The Moral Dilemma: Chapter 1

LIGHT FILTERED through the bars of the cell, tentative warmth enveloping him for the first time in weeks. Rafaelo struggled between a state of awareness and one of dull peace that always beckoned him, lulling him with the promise of no more pain.

His lashes fluttered open just as cold water poured over his body, extinguishing any such hope.

He startled awake, his eyes wildly roaming around as he tried to assess his surroundings.

He was… in a new place?

A place he didn’t recognize, nor did he have any idea how he’d gotten there.

“Despierta,” a voice echoed in his still foggy brain.

His body became covered in goosebumps as he shivered from being suddenly deprived of that warmth. He was stark naked, he suddenly realized.

“W-what?” he croaked, barely able to form the words.

His mouth was dry, his throat aching from the effort of uttering that one word.

How long had it been since he’d last spoken?

He couldn’t remember.

He found that he could remember little of the past… except…

He froze as images flashed in his brain.

It was like an outer-body experience as he watched himself as he would a stranger. And what he saw…

His heart thundered in his chest, panic slowly replacing his previous languid state.

Everything suddenly came back to him.

Michele.

He remembered meeting with Michele before finding himself put on the auction block and sold to an individual called Armand; a man who’d enjoyed doing the most vile things to him.

That had been… how long ago?

Aside from those clear memories, everything else was fuzzy.

He realized he’d been drugged out of his mind for more days than he could count—all so he could be Armand’s pliant toy.

To a degree, he was thankful he could only remember snippets of what that man had done to him—things no one should ever have to bear.

The rapes.

The beatings.

The mental abuse. It was all a pulsating echo in his mind, but one that he tried to push away. He didn’t to know.

he told himself in an attempt to calm the wild beats of his heart.

It wasn’t only the gory images that invaded his mind, reminding him of the depraved acts Armand had committed against him, though. It was also the fact that he’d found himself on the brink of death too many times to count.

The drugs had worked to a degree, but every time he gained consciousness, he tried to fight back. That, in return, earned him beating after beating, all of which had put him one step closer to death.

But he’d never taken that final step.

And now…

His brows scrunched together in confusion as he recalled hearing that Armand had died. After that, he’d been put up for sale again, hadn’t he?

As he raised his gaze to look at the man sneering at him, he realized he’d in fact been sold again. To man.

He didn’t voice the question out loud. He only stared silently as he tried to get his bearings together.

For the first time in too long, his mind was clear of drugs. There was still the dull hum of lethargy that threatened to pull him back, but he fought against it.

“Muevete,” the man hurled the word at him, shoving him back into the shower stall. “No tengo todo el dia.”

Suddenly, Rafaelo realized the man wasn’t speaking English, but Spanish. And he understood it.

he slowly remembered.

“Hijo de puta, andale!” He yelled again before turning on the shower.

Rivulets of water flowed down his skin, cold and invigorating.

Despite the confusion that still swirled in his mind, Rafaelo tried to get a grip on himself and assess his surroundings.

He’d been wrong.

As he let the water wash over him, he stared at the man who’d spoken to him.

He couldn’t have been the one to buy him. No, as he studied him, Rafaelo realized he could only be an underling of the person who’d bought him.

Though questions amassed in his brain, he took advantage of the shower to wash his body—another thing that seemed foreign to him.

It was almost as if from the time he’d been sold to Armand and until now he’d been put on pause. He couldn’t remember speaking in months, nor could he recall washing, or feeling clean in any way. In that regard, the water, cold as it was, proved to be priceless.

Yet it was all over too soon.

One moment he was rinsing the dirt off his body, the next he was being pulled out of the shower and handed some clothes.

“Tienes cinco minutos,” the man told him, leaving him aside so he could push another man into the shower, doing the same to him as he’d done to Rafaelo.

He blinked as he put on the clothes—a simple pair of linen pants and a shirt. Both were worn, and he could bet they’d belonged to someone else in the past. But against all odds, they were clean, and Rafaelo desperately needed that sense of cleanliness to cling to.

He might no longer feel as dirty on the outside, but he felt soiled on the inside, Armand’s intrusive touches having been forever imprinted on his skin.

Once the other man was done with his shower, he was shoved aside, given clothes and another man was pushed into the stall.

“Do you know where we are?” Rafaelo asked in a low voice in English. His brain was still too foggy for him to think up the words in Spanish.

The man’s eyes widened and he gave him a harsh look as he nodded towards the guard. They waited, and when he was busy with another prisoner, the man leaned in and whispered in Rafaelo’s ear.

“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” the man replied in English. “The punishment isn’t worth it.”

Rafaelo gave him a brisk nod. So the other prisoner was American. That could give him some insight into where he was if he managed to get him to talk.

Yet, before he could do anything else, all the men that had showered were lined up in a queue, slowly moving to the exit outside.

Rafaelo kept up with them despite feeling biting pain in his joints. At that point, his body had been abused so much he couldn’t even pinpoint the source of the pain, or what had caused it. He only knew that every step he took made him grit his teeth, so that he wouldn’t wail from anguish.

He guessed that was the price he had to pay for gaining a clear mind. Without the drugs that had kept him in a foggy bubble, he now felt everything.

Every. Little. Thing.

As they exited the building, Rafaelo squinted to protect his eyes from the hot sun—yet another thing he’d missed in his captivity. But this time he didn’t get to enjoy it as he realized they had been ordered to go out.

Every man grabbed a tool from a table and headed towards what looked like a pyramid.

“What’s happening?” he asked the American again.

“We work,” he sighed. “It’s why we’re here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will soon enough.”

Following the others’ cue, Rafaelo grabbed a tool from the table too. And as he continued to walk in a line with the other men, he realized they were all going inside the pyramid.

Soon, it became clear what the work was. They were supposed to dig inside the pyramid. Some people were instructed to carve intricate designs on the walls, while the less artistically inclined were forced to dig a tunnel into the pyramid, which was to be a chamber.

There were four guards, walking around and surveying the workers as they made sure no one slacked off.

“Can you tell me more?” Rafaelo insisted when he noted the guards weren’t within hearing distance.

“You don’t know how you came to be here?” the American asked.

Rafaelo shook his head.

“I just woke up here.”

The other man sighed.

“I’m Charles. I’ve been here for a year. And it’s exactly what you see. You work. You work, and work, and work.”

Rafaelo frowned. A year? That’s when he studied Charles for the first time.

He was thin, his skin burned from the sun, his face ravaged by effort.

“Rafaelo,” he nodded. “Why do they need us to work?”

“Because el señor wants his temples. And he would never pay anyone to do this, so instead he uses slaves.”

“Slaves?” Rafaelo blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Were you bought, or were you kidnapped?”

“Bought.”

Charles sighed again.

“Then you might still have a chance. The ones who’ve been kidnapped are usually run into an early grave within months, if not weeks.”

“I don’t understand.” Rafaelo frowned, still trying to keep his wits about him despite feeling weak and faint.

“If you’re kidnapped, it means you’re an enemy of el señor and you’ve been sent here to die. The guards have a list and they target those in particular.”

“What about you then?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he asked with a dry smirk. So he’d been bought too.

“And where is here, more exactly?” Rafaelo wet his lips as he asked.

He vaguely remembered that Armand’s home had been in the States. But based on the language of the guards and the brief glimpse he’d had of the vegetation on the outside, he was willing to bet he was either in a southern midwest state, or another country.

“Mexico. We’re somewhere in the northeast,” Charles confirmed.

Rafaelo faltered in his work as he stared at the man.

Mexico. He was in Mexico?

What the hell was he doing in Mexico?

Suddenly, he felt trapped in a never ending nightmare with no way of getting out.

Out of nowhere, a blow to his back made him reel as he tripped, falling forward and hitting his head against the wall.

“No hablan,” the guard snapped, hitting Rafaelo again.

He was so weak, he couldn’t put up a fight. He could only allow blow after blow, his pain increasing exponentially.

No one intervened. Everyone continued to work, watching him from the corner of their eyes. Some looked at him with pity, others with disinterest.

Even Charles was newly focused on his work, bringing his tool against the wall and chipping at the hard stone.

At that moment, Rafaelo realized he was truly on his own.

“Regresa a trabajar,” the guard ordered.

Blood coursed down his chin, his lip split open.

And as he stared at the hammer in his hand and blood that kept on dripping on the floor, he couldn’t help the manic laugh that escaped him.

Yes, there was pain. Yes, he wasn’t free.

But he was free of Armand.

Aside from that, nothing else mattered. One way or another, he would find a way out.

But for now… He wouldn’t be raped anymore.