Driven To Tears (The Darby Trilogy Book 1)

by Jason Jauron

“That stings,” blurted Jed, now trying to crush the stress ball.

  “Try to keep still Jed,” replied Money firmly. “Please try to relax.”

  There were countless blackheads in his left ear alone, so this was not going to be easy or quick.

  Jed started sweating.

  How in the hell can I relax when you keep trying to put a dent in my head with the fucking potato peeler?

  He grimaced as Money pushed again.

  You push and press against my face with all your body weight. I feel like the damn chair is going to tip over, you fucking jerk. You push so fucking hard. I feel like my head is going to burst open one moment, or collapse and cave in the next.

  Money felt the first drop of sweat slide down his nose.

  He exhaled slowly, looked again at Jed. There were so many blackheads on his nose, chin, hairline, and forehead. He closed his eyes.

  Fucking teenagers and their fucking zits.

  I hate them.

  Jed was starting to feel sick.

  The lights are so damn hot. I am so fucking thirsty. And why don’t they play any fucking music?

  It took 15 long minutes before Money stopped, backed up and out of the lights, and wiped his brow with his Brooks Brothers shirt.

  “Let’s take a short break,” he mumbled.

  Jed yawned.

  His shirt was soaked with perspiration.

  He then looked up, nodded.

  Before leaving, the assistant turned off every light but one.

  Immediately Jed felt the difference.

  He yawned again.

  What the hell is happening to me?

  The mirror above the nearest sink was five feet away. But right now, Jed eyed the mirror with disgust. He simply did not have the energy. And for the first time, he was afraid of what he must look like.

  He hit the mirror with the squeeze ball.

  My life can’t be like this. Sitting here while they pop and push. This can’t be happening to me.

  He was panting slowly now. He turned his head to check his odor.

  My deodorant is holding up better than I am.

  The door opened.

  Money and his extramarital returned.

  He flashed Jed a wan smile, gingerly adjusted his privates.

  “Sitting in that torture chair…

  “And having the memories of the way you would stare…

  “Standing over me with a look of disdain…

  “You became my tormentor, my own personal king of pain.”

  Jed Darby 1991

  “Ouch, that hurt,” murmured Jed.

  “I am injecting your cysts with cortisone,” responded Money, reverting back to his mundane monotone. It was as if he was reading the ingredients off a label. “And yes, the injections are slightly painful.”

  Maybe it was the word cyst.

  Maybe it was the sheer number and size of the syringes lined up on the tray above him.

  Maybe it was the morbidly curious expression he saw from the brunette.

  Jed started crying.

  He never uttered one word. But the tears streamed down his face. His nose started running.

  Money meekly muttered, “Jed, in a little less than 10 years you will start to look like a normal person, with normal acne.”

  Jed found the doctor’s eyes.

  Why me?

  What did I ever do?

  Tell me why.

  This isn’t who I am.

  This isn’t who I want to be.

  Money pivoted, grabbed another syringe.

  “These injections may help decrease the massive scarring your face is going to go through,” he stated calmly.

  Tell me everything is going to be okay.

  Tell me this is all just a bad dream.

  Tell me that I will be handsome one day.

  That some lucky girl is going to get the honor of being my bride.

  “You must remember to keep your hands away from your acne,” Money rambled on. Still aware his patient was crying his eyes out. Neither Money nor the brunette tried to blot his tears or hold his hand.

  Please look at me doctor.

  I’m not a bad person.

  I just want to have friends and hang out like everybody else.

  Jed could taste the snot.

  I just want to be normal.

  How many years of my life do you want in return for me being normal?

  I am so tired of popping these zits.

  I am so tired of the stares.

  I am so tired of being alone.

  I don’t know how to deal with this.

  I have nobody to talk to.

  Money continued his monologue.

  “I am also going to prescribe an antibiotic to help reduce the bacterial count in your oil glands.”

  How am I supposed to study?

  I can’t focus on anything.

  Everyone laughs at me or pities me.

  I don’t want to be me. It’s just too hard.

  I just can’t shrug off all this shit anymore.

  I just want someone to come up and give me a hug, hold my hand. Tell me everything is going to be okay.

  Money cleared his throat.

  “Only two more cysts to go,” he said, fake smiling. “You will also receive a prescription for a topical agent that will also help reduce the oil and bacteria.”

  Everything is going to be okay, right?

  “See there Jed, we are done,” Money blurted, exhaling loudly.

  Tell me to hang in there doctor.

  Tell me I’m important. I matter.

  Money turned, left the room.

  The brunette applied some type of cloth to Jed’s face, began her own clean up.

  Two quiet minutes passed.

  Jed almost fell asleep.

  Money walked back in, and the brunette removed the cloth. Money handed Jed an information packet on acne.

  “Jed, today was the first step,” he said. “My assistant will have all the prescriptions you need at the front desk as you exit. We are also scheduling another appointment for you in three months. That visit will go the same as today. If for some reason another big cyst appears and you can’t wait until our next appointment to have it injected, you can call, and we’ll try to fit you in as soon as we can.”

  Money turned to leave, took a few steps, and stopped. He hesitated before walking back to Jed.

  “Do you mind if I take some pictures of your face at our next visit?”

  Jed shook his head.

  “Of course we won’t identify you Jed,” he said in a hushed tone. “It’s just I want to be able to present other patients with a worst case scenario.”

  Money patted Jed on the shoulder.

  “One more thing Jed,” Money said as he walked out. “Do me a favor and splash some cold water on your face before you go back to the main waiting room.”

  “Uh, okay,” mumbled Jed.

  The brunette finished her bit of housekeeping.

  She also reminded Jed to splash some cold water on his face.

  Jesus.

  Do I look that horrible?

  I mean, don’t you have a goddamn bag I could just put over my face?

  Jed closed his eyes.

  He was physically and emotionally exhausted.

  He yawned again.

  Getting out of the chair was going to take some work.

  He counted to 10 before climbing out of the chair. He walked to the sink, stared.

  He spit on the mirror.

  Fuck all of you.

  He let his hands linger under the cold water.

  He found the water against his skin relaxing, soothing.

  A minute later, a humiliated Jed did as he was told.

  He splashed his face over and over.

  I feel hideous.

  He looked up, into the mirror.

  No one is ever going to say, “I do” to that face.

  That’s a face no mother could love.

  I wish I had just another face
in the crowd.

  As he dried off, he thought of his family.

  What am I going to tell my parents when they ask how everything went?

  Jed would visit Money many more times over the years, but his disdain for the asshole never wavered. He just wanted the doctor’s help, but he got hell instead. Years later he would write a poem to describe his visits to the Money Man.

  I come to you seeking refuge and relief

  The mask I wear resembles infected ground beef

  I kowtow; meekly lay my soul at your feet

  I beg you to vanquish the foe I can’t beat

  You gaze down upon me with disdain, and shake your head

  Another insignificant, who is better off dead

  I’ll be perfunctory, for a peasant deserves nothing more

  Mephistopheles is my master; I am his willing whore

  But I gaze up and see your look of indifference

  I am a human being; Don’t I matter more than dollars and cents?

  22.

  8:20 pm

  “Do you know that guy?” asked the bartender.

  “Huh,” stammered Jed.

  He turned, looked at the bartender. Turned back, looked at the sharp dressed man and his lady.

  “Well you’ve been staring at that couple, the guy in particular, for several minutes,” continued the bartender. “Only reason I know is because of your fast start to the evening. I was watching you. I thought you were on world record pace after the first couple of beers.”

  “Oh, right,” said Jed quietly. “I guess I was daydreaming.”

  “About what?”

  Jed stared at the man, probably in his early 40s, thought better of it.

  “Don’t remember,” he shot back, shaking his head.

  “Would you like another beer then?” probed the bartender. “I have a few minutes before my shift ends.”

  Jed shook his head.

  He felt uneasy, edgy. Jed slammed his beer, left a tip, walked back to the elevators. He pushed the button to call the elevator.

  I fucking hate elevators.

  When he reached his door, he paused.

  Let’s just relax for a few minutes, gather our composure, and go back down.

  He slid the room card key backwards five times before he caught himself.

  I am buzzing a little bit.

  He chuckled.

  Fuck it. I’m over 21.

  He walked in, paused near the bathroom – decided not to – and went back and lay down on the bed.

  And like nearly every night for the last few months, images and thoughts turned to Patty.

  And always at the start, his heart would take off and race; but at the end of his memories was just an angry face.

  Why’d you do it Patty?

  He inhaled deeply, yawned.

  After all you’ve been through and survived.

  He rolled over.

  Took a beer nap.

  ***

  “Patty, is that you?” called Jed.

  “Yes, Jed, it’s me,” cried Patty. “I’ve been calling for you. Where are you? I need your help. I don’t know what he’s going to do to me!”

  Jed squinted.

  It was dark, but after some effort, and half a minute, he came to the conclusion that he was standing in an old high school gymnasium. He did not recognize it. But he could see enough of what must be the basketball court. He was standing underneath some bleachers. He knew this because he could see and feel the metal skeleton that was supporting all the seats above.

  But it was so dark. He struggled just to move a few feet.

  And because of where he was, he could not see Patty. He didn’t know how far away she was, or which direction.

  He knew he had to get out from under the bleachers.

  “Jed, where are you?” cried Patty again.

  “I’m here in the gym, underneath some bleachers, I think,” he shouted. “You are going to have to start yelling so I can make my way to you.”

  “Jed come help me!” screamed Patty.

  “Patty what’s wrong?” barked Jed, cursing himself as his head struck metal.

  “Stay away from me!” shrieked Patty. “Leave me alone. Get those things away from me!”

  Jed was trying to haul ass, but he was accumulating bruises as he tried to navigate a route out from under the bleachers.

  He stopped.

  Concentrated.

  “Patty, keep talking to me!” he screamed.

  Jed’s heart pounded. He took three big steps and was out from underneath the bleachers.

  “Patty, say something!”

  A huge spotlight suddenly blinded Jed, stopping him as he ran around the bleachers.

  The light shone on a figure in the far corner of the gymnasium.

  Jed squinted, but couldn’t get a clear look.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” a voiced boomed over the speaker system. “Let me proudly introduce Miss Whore USA 1986!”

  Jed trembled.

  He recognized the voice.

  James McGuire.

  He also now recognized the person immersed in the bright light.

  Patty.

  Jed started sprinting.

  “Yes, hurry up you little pussy-whipped Jed Darby!” blasted her father through the sound system. “Come take a good look at the year’s most celebrated whore.”

  Her father’s last word – whore –kick started a particular instinct in Jed.

  His fight or flight activated.

  “I’m gonna kick your ass you crazy bastard!” yelled Jed.

  Each step got him closer to Patty.

  He had no idea where her father was. But kicking her father’s ass was now part of the itinerary.

  No fucking way.

  He stopped.

  Must be 30 feet away from where Patty was.

  This isn’t happening.

  He stopped breathing, stared.

  Patty’s eyes found Jed.

  “Help me Jed,” she cried. “Help me get these things ahh.”

  Her voice was muffled.

  Jed bent over, threw up.

  Patty’s hands were tied behind her back. Her feet were loosely bound. She could stand, not walk.

  She was completely naked, except for the sash across her body – “1986 Miss Whore USA.”

  But Jed didn’t puke because Patty was naked.

  Jed didn’t puke because of the writing on the sash.

  He puked because of it.

  It.

  It was the penis.

  It was not alone.

  There were three of them to be exact.

  The reason Patty was now reduced to babbling was because of the first penis.

  It was wedged into her mouth. The head of the penis and several inches of shaft were stuck in Patty’s throat. Her mouth was open as wide as it could.

  She was gagging. The penis was monstrous. Its shaft was so thick. And the parts of the penis Jed could see – inches of shaft, exposed veins, and bits of cartilage, were shaking violently. Trying to force more of itself further down Patty’s throat.

  There was something inked or tattooed on the penis.

  JAMES MCGUIRE.

  Jed gagged, moved a few steps closer.

  This time vomit shot out of his mouth and nose.

  He got an all-too-close look at penis number two.

  The second penis – the part that he could see – appeared to be at least a foot long and hanging between her legs.

  This penis was also several inches thick – like the trunk of a young tree.

  The part of the penis Jed couldn’t see – the head – was wedged inside Patty’s vagina, and it too was wiggling violently – like a snake – causing Patty intense pain as flesh ripped.

  Penis number 2 was inked also.

  JAMES MCGUIRE AND SON WERE HERE.

  Jed dry heaved for several moments.

  Penis number 3 was longer, bigger than the other two.


  And penis number 3 was dangling from Patty’s anus.

  This penis sported a tat also.

  TOM MCGUIRE IS AN ASS MAN.

  It looked like a giant mealworm.

  It throbbed, shook aggressively as it forced itself further up Patty’s asshole.

  Jed stumbled forward, grabbed hold of the shaft of penis number one – the one in Patty’s mouth – and pulled.

  “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, our Miss Whore USA 1986 learned to suck-and-fuck at the tender age of 10. She was taking it in the ass as a 14-year-old future prom queen.”

  Her father’s voice momentarily distracted him.

  “Fuck you, asshole!” screamed Jed.

  Jed turned, found Patty’s eyes.

  Patty bit down on the penis, struggled to talk.

  “Jed, I ah ew.”

  Upset that Jed couldn’t understand what she was saying; Patty relaxed her jaws for a moment.

  That was all it took.

  Penis number one lurched forward. It completely lodged itself in her larynx.

  “No!” wailed Jed.

  Patty’s body shook.

  Her chest seemed to spasm.

  Jed pulled on the penis as hard as he could. It was slimy, slippery.

  Patty made an ungodly noise.

  Jed looked at her while still trying to pry the penis from her mouth.

  Their eyes met.

  Jed nodded.

  “I love you too Patty.”

  Another strange noise came from Patty.

  Jed stopped pulling.

  “I will always love you.”

  Patty’s eyes closed.

  Her body went limp.

  She was dead.

  Her lungs were full of vomit.

  23.

  “At closing time, if you are raging horny, go grab yourself a Butter Face. Them bitches do more shit in bed too.”

  Advice to Jed from his RA during the his first weekend

  8:45 pm.

  The bad dream seemed to sober him up.

  As he paced the room, he was overcome by helplessness. He felt lonely, fragile.

  He needed a friend. Someone to talk to. To just let him vent. Give him some unconditional positive regard.

  He picked up the phone, made the call.

  Fucking hotel phones.

  He set the receiver down, looked over the instructions taped to the phone.

  He dialed again.