by Jay Bell
“Watch your mouth!” Gordon swung one of the swords at Chuck, striking his neck from the side, and David wished with all his being that it was made of metal and not foam. After a moment of shock, Chuck stepped forward and thwacked Gordon on the side of the head. It was barely more than a slap, but the effect on Gordon was immediate. The blood left his face, and maybe realizing just how serious this was, Gordon turned and raced off, not once looking back.
David didn’t blame him. Gordon had never dealt with anything like this—not grade school scrapes on the playground or even tug of war in kindergarten. For Gordon, coming face-to-face with Chuck must have been like dropping a hermit in front of a press conference—he simply didn’t have the faculties to cope with the situation.
And David did? God knows this had happened many times before, but with Chuck, it had become a daily event. David didn’t know if life was planned by some less than benevolent god, but he obviously would keep running into Chuck. The fates seemed to shove them together at every opportunity, and David knew he couldn’t avoid it. Even if he did move to Florida, he would probably run into a college-aged Chuck on spring break. Maybe he should just finally get it over with.
David’s shoulders loosened, and the rest of his muscles followed. What’s the worst they could do? Kill him? He doubted Chuck had the balls. Right now the jerk was huffing with adrenaline and rage, but he wasn’t doing a damn thing besides leering at him. Screw the fates. David hadn’t done anything to deserve this, and he wasn’t going to take it any more. He turned to walk away. Then Chuck grabbed him by the arm.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home.” David marveled at how calm his voice sounded. “I’m going home.”
“The fuck you are!”
David yanked his arm free and faced him. “What do you want, Chuck? To admit that I’m a fag? Fine. That’s what I am. You want me to apologize? I’ll do that too. I’m sorry I ever said a single word to you. Is that enough? Or are you going to keep chasing me around like a crush-obsessed girl!”
He saw it then, the vulnerability on Chuck’s face that was forced away with practiced perfection. David’s mouth dropped open with the truth: Chuck was gay. And was afraid to admit it. He was just a big, stupid, self-hating homosexual. Like a boy pulling a girl’s pigtails, he had taken every opportunity to interact with David, even if bullying was the best his addled brain could come up with.
“It’s okay—” David started to say, but the hate on Chuck’s face turned to fear and he swung.
It happened so quickly that David wasn’t sure where he’d been hit, only that his head had rocked back. When he brought it forward again, he felt liquid filling his nose and tasted blood at the back of his throat. Another fat fist came at him like a blur, light glinting off a class ring before his cheek seared with pain. David was falling, but the pain was so intense that he brought his arms up protectively instead of catching himself. He hit the ground and curled into a ball. Then the kicking started, but David let neither a whimper nor a groan escape his lips. He wouldn’t give Chuck the satisfaction, even if they kicked him until he died, which David was starting to believe they would.
Then the assault stopped. He could hear Chuck panting, muttering for him to get up and face him like a man, but there was no honor to be saved here. David had nothing to prove, had never done anything wrong—unlike a coward who didn’t have the guts to accept who he was.
“Chuck, man, we gotta go!”
A car door shut across the street.
“What are you boys doing? What’s wrong with him?”
The voice sounded old, but thankfully, adult. After one final kick, the two boys’ feet pounded across concrete and two car doors slammed. David stayed in the fetal position, sure that Chuck would back over him and finish the job, but the car roared away.
“Are you okay?”
David uncurled and let himself be helped up by an old man with shaking hands. “I’m fine.” David’s voice had an edge of fear, but at least Chuck wouldn’t hear it.
“Your nose is really bleeding! Here, I have some tissues in the car.”
David focused on breathing until the old man returned, taking the tissues and dabbing at his nose. He wanted to go home.
“Do you need a ride somewhere? Should I call the police?”
He shook his head. “I’m all right. My house is just over there.”
The old man looked worried, but also relieved not to be involved any further. He returned to his car and sat down in the driver’s seat, but before he closed the door he said: “Why didn’t you fight back?”
David stared at him silently until the old man shrugged, shut the car door, and drove away. Why didn’t he fight back? What would be the point? That wouldn’t stop Chuck from hating himself, and by extension, David or anyone else who was gay. Connor was right. Countless Chucks existed in the world. David could pump himself up and make it his life mission to pummel homophobic assholes, and he would die old and gray before he got through half of them. Chuck was obsessed with hate. David didn’t want to be that way.
When David reached the condo, Gordon was waiting on the front step, pale and trembling, spluttering apologies. David had to reassure him a few times before asking if he had called the police or, even worse, his dad. He hadn’t, which triggered new apologies. Gordon rambled on as they went inside and down to the bedroom. David grabbed the box of tissues next to his bed. They weren’t usually for a runny nose, but today they were.
“What happened? How did you get away?”
David sighed. “After they hit me a few times, I ran.”
It wasn’t the truth, but it was simple and didn’t allow for more questions. Instead Gordon apologized some more, describing his own terror. David reminded him how they both had run that day at the mall, helping ease Gordon’s guilty conscience. He was still shaken, though. When a tap came at the window, he jumped to his feet and spun around.
“It’s just Connor,” David said. Then he swore under his breath. The bed was covered with blood-soaked tissues, and David hadn’t checked himself in the mirror. He glanced at the window, planning on slipping out to the bathroom while Gordon let Connor in, but it was too late. Connor had already seen, his eyes blazing with concern. David must have looked like hell for him to be able to tell that much through the dirty glass.
“What happened?”
Connor wasn’t even halfway through the window when he asked. He hopped to the floor and looked David over, touching his face gently and wincing along with him. He appeared just as pale as Gordon did.
“Who did this? Chuck?”
David nodded, and the blood returned to Connor’s face. “Where is he? Fuck it!” Connor turned to go. “I know where he lives.”
“Just leave it!” David said.
“What? Why?”
“Because it’s not going to make a difference!”
“It’ll teach him to keep his hands off you!”
“I need to go home.” Gordon’s voice was a whisper.
David said goodbye, cutting short another of Gordon’s apologies and waiting until he left before speaking again. This time his voice was soft, pleading.
“Just stay here with me, okay?”
“Tell me what happened.”
David sighed but told the truth. He even painted Chuck as a victim of his own fear and stupidity. If he was trying to move Connor, he failed.
“I don’t care if he’s angry because he watched his entire family drown! It gives him no right to hit you.”
“We’re leaving,” David reminded him. “None of this will matter next week.”
Connor shook his head and paced the room. Then he strode to the open window.
“Where are you going?”
“Out. Alone.”
David swallowed. “Promise me you aren’t going after Chuck.”
“Fine, but I’m too angry to stay here. You should look at yourself.”
Why did David suddenly feel as if he had done some
thing wrong? He struggled for the right words but gave up. He was tired. Connor slipped out the window and was gone. Feeling like he was back where he began, David shut the window, pulled down the blinds, and cranked up the music.
* * * * *
Red. Heat. The taste of copper. Drums pounding in his ears. Connor’s hands were shaking so much that he could barely get the keys in the ignition. Fury flooded his veins like a drug. Of course he was going after Chuck. That David didn’t want him to only proved what a good person he was, how wrong it was that he had been hurt. The engine growled, matching Connor’s fury, and in minutes he was in front of Chuck’s house. The Mazda was in the driveway.
Connor parked behind it and hopped out, walking to the front door. After pushing the doorbell, he retreated to the driveway. If Chuck saw him standing outside, he would never open the door—at least Connor didn’t think so. Chuck had been gutsy when he dumped paint on Connor’s car. Maybe he carried a gun now. If so, Connor wouldn’t give him the chance to use it. As soon as he heard the front door open, he bumped against the Mazda. The alarm went off, wailing out a warning to stay away. A keychain jangled, the car beeping and falling silent. Connor held his breath, listening to the approaching footsteps. The second Chuck came around the corner, Connor grabbed him by the throat and shoved him against the garage’s brick wall.
“This is your last warning,” Connor snarled, his mouth so close to Chuck’s face that he was tempted to bite off his pug nose. “I should break your fucking neck for what you did. As it stands, I’m still going to break something, but if you ever lay a finger on David again—if you even look at him—I’m going to kill you.”
Then two things happened. First, Connor noticed Chuck fiddling with his keys. Attached to them was a bulky cylinder. Then Chuck’s friend came around the corner. The newcomer wasn’t a problem. He was licking his lips and backing up, but by the time Connor turned back to face Chuck, mace was spraying in his face.
Or maybe it was pepper spray. He didn’t know, but it hurt like hell. At the last second Connor turned his head away so that only his left eye was hit directly, but even the splash from it was enough to make the other eye cringe shut before it began to burn. He was blind, but he could still feel Chuck squirming in his grasp. The monster raging inside Connor came forward, and he let it take control. Only his left hand was free, but it was a start.
Blinded, he couldn’t see where he was hitting Chuck, but he could guess. The first punch was half-hair, half-bone and skin—Chuck’s temple. The nose came next, not dead on, but angled from the side. Pain or fear made Chuck struggle more, so Connor pulled him forward with his right hand and slammed him back again, the air wheezing from Chuck’s lungs in a groan. Connor switched hands. Then his right hand hit hard bone, the fleshy fat of cheeks, then an eye. Connor lost track as he kept punching, his hand aching and his arm growing sore. Then he brought up his knee once, twice, and again. The sounds Chuck was making didn’t even sound human anymore.
Connor forced open his good eye, even though it still burned, and saw blood coursing down Chuck’s face, mingling with snot and tears. His eyes were spinning wildly; maybe he was convulsing. Maybe he would die. The thought made Connor release his grip and step back. Chuck slid to the ground, the brick against his back pulling his shirt up and exposing his flab.
“I’m calling the cops, man! I’m calling the fucking cops!” Chuck’s friend had a cell phone in hand and was poised to run if Connor came near.
He had no intention of doing so. Chuck was a mess, and the burning had spread from Connor’s eyes and into his lungs. He felt like puking as he stumbled to his car and slipped inside. The keys were still in the ignition, thank god, or he never would have been able to insert them.
Connor’s good eye wouldn’t stop tearing up, but he could drive. Barely. A car honked at him a block later, swerving to avoid him. Connor would never make it to the trailer park. David’s place was only a couple of blocks away, but to get there would mean crossing a busy road. At the stop sign, Connor wiped his eyes, which just made them burn more. He could scarcely see the road, the cars blurs of color whizzing by. He waited until the world was mostly grey before he hit the accelerator.
Connor’s stomach dropped, and his heart hit his throat. Other parts would surely end up in the wrong places too, if he didn’t make it, but after a horrifying squeal of tires and angry honking, he arrived in David’s neighborhood. He knew he should park the car out of sight, just in case the cops came, but the burning in his eyes was getting worse. Connor stumbled to the front door, not bothering to knock. Calling out David’s name in a rasping voice, he let himself in, made it to the bathroom, and started splashing water in his eyes. He groaned in pain and spit into the sink. Rubbing his eyes only made them burn more, so Connor kept splashing, not that it did a damn thing to relieve the burning.
“What happened? Jesus!”
Connor felt David’s hand on his shoulder and tried to tell him that everything was okay, that it was just a little pepper spray. Connor was sure of that now because it burned like a hot pepper. He had cooked with them enough to know that even a little chili oil on his fingers could burn like hell if he touched his eyes. This was the same sensation, expect a thousand times worse.
David disappeared, returning a few moments later. “Get over here to the tub. No, turn around, like when a hair stylist washes your hair. This will help, I promise.”
That’s all Connor needed to hear. He put the back of his neck against the tub’s edge and cool liquid poured over his face. He licked his lips. Milk? David was pouring milk on his face? He was about to complain when the burning subsided somewhat.
“Oh god, keep doing that!”
David laughed nervously and poured more milk over him. “We’ll have to use soap and water next. This is just to give you relief.”
“It’s working.”
“Thank god for the Internet!”
They spent an eternity in the bathroom, David dabbing at Connor’s face with a soapy washrag, rinsing and repeating countless times, but with each effort the burning ebbed away.
“One more time?” David asked, dipping the wash cloth in the sink.
“No. I think I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay.”
Connor checked the mirror. His eyes were red and puffy, like after a crying marathon, and his skin was irritated, but mostly he was fine. That was more than could be said for David. The cut on his cheek was starting to close, but the area around it was swelling. Dried blood crusted his nostrils. Connor lifted David’s shirt. The places where he had been kicked already darkening. The future bruises began on his sides and grew in number on his back.
“I’m okay,” David said softly, turning back around.
But he wasn’t. He still had Florida sun on his face, remnants of the happy person he had been there. David looked like an angel rolled in mud. Somewhere beneath the grime that moment of perfection existed still. Connor only hoped he could return David there. He moved his fingers away from David’s injuries, sliding his palm against the smooth skin of his stomach and up to his chest. Pulling David close as gently as possible, he held him for a moment, reassured at being so near.
“Let’s go to my room,” David murmured.
Connor nodded and followed him out of the bathroom, flipping the light switch at the same moment the doorbell rang. They both froze.
“Do you think it’s Chuck?”
It would be a miracle if Chuck could do anything more than moan in pain right now. “No. Let me get it. You stay here.”
“It’s my house,” David said, and headed for the door.
Why didn’t he ever listen? Connor managed to push past him so he could be the one to open the door. He heard the crackle of a police radio and wasn’t surprised. Of course they were here. Connor opened the door.
Two officers stood on the steps with their eyebrows raised, alert and ready in case Connor decided to run, attack, or do anything else unpredictable. Instead, he crosse
d his arms over his chest and waited. He had nothing to fear. Chuck had beaten up David first. Unless they were all going to end up in jail together, he was probably going to get a stern lecture and a warning.
“Connor Williams?” one of the officers asked.
“Yeah.”
“Would you step outside, please?”
That wasn’t a good sign. Connor thought they would come inside. One of the officers put a hand on his shoulder; the other walking close behind as they led him to the police car. Maybe he was going for a ride after all.
“Put your hands on the hood and spread your legs.”
“Why?”
That was David. Connor knew better than to ask. He put his hands on the hood as instructed. One of the cops started patting him down, but the other was examining Connor’s hands, making a grumbling noise when she noticed Connor’s knuckles. Punching often injured a hand, and Connor had acted without discipline or care.
“Frank.”
Her partner paused to look over Connor’s shoulder before grasping Connor’s wrist and pulling his arm behind his back. The cold kiss of metal touched his skin as the handcuffs locked into place.
“You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak—”
The speech rambled on, and Connor had to stifle his laughter. He’d heard these words so many times in cheesy TV shows that they seemed too ludicrous to be real. But of course they were.
“You can’t arrest him.” David said. “He didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Charles Bryl claims he did,” the female officer said, “and we have probable cause to believe him.”
“Chuck?” David was incredulous. “If anything, you should be arresting him. Who do you think did this?”
Connor couldn’t turn to see, but he knew David was pointing at his injuries.
“If you want to make a statement, you need to call the police. Not send your friend over to start a fight.”