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Description
The television screen was a bright blue. Static soon turned it into an abstract mixture of white and black as the tape began to play. On screen, a man’s face appeared. He was small, thinly framed, his face a sickly, pasty white color, hair dark and falling haggardly down to his shoulders. His eyes were sad and blue. Looking closely, one could tell that they had once been a brilliant color, but now had faded with the misery that now scarred him.
     A voice began to question the man: “State your name.”
     The man lit a cigarette, shakily, inhaled and slowly exhaled before answering: “Nicholas Allen Marion.”
     “Your age?”
     “Thirty-two.”
     “Tell us how you met Justin Morgan.”
     Nicholas sighed, “We met in an adult theater. I was…masturbating and Justin saw me. I guess he thought I was attractive or something, because he…he said that he wanted me. He—he was so good-looking that I couldn’t refuse—“
     “Was this your first sexual experience with another man?”
     Fury spread across Nicholas’ face, “I don’t see how--!”
     “Just answer the question.”
     Seeing no reason to further put up a fight, he answered them: “Yes. My first sexual experience…ever.”
     “Continue.”
     “We went into a bathroom stall together.” He looked up at the screen. “They have bathrooms there. Anyway, we…we had…you know…sex. Right after it, he asked me to start a relationship and move in with him.
     “And you did?”
     He nodded.
     “Did the abuse begin then?”
     “No, not at first. Things were great for the first few months.”
     “When did the abuse begin?”
     He inhaled again. “Thanksgiving. Well, a few days before. He wanted me to stay home with him, but I wanted to visit my family…without him.” His voice began to shake, almost in unison with his hands. “My family…they hate homosexuals…they call them ‘faggots’. I had known for eighteen years that I was gay, but I couldn’t tell them. I couldn’t. Justin had an argument over it and, then, he hit me. He punched me, hard. I fell and he started kicking me…all over. Then he…he called my parents and he…he told them that I was gay and who he was.” The tears in his eyes began to flow. “It’s been nearly five years since they’ve spoken to me. They just hang up"
     “How often did the abuse occur?”
     “Everyday. He forced me to quit my job and stay home and clean and cook like a ‘good little bitch’. That’s what he always called me, ‘his bitch’.”
     "Continue.”
     “He beat me everyday. When I did something wrong—even something small that he saw wrong—he beat me. If I didn’t have dinner ready when he got home from work, he’d beat me even more. It was about a year later when he brought drugs into the house. Justin was shooting up heroin left and right. He wanted me to join him, but I’m not into that sort of thing. I always hated needles. When I refused, he beat me, worse than he ever had. After he beat me up, he tied me down to the bed and….injected it into my scrotum. I was addicted after that. He drug me down with him.”
     “Tell us about your scars.”
     Out of habit or, perhaps, instinct, Nicholas looked down at his arms, littered with scars and track-marks. “He started to get into S&M and bondage and—” he winced. “Fisting. He loved to use a razor on me. He would tie me up and start cutting…slicing. He also loved to see blood run down my legs, so he would poke my…my private area with hot needles.”
     “Why did you stay with him?”
     More tears ran down his face. “Because I loved him.”
     “Tell us what happened on the night of January twenty-ninth.”
     Nicholas Marion’s face went blank as he said his final words for that day: “No more.”
     Again came the blue screen, followed by the black and white static. The screen gave away again to another image, an image of Nicholas Marion’s small thin body tied to a bed. The audio was poor, but one could tell that he was screaming and pleading with his captor. Justin Morgan appeared on-screen, a razor blade in one hand and his other, stroking his erection.
     With sick reality, one could see the designs that Justin was carving and had carved into Nicholas’ flesh, and the blood that had come forth. Justin’s handsome features were now contorted with a cruel grin.
     Suddenly, something changed, Nicholas tore free—the tortured had now become the torturer. To disbelieving eyes, flesh became fur, teeth into fangs, fingers into claws. In the struggle that ensued, the camera was knocked over, cutting off the view of the unfolding horror.
     The tape was fast-forwarded to the moment when Nicholas picked up the camera, staring into it. His body was smeared with drying blood. He looked tired and as if he was in shock over what he had done. Another look began to consume the others. A look of a certain calm mixed with lunacy.
     He mouthed two words before he shut the camera off. The screen went blank, blank as Nicholas Marion’s face.
     “No more.”

Description
The television screen was a bright blue. Static soon turned it into an abstract mixture of white and black as the tape began to play. On screen, a man’s face appeared. He was small, thinly framed, his face a sickly, pasty white color, hair dark and falling haggardly down to his shoulders. His eyes were sad and blue. Looking closely, one could tell that they had once been a brilliant color, but now had faded with the misery that now scarred him.
     A voice began to question the man: “State your name.”
     The man lit a cigarette, shakily, inhaled and slowly exhaled before answering: “Nicholas Allen Marion.”
     “Your age?”
     “Thirty-two.”
     “Tell us how you met Justin Morgan.”
     Nicholas sighed, “We met in an adult theater. I was…masturbating and Justin saw me. I guess he thought I was attractive or something, because he…he said that he wanted me. He—he was so good-looking that I couldn’t refuse—“
     “Was this your first sexual experience with another man?”
     Fury spread across Nicholas’ face, “I don’t see how--!”
     “Just answer the question.”
     Seeing no reason to further put up a fight, he answered them: “Yes. My first sexual experience…ever.”
     “Continue.”
     “We went into a bathroom stall together.” He looked up at the screen. “They have bathrooms there. Anyway, we…we had…you know…sex. Right after it, he asked me to start a relationship and move in with him.
     “And you did?”
     He nodded.
     “Did the abuse begin then?”
     “No, not at first. Things were great for the first few months.”
     “When did the abuse begin?”
     He inhaled again. “Thanksgiving. Well, a few days before. He wanted me to stay home with him, but I wanted to visit my family…without him.” His voice began to shake, almost in unison with his hands. “My family…they hate homosexuals…they call them ‘faggots’. I had known for eighteen years that I was gay, but I couldn’t tell them. I couldn’t. Justin had an argument over it and, then, he hit me. He punched me, hard. I fell and he started kicking me…all over. Then he…he called my parents and he…he told them that I was gay and who he was.” The tears in his eyes began to flow. “It’s been nearly five years since they’ve spoken to me. They just hang up"
     “How often did the abuse occur?”
     “Everyday. He forced me to quit my job and stay home and clean and cook like a ‘good little bitch’. That’s what he always called me, ‘his bitch’.”
     "Continue.”
     “He beat me everyday. When I did something wrong—even something small that he saw wrong—he beat me. If I didn’t have dinner ready when he got home from work, he’d beat me even more. It was about a year later when he brought drugs into the house. Justin was shooting up heroin left and right. He wanted me to join him, but I’m not into that sort of thing. I always hated needles. When I refused, he beat me, worse than he ever had. After he beat me up, he tied me down to the bed and….injected it into my scrotum. I was addicted after that. He drug me down with him.”
     “Tell us about your scars.”
     Out of habit or, perhaps, instinct, Nicholas looked down at his arms, littered with scars and track-marks. “He started to get into S&M and bondage and—” he winced. “Fisting. He loved to use a razor on me. He would tie me up and start cutting…slicing. He also loved to see blood run down my legs, so he would poke my…my private area with hot needles.”
     “Why did you stay with him?”
     More tears ran down his face. “Because I loved him.”
     “Tell us what happened on the night of January twenty-ninth.”
     Nicholas Marion’s face went blank as he said his final words for that day: “No more.”
     Again came the blue screen, followed by the black and white static. The screen gave away again to another image, an image of Nicholas Marion’s small thin body tied to a bed. The audio was poor, but one could tell that he was screaming and pleading with his captor. Justin Morgan appeared on-screen, a razor blade in one hand and his other, stroking his erection.
     With sick reality, one could see the designs that Justin was carving and had carved into Nicholas’ flesh, and the blood that had come forth. Justin’s handsome features were now contorted with a cruel grin.
     Suddenly, something changed, Nicholas tore free—the tortured had now become the torturer. To disbelieving eyes, flesh became fur, teeth into fangs, fingers into claws. In the struggle that ensued, the camera was knocked over, cutting off the view of the unfolding horror.
     The tape was fast-forwarded to the moment when Nicholas picked up the camera, staring into it. His body was smeared with drying blood. He looked tired and as if he was in shock over what he had done. Another look began to consume the others. A look of a certain calm mixed with lunacy.
     He mouthed two words before he shut the camera off. The screen went blank, blank as Nicholas Marion’s face.
     “No more.”