The Fallen Boys

by Aaron Dries

  “Long day, huh?” she would say.

  “You’ve got no idea.”

  “Climb into bed with me.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Stan.”

  “Do you want magic fingers?”

  “Oh, hells yeah, I want magic fingers. Cujo.”

  And then she would run her fingertips over his face. Through his hair. Across the slight bulge of his stomach if he was feeling sick. It seemed to make everything better. Always.

  He leaned against the hand, the thorns of his barbed-wire crown brushing against the stranger’s arm. “Magic fingers,” he moaned.

  Am I being set free? he wondered. He knew hope could be a dangerous thing. Did he dare? Marshall couldn’t help it. “Thank you.” He wanted to weep, but it hurt too much.

  The rag wiped away the blood and the blurry figure began to take form. Marshall saw the fine, young features. The swish of the teenager’s fringe across his face. One iPod earbud was in use and the other dangled around his neck. A huge, leather belt weighed down his jeans, leaving them to cling to his hipbones in desperation. Plastic flip-flops squeaked against the blood and shit. His eyes were bright red and inflamed; he reeked of alcohol.

  Sam Napier bent close, exposing the long curve of his neck, and replied—it was the first time he’d spoken in Marshall’s presence. His voice was as meek as his appearance. “You’re welcome, Dad.”

  Part Five: Endsville

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Marshall was still tied to the chair. Only it wasn’t “the chair” anymore. It had officially become “his chair”; an extension of his own limbs. The immoveable binds had grown through his skin to wrap around the rusted metal frame.

  He had not been set free and he longed to know why, but the weight of disappointment crushed his voice.

  Marshall was humiliated. It was a new sensation and in many ways, the worst. The boy, Sam, or Noah—as he now wanted to be called—

  (I’ll be fucked if I’m calling him that)

  —had bathed him, washing the blood off his body, the shit from between his legs, all the time talking to him about how The Man had spoken about The Other Son for years on end. “I knew what was happening to Noah. I think it was meant to scare me,” he said, pity in his eyes. “But it’s okay, I’m back now.” The rags came away black and brown and stinking, but the water had been warm. It felt good to be clean. His shit had begun to burn after a while, not to mention the nauseating smell. The boy had dabbed his wounds clean, even though the blood continued to flow—there was no stopping it. Some had begun to scab over, a small indication that his immune system hadn’t given up quite yet.

  I knew what was happening to Noah.

  The slit in his side had been sutured together by Napier and Marshall was grateful that he’d been unconscious the whole time. The bastard had used industrial staples. Waking to that pain had been an unwelcome surprise.

  Marshall imagined the man with the staple gun. One hand tightly gripped on the trigger and the other pinching together the lips of the spurting wound.

  Marshall wondered what else Napier had done to him whilst he’d been out of it. What further wounds had he not yet discovered? He didn’t want to know.

  A huge bruise had spread out around his rib cage, black around the staples and fading to a dull green threaded with veins. Noah—

  (it’s Sam, for God’s sake! Sam! SAM!)

  —had removed the barbed wire crown, leaving behind a ring of tattered flesh. These cuts were superficial, but they stung like a bitch when the basement air brushed against them, flaring pain like dying embers in a fireplace when you bent down to blow on the ashes.

  But more than all this was the overall discomfort of “his” chair. It dug into his flesh. Contoured his back into something rigid and inhuman. It’s deforming me, Marshall thought. Oh, Christ. And yet, the pain it caused, just as with the chair itself, seemed a part of him now—he’d forgotten what it was like to live without it.

  Whilst cleaning, the boy said only a single thing, “This chair used to be my mom’s.”

  Marshall’s soiled boxer shorts had been cut away with a pair of scissors and a torn up bed sheet was wrapped around his torso, covering up his privates. Sam had done it all with a cool, methodical ease. Marshall had fought against his help at first, but relented after the warm water started to flow. The humiliation sickened him. When the kid was done, he picked up the rags and left the basement.

  Marshall drifted in and out of sleep and sometimes, in and out of consciousness. There were dreams of James Bridge and memories. Sometimes there was nothing. He didn’t know which he preferred. He awoke to the sight of his old collie, Indy, half-dead on the concrete in front of him. The dog’s body was bent and twisted; it looked like a small hand was trying to push its way up through the dog’s fur—the remains of his shattered spine. A pebbled pink tongue, which had hungered for treats and had slobbered many adoring faces over the years, now hung from between his open jaws.

  Indy howled. It was a sick, finite sound.

  “I’m so sorry, boy,” Marshall said.

  Deep, garnet blood pooled around the dog’s legs and his eyes became were foggy, teddy bear marbles. Marshall blinked and there were brains and broken teeth all over the floor, a bullet having chewed away half of Indy’s face.

  “Dad, will Indy ever come back?” Marshall asked the empty room.

  (“He’s gone where all good dogs go. He’s not coming back. I’m sorry.”)

  In the hush of the refinery-stinking basement, Marshall could hear a tap dripping once, twice, three times. It was difficult to tell what sounds were heard and those imagined. Was his own, ragged breath an illusion? Did he even exist at all, bound to his chair and bleeding onto the mottled floor? He assumed so. He didn’t think that dead men were strangled by the terrible brilliance of their dreams, or haunted by the betrayals of those they loved. As far as he was knew, it was supposed to be he who was haunting them. No, this was not death. This was the epitome of life: graceless torture.

  Napier had hollowed him out and taken away everything he’d held close. Starting with Noah and ending in the basement. But before all of this…there had been Napier and Claire in Seattle.

  Kissing. Fucking. Getting strangers to take their photograph in front of the Space Needle.

  Napier had been the architect of Marshall’s home all along and that foundation had been corrupt.

  Every time he thought about Napier and Claire together a bucking discomfort overcame him; the feeling that someone had been living in the walls of their house for years on end, drinking up their water, shitting in their toilet, tucking their son into bed at night and climbing under the covers with him. He wondered if this was what rape victims felt like?

  Claire-bear, how could you do it?

  Had he raised the child of another man, or had Napier been bluffing? Marshall wanted to believe the latter, but he knew better.

  He knew better.

  But he didn’t hate his ex-wife. Not yet. Maybe one day, if he ever escaped from here.

  Magic fingers.

  It hurt everywhere. He imagined Claire’s fingertips on his skin, tracing delicate figure eights over his wounds. The tide of pain receded a little, leaving behind the debris of broken questions.

  Why am I still here?

  Trying to re-piece themselves back together after Noah’s suicide had been hard, but never for a moment did Marshall think that Claire didn’t want to reclaim what they’d lost. She’d held his hand in therapy and said, “Mars, everything’ll work out.” Though, the more he dwelled on it the more he thought that was a lie too—she wanted happiness. Their fights in Vancouver were fuelled by the fight to not fall apart.

  It was true, he’d seen doubt in her face when he proposed, but that doubt hadn’t been there on their wedding day. Marshall believed that she believed. And yet there were those times when Claire seemed overcome by some silent guilt—the downcast looks, the cold shoulders… But she always came around. In the end.
>
  She loved me. I know she did.

  And we both loved Noah, even when we hated him, when he broke things, when he almost drove us mad. If anything, we loved him too much. We couldn’t see the forest for the trees.

  Our boy killed himself and we didn’t see it coming.

  I deserve this. I’ve earned my chair.

  “I hate you,” Marshall moaned into the stagnant, basement air. He didn’t know who it was directed at. Napier? Sam? Himself? The only thing he knew was that it wasn’t directed at his ex. Try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to despise her the way he suspected Napier wanted him to.

  I can’t hate her because I’m going to die soon.

  Marshall didn’t know where the thought came from. He didn’t like it.

  Maybe I’m that old guy you read about. You know, the guy on his death bed, wires dangling out of his arms and tubes stuck half way up his nose, surrounded by all of his children and friends—all the people he fucked over and destroyed when he was healthy and still had the strength to hurt and betray. He’s looking at the faces in that crowded little room, and he’s making peace with them, one by one. And they smile and nod for the grace of his comfort, not theirs—but he doesn’t know that. This guy, he’s too doped up to notice. He makes his peace anyway, and when he dies, he dies with the knowledge of what he has and hasn’t done in his life, but most importantly, he dies without that anger and resentment that had come so close to defining him.

  Marshall dipped into sleep again and saw his old life. Claire going off to work, kissing him full on the mouth before rushing out the door. These embraces grew more and more rare as the years piled up, but every so often, she’d surprise him with this surge of passion.

  Her guilt. That damn voice again.

  No. I don’t think so. And even if it was, then I’d forgive her.

  Isn’t that why I’m here? To partake in The Forgiveness?

  To forgive her?

  Marshall woke up—or perhaps not—it was hard to tell anymore—the basement was in his dreams and his dreams were in the basement.

  He saw the black-and-white security footage of Noah killing himself, the way he’d tumbled with confidence. The clown reaching out.

  He saw Claire at Noah’s funeral, surrounded by panda-eyed friends.

  Marshall knew now what he knew then but didn’t want to acknowledge. Claire blamed herself for what happened. And he blamed her too.

  No wonder she left me, Marshall thought.

  He lowered his head, tears beading at his chin. He didn’t hear the scuttling sounds.

  I forgive you, Claire.

  Please forgive me, too.

  Searing pain zapped through his left foot, ripping a scream from him so hard and strong that it split something in his throat. His eyes bulged from his head. A foot-long rat was chewing on his big toe, its fur all tufted and matted. The long tail whipped back and forth, making ripples in the puddle from where Noah—

  (Sam!)

  —had hosed down the concrete. The rat’s teeth were little razors slitting open his skin to chew at the flesh beneath. Strands of meat dangled from its claws. His toenail had been ripped off and discarded.

  “Get off me!” he screamed.

  The rat kept on shaking, carving him down to the bone. Marshall tried to kick but the ropes held tight around his ankles. To the rat, Marshall’s toe was a fine-looking meal served on a platter.

  “Sam!” he yelled, desperation kicking his voice up an octave. There was no answer. Marshall had no idea what time of the day—or night—it was. Is he at school?

  The rat flipped onto its back, pinching the flesh, making it easier to tear away and swallow whole. A spray of blood shot into the air, flecking the underbelly of the animal, catching in its whiskers like rubies. It squealed.

  “SAM!” Again, there was no reply.

  And then it came to him.

  “NOAH!” he called.

  Within twenty seconds there were footsteps above. He could tell from the light strides that it wasn’t Napier coming to his rescue.

  The basement door flung inwards and slammed against the wall.

  The rat didn’t care; it was a gluttonous and uncaring thing. It let go of Marshall’s big toe and began to scuttle up his leg, leaving behind claw marks amid the hair. He watched the gigantic snout of the creature appear over his knee cap. Its head was otter sleek with gore. It tore at his thigh as it landed on his lap and ran under the bed sheet covering up his genitals. Marshall screamed again.

  A hand shot out and grabbed the animal by the tail, yanking it backwards with a squeal. Marshall’s makeshift nappy settled and he heaved bile onto his chest.

  Marshall watched the teenager fling the rat across the room; it struck a mattress and slapped on the floor. The kid ran towards it, yelling, his fists high above his head, and the rat turned towards the enclave under the stairs, bee-lining for the shadows and vanished.

  Marshall could feel his pulse returning to normal. It was still hard to breathe. Grey spots floated over his vision. His toe throbbed.

  “It’s gone now,” said the boy.

  Marshall continued to gasp and pant. His eyes scanned the floor, darting from shadow to shadow in search of the rat that had feasted on him. He remembered reading somewhere that the big toe was one of the most important parts of the human body—that along with the inner workings of the ear, the big toe was essential for maintaining balance. It didn’t matter, and neither did the toe anymore, he suspected.

  I don’t think I’ll be doing much walking any time soon.

  He wished he could go back and relive every post-work jog around the block in their Sydney neighborhood, or every single time he’d rolled out of bed and walked down the hallway to piss at night, stepping with care so as to not wake his family. He wouldn’t flush the toilet; the noise was always so loud. If it’s yellow, let it mellow, as his father used to say. If it’s brown, let it drown.

  He wanted to relive it all with gratitude. But couldn’t.

  He felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Marshall angled his head up to look at the face hovering before him. He saw his son.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  They sat in the basement and talked until the sun came up, Marshall in his chair and Sam sometimes pacing, sometimes sitting on the floor. It had taken some time for the image of Noah to fade away, but after five minutes of listening to him speak, it became very clear that this wasn’t his son.

  But he was careful not to give away that he thought otherwise.

  Despite the pain—both new and old—Marshall was alert enough to see opportunity when it came a-knockin’. He still wanted to get out of this mess alive. Even if he couldn’t walk right anymore, even if he would never be able to take another gulp of air without wincing—

  Even if he had to face Claire again.

  He still wanted out.

  Sam. Noah.

  Noah. Sam.

  The two had blurred together in the teenager’s mind, but it was important for Marshall to maintain the distinction. For a long time he’d seen his son in the faces of other people…sometimes, he saw him when nobody else was around.

  He understood how easy it was to see what you wanted to see, and it was important—now more than ever—to hold strong, to fight off delusion. Opportunity had arisen.

  Marshall listened carefully as Sam explained that he’d killed Napier, who he no longer referred to as his father, but only as “The Man”. It took his breath away, stripping away all other sound.

  There was just Sam’s face, glowing in the light from the overhead bulb, as he sat with his back against one of the mattresses next to the busted open remains of The Man’s slide projector. He wore a stretched out shirt with the words NORTH BEND FLOWER FESTIVAL ’04 printed across the chest, and a pair of tracksuit pants—pajamas, Marshall suspected. I dragged him out of bed.

  He only answered to Noah.

  Remember that.

  “You don’t need to worry about The Man,” Sam said. “I
t’s just you and me and Mom now, and soon we’ll be a family again.”

  Marshall wasn’t sure whether to believe the kid or not, but there was something in the calm way he spoke that convinced him that he was being told the truth. Yes, Napier was dead. It took awhile for the concept to sink in.

  “You’re smiling,” Sam said.

  “…Am I?”

  Sam looked as though he had aged a lot since Marshall had first seen him in the park, the mist wrapped around his ankles and those iPod speakers dangling around his neck. “Are you glad I killed him?” he asked.

  Marshall fought for composure. He could feel his quickening heartbeat throbbing in his wounds. Was he glad? Hell yeah, I am, he thought. I just can’t believe this.

  “I can see that you are,” Sam said. “I did it for us.”

  You’ve got to say something. Establish a thread of trust between the two of you. If you don’t, you’ll die strapped to this chair.

  Ask him why you’re still here.

  “I’m—” Marshall’s eyes flickered; he was terrified by what he was about to say. The gamble was high and prayed it would pay off. “I’m proud of you, Noah.”

  Sam studied him, sitting very still and composed, catlike. Fey, almost. And with a wave of relief, Marshall watched the boy melt to his words. “Thanks, Dad,” Sam said with a smile.

  “Where’s your mother?” Marshall asked, a little excited.

  “Oh, she’s upstairs in her room. She’s been, you know, locked away for a while. She’s just getting stronger.” Sam nodded, toying with a fingernail. “She just needs her rest.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Marshall said, nodding. He winced.

  “Does it hurt?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah. Everywhere.”

  “I should’ve helped us sooner.”

  “No,” Marshall said, firm and commanding. He found that if he funneled the pain into his throat, he could control his voice so it didn’t waver. “You did the right thing.”