Don't Be a Bad Boy

Chapter Three

3 - WAKING UP

When he awoke, his head groaned a million rumbles as he tried to turn it away from the light streaming in from the window. The blinds had long since ceased their function of shading since half the slats were either bent, broken or simply missing. This morning a particularly brilliant slash of light beat mercilessly into his eyes, but his head felt too heavy to move from the dazzling onslaught. With a groan he slapped the bed with a hand and forced his body to roll over, grabbing the sheet with him and further tangling his body.
He lay there panting and gasping for breath, his body shaking uncontrollably from the pain of it.
After a few minutes of adjusting to the endless throbbing, he tumbled from his bed onto the floor, grunting. With excruciating slowness he crawled to the kitchen cranny and hauled himself to his feet, holding onto the counter with all his failing might as his other hand reached blindly for the cupboard and feeling around for the rectangular bottle he knew contained his magic pills, the ones he couldn't get to yesterday, having forgotten them on his outing. Those magic pills kept the pain at bay, allowed him to live a quasi-normal existence. They kept the voices down; especially the insidious one, it was the loudest, the strongest, the one with the most meanness dripping from its disembodied rantings.
His hands shook so violently, the bottle jiggled in his flailing hands before falling and rolling beneath his kitchen table. He groaned and fell to the floor, his eyes squinting at the bottle that rolled back and forth mockingly in a dip in the floor. He dragged himself along the floor, one hand outstretched toward the bottle, his lips moving in silent prayer to please let him just get it, just get the bottle and get those pills. All he wanted right now were those pills.
His fingers touched the bottle and danced on it until it rolled his way. Grasping the bottle to his chest as though it were indeed a life-saver, he closed his eyes and tried to steady his racing heart and quivering body.
Fucking maggot!
He shut his eyes even tighter as the voice started in again. The gravelly voice grated on his nerves, sending raw screaming flashes of pain to the backs of his eyes until he had to open them just to focus on something else, anything else. He rolled to his side and practically ripped the top off and poured the pills into his palm. They came tumbling out in a downpour, some falling to the floor and disappearing under the stove. He picked out three, threw them into his mouth and crunched them raw, wincing at the starkly bitter pasty taste , drying it instantly, but fueling those synapses in his brain to quiet the voices that he could feel just waking up in time to play their little games with him.
Oh you think you're so fuckin smart, donchya!
Shut up!
He cried in his mind.
And the voice was quiet.
He laid his head down, closed his eyes and was lost once again, this time to the stupor of the pills.

The stained underneath of the table greeted him some hours later as he opened his eyes. For a second he thought he'd finally acquired the ability to fly and was hovering near the ceiling. And then he felt the hardness of the floor beneath him. With a sigh he rolled over and hauled his body to a standing position, cradling his heavy but painless head in one hand. His eyes felt dry and his mouth was pasty. He smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times to try to elicit some form of saliva, but it didn't work. It never did. Just a normal automatic response to a dry mouth.
His stomach grumbled, signaling its hunger. But the fridge bore nothing substantial to quell the demands.
He plunked himself down in an old and ripped lazy boy chair in his living and grabbed for the remote control. There was nothing amusing among the paltry five channels on his television set. So he sat and stared at the blank screen.
Food. He needed food. He needed sustenance. His stomach would not let him rest much longer. His head ached like a dull clanging on old metal. There was nothing to do but venture outside in the scorching heat of the day and attempt to appear normal.
And then he remembered. Food. The supermarket. The young man. And the blood. His body began to tingle with the memory. How the blood had felt as he rubbed himself all over the still body of the young man.
His eyes closed and his body jerked, a spasm of reminiscence. As much as he'd enjoyed the boy warm and giving, it was always just a façade of enjoyment. The true enjoyment would always come afterward, when he took his own turn and took out his own toys. Toys he would use on them as they lay gagged and terrified, emptying their own body of its urine and excrement. And that would always enrage him. His sight would dim until all there was to see were the eyes of his victim, staring beseechingly up at him, grunting behind the gag.
His eyes snapped open and his hand came flying from his zipper.
He'd done it again, that 'unmentionable' deed that had caused many a blood vessel to burst after his father had been done with him.
Dirty filthy boy! Don't look at me. Don't talk to me. I don't want to see you. Go take your bath. And make sure the water's HOT, I tell ya!
And he'd go upstairs and run the water, making it was as hot as it could be, for he knew his father would come tromping up the stairs to stick his gloved hand under the faucet. And if it hurt his gloved hand then it was plenty hot for his son to properly cleanse himself of the deed'. And with quivering feet and barely held back whimpers of pain, he's dip his feet in. And flinch.
The first time he flinched and took his foot out, his father had picked him up – with his gloved hands – and dropped him into the steaming water. The belt which hung loosely from his pants made sure the boy didn't utter so much as a sound while his body quickly became tinted a bright angry red. His father would stand there and watch as he'd pick up the cloth and soap and begin the task of cleansing himself, scrubbing until the skin was no longer red with heat, but red with blood, oozing from the miniature ripped open pores and tinting the water a lovely shade of pink.
When the bath was finally over, the water was a pleasantly warm temperature, and he'd watch as the sickening colour disappeared slowly down the drain. Then he'd lay on his bed, bare skin open to the air in hopes of cooling his burning flesh. No tears were shed as the salt would burn the skin even more.

The man jumped from his chair and began pacing the floor. Quick steps brought him from one side of the tiny room to the other in flashes of faded blue jeans and denim shirt. His bare feet squeaked at each turn, and greasy hair flew around only to whip him in the face. Lips moving constantly, muttering curses and forgive me's, a constant train of gibberish in the silence of the room.
The food had been left at the man-boy's house. He'd completely forgotten about the food. And now his stomach demanded sustenance. He'd have to spend more money to keep himself alive.
Stupid dumbfuck!
Just a squeak of a voice, but it was enough to set into motion the actions needed to step outside and appear normal.
A shower. Brushing teeth and hair. A change of clothes. Don shoes and a jacket as well as the inevitable sunglasses, he grabbed his keys and flew through the door, taking the steps down two at a time.
The sunlight hit him like a laser, making him back up against the wall, a hand shading his eyes.
"Rough night?"
"What?" The hand yanked down and the head whipped around to the one who would dare speak to him. Leaning against the bus pole was a man about the same age but dressed a little better and obviously faring much better with his easy smile. "Uh, yeah," he stammered and then turn around and headed for the downtown district, and food.
He'd passed maybe three blocks when the sound came to him. Like a snake in hiding waiting to pounce, the sound came again. He paused and looked around him before spotting the shadow in the alleyway. Peering in, he recognized Samson.
"Yo," he said as he too disappeared deeper in the shadows.
"How ya feelin bro?" Samson asked, his hand sliding into his jacket.
"Fuckin terrible. Whachya got?"
"Just came across this new brand. Wanna try it?"
"What is it?"
"How the fuck should I know? It's white, it feels good. What's there more to know?" Samson said as he brought out a grimy looking bag with some coarse grey powder in it.
"It's grey."
"No shit. You want it or no, Carl? Fifty bucks."
The man stared at the bag Samson was gently swaying in his hand, and he thought of the delirious feeling of flying. Maybe this time maybe this time he might actually fly. He reached into his back pocket and brought out a tattered black wallet of fake leather, and took out a wrinkled fiver. The exchange was made with no words and Samson disappeared deeper into the alley in ways Carl could only dream of doing. He made a mental note to talk to Samson about that later.
Back in the daylight and feeling slightly better with the added tiny weight in his inner jacket pocket, he continued down to the market square. Fresh fruit and vegetables his mother had always said. Only live foods could keep you alive. If you want to live, you eat things that are alive. He headed back home a while later ladled down with bags of fresh sweet smelling foods.

~*~

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