Fuck, it hurt – and the desk hardly moved. It was a sturdy thing, made of real wood – not the cardboard-like stuff they liked to make furniture with nowadays. But Micah forced himself to do it again.

Thwack.

And again.

Thwack.

Until his ears were ringing. But the watch was moving, inching closer and closer to the edge of the pile.

Thwack.

And then it was falling – but in the wrong direction – and Micah couldn’t contain his anguished shout when it toppled over the back of the mass of clothing, out of Micah’s sight, falling onto the middle of the desk instead of to the floor.

Micah cried.

He cursed the desk. “Fuck you, you goddamn miserable piece of furniture!” He cussed out Ren. “You fucking bitch! You psychotic asshole!” Eventually, he even turned his ire onto the painting of Jesus that hung on the wall. “What the fuck are you looking at? How can you claim to be this righteous, all-powerful being and still allow absolute bullshit like this to happen?”

He screamed until his voice was hoarse – until his throat was raw and ragged – and what small part of him wasn’t enveloped in pain was weighted down by the exhaustion of it all.

Micah was tired – physically, mentally, emotionally. And despite the precariousness of his situation – despite the fact his injured shoulder felt like it was on fire – eventually the bone-deep fatigue made it difficult to keep his eyes open.

Still, he hadn’t realized he’d begun to drift until the sound of the door creaking open startled him awake an indeterminable amount of time later.

“What’s this?”

Ren sounded upset, which Micah found pretty ludicrous all things considered. “What are you doing all the way over there? And you’ve hurt yourself.”

Micah heard more than saw the man leave the room, but not more than a few minutes later, he returned with a bucket that he set down near Micah’s head. Micah hadn’t realized the man had also grabbed a washcloth until he dipped it into the bucket before using it to carefully dab at Micah’s temple.

The cloth came away pink.

Apparently, he’d banged his head good enough against the desk to make himself bleed. He’d been so distressed he hadn’t even noticed.

Micah fought back a flinch when after cleaning the washcloth in the bucket, Ren used it to wipe tenderly at his cheeks. The man frowned. “You’ve been crying.”

The dried tear tracks must have given it away.

Micah wasn’t proud of the way his voice cracked when he opened his mouth. “Why me?”

Ren’s brow furrowed. “We’ve been over this,” he said, sounding disapproving.

“You took me because I’m gay, I know. But everyone else you kidnapped were prostitutes or strippers or camboys. You approached me at the bar.”