He locks the door behind him, then pushes a half-empty drum of oil in front of it to bar the path. Blain has a key, and the last thing Trin wants is someone else with him. As he moves the drum, he has to stop twice because he’s crying so hard. No use pretending now. Both times his lungs hitch and he can’t seem to breathe through tears that clog his throat. Each breath is painful, each tear like hot wax burning his face. Every single part of him hurts in ways he never imagined possible.
And his damned mind won’t stop the playback, like a disc stuck on repeat. The images shuffle over and over, sometimes out of sequence and sometimes all at once. Opening the curtain. Gerrick’s eyes. The perfect O of his mouth. The red lips encircling his d**k. Trin almost thinks he could count every drop of
