“Thirty-five.”
“Sir…”
“Thirty-six.”
“I’m—”
“Thirty-seven.”
“I can’t…” His voice chokes and he falls over, going limp all of a sudden.
Did he just…faint?
I tap his sweaty face once, then pause. That day, when I saw those soldiers cornering him, I heard sideways remarks. Things like:
He’s so girly.
A weakling.
I bet he takes it in the ass.
A sodomite.
Usually, I would’ve walked away from such a scene, and in view of how persistent this s**t has become since I saved him, I probably should’ve let him be.
But I didn’t.
I wonder why. It probably had to do with the desperation on his face, and the way he intended to take the beating, no matter how brutal it got.
Now, I’m thinking about those soldiers’ words again. More specifically, the girly part.
His skin is so soft, it’s almost
