Wesley is lying in his own excrement and urine. Only twenty steps separate the toilet from his room, but he did not make the distance in time. Wesley is all alone in the house. No one is around to help him, so he lies soaking in the putrid pool. Company does not necessarily bring comfort or relief. The jangling of keys and squeaking of door hinge are a portent of yet another drubbing. He knows it all too well. A slap, hard and hot. A slam of the head against the wall. Leather belt noosed around his neck, then pulled tautly, asphyxiating him. Leather belt on naked skin, each slash a laceration of the soul.
Wesley is lying in his own excrement and urine. He can do nothing but wait.