Trigger warning: Violence, abuse, sexual assault, mentions of death

His new husband was called Gregory, but Remington was to refer to him only as Sir. 

He didn't get a tour of the house like he had with Andy, didn't get told he could help himself to anything he wanted - food, books, TV. Instead, he was yanked by the arm and up the stairs, where Gregory said, "You sleep here," while pushing open a door. 

It was hardly even a room. More of a cupboard with a mattress in it. Remington said nothing. 

"You don't stay in my bed," Gregory said. Remington knew what that meant, and he felt his stomach drop at the thought of it.

"Yes, Sir," he responded.

"You don't leave your room without permission unless you are going to the bathroom, which is right here, so I'll know." 

You'll know if I try and make a run for it. Got it. Gotta be a prisoner now. Fantastic. At least you're letting me use an actual bathroom and not a bucket. What a saint.

"You eat what I give you. No more, no less." 

"Yes, Sir." 

Gregory smiled at him now. A sick sort of smile. He pushed Remington into the tiny room and pulled the door so it slammed. Remington was left in the dark feeling the wall for the light switch. When he found it, nothing happened, and he realised either the bulb had popped or there wasn't one to begin with. The only source of light was through a slit of a window high up on the wall, and that was too dirty to let any proper light through. He was in a cupboard. That much was clear, and he longed for his room at Andy's, for his double bed, his vinyls, his clothes. 

For hours, he was in that room, sitting on the mattress in the dark. He didn't have anything. His phone had been taken. All he had was the clothes he was wearing. A suit that wasn't even his. 

When Gregory returned, he said nothing, just pulled Remington across the hall and into his much larger bedroom, though it was still smaller than the one he had at Andy's. You're such a loser, Remington wanted to say. You're not even that fucking rich and you think you're the most entitled person in the world. 

Nothing was said for the entirety of it. Remington did what he knew Gregory wanted. He made the right sounds and facial expression, and once it was over, he gladly fled the room, closing the door behind him and fumbling with his unzipped flyer. 

All night, he lay awake on the mattress under a think piece of fabric that couldn't be classed as a blanket. He didn't want to sleep, because if he slept, he'd dream, and he'd only dream of things he could no longer have. 

His door was opened the next morning without a knock, and a plate was left on the floor. Remington ate even though he felt sick and thanked Gregory like he was supposed to. 

In the evening, Gregory was angry about something that had nothing to do with Remington, but Remington took the blows and didn't fight back. The men with guns had told him plenty of times that he shouldn't do that, and he may have despised every one of them, but they had warned him for a reason. 

There was more brute-force sex later that night, and with a bruise forming on his stomach, every movement hurt more than the previous night, and lying in bed afterwards, he finally and ruthlessly cried. He missed his brothers and his house and his normal life, and he missed Andy and his room and the gentleness that the man possessed. The way that any anger he had was contained, that his voice was always level and his words were always kind. 

He thought back to the day they'd married, to how scared he'd been, and wished he'd let himself trust Andy from the beginning.

Now Andy might be dead, he was getting beaten until he was numb, and there was no way of knowing how long this would go on for, how long Gregory would keep him, whether he would ever leave the house again. 

This could be it. Until I die, this could be it. My life. Welcome, Remington, to your life. It looks like such fun.