Makkoi sees them when he closes his eyes, the nightmares that never seem to stay in his dreams. Visions of Kirk’s hand up Jocelyn’s skirt, the fear and pain written clearly on her features and the screams that echo in his ears when Kirk cuts her, fucks her, leaves a bloody mess beyond his saving. He tries, he tries every time and he fails; fails to stop him, fails to revive her, fails to keep all the darkness and horror away from the family that represents the only bright spot, the only hope left to a man like him. Sometimes she looks at him, hate in her eyes and cold lips whispering accusations at him like a curse. He wakes up drenched in a cold sweat biting back a scream and hands bloody from where he’s dug his own nails into his palms. The nightmares are horrible and he wakes from them only to step into another, one that’s all too real and not as easy to escape.

Kirk’s hands are rough when they grab at him, demanding and impatient when they rip at clothing. The man doesn’t bother with niceties because he’s too busy taking what he wants. If he bothers using lube it’s only for his own convenience, not caring about whatever pain he’s causing, and if he does, he only reflects on it as a source of amusement and pleasure. Sometimes the man will bend him over and fuck into him in front of a mirror just to see the pained expression reflected there, the visual complimenting the auditory grunts and whimpers he pulls out of Makkoi with each brutal thrust. Over and over again that voice whispers dirty things into his ear. Over and over again he’s told what a disappointment he is, how Kirk wonders if Joanna would be tighter, if Jocelyn would scream louder, and those words keep him from closing his eyes because those images already play in his mind.

Sometimes it goes on for hours; the words, the sex, the small cuts and intricate patterns carved by a dagger that’s as sharp as the mind and tongue of the man wielding it. Sometimes he begs for death and gets rewarded with a backhand, a ground out coward before he‘s spat on and kicked. And when the Captain is finished with him, when he’s lying there with tears and blood and come drying against his skin he crawls into a shower to close his eyes. To wish away the nightmares that plague him more and more with everyday that passes. He closes his eyes and tries to dig up the memories that used to be so readily available to him of a wife with sparkling blue gray eyes and a loving smile. A small daughter full of light and laughter. Jocelyn’s eyes hardly sparkle in his thoughts now, that flat corpse like quality harder and harder to override when he tries to recall her. Joanna’s laughter is replaced with disgust and revulsion as she lists off his crimes from bloodied lips.

He wonders if he’s slipping into insanity because madness would be a blessing, but in this world-- in this world angels don‘t exist; only demons with too blue eyes.