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Mark had outdone himself this week. It was his third time being sent to the break room. Mr. Milchick dropped a permanent marker on the floor by mistake after bending down to inspect one of the computers, and Mark took it upon himself to write a note on the bottom of his shoe. His backup plan was to take the marker into the elevator with him and write on the wall before he ascended. If one didn’t work he hoped the other would. But of course Mr. Milchick had realized his mistake too soon, and returned unannounced to the MDR department, bursting into the bathroom just as Mark had finished writing.
He wasn’t sure why, but giving up didn’t feel like an option today. So he shoved Mr. Milchick into the sinks and made a break for the door, but when he opened it Mr. Graner was looming above him with a less than thrilled look on his face. When Mark tried to shove past him he received a swift knee to the groin, giving Mr. Graner no issue plucking the contraband from his hand.
He huffed loudly sounding more like a child than he would have liked, and gave up fighting deciding that returning to his desk was the best course of action.
“Nah ah,” Milchick scolded. “Mark, please show us where you have written the message for your outtie.”
He silently lifted his shoe to show him. Milchick's eyebrows lifted patronizingly and then he smiled, wide and overly friendly.
“Thank you Mark. Please remove both shoes. Then you can accompany Mr. Graner here to the Break Room.”
So that is how he came to be walking down this foreboding little hallway, shoeless and out of breath. Mark sweeps his hair out of his face and takes a deep breath to settle himself, pausing only a moment before pushing the handle down to enter. Standing where Mr. Milchick should have been was Ms. Cobel. His cheeks burn as he feels his face fall, puffing out a soft sigh of discontent. He hated it, but was fully aware he was always an open book. Petey, Irving, and Dylan teased him for it constantly.
“You have no game face,” Dylan told him. He wondered if his outie was equally bad at hiding his emotions.
“Sit down, Mark.”
He does as he is told. It is silent except for the hum of the air conditioning that is blasting. The temperature is turned down excessively low, and he can already feel the tips of his fingers and toes growing cold.
Ms. Cobel saunters over to him, and he bristles as she positions herself between his legs. She's always too close for comfort. His heart starts to race when she slides her finger along his collar and beneath his jaw until she reaches his chin. She squeezes it roughly and jerks his head up to meet her icy gaze. She has not a hair out of place or a smudge of makeup, but her eyes are bloodshot and it makes her irises appear eerily blue. Her patience with him and his “adjustment period” has officially been lost, and he can feel the rage radiating off her in waves.
“I see, Mark, that you’re still having trouble adjusting to your new position here on the severed floor. Even with countless denials for resignation. It is clear that your outtie wants to be here, wants you to be here. And yet you continue to test my patience.”
Mark had requested a resignation four times since starting here. By the third time he started to wonder if any of them were even reaching his outtie. He doesn’t think that his outtie would be a person to not listen to him, and yet he'd never know the truth.
“I would like to request another resignation.”
Ms. Cobel squeezes his face so hard he was sure it would bruise. He grimaces as she swiftly moves her hand to his hair and pulls harshly, forcing his gaze to the ceiling. She digs her knee into his thigh and leans further over him. The heat of her body and breath across his face makes his skin crawl, but he doesn’t want to know what would happen if he shoved her away. So he lets it happen, hissing in pain as she viciously tugs his hair again.
“We’re going to try something a little different today, Mark.” She sing-songs. She releases him from her grip and goes to a table behind him. When she returns he’s suddenly enshrouded in darkness. It’s a blindfold that she snugly ties at the back of his head.
“Please, roll up your sleeves.”
He does as he is told.
“There!” she exclaims. “Perfect. Now put your hands behind you.”
He follows her orders.
He feels them being tied awkwardly behind him. Whatever she uses is thin and plastic and painfully tight.
“Good!” she praises again, overly cheery. “Thank you Mark! See! I knew you possessed the good sense to listen. I’ve always said you have the potential to live up to that spectacular résumé of yours.”
There’s a pause and he can hear her breathing close to him, then the sounds come on again. They were always the same, every time he’d been here. A heavy crashing sound, as if metal was hitting metal. It’s deafening and terrifying. Overlapped with that is a softer sound, almost as if it’s in the background. But it’s still there. It’s a low, even beep, like a heart monitor at a hospital. He’s never been to a hospital, but he knows what that sound is.
His heart is racing so fast now he feels as if it will rip right out of his chest. The sounds send a shiver of dread through him. He doesn’t know why, but it claws through his veins like ice.
“Now get on your knees.”
He obeys.
The floor is cold through his thin dress pants and he sits back on his ankles in an effort to make it more comfortable. Her heels click as she moves closer to him.
“Now…” she says, her voice lowering an octave. He feels something smooth glide up his arm, and she's circling him now.
“You’ve been giving Mr. Milchick quite a lot of trouble this week, Mark. Would you like to apologize for your behavior?”
Mark freezes in anticipation. He isn’t sure what Mr. Cobel has in store for him, but he knows it’s anything but good. His blood is raging through his veins now and he feels lightheaded. He forces himself to take a breath.
“Yes,” he replies shakily.
“Yes, what ?” Cobel asks again harshly. All the while she’s sliding the object over the skin of his neck, along his cheek, down his other arm. It’s sickeningly slow. Taunting him.
Then he can feel the warmth of her skin again. She’s hovering right in front of him, her breath hot upon his cheek. She moves closer, her lips gently brushing his ear. Her touch is almost tender. Bile rises in his throat and it takes all his might not to recoil in on himself, away from her. He can’t do that. It would only make it worse.
“ Yes, what ?” She whispers, her voice more snake-like than human.
Whatever the smooth flat object is is still on him, and now she’s sliding it over his chest and sinking lower towards his belt. His breath hitches in his throat and he swallows hard when it sinks even lower still, slowly rubbing the fly of his pants and in between his legs. Every muscle in his body seizes and he struggles against his restraints, the plastic already rubbing his skin raw.
“Ssshhhh. Just say it. I know you…”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and he flinches at the sound of his voice.
Weak.
He sounds weak, and it’s disgusting.
“I’m sorry Mark, but I just don’t think you mean it.” she says calmly, as if she’s talking about the weather. It's the same infuriating tone that Mr. Milchick uses.
There’s a high pitched crack, and a flash of pain shoots through him so fast he isn’t even sure where it is on his body at first. He breathes out heavily, the sound escaping him almost a moan, and he squeezes his eyes shut and tightens his mouth around his teeth waiting for his brain to register what just happened. It’s his forearm, and it stings something awful, every nerve there on fire. It takes him a moment, but he regulates his breathing and straightens his back in defiance.
He’s figured out by now that the object is some sort of stick or whip, and he’s realizing that this is just the beginning. The tightness in his chest grows more painful, but there’s nothing to be done. All he can do is wait.
Ms. Cobel is circling him again, like a predator eyeing up their prey before going for its neck. She’s sliding the stick gently along the skin beneath his clothes again, along his chest, his back, the backs of his thighs, below his belt. She tenderly strokes and caresses the clandestine parts of him. Places that he’s never even touched that way. A fiery ache builds low in his belly and he’s straining painfully against his pants. It’s a low thrum, rhythmic and constant, just like the beeping in the background, and he hates it. Why can’t he stop it? His body is a traitor. Hot shame scorches his cheeks and he bows his head as tears burn at the corners of his eyes, soaking into the blindfold. His breathing is trembling and uneven, and it takes everything he has to settle it back in his chest.
She doesn’t stop. “Again.”
“-I’m sorry.” he says louder.
Another lash at his skin, burning his other arm.
“Tsk-Tsk, Mark ,” she scolds.
Another. He winces.
“Again.”
“I’m sorry ,” Mark repeats, his voice breaking.
Another welt.
Her breath is in his ear again. He can smell her perfume. “Again,” She whispers roughly and his stomach turns. He can hear the smile on her lips. She’s enjoying this.
Any sort of defiance he had slowly leaves his body making him feel deflated. His shoulders slump, “I’m sorry.”
Crack!
It goes on like this for some time. It could have been minutes, or hours, or days. Eventually he sinks into the darkness behind his eyes, going to somewhere he might think was similar to a dream. Not that he would know. He’s never had a dream. But if he focuses on it hard enough he can almost feel the wind off the ocean on his face, almost hear the waves crash in front of him. What would the ocean be like in person? If he ever gets out of this place, that would be the first place he would visit. He wonders absently if his outtie liked the water, or if they even lived anywhere near a beach.
Another slap on his arm and he bights his lip to keep from calling out. His skin tingles, and he wonders if there will be welts. How will they explain it to his outtie this time? He can’t figure out why his outtie hasn’t second guessed any of the injuries that he’s come home with. Does he really think that welts on the back of his knuckles and pricks on the tips of his fingers were all somehow accidental? How is that possible? Or is other Mark simply a masochist who doesn’t care what happens to him? Petey thinks their outties are horrible people to have put them in here. Mark always felt more optimistic about his outtie. But now? Now he's starting to think he might be right.
She’s stroking him again with her choice of weapon, and he’s so hard now that it’s as agonizing as the slaps to his arms. He shifts on his knees and presses his thighs together at an attempt to relieve some of the pressure. This isn’t what it’s supposed to be like. Is it? This can’t be it.
“Maaaarrrk–” she sings to him while still rubbing along the length of him, “I know you’re still there, Mark. Come on. I know you can do it.”
Mark needs her to stop. He can’t take anymore of this. He can’t. His body won’t stop betraying him. His brain is somewhere else and yet it can’t stop the heat building in his body and it's desperate need to climb over the peak its seeking. He chokes back the groan that wants to escape. He won’t give her that. She’ll never have the satisfaction. He swallows hard, biting his lip to keep his chin from quivering. He let’s his mind go blank, sinking into the ocean completely. Away from here.
“All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am,” he states evenly.
She stills, and then after a beat he hears her set down the object on a nearby table.
“Stand up.” She orders quietly.
He stands.
“Roll your sleeves down.”
He does.
“Remove the blindfold.”
Mark wishes he didn’t have to. He wishes she would just leave. He removes it anyway.
She’s right in his face again, blue eyes lit up in a way he had never seen before. She grabs his chin again and he flinches and closes his eyes. But this time her touch is gentle.
“See Mark? I knew you could do it. I knew you weren’t hired here for nothing.”
She steps back and her eyes scan him from head to toe. Her face is pinched in disgust as her eyes linger at the front of his pants. Her lip lifts on one side and her gaze returns to his, penetrating and venomous. “Now,” she says, “We aren’t going to have any more problems, are we Mark?”
“No Ms. Cobel.”
She grins. “Good! I'm so happy we've come to an understanding.”
The door to the break room clicks shut behind him. The blank hallway is empty and quiet except for the buzzing of the lights overhead. Mark massages his wrist and inspects them. There’s the faintest tinge of pink at the irritated skin. He hurriedly unbuttons one of his sleeves only to find that while the skin was pink, there wasn’t much by way of injury. His outtie will probably just think it was some sort of irritation. It can’t be. It had been so painful. She struck him so many times ( or had she? ) The tears threaten to fall again, and he sucks in a deep breath to smother the panic that is slithering into his chest. He’d never be free, would he?
He clenches his jacket so hard in one hand on his walk back to MDR his nails carve half moons into his palms. The feeling grounds him, and keeps him from punching the wall. He didn’t need a broken hand on top of everything else. The walk helps. He stops shaking by the time he gets there. His breathing calms and he’s not sweating anymore.
When he appears in the doorway they don’t hear him right away. It must be late in the day because he can tell by the relaxed way they're talking that it’s almost time to go home. When he enters the room, it’s Petey that notices him first and he clears his throat to get Dylan and Irving’s attention.
“Christ Mark,” Petey says, rushing over to him. The others follow. He motions to put his arm around him, but Mark puts his hands up defensively, recoiling from his touch.
Petey pauses a moment, his shoulders dropping with disappointment.
“What the hell happened in there? How many times?”
“I don’t know,” he mutters, awkwardly shrugging him off and bee-lining it for the bathroom. He shoves the door open and it slams against the tile wall. Then he rushes to one of the stalls and gags into the toilet. Nothing comes up. He's convinced the feeling is worse than if he would just throw up. It's one more way in which his body betrays him today. He notices his right hand gripping the toilet. It’s shaking again. He doesn’t know why it does this at the end of the day. He can add that to the list of all of the other ridiculous questions he'll never have answered.
Mark picks his jacket off the ground and goes to the sink to wash his mouth out. When the water hits his tongue though he realizes how thirsty he is and gulps it down greedily. Suddenly the door is slamming against the wall again and Petey is there. Mark wipes the back of his hand and watches Petey come towards him.
“They both went home.”
“Mmm,” he hums.
Mark isn’t looking at him. He can’t bear to look at him right now, with his pride bruised as much as his arms, and his entire body still on fire from Ms. Cobel’s sick punishment.
He straightens his shoulders and smooths out his shirt. His fingers are at his throat pulling and kneading his tie until it’s so tight he almost can’t breathe.
“Hey, hey there. Don’t do that,” Petey interjects gently.
He takes hold of his shoulders and observes him. Petey’s eyes are dark and warm and truly kind. Mark nods at him and he watches Petey’s hands. They are hovering at his chest in hesitation, his fingers almost brushing along his shirt. Mark's shoulders tighten at his closeness and his breath catches in his throat. He keeps himself still though. No more flinching.
Petey gently pulls and tugs at his tie. Mark can feel himself sigh a breath of relief as it loosens around his neck. Tears are threatening to blur his vision, but he shoves the emotion away, burying it deep within his chest. Petey is intently watching him, his eyes whispering gentle comfort and reassurance. He loosens the tie more and then his fingers are at his throat nimbly undoing the top two buttons of his shirt.
Mark feels the air on his exposed skin just above the hollow of his throat for the very first time. Then there is Petey’s calloused fingers ever so gently touching his skin. His caress is so light he could have been a ghost. His touch is nothing like hers.
“Hey,” He says in a rough, low tone.
Mark looks at him again, studies the lines of his face and the dusting of a beard along his jaw.
“Yeah?”
“We’ll be alright.”
“How do you know?” Mark asks as he leans into him, their noses almost touching. His eyes settle on Petey’s lips as they turn up into a warm smile.
“Just leave it to me.”