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“They’ll put you in a cage and whore you to the highest bidder, boy-o.”
-Patrick Roarke
11
Roarke stood, his eyes wide and white with fear, and was terrifyingly uncertain of what was to come.
For once, he’d been allowed into the upstairs of the slum that Patrick owned; now he trembled with nerves by the wall, and waited with every second an eternity for something to happen.
Bruises from a fresh beating ached, but he didn’t dare show any sign of weakness or pain; in fact, he was vaguely relieved that it hadn’t been any worse.
The man himself sat in a chair in front of the fireplace, watched the flames dance with a whiskey in his hand and the dreaded knife on the table beside him.
“Fucking cops,” Patrick said suddenly, terrifyingly softly; “They scramble like dogs. It’s just a matter of putting a pound in the right hand, though.”
He looked over at Roarke, who pressed himself into the wall and tried to disappear into the shadows that danced.
“And they’ll fear you,” Patrick continued, smirking faintly as he held Roarke’s gaze, paralyzed the young boy with fear. “They’ll look at you and see me. They all will.”
Because Patrick’s voice was taking on a dangerous edge, Roarke lowered his gaze, stared at a point on the floor to his left as he’d been taught, avoiding eye contact.
Patrick made a sound of approval, looked back to the fire.
“They’re all the same,” Patrick murmured. “They judge you and spit on you, turn on you for the right price. You can’t trust any of them, boy-o. They hate you because you’re mine.”
Liomsa. It was Gaelic for mine, and would permanently etch itself into Roarke’s memory to symbolized utter and complete dominance.
And Roarke bowed his head, because both were true: he was entirely Patrick Roarke’s, and people hated him for it.
“Is fuath siad tú níos mó,” Roarke dared. They hate you more.
Patrick laughed. “And so they do, boy-o,” he said. “And so they do.”
The man drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Social workers,” he muttered, then glanced at Roarke with a frightening gleam in his eye that made the boy shrink back again as his father smiled. “They’ll put you in a cage and whore you to the highest bidder, boy-o.”
A cage, in Roarke’s mind, was the worst of tortures, and Patrick knew it.
And there they were; Alpha and Omega, the young boy whose only friend was a bird and the man who held South Dublin in his hand.
“The only way to fight is to fight dirty,” Patrick murmured. “The only place to strike is below the belt.”
In that instant, Roarke knew those words would stick in his mind for the rest of his life.
He looked over at Roarke again, sending a fresh flare of icy terror down the boy’s spine: his eyes were glassy and half-closed, his shoulders slightly slouched, when he spoke, he bared his teeth.
“And never,” Patrick hissed as his eyes- exactly like Roarke’s- flashed. “ever consider disobeying me.”
Roarke’s eyes widened just a touch further, and he slowly backed into a corner.
Trapped, some distant part of his mind registered. Trapped. Doomed.
“I haven’t,” Roarke lied as he shivered with fear; the room was fairly warm, even in his corner, but he felt as if he was covered in ice.
“You’ve been holding back,” Patrick said softly as he stood, advanced, staggered slightly as he walked and nearly paralyzed his son with horror. “Do you think you can pass of a couple of thin wallets a day’s take?”
Patrick fisted his hands. “I’ll have the rest of it, you buggering little bastard.”
Quick as a flash, even though he was stupid with the drink, Patrick’s hand flashed out and viced down on Roarke’s throat; as the boy let off a shocked whimper and clawed desperately, he tightened his grip, making black creep into the edges of Roarke’s vision.
He lifted Roarke off of his feet, pinned him against the wall with his elbow.
“Don’t try it again,” the man hissed, and let go.
Roarke collapsed, weakly rolled onto his knees and coughed violently, trying to draw air back into his lungs as Patrick went back to his chair, dropped into it, and picking up his whiskey- as if he’d done nothing more complex than rearrange a table- drank deeply.
“Never trust anyone,” Patrick repeated. “They’ll stab you in the back, first chance they get.”
**
Shaken, Roarke looked over his shoulder as just before dawn he exited the complex of flats; it had been a night filled with fear, with only a few hours’ shallow sleep.
He twitched his shoulders, started walking, watched his breath cloud in the air.
They’ll look at you and see me.
It was a horrible thought, Roarke knew, flicking his gaze from left to right as he paused, then continued. It was a terrifying theory, to be stripped of himself and molded into what he was going to be forced to be.
Patrick Michael Roarke, the Second.
He still hated the name.
Roarke closed his eyes, then kept moving.
They hate you because you’re mine.
I’m not, Roarke thought desperately, turning sharply into a different street. I’m not you. I’m not yours. I’m me. I’m mine.
No, you’re not, he could hear his father’s voice taunting. You know you’re not. I branded you with my name, and there’s nothing you can do about it!
Just leave me alone, Roarke thought, pressed his hands to his eyes. For Christ’s sake, leave me alone. Isn’t it enough to shadow my thoughts every day?
No, the voice inside his head laughed. No. You’ll never be rid of me, boy. I’ll follow every step you take for the rest of your life. They’ll look at you, and see me. They’ll hate you because you’re mine.
Roarke clutched his head in his hands, whimpered as the shackles sent another angry spark into his blood.
They’ll look at you and see me, hate you because you’re mine.
And Roarke believed him.
**
I thought that I would feel better after writing this chapter, after I got a bit of emotion out of my head.
I sort of do.
But this has to be said. My real name is Willow Caron. I turn thirteen in exactly fourteen days. I'm a writer, a gamer, an aspiring falconer.
I can now identify with Eve.
I have been emotionally and mentally raped.
My mother and I are moving inside of a few weeks. Things will hopefully get better.
I might get thrown into the CPS system.
So.
Act One: Roarke. Act Two: Eve Dallas. Act Three: Siobhan Brody. Act Four: Marlena Kolchek.
Thank you for your support, my friends. There will be more chapters. There are stories to be told, and to quote Roarke and Marlena: thousands of moments to be lived, of words that needed to be spoken, of things that need to be done.
And to quote Roarke: I'm far from done.
-Wolf2407
