The Last Photograph
by Wrestlr
3.
I opened my eyes. It was pitch-dark—I couldn’t see anything. I was naked. My hands were tied behind my back.
I lay on my side. At first, I thought I was lying on some kind of grate. No, I was in a cage. Not a cage for holding people—an animal cage, maybe intended for a large dog. It was small, just shy of three feet tall, three feet wide, and five feet deep. Big enough I could lay there and move around some, but not big enough I could sit up fully or even stretch out full length. I’m six foot four and muscular, and my body felt cramped from being folded into nearly a fetal position for a long time.
I rubbed my chin against the wire wall, trying to judge how long I’d been there by my beard stubble. A day? Longer? Less? Didn’t feel like a full day’s growth yet, so just a few hours, I guessed.
The wire grate floor cut into my flesh. In the dark, I had to investigate with my fingers as best I could, with my hands tied behind me. The mesh was one-inch squares. I could get a finger through, but no more, definitely not my whole hand. I couldn’t find the latches. However the door was fastened, I couldn’t reach it. I wasn’t even one hundred percent sure where the door was.
I heard someone moving around. Not stumbling in the dark. Moving confidently. Probably wearing night vision goggles or something. I listened intently.
Whoever it was finished whatever he was doing. Footsteps approached me. The deep male voice boomed out of the darkness only a few feet away and over me. “Name?”
I said, “Peter.”
“Why are you here?”
“I’m trying to find my brother. His name is Paul. Is he—”
“Quiet.”
I was smart enough to shut up.
“We know who you are. Your brother is here. Now you are too. If you are a good boy and learn your lessons well, you will earn privileges. If you are not, you will earn punishments. Do you understand?”
I didn’t, but I said, “Yes.”
I heard footsteps walk away, a door open and click shut. The interview was over. No sense calling out, because no one was there to respond. But now I knew two things.
First, the voice was Mick’s, only without the Russian accent.
Second. I knew my brother was alive, and close by. That felt like a victory.
Time passed. In the darkness, I tested my bonds, my cage, my senses. Without vision, I depended more on hearing and smell. The area around me was silent, but it smelled like a kennel.
At some point, my bladder reached capacity. I wouldn’t give my captors the satisfaction of crying out. I held it as long as I could, until the pressure built beyond uncomfortable. I maneuvered my hips to the cage wall and let the piss flow through the mesh. Ahh, relief.
I knew what they were doing. I’d been trained to resist it. They were using darkness, confinement, and degradation to break my spirit and my mind. Brainwashing takes time, but it’s remarkably simple and remarkably effective. Boredom, isolation, and sensory deprivation were the first step, would numb my mind and lower my resistance. If they left me here long enough, my mind would go blank, become desperate for stimulation—any kind of stimulation. My mind would turn on itself, question everything about my sense of identity. Once they used this first step to break my sense of self, they’d try to turn me, tell me I should change, convince me. I’d come to believe them, to crave their slightest approval, to desire the change they demanded. Then they could mold me into whoever or whatever they wanted. But that would take time.
I could distance myself from the degradation temporarily. I could deal with the isolation and the darkness. All I needed to do was wait for an opening, that one time they screwed up. I’d make my escape, find my brother, get out of there, and bring back the authorities. I just hoped they didn’t wait too long to screw up.
Some time later, my bowels cramped. I needed to shit. I couched my ass into one corner of the cage and voided my bowels. I made a mental note to block off that area from the way I used the space in my cage. I didn’t want to roll in my own shit.
The metal grid floor of the cage bit into my skin. I ignored it. I dozed.
“I see, filth, you’ve already learned your new home is also your toilet.”
The voice startled me from a half-sleep. I hadn’t heard footsteps approach, hadn’t heard anything. I should have heard. I turned my head in the darkness toward where I thought the voice came from.
Mick’s voice in the blackness sounded as if he were kneeling beside my cage, just a few inches away but behind me. I could hear the smile in his voice, the confidence. That was disturbing.
“Mick, what the fuck?” Meaning, what the fuck is going on, where the fuck is your accent, why the fuck is this happening, is your name even Mick, what the fuck happens next—all sorts of things. But there was no response. I rolled myself as best I could in the confines. “What the fuck is going on here?”
“If you behave and do as you’re told, filth, you will earn privileges. The first privilege will be a mat for the floor of your cage.”
“I want to see my brother.”
Silence.
“Mick?”
“Your brother is healthy and quite happy. His friends, too. They are being trained. Just like you will, if you behave. We have broken many men here. There is no shame in yielding to us. Cooperation just helps the process go faster. Your brother did not fight us long. There is no need for you to suffer either when you too can cooperate instead.”
I kept my mouth shut.
“No protest, filth? Good.”
Something slid along the cage wire. In the darkness and silence, my hearing had become preternaturally sharp.
“Open your mouth.”
Something poked my lips. “What is it?”
“Nourishment. Open your mouth and suck.”
A straw slid between my parted lips. Yes, Mick definitely wore infrared goggles or some other night vision device. He had no trouble seeing in the darkness.
I sucked. A bland semi-liquid, tasting vaguely like oatmeal and beans. The blandness was calculated to give me no taste stimulation, no respite from the deprivation. I sucked and swallowed, suddenly ravenous. I drank the mixture until the straw sucked at air on the other end.
The straw was plucked out of my lips. I heard footsteps. “Mick?” I begged, my first failure, but heard only the soft click of the door shutting.
Time passed. A day? More? Who knew? My hands remained tied behind my back. The restraints were not tight, but they prevented movement effectively. I dozed, slept, sang old songs in my head. At some point early on, I’d accidentally kicked my feet through my shit in the corner; my feet and calves were coated. Periodically, Mick would push a straw through the bars to feed me, saying only, “Eat.” When my bladder burst or my bowels cramped, I’d relieve myself as best I could in the corner. With insufficient room, though, my lower body was caked with dried piss and shit.
More time. I woke from a doze with the sudden sense that I was not alone. I was hungry. “Mick?” I bleated, wanting food or even the human contact of knowing he was there. I immediately hated myself for what saying his name revealed. He had stopped talking to me except to tell me to eat, but that one word spoken in the darkness meant I was not alone, at least for those few minutes.
Something rattled. The wire floor vibrated against my touch-deprived skin. Near my feet, the sound of metal on metal meant the door was being opened. I briefly contemplated kicking it, knocking whoever this was backward, but with my arms tied I wouldn’t be able to get out of the cage quickly enough to press the advantage. No, I needed to wait for a better opportunity.
“Out, filth.” Mick’s voice.
My body protested as I made forced it to move. Inactivity made my joints stiff. I managed to get myself turned around and pushed myself toward where my feet had been. Underneath me, the metal grate of the cage became a concrete floor.
“On your feet.”
With my hands behind my back, getting my feet under me was difficult. I staggered my way upright. My legs felt unsteady, but I was standing for the first time in ... how long?
A hand grabbed my arm and pulled me. Unready, I nearly fell but managed to stumble along.
“Your first lesson. Stand there, filth. Do not move.”
Something told me to keep my mouth shut, not ask questions. I stood right where I was. I heard something slide, then water rushing loud as thunder. A high-pressure hose. Mick was hosing out the cage.
“Stay still.”
Suddenly water hit my chest. I yowled my surprise before I could stop myself. This was not the same high pressure spray I’d heard blasting the cage, just a regular hose, but unexpected and strong enough to knock me back half a step. The water was cold—not chilled, just the cold of having not been heated. I’d been through worse. I managed to keep my footing. Mick sprayed my body from feet to chest. My skin roared with the force and sensation of something touching it.
“Close your eyes.”
Mick sprayed my face. I sputtered through the soaking, turning my head this way and that to avoid the pressure on my eyes and sensitive parts.
The water stopped. I heard the hose and metal nozzle hit the concrete, water running down a drain in the floor. Footsteps in the water, closer. Something rough touched my skin, something slick. I smelled soap. Mick scrubbed my skin hard with something. I grunted but said nothing. He lathered my chest, my arms, my neck, my face—more sputtering—stubble, my military-short hair, and my back. He skipped down to my legs.
“Squat a little.”
I bent my knees, bent my torso forward a few degrees. With a lighter touch, his hand ran the soap between my ass cheeks, which had parted slightly from the squat. His fingers lingered over my asshole. I pressed my lips together and accepted the indignity. His finger traced slow circles around my pucker. Sensing he was watching me through his goggles for a reaction, I kept my eyes forward and my expression impassive. He pressed his finger inside to the first knuckle, forcing an involuntary grunt from me.
“Like that, huh, filth?”
I said nothing.
“I said, you like that, filth? You say, ‘Yes, sir.’” He punctuated my pushing his finger deeper inside my ass.
“Yes, sir!” I barked. It hurt a little, but I’d suffered through worse.
“Good boy.”
His finger withdrew. I heard him lather his hands. I expected him to attack my ass again, but instead he reached between my legs from behind and soaped my nut sack, rolling my balls around in his hand, testing the size and weight of them. His rough touch felt good—better than good. Mick knew what he was doing. My cock began to swell. I felt myself blush. Fortunately, he couldn’t see that from where he knelt behind me.
“Stand up straight.”
I heard Mick come around in front of me. His soapy hand grasped my mostly hard cock, making me gasp again. He stroked it. “Nice,” he said. After a few strokes, he had me fully hard, all eight and three-quarter inches. His hand felt great, sliding slowly and gently along my shaft. I found myself wanting, needing, craving his hand to keep stroking.
“Ahh!” I choked. My balls began pumping, orgasming. My cum spurted and mixed with the soap covering Mick’s hand.
“Good boy, filth.”
I felt both shamed by what I’d let him do and pleased by his praise, pleased I’d earned praise from him. Fuck!—That meant they were getting to me.
The spray resumed, gentler this time, as Mick rinsed the soap off my body. Then the hose dropped to the floor again.
Something poked my lip. “Open.” The straw slid into my mouth and I sucked the bland mixture. I was hungry. It was filling. This time, it tasted slightly more of peas and carrots than beans.
“Name?”
“Peter.”
“No.” Something tapped my chest and—zap!—an electric jolt burned at me, even the tiny flash of blue-white light nearly blinding after my time in darkness. I staggered back half a step, more surprised than hurt. The pain was nothing I couldn’t handle.
“Name?”
If I were going to try to break someone, I’d attack their core sense of selfhood, starting with their name. Changing their name is the first step to changing who they are.
“Name?” Impatient.
Had Mick told me what name they would use to try to break me? What had Mick called me? Then I remembered.
“Filth?”
“Very good, Filth.”
Something clasped my shoulder. I flinched, but it was only a hand, a gentle congratulatory squeeze.
“Why are you here?”
Days ago, I’d said I came to find my brother. That answer would get me another zap. I tried, “I don’t know, sir.”
Nothing. Then, “Why are you here?”
What were my options? To be broken? Too self-aware—I couldn’t let them know I understood what was happening. To cooperate? Too vague. What had Mick said that first day? I’d turned every word over and over in my head since looking for clues.
“To be a good boy and learn my lessons well?”
Silence.
Nothing.
“Yes, that’s correct.” Mick sounded surprised. “Very good, Filth.” The squeeze on my shoulder lingered longer this time.
I heard something rustle. Mick ignored me for several long minutes. A hand on my arm led me briskly across the floor again.
“On your knees, Filth. Back in your cage.” His voice was gentler this time, less hard, more the way he would speak to a puppy.
I knelt. My knees and shoulder found the bottom and one side of the cage. I knee-crawled my way inside. Mick shut the door behind me, locking me in again.
There was a mat on the floor of my cage.