It was a tired scene for the boy. The dusty hallway, the relentless rustle of his chains, the giddy, greedy strut of the guard dragging him along...yes...it was a tired scene, leading to one even more cumbersome and relentlessly repetitive.
"You know the drill boy" the tall, fat guard spat down at him. "No time with your girl before you've had a little time with me." He cracked a languid yellow smile as he popped open the buttons on his state-provided uniform - one tiny little push at a time. It would be horrid to the boy, were it original. But the prisoner just watched, apathetic and only mildly disgusted; like a movie buff at a B-rate horror flick. He knew what was coming, and it's coming had long since ceased disturbing him. "All good things come at a price" was the boy's old mantra. "Things come" had replaced it.
The only part of this whole experience that still disturbed the boy-prisoner was the steady stream of sweat pouring from the man exerting himself behind him. It seemed to the boy an unforgivable slight from God that this man was so sweaty in his exertions. The prisoner could see clearly his de-musculation in the mirror he was holding himself up against - which he had slowly, after years, come to realize was set there just for him. He could see the older man's hairy, glistening stomach gyrating back and forth behind his head in the mirror, but how it felt was worse. How the wet hairs swept lightly across his back, jiggled by the pensive, jerking monotony of in-out, in-out just south of its expanse. That was bad to the boy. Such an irritating sensation. The pain below he had become desensitized to, years previous; but this...this ever-so-slight swishing of curled, dripping gut hair on his lower back...enough to drive any man mad...but the boy was no man, and he'd never claimed to be. He only ever claimed to be annoyed; and what annoyed him even worse than that insistently tantalizing swinging gut was the steady drip-drip, drip-drip of the dual drops of sweat running off the guard's balding forehead and out of his goatee. He could see them, in the mirror, falling like twin drops of glass between his suction cup like hands, pressed against the glass. He watched them fall, until they fell behind his head, landing in the soft skin between his shoulder blades, running down to meet the gut gliding over the boy's back. Over and over again he watched, waited, felt.
This was, perhaps, the cruelest moment in that young boy's life; for at the exact moment the drops of grease-sweat from the face of his rapist splattered into the small puddle of its brothers his gaze met itself in the mirror, and for that bare moment, as he stared into his own cold blue eyes, he remembered exactly who he was, and felt an incredible, indefinable fear. It was this moment that the boy-prisoner would close his eyes.
Things happen he reminds himself. His eyes stay closed for only a moment, however. He needs to go back to watching the sweat-drops...it's the only thing that distracts him from the muffled grunts of his guard. "Things happen" he whispers, fervently. Later he remembers it all passed in a blur.