The Diamond Prince Ch 08

In the Rough - The Chronicles of the Diamond Prince

Chapter 8 -- The Personal Hell

Content warning:

strong language, intense emotional trauma, mentions of death, mentions of sexual content, mentions of sexual non-consent/reluctance, mentions of violence, torture, blood, BDSM/kink elements, mentions of physical abuse/neglect

Declan, if that was even his name anymore, it was hard to remember, laid on the grimy cold wood floor of his room, exactly where the last client had left him. Not that it was his room exactly, he was a piece of furniture that came with the room when it was rented. He didn't know how long he'd been there, but he didn't have the willpower to move.

He'd managed to turn his head so he could look at the small, barred window. He couldn't see much from this angle, not that he could see much from it even looking directly out of it; the glass was caked in dirt and a warehouse wall was the view, but he felt more like he could breathe with it in his eyeline. The foggy yellow light of a nearby industrial lamp at least told him that it was still night. He didn't know exactly how long it had been, he'd long since lost track of when he'd been locked in this room alone.

His only company were the incessant string of greasy, sloppy clientele and the 'cleaner' that came through every few days. He was sore, exhausted, hungry and lonely in a way he had never known. He was grateful that the heavy chain around his neck which bolted him to the wall was long enough to reach the bathroom, so he could rinse himself off and drink from the tap, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything that wasn't a body fluid.

It was just then that he heard heavy footsteps near his door, and his mind panicked. He couldn't take another client right now, he just

couldn't.

He'd had four since the sun set, and two before that. He had barely made it through the last one, and he didn't have the strength to take more. He'd taken a beating a few days ago for poor performance and didn't know if his body could get through another. He put every ounce of strength he had into just getting to his knees as the door opened, and to his infinite relief, two slices of bread landed in front of him, and the door slammed shut again. If he'd had the energy he would have cried in relief.

After a while, the sun had come up and replaced the yellow haze in the window to a white one. He managed to get to the bathroom and clean himself up and drag himself onto the bed. Dawn was time to sleep, there would likely be no clients until midafternoon or later. He reached down between the headboard and the mattress and pulled out the top sheet he kept hidden. Every time the cleaner came to change the sheets, he would immediately hide the top sheet to use for himself as the room got dirtier. He would wrap himself up in it while he slept to help keep a barrier between himself and all the dried fluids, and this morning was no exception.

As he drifted off, his mind took him away and back to Ricks basement. He could feel Ava's body heat, smell her hair, hear her soft breaths and taste her skin against his lips. He could see her smile and her pale blue eyes, the way her cheeks flushed pink every time he kissed her. He knew it was a matter of time before they broke him, that one day he would no longer have the strength to think of her. It's what they wanted, for him to be a machine, a piece of furniture, a set of holes and nothing more. And he knew one day they would succeed. One day, he would drift to sleep wishing for death instead of wishing for her, and it was a thought that was more painful than anything else they could put him through.

Days and weeks passed, and he could feel himself weakening. The visits from clients were becoming less, yet he scarce had the strength to entertain them when they did. Punishment came frequently and harshly. He'd long abandoned any sense of dignity or will to be strong and screamed and begged with every lash, rod, and hand that struck him.

Only once in the entirety of his time in this place had he felt something that resembled kindness. He'd never seen the cleaner's face, when she came every so often, she never interacted nor spoke with him. He would scramble to his knees as she entered, making himself as invisible and out of her way as he could. He would face the wall and rest his head against it to steady himself as his weakness grew.

The first few times she had come, he was worried that she would use him or hurt him, was worried that she would find that he had been stashing the sheet and would punish him, but she never did, and although he ever remained wary of her, her presence was the closest thing to comfort he got. He wondered if she even knew he existed, or if he was as much an object as the wall he was chained to, to her.

The last time he was in the same room as her, he was weak, his breathing was labored, and his entire body ached. He heard her at his door, he could tell by now by the lightness of her steps in the hall it was her. He breathed a sigh of relief and dragged himself to his usual post for her, his body shaking with the effort and swaying slightly, but he held. Though he never received any praise from her, the lack of punishment was enough for him to feel praised, and he was determined to please the one person who seemed to appreciate his efforts, even if it was just in his own head.

He knew he hadn't had time to clean up since the head slave had been here to use him, and they had been particularly brutal. He knew he had blood streaked down his thighs, but there was nothing he could do about that now, so he simply focused on being good and staying still. He listened as she performed her usual routine, change the sheets, fish his hidden top sheet out, wipe down the bathroom, sweep the floor around him, wipe up as much evidence of sexual activity or blood as she could from surfaces.

He could hear her packing up and heading for the door when she paused. She stood, seemingly still by the door for several seconds before apparently heading back to the bathroom. He heard running water, and then she came back. He could feel her standing directly behind him and he tensed, wary of this new behavior. Her arm snaked around him, and she held a small paper cup to his lips. "Drink." Came a soft voice. After a moment he did, grateful as the cool water soothed the desert in his mouth and throat. She then ran a cool cloth over his ass and thighs, wiping away the evidence there too.

He was so grateful for the gentle contact, even if it was the professional, indifferent hands of a person simply doing their job; cleaning the furniture in the room, it meant he could save himself the energy of crawling all the way to the bathroom when she left. Once she was apparently satisfied, she again packed up and readied to leave, but once again paused behind him. He held his breath and waited.

She ran a soft hand down his back, around the curve of his rear and back up, trailing her fingers up the nape of his neck before finally leaving, swiftly closing the door behind herself. He collapsed at the sound and cried. He wondered if she knew just how much strength she had given him with that simple, reassuring gesture.

————-

Sarah grew up impoverished; her parents had passed when she was very little, leaving her to the mercy of her two teenage brothers. They'd quickly joined gangs and turned her into their personal servant. They managed to take control of the Tavern when she was fifteen, and they made her full-time staff there as well. She was as much a slave as the ones she tended and knew no other life.

She did what she could to care for the beings trapped in that building, but ultimately watched them all succumb to the abuse they suffered. She learned not to get attached as they all inevitably disappeared or died, and many grew feral and mad with the isolation and pain. She hosted many injuries from being attacked by the scared and abused creatures as she tried to clean their living spaces and learned to keep her distance. Many of the slaves had no will to live or care for other creatures, and she had to work around them or neglect them altogether for her own safety. She worked there for years, over a decade at least, and became numb to the comings and goings around her.

One day, one of the creatures she found dead, and reported it. He had only been in the room for a few weeks and had seemingly ended his own life. She wasn't surprised, it wasn't the first, and wouldn't be the last. She braced herself the next week as she stood outside that door, wondering what his replacement on the other side would be. She opened the door slowly to reveal a thin, but beautiful man huddled on the bed. He seemed to only notice her after a moment but as soon as he did, he immediately averted his eyes and scrambled to the floor, and she startled at the sudden movement.

When she looked again after lowering her arms from her defensive stance, there he was, kneeling reverently to her. Her breath hitched as she took in the long lines of his back and ass, the pale expanse of skin, the trembling of his features. He was no threat. She steeled herself and marched forward into the room, dropping her cleaning supplies in front of him.

He startled, but seemed to understand her situation, as he squeaked and quickly scrambled to turn away from her and plant himself against the wall opposite her, away from furniture and the bed. She smiled at his obedience and wondered how long it would last. He clearly came from somewhere that took care of him, and he was well trained, she couldn't help but think what a shame it was that he ended up here.

She went about her job, and it was the easiest job she'd had in a long time. He stayed stone still, knelt against the wall, his steady breaths the only sound from him. She spared him several appreciative glances while she could but knew it would only be a matter of weeks before he broke, and succumbed to rage, depression, insanity, and eventually death.

Each time she approached his room, she expected to find a rabid animal, or worse, a corpse, and each time, she was met with the same reverence and obedience. Each time, she smiled in his direction and thanked him internally for making her life so easy. She knew she couldn't speak to him, she had to just get her job done and move on, but she couldn't help but grow attached.

He lingered in her mind, and she grew to look forward to her silent visits with him, somehow, he almost felt like a friend. She named him in her mind and would speak to him silently as she worked, telling him about her day and her life, and all the while he would listen in silence, never barking at her or questioning or threatening. She knew he probably didn't think twice about her and the secret inner monologue relationship she had with him, but he had become her only friend in the world.

Months passed and he remained, well surpassing most others in life span and sanity. She watched with broken heart as he withered away, slowly becoming a hollow shell of what he once had been. She could somehow feel his energy waning, his spirit dying, yet he remained ever faithfully her reverent friend.

One day, she opened his door to find him a pile on the floor, bruises and welts and blood littered his entire body. She watched with tear filled eyes as he struggled on shaking limbs to drag himself to his place against the wall for her, his breathing ragged, his body more bone than meat. Something told her in her gut that it was finally time, she would finally have to say goodbye to this beautiful friend she had made.

She did what she could to stifle her sobs as she went about her duty and willed herself to detach and move on. As she was about to force herself out the door, the smallest whimper caught her ears and she looked back to see him sway weakly. She couldn't, she couldn't leave without a real goodbye.

She threw down her things,

fuck it. What's the worst that could happen.

She thought to herself. She rushed to the bathroom and poured a cup of water and wet a cloth. She slowly, gently approached him, and he didn't move. She ever so carefully held the cup to his chapped lips, and when he didn't respond, she forced her voice out. "Drink," she commanded softly. His eyes opened and after a brief hesitation, he complied, and she helped him slowly finish the cup.

She then gently wiped away as much of the blood and filth from him as she could in her limited time. Small noises escaped him at her touch, and she knew without having to hear the words that he was saying

thank you.

She smiled and was about to walk out the door once more when another feeling gripped her; it wasn't enough. He needed to know, he needed to know that she appreciated him and all he had inadvertently done for her.

She approached him again, and with a shaking hand she ran it up and down his back, and a sense of calm and finality washed through her. It was like, the contact allowed her to feel his gratitude in return, like she somehow knew from that small touch, he returned her feelings and for that brief moment, neither was alone.

It was only a few days later and he was dragged from the room. A sense of dread more than any he'd had yet filled him as he was dragged unceremoniously down the stairs to the depths of, what he could only believe would be hell. The stench of blood and flesh filled his nostrils as his limbs were tied tight, ropes digging into and biting his flesh. With the audience of cameras and live clients, every unthinkable manner of torture was bestowed on his already frail and failing body. The darkest of slave spaces couldn't save him from the agony and his voice ripped through the walls of the building.

He was choked into unconsciousness continually, and each time he prayed not to wake. His skin was littered with bruises, burns, and all manner of cuts. They spared scarcely an inch and reveled in his screams and tears with laughter and malice. They left his face, save for a few small cuts and bruises from previous beatings, perhaps so they could better see the agony and fear. Each time his body could take no more, he would mercifully pass out, and wake alone later in a pool of his own blood and bodily fluids, right where they'd left him, to ruminate on past events until they came back; And they always came back.

They would taunt and jeer as they set up for the next round as tears streamed down his face, and they would pour water down his throat to try and buy more time with his already mangled body. And one day, when they came, his face was slack, eyes barely open, and when they taunted him, he didn't respond.

When they slapped and prodded him, he didn't flinch and when they ran a knife along his torso, once again spilling what was left of his blood, he didn't whimper, didn't cry, didn't scream. They huffed, grumbled to one another, and together lifted him, and dropped him in a box, and darkness consumed him.

Finally. Finally, they'd had enough. Finally, he would be allowed the mercy of death, and he slept.

He'd been in there for some time - it was impossible to tell how much, but he listened to coming and going activities in the room around him, when the sounds changed. He was drifting in and out of consciousness when he heard loud shouts and screams that did not follow the usual atmosphere. At first, he strained to hear what the commotion around him meant, but exhaustion once again began to take hold and he struggled to remain awake.

Eventually the noises began to die, and they were beginning to feel like a distant dream, and he once again allowed himself the mercy of sleep, which he deep down, hoped would be the last time. He was suddenly startled awake as his box shifted and was opened and he was struck with terror as blinding light flooded the small dark space. Despite his fear, weakness and pain allowed him only the smallest of noises. Anxiety continued to course through him as he felt a hand touch his face and turn his head towards whomever had opened his box.

He couldn't see their face as his dulled senses failed him in the blinding light and loud open air, but as they dropped his head again, they shouted, and it hurt his head. the last thing he remembered before losing consciousness again, was a soft voice and others in the distance;

shhh... It's ok baby, I've got you.