It's different this time. A raw edge, a blade scraped against his nerves. Too much. It's almost like drowning the first time, when the pain really sets in and the body starts to realize the danger. When you thrash and thrash and all you can do is suffer and choke. He's gasping now, eyes screwed shut, trying to listen to Pope's voice when all he wants to do is disappear. Too much, he thinks, too much. Pope's shouting now, saying things, trying to make the enemy small, but they're just fucking him. Holding him down, making him filthy.

Don't cry, Carver tells himself, don't you fucking cry, but he's gasping. Trying to muffle the noise against the mattress as the man behind him goes harder, jerking into him, calls him a slut and then comes with a strangled curse.

"Your boy looks good when he's fucked," the leader snickers. There's the sound of a belt clicking. "He's gonna remember me when we're done."