For three weeks, the tall man plotted.
Every morning, he rose at 6:30 am, dressed in jeans, a dingy white T-shirt, and a zip-up jacket and drove the two miles to Franklin Avenue, a cigarette between his thin lips. His face was hard, craggy, and if you looked into his faded blue eyes, you would see nothing: No emotion, no thoughts, no feeling, only blankness. He had practiced his smile in the mirror and small talk with anyone who would humor him, but he could do nothing about the deadness in his eyes.
Upon reaching his destination, he would turn onto a side street, pull a U-turn, and park at the curb. The Loud house was off to his left, the garage and the driveway just visible around the corner of a puke green bungalow with a slate roof. As he waited, he smoked cigarettes and listened to The Jackson O'Brien Show on WKBBL. Jackson and Kay, his shit-talking woman sidekick, yukked over the morning news and took calls from random suburbanites with nothing to say and all day to say it. Sometimes, if he had a particularly good dream the night before, he would slip his hand down the front of his jeans and masturbate himself, high on the thrill of knowing that anyone could walk by and see what he was doing. When he filled his boxers, he wiped his hand on his jacket and savored the sensation of his seed drying in his pubic hair.
At 7:15, without fail, a group of kids with packs on their backs would pass by on Franklin. The tall man would perk up, drop whatever he was doing, and lean excitedly over the wheel. He'd scan their faces in search of his favorite, and when he spotted him, a sick, leering grin spread across his face. If he was lucky, the boy would turn his head as he passed the intersection and the tall man would see his delicate features: High, arrogant cheekbones; pink, pouty lips; thick, dainty eyelashes; and soft, angular chin all framed by long, silky blonde hair that shimmered in the sunlight like celestial fire. The tall man stared at the boy with infernal lust, breathing shallow, heart racing, and craned his neck in hopes of seeing his tight little ass.
Once the Loud kids were out of sight, the tall man waited exactly four minutes before putting the van in drive and following. He stayed half a block behind so they wouldn't get suspicious, then, when they reached the school, he would speed up and drive past. At home in his messy one-bedroom apartment over the hardware store, he would pace back and forth as visions of Lyle Loud's naked body consumed him, each one stoking the ever-present fire in his belly until he burned. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't think, he couldn't sit still; his obsession was reaching fever pitch and every day, his grip on sanity slipped a little more.
Sometime around noon, when the terrible, gnashing need was at its worst, he would kneel before the shrine in his closet and gaze at photographs taped to the wall. He would hold his most revered possession - a pair of Lyle's boxers - in his hands with the adoration of a Christian handling Christ's robe. The silky feeling and faint, musky scent of boy intoxicated him, and the knowledge that they had touched Lyle's most secret places brought him to the edge. He would press them to his nose, inhale, and masturbate.
At 2:00, he drove to Royal Woods Elementary and parked on the opposite side of the tree-lined street. Tiny houses screened behind thick vegetation kept eternal watch and the tall man silently wondered if anyone inside of them had noticed his daily vigils. If so, they might remember.
The point of following Lyle was to learn his habits and the layout of his normal route, that way the tall man knew where to take him from. If people saw the van and recalled it when the police asked, he would get caught, and he didn't want that. He knew what they did to men like him in prison.
He just had to hope for the best.
The bell rang at 2:25, and a thousand kids streamed out of the building, some to buses idling in front of the school and others out into the surrounding neighborhood. The tall man spotted Lyle making his way toward the street and his heart bounced against his ribs. Lyle turned the corner and disappeared, and the tall man followed.
Six blocks later, alone, Lyle crossed the front lawn of a nondescript ranch house with an empty driveway and knocked. The door opened, and his half-sister, full-girlfriend Gloom flashed a big, happy smile. A big breasted girl with black hair and pallid skin, Gloom was the tall man's archenemy, and he fantasized about killing her only slightly less than he did about fucking Lyle. When he finally struck, he decided, he would act on those fantasies: He had a hunting knife with her name all over it.
Maybe he'd cut her breasts off and make a vest out of them.
Lyle would like that.
An hour after arriving, Lyle left and hurried home. He cut through Miller Park and picked up a dirt trail through a stand of forest separating the baseball diamond from Solomon Street. It filtered out on an isolated stretch two blocks from the nearest house. The tall man's plan was to park near the trailhead and wait for Lyle to come out, then offer him a ride. If the boy refused, he'd knock him down and force him into the van...but he didn't want to. A struggle might alert someone. The tall man was quicker and stronger than he looked, but all Lyle had to do was get out one good scream and his plans would be ruined.
He followed Lyle home, then returned to the apartment. The Weather Channel played on an endless loop, providing background noise to his quiet suffering, and the light retreated from the room like receding floodwaters. Thoughts of Lyle plagued him until his head throbbed and his stomach knotted; he paced, he wheeled, he muttered to himself and begged God to kill him because he couldn't take anymore, but his torment never abated, never lessened.
In bed, he stared wide-eyed into the shadow and counted down the days until he would have his sweet prince.
4.
3.
Now 2.
1. God, so close.
Finally, the appointed day arrived. The tall man was awake when the tepid May sunlight crept hesitantly into the room. He had barely slept, and when he did, Lyle Loud stood at his bedside clad in denim shorts and a flowing purple shirt that hid his decidedly feminine curves. Lyle smirked knowingly, and the tall man smiled back. Soon, he said.
Soon,
Getting out of bed, he visited the shrine, then took a shower, letting the hot water relax his tense muscles. In the kitchen, where the floor was tacky and the sink overfilled, he sat a black duffle bag on the table and rummaged through it to make sure he had everything he needed. Rope. Duct tape. Handcuffs. An Exacto knife. Chloroform. A ball gag. Other things. He made himself a cup of instant coffee and sat. The mug shook in his grasp and slimey nerves writhed in the pit of his stomach like a nest of eels. He finished the coffee, then took a bottle of Canadian Mist down from a cabinet. He nipped it throughout the day to fortify himself for what lay ahead, then switched to beer at noon so he didn't get drunk.
At 2:30, he left the apartment and went down the narrow staircase. A door opened onto a gravel alleyway defined by the back of the store and a wooden stockade fence edging Beaker Street. He closed the door but didn't lock it so he could quickly and easily get Lyle inside. He went around the back of the van, opened the double doors, and crawled into the cargo hold. A long toolbox with a hinged lid was built into one wall. He opened it, reached in, and pulled out a threadbare blue tarp, which he then laid carefully down, smoothing down the edges with his hands. He jumped out, slammed the doors, and slid in behind the wheel. He turned, deposited the bag behind the passenger seat, and started the engine.
All the way to Solomon Street, he stared over the wheel with an anxious expression. His bowels gurgled sickly and his heart slammed an unsteady tempo, and halfway there he almost gave up and turned around, but the promise of finally having Lyle all to himself pushed him on.
Fifteen minutes after setting out, he passed the trailhead, pulled an illegal U-turn, and parked on the grassy strip running between the forest and the road.
Now to wait.
He lit a cigarette and divided his attention between the path and the dashboard clock, counting down the minutes until his sweet Lyle would come to him.
After what seemed like forever, something moved between the trees, and the tall man's heart dropped into his stomach. A moment later, Lyle came out, turned left, and started home without sparing him so much as a glance. Just like in his dreams, Lyle wore denim shorts, a purple shirt, and flip flops that smacked the ground with every step. The tall man's heart raced and his palms began to sweat. He swallowed around a lump in his throat. He was flush from head to toe and his stomach rocked and reeled like Chubby Checker on PCP.
Could he do this?
His eyes went to Lyle's wiggling little butt.
Yes, he could.
He started the engine and pressed the gas.
The van rolled forward, crunching gravel under its tires.
He rolled down the window as he drew alongside Lyle. Lyle glanced up, guarded, then relaxed. "Hey," the tall man grinned, "need a ride?"
Lyle Loud strode along the grassy shoulder of Solomon Street with a spring in his step and joy bursting in his chest. His sensuous lips were arranged in a sly little smile and his hips swished sassily from side to side, his feet barely touching the ground. His blonde head was thrust firmly into the clouds and his hand tingled with the memory of Gloom's bare breast. Every day before going home, he stopped at her house on the way and they made out, only stopping when they were both hot and winded. Gloom said she wasn't ready to go all the way and Lyle respected that...even though he was.
So ready.
Today, he felt bold and touched her boob through her dress. Instead of brushing his hand away like she usually did, she arched her back into his touch. One thing led to another and he slid her dress down one creamy, freckle-smattered shoulder to expose her tit. She let him play with it for ten whole minutes before gasping, "Stop," in a voice that said keep going. He didn't want to stop and he didn't think she did either, but he pulled his hand away he could have pushed the matter and taken her to bed, but listening to her was a sign of respect and devotion and for her, knowing that he would stop when she asked him to built trust, the most important aspect of a relationship.
Forcing himself to unhand her soft, pillowy breast stung, but they were making progress, and Lyle was very happy with it.
He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't realize he had company until a shadow blotted out the sun. He stiffened and whipped his head up. A familiar man leaned out of a familiar van, the tangled ginger hair around his bald spot rustling in the warm spring wind and his lips peeling back from his prominent buck teeth in an amicable smile.. Lyle did not pay attention to his eyes. He never did. "Hey," Rusty Spokes said, "need a ride?"
Rusty was one of Lyle's father's best friends. They had known each other since they were in elementary school and were almost as close as Dad and Mr. McBride: Rusty came over for holidays and barbeques, and every so often, he and Dad went bowling at Lanes O Fire in Elk Park. When Rusty came over, he always had a gift for Lyle, sometimes candy, sometimes video games. Don't tell anyone else, Rusty told him once with a glint in his eye, I can't afford to give everyone presents. Lyle liked Rusty. He was nice.
He didn't think twice about bounding around the front end of the van and climbing into the passenger seat. Why would he? Rusty wasn't a stranger, he was his friend.
"Thanks." Lyle said and pulled his seatbelt on.
"No problem," Rusty said. He navigated the van to the end of the street and turned left onto Ridgemont Drive, a wide residential street lined with shaded sidewalks and old houses. "Where you coming from? I didn't expect to see you out here."
"I was at my girlfriend's house," Lyle said.
Rusty grinned. "Oh, yeah?" he asked knowingly. "You got a girlfriend?"
"Yeah," Lyle blushed, "her name is Gloom." He realized he said something he shouldn't have and blinked. It was 2034 and incest was legal, but still frowned upon. Dad told him and Lemy to not talk about dating their sisters. People in this town already think we're weird, we don't need to add to it. He wasn't even supposed to tell people like Rusty.
Rusty's smile widened. "Your sister Gloom? She's cute."
"Yeah," Lyle said quickly, "it kind of just...happened."
"Hey, I don't judge," Rusty said. "Love is love, right?"
Relief washed over Lyle. He should have known Rusty would understand. "Yeah, she's really great."
"You in love with her?" Rusty asked.
An image of Gloom formed in his mind. Her freckled face, her glowing smile, her soft brown eyes. Warmth flooded his chest and he took a deep, dreamy breath. "Yeah," he said, "I do."
He didn't notice Rusty's smile drain away, didn't see how the older man's grip tightened on the wheel. "That's real nice," Rusty muttered.
They were on a wooded stretch of road outside town. Lyle looked around and blinked in confusion. "Where are we going?" he asked.
"I need to drop something off at the mechanic's," Rusty said.
Lyle's puzzlement deepened. "What?"
"Lawnmower."
They pulled onto a rutted dirt road flanked by dense forest. The van shook and jostled. Lyle turned to look into the cargo compartment.
He didn't see a lawnmower.
Now he was downright baffled. If Rusty said he had to drop off a lawnmower, he had to drop off a lawnmower. He could trust Rusty.
The road eventually let out in a clearing overlooking a bend in the Royal River. A steep hillside thick with vegetation swept back from the opposite bank. Thick foliage crammed the rideline, making seeing beyond it impossible. There could be a city on the other side or nothing at all. Rusty pulled the van to a stop and cut the engine. It ticked and knocked like the tar spackled lungs of an ancient smoker. Rusty unbuckled his seatbelt and Lyle frowned. "Where's the mechan -?"
Without warning, Rusty fell on him, one hand closing around his throat and the other yanking his hair. Lyle's little heart jumped into his throat and his body went rigid in sudden terror. He tried to scream, but it came out as a choking gurgle instead. Rusty squeezed tighter; pressure filled Lyle's skull and his eyes bulged from their sockets with such force that his vision went gray. Rusty's lips peeled back from his teeth in a hateful sneer, and for the first time, Lyle was scared.
Rusty released his neck, then, suddenly, the world went out from under Lyle. He hit the floor face first, the tarp crinkling beneath him, and the air left his lungs in a pained wheeze. His mind raced a mile a minute and adrenaline coursed through his veins. He tried to push to his knees, but something crashed into the side of his head and a bomb blast of agony enveloped his skull. Rusty's knee jammed between his shoulder blades, and his hands forced Lyle's behind his back. Stunned, Lyle moaned at the stinging in his joints, each beat of his frightened heart sending sharp pangs through his skull.
Panting like an excited animal reveling in the kill, Rusty slapped a pair of cold handcuffs onto Lyle's wrists and closed them as tight as they would go, which wasn't very tight at all because they were meant for grown-ups, not a petite boy of eleven. The metal still bit into his flesh and clamped on his wrist bone, the fiery pain dispelling the fog in his head like smoke on the wind. He thrashed in a mindless and futile attempt to buck Rusty off, and Rusty responded by punching the back of his head. Lyle screamed and started to cry.
"Stop fighting or I'll really hurt you," Rusty said through his teeth. His voice was cold, hissing, the warmth and friendliness that had always characterized it gone. That rattling, snake-like tone, more than anything else (even the handcuffs) made Lyle realize just how dire his situation was. The fight ran out of him and he went limp; fat tears oozed down his cheeks and his lips trembled pitifully. "Stop crying," Rusty commanded. Lyle bit his bottom lip and squeezed his eyes closed, but he shook and wept anyway. Snot seeped freely from his nose and his body quivered with the primal fear of a small mammal pinned beneath a much larger predator.
Rusty's open hand landed hard on the back of Lyle's head, and Lyle jumped. He sucked a shivery intake of air and held his breath to keep from crying. Rusty shifted his weight, then brushed his fingertips appreciatively along the ride of Lyle's cheekbone. Lyle closed his eyes and suppressed a shiver of revulsion. This wasn't happening...couldn't be happening...not here, not that, not from Rusty.
"You're a pretty little boy," Rusty said into Lyle's ear, "you know that?" His hot breath puffed against Lyle's skin and sent goosebumps racing up and down his arms. Rusty pressed his moist lips to his throat, and Lyle trembled.
"S-Stop," he moaned, hating how small and weak his voice was.
Rusty did it again, his breathing faster, heavier. "Stop," Lyle sobbed, "Rusty, please stop."
Instead, Rusty slipped his fingers into the waistband of Lyle's shorts. Lyle's heart sank and he reflexively rocked from side-to-side. It did no good. Rusty pulled his shorts down, then slipped them over his ankles and threw them away.
This couldn't be happening.
It couldn't.
It wasn't real. He was still at Gloom's, cradled in her arms and fast asleep, warm and safe against her bosom. He was home, in his own bed still asleep, swaddled in fuzzy pink blankets. He was asleep at his desk in school. He was unconscious in the hospital after being hit by a car.
He was anywhere but here.
Rusty yanked Lyle's underwear down his legs, and Lyle's face burned crimson with shame. Rusty's breathing hitched and his hand caressed Lyle's butt with faux-tenderness. Lyle shuddered and swallowed a sob. "Please stop," he repeated, his voice cracking, "please stop hurting me."
Ignoring him, Rusty ran his hands slowly over the soft, fleshy globes of Lyle's butt cheeks like a randy boy exploring another boy's body for the first time. He sank his thumbs in and spread them apart, making Lyle tense. "P-Please, Rusty, please stop"
Breathing ragged, hands shaking, Rusty touched his finger to Lyle's puckered anus, and Lyle tried desperately to wiggle away. With his free hand, Rusty grabbed the chain linking the cuffs and yanked, holding Lyle in place.
Helpless.
He was helpless.
And he was probably going to die.
That realization struck him like a fist to the guts, and he began to cry anew. Rusty's finger sank an inch into his body, and his muscles clamped down in an attempt to keep the intruder out. Rusty licked his chops like a hungry dog and forced his way in, his jagged nail tearing Lyle's tender flesh. Lyle yelped and sobbed inconsolably, his little body shaking. The strange and wholly repellant sensation of Rusty's finger filling his rectum - where nothing was ever meant to touch - made him cry harder.
"You're really tight," Rusty said. He was so hard he ached and the musk of Lyle's virgin ass brought a rush of saliva to his mouth. He shimmied down between Lyle's legs like a pedophilic snake, took his finger out, and pressed his lips to the hole. The coppery taste flooded his mouth, and Lyle's high, mournful sobs - a child in pain and afraid for its life - made the sweetest symphony he had ever heard. He slipped his hands under the boy and pulled him greedily closer, his fingers brushing his ball sack. He cupped it in his palm and gave a testing squeeze.
Lyle gasped.
Pulling away, Rusty unbuckled his belt, pulled out his dick, and mounted his prize.
Lyle felt the head prodding his hole, and his heart stopped mid-beat. He knew what was coming next, but he couldn't stop it, could only brace himself. Drawing back, Rusty slammed into him, and nuclear agony detonated in the center of Lyle's head. He sucked a long, shocked inhalation, but his vocal cords locked and refused to scream. The tip of Rusty's dick touched his limit and the throbbing shaft forced his walls painfully apart. His system froze, his mind blanked, and his pelvis strained as though it would snap under the pressure of Rusty's assault. Lyle found his voice and wailed, but it came out as a breathy rasp. He tried frantically to get his knees under him and pull his hands from the cuffs, but Rusty pushed his face into the tarp.
"Take it, you fucking faggot," Rusty hissed, spittle flying from his lips and showering Lyle's back, His testciles, hairy and swollen with desire, slapped rythmically against Lyle's with a meaty thwack, thwack, thwack, and his dick punched so far into Lyle's bowels it felt like it would burst through his stomach like an alien in a John Carptener movie. He thrusted hard, sinking to the hilt, and a girlish sob knocked from Lyle's raw throat.
Rusty planted his hands on either side of Lyle's head and threw himself into the boy's tight, humid insides, every needy buck of his hips bringing him closer to blowing his top. He forced himself to slow and savor the moment. After months, years, of lusting for the little Loud boy, he was balls deep in his ass, and nothing he could ever do to him would be as special, as magical, as this. He slid his hips back until he was almost out, then surged forward again. Lyle jumped, and Rusty reflexively punched him in the side. His butt clenched around his dick, and they cried out in unison, one in pleasure and the other in pain.
Lyle flexed and rolled his wrists against the cuffs Wet, sticky liquid trickled down his butt crack and tickled his balls. He didn't notice and wouldn't have cared if he did: The pain in his lower body was so bad his vision blurred and his heart slammed a panicked tempo, the booming sound echoing through the chambers of his head like the approaching hoofbeats of impending doom.
Propping himself up on one arm, Rusty grabbed a handful of Lyle's hair and pulled back as hard as he could like a rider on the reigns of a horse. Lyle's throat muscles stretched and a long, broken uggggh ripped from his chest. "Get along, little dogie!" Rusty cried. He jerked his hips, and Lyle screeched like a dying cat.
Rusty's fist smashed into the side of Lyle's face and stars burst across his vision. He did it again and again, then shoved Lyle's face to the floor. Dazed and dizzy, Lyle could only lay there and take it. Rusty went faster, and Lyle's body jumped limply, lifelessly. "Take it, bitch," Rusty panted. "Take it, oh fuck." He drew back and drove forward. Lyle closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself with Gloom, but the alien sensation of violation robbed him of even that small comfort. "God, you little faggot," Rusty said huskily, "fuck, shit."
Cold, sharp steel pressed against Lyle's cheek, and his heart sputtered. He darted his eyes fearfully to it and his blood turned to ice water.
A knife.
Rusty bent over, pulled almost all the way out, and trailed the knife down Lyle's cheek. "Do you like it, baby boy?"
Lyle tried to swallow but a wad of fear blocked the way.
"Do you like it?" Rusty asked again, firmer this time.
No, he didn't like it. He hurt and he wanted to go home, but if he said that, Rusty might kill him. "Y-Yes," he whispered.
"Yes, what?"
"S-Sir."
Flashing, Rusty flicked his wrist. Flesh severed. Blood flowed. Lyle whimpered and squeezed his eyes closed. "Daddy," Rusty said, "call me daddy."
"D-D-Daddy," Lyle stammered. Rusty slammed into him again, and Lyle screamed.
"Do you like it?"
"Yes, Daddy."
Bending over and sliding his hips back and forth, rutting Lyle's battered butthole, Rusty placed rough and urgent kisses on the back of his head and audibly inhaled the scent of his hair.
Pulling out, he rolled Lyle onto his back, and Lyle closed his eyes, but not before catching a glimpse of his attacker's demonic countenance: Flushed and red, eyes narrowed, tongue swiping lizard-like across his bottom lip. The serrated edge of the knife touched his soft, vulnerable throat and Lyle whimpered. Visions of his family danced through his mind and he clung to them like a frightened child to a teddy bear in the night. Rusty gripped his ankles and pushed them behind his head. His muscles popped and pain flared in his back. He bit down on the insides of his mouth, then harder when Rusty penetrated him. The hot tang of blood filled his mouth and he worked his wrists harder. Was it his imagination or were the cuffs starting to come loose?
Rusty stared down at Lyle's upturned face as he mated his butthole, the look of fear and surrender bringing him so close to the precipice that he nearly fell over the side. He took the knife away, closed his hand around it, and brought the handle down on Lyle's nose. It burst like an overripe tomato and blood gushed down the front of his shirt.
The boy's kneading sobs did it: With one final thrust, Rusty came, his seed shooting from him with such force that he went cross eyed.
Lyle gasped at the feeling of wet heat spurting into him. He pulled against his shackles, single-minded in his determination to get away before Rusty could kill him.
Rusty yanked his dick out and gave it a fearsome tug. A wad of cum splattered Lyle's lips and mixed with blood. Some dribbled into it his mouth. It was salty and thick.
For a long moment, Rusty caught his breath, then got to his feet. He turned his back to Lyle and reached between the seats. Lyle, face and butt pulsing in wounded harmony, twisted his wrists, his skin chafing. Rusty turned around, cracked open a can of beer, and took a long, thirsty drink. His semi-erect penis pointed possessively at Lyle from a tangle of coarse black pubic hair.
"You want some, sugar tits?" Rusty asked. He swaggered over and upended the can. Warm liquid splashed onto Lyle's face, washing away the blood and cum, and he whipped his head to one side to keep from drowning in it. Rusty giggled darkly, drank the rest of the beer, and crushed the can. He tossed it aside and stood over Lyle, his eyes narrowed and his smile cold, heart-stopping. "You want something else?" he asked.
Lyle flexed and pulled, rolled and tugged. One of the cuffs was looser. If he could get it a little more…
That thought broke off when choking yellow stream hit Lyle's chest. Rusty held his dick in his hand and waved it back and forth like a firehose. Piss doused Lyle's face, stinging his eyes and filling his mouth. Its astringent odor wafed into his nose, and his stomach turned. He coughed, and hot bile rushed up from his stomach. He clamped his mouth closed, but it came out anyway, joining the beer, piss, blood, and sperm coating his chin.
Rusty laughed, then hocked a loogie and spat on Lyle's face. "Now you're pretty."
While he went to look for his cigarettes, Lyle worked faster, sure that when Rusty came back he would kill him. The cuff came gradually looser and looser. Rusty sat behind the wheel and smoked a cigarette, bluish vapor hazing the air.
The metal shredded Lyle's skin and blood greased the way. Finally, he tugged and his hand came free. For a moment he lay there, too dazed to believe his good fortune, then was on his feet before he even realized he was making a break for it. His butt hurt, his knees shook, and he swayed, nearly falling. His eyes went to the back doors and his heart leapt. He tottered over and picked at the handle, his fingers jittering and his heart racing.
"HEY!"
The door fell open and Lyle toppled out, landing on his hands and knees in tall grass. He pushed himself up and bolted with surprising speed. A chorus of aches and pains riddled his body, but he pushed himself faster. His bare feet flew along the ground and the wind blew through his blood and piss matted hair. He could sense Rusty behind him but he didn't dare look.
Veering right, Lyle ran toward the forest. There, he could lose Rusty and get away. Lowering his head and charging like a defensive lineman, he crashed through a screen of foliage. Dead leaves carpeted the ground, crunching beneath his feet, and tall trees swayed in the late afternoon breeze. Amber light filtered through their boughs and dappled the forest floor. Briers tore at Lyle's face like claws, ripping his skin. One caught his bare testicles and tore away a sliver of flesh. He was so high on adrenaline that he barely registered the pain. "COME BACK HERE!" Rusty roared. His voice drifted through the woods and spurred Lyle on. It sounded close. Too close.
The land sloped down to a ravine, then slanted up a grassy rise. Lyle stumbled up and came out onto a two lane highway. He looked left and right. In the distance, a car made its way toward him. Waving his arms, cuffs dangling from one wrist and penis waving in the breeze, he ran toward it, a wordless scream dislodging from his throat. Twenty feet away, the driver hit the brakes and the car fishtailed, then came to a stop. Lyle ran up to the passenger door and pawed hysterically at the handle, sure that Rusty would be on top of him in a second.
When he looked up, however, the rapist was gone.
Lyle Loud sat bolt upright in bed, a terrified howl ringing through his head. Cold sweat slathered his naked torso and his heart pounded like a drum. The back of his neck prickled and he somehow knew that Rusty had found him.
Burning light suddenly filled the room, stinging Lyle's eyes. Someone sat on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath their weight, and like a shot, he scooted back against the headboard, his arms hugging his knees to his chest. His father, clad only in boxer shorts, favored him with a worried expression. His mother knelt next to him, her eyes communicating boundless love and concern.
"It's alright," Dad said in a soothing voice. He reached out, and even though Lyle knew he wouldn't hurt him, he cringed anyway.
Dad laid his hand on Lyle's knee and Mom took his hand. His beating heart stilled and his breathing calmed.
It had been six months since Rusty molested him. When the police went to his apartment on Main Street, he wasn't there. Someone reported seeing his van speeding away from the river and heading south toward Detroit and the rest of America beyond.
No one had seen him since and Lyle lived in terror that the pedophile would come back for him. He no longer walked to school and never went anywhere without at least two of his siblings.
Safety in numbers.
He barely slept and when he did, he relived the encounter over and over again. Every so often, he woke from a nightmare and swore that Rusty was in the room with him, crouched in a corner and waiting to strike.
"It's okay," Dad repeated, "we're here."
Lyle allowed his father to pull him into a hug.
Burying his face in the crook of his neck, lulled by his strong, comforting scent, Lyle broke down and cried.
That night, like many, many others since the attack, Lyle slept curled between his parents.
Where he was safe.
And no one, not even the specter of Rusty Spokes, could ever hurt him.
THE END.