8 PM.
Lancer came home.
"Hey. Hey, son. I've been feeling down lately. Just do me this one little favor, a'ight? Your mom's not here to do this, so you'll have to take over."
The bedroom door locked, everything inside Lancer following suit.
The unfolding of sheets.
"No. I-I don't wanna."
"What did you say? What the fuck did you just tell me, boy?"
"No, no, no, nonononono…"
Bolting towards the lock.
His father's hand dragging, dragging.
The bed was a black hole.
9 PM.
Hell began.
Hoodie ripped off, tossed to the corner.
Shorts ripped off, tossed to the corner.
Everything ripped off, tossed to the corner.
Pulling. Pushing. Jerking.
Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.
Bouncing, bouncing, like the times he would jump on the bed when he was a kid.
But never this.
He'd heard about this in churches, but never this.
Never this.
10 PM.
He couldn't stop. He couldn't say anything, couldn't stop the tears from staining the bed. Saying anything would only make it worse.
If this was the "love" everyone was talking about, the "love" in the pop songs and on TV and in his rock music…
it hurt.
11 PM.
Screaming, screaming. No knocks at the door.
12 AM.
He'd stopped screaming. But he tried to, nothing in him responding. It was as if he had strep throat.
1 AM.
"Hell, yeah, hell yeah, I'm done now, boy. Thanks. I'll buy you somethin' for your bike, okay?"
2 AM.
Everything put from the corner back into its rightful place.
...