, and Silas could feel it, feel the already-tight swell of his stomach get heavier, warmer. Damian cheered. Gabriel whooped.
Marcus kept shushing him, a gentle shhh, shhh, his hand on Silas’s cheek. “Good boy. Our good boy. It’s almost over.”
But it wasn’t. It was a loop. The filling, the stretching, the praise in his ear as his body was ruined. The words “fag” and “dump” and “good” and “ours” twisting together until they meant the same thing.
Silas woke with a strangled gasp, his body arching off the mattress. The room was pitch dark. He was drenched in cold sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out. The phantom sensations clung to him—the ache of penetration, the horrific fullness in his gut, the taste of corruption in his mouth.
He fumbled for the lamp, knocking it over. Light didn’t help. He was tangled in the sheets, which were damp and smelled of his own panic. He kicked them off, scrambling to sit up, running his hands over his own flat, untouched stomach. It was empty. It was fine. He was in his grandmother’s house. Alone.
But the feeling of being watched, of being known, was thicker than the darkness.
He reached for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up, blinding him. The text notification from Marcus still sat there, unread. His thumb hovered over it. The silence in the house was absolute. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears.
He opened the message.
The full text glowed in the dark room: Saw you at the coffee shop. You looked hungry. You always get that look when you need it. The house is so empty, Si. I can help with that.
Below the text was a photograph. It was taken from a distance, through a windshield. It showed Silas, back to the camera, leaning against the brick wall of The Grind after he’d fled outside. His head was bowed. The posture could be read as tired. Or waiting.