02
761 Words
The bedroom door clicked shut, the sound final and heavy, like a vault sealing.
Arthur didn’t let go of Miki’s arm immediately. He leaned back against the wood, watching the boy scramble toward the far corner of the bed. Miki didn't sit; he hovered, his fingers twisting the hem of his yellow sweater until the knit strained.
His eyes were wide, darting toward the window—the only exit he wasn’t allowed to use.
"Now, Miki," Arthur said, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly soft, paternal coo. "You made a mess downstairs. You upset Aunt Martha. We talked about this, didn't we? Big boys don't throw their peas."
"The peas were mean," Miki whispered, his voice hitching. He pulled his knees to his chin, trying to disappear into himself. To Miki, the world was a series of sharp edges and loud noises he couldn't process, so he stayed tucked away in the safety of his eight-year-old mind. It was a fortress of soft colors and simple rules, even if the fortress was currently under siege. "I want to go to sleep. I'm tired now."
"You're not tired, you're just being shy," Arthur stepped forward, and Miki flinched, a small, choked sound escaping his throat. "Let's get you out of this baggy thing. It hides you too much. I bought you something much more... appropriate for the weather."
Arthur reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of pale blue denim shorts—cut high, the kind a child might wear to the beach in a vintage photograph—and a thin, ribbed white tank top.
Miki stared at the clothes. He didn't understand why they made his skin crawl, or why the air felt colder just looking at them.
He just knew he liked his yellow sweater. It was thick. It was a shield.
"No," Miki whimpered, his hands clutching the wool. "I like my yellow. It's my favorite."
"Miki," Arthur’s voice lost its softness, turning brittle. "Don't make me frustrated. You know what happens when I have to help you myself."
Miki’s breath came in shallow, jagged bursts. The memory of 'help'—of Arthur’s large, calloused hands forcing compliance—was enough to make his limbs go limp. He didn't 'exit' his childhood mindset; he simply became a submissive version of it. A doll that had learned that resisting only made the 'playtime' hurt more.
With trembling fingers, Miki pulled the yellow sweater over his head.
The Next Morning :
The sun rose over the Pearson estate, indifferent to the quiet horror behind the curtains of the second floor.
Miki stood in front of the full-length mirror, Arthur standing directly behind him, adjusting the straps of the thin white tank top. The garment was several sizes too small, the fabric clinging to Miki’s pale, slender torso, leaving his collarbones and the delicate curve of his shoulders completely exposed. The shorts were little more than a denim trim, showing the long, vulnerable line of his legs.
To Miki, he just looked 'silly.' He poked at his own reflection, his finger hovering over a small, blooming bruise on his bicep that he didn't remember getting.
"There," Arthur whispered, his hands resting heavily on Miki’s bare shoulders. The man’s thumbs stroked the skin, a slow, rhythmic motion that made Miki’s stomach turn into a knot of cold lead. "Much better. You look like a proper little prince."
"I feel cold," Miki said, his voice small. He tried to pull the hem of the shorts down, but there was nowhere for the fabric to go.
"The sun will warm you up. Let’s go down for juice."
As they descended the stairs, Silas was finishing his coffee. He glanced up, his eyes briefly skating over Miki’s exposed skin—the way the boy looked more like a catalog prop than a nephew. He didn't frown. He didn't ask why a twenty-three-year-old was dressed in toddlers' play-clothes. He simply checked his watch.
"He looks more manageable today, Arthur," Silas remarked, sliding his briefcase off the counter.
"A little discipline goes a long way," Arthur replied, his hand sliding down to rest on the small of Miki’s back, guiding him forward.
Miki didn't say anything.
He just stared at the floor, his toes curling against the cold tile, waiting for the next command, his mind drifting away to a place where there were only star-shaped crackers and no one ever touched his shoulders.
...
- Writer
