mk km (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} twiceuponatime) wrote,@ 2007-03-25 21:41:00 |
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Destiny's Children * Chapter Four
Word Count: 6590
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They turned out to be guards, those two I met in the yard.
Well, I guess Treye did need to make arrangements with these bumble-fucks from time to time, after all, someone brought drinks and ice and batteries in to stock his cell with, and it had been guards who had taken me from Monster and brought me to him. Besides, hesitating or complaining might see me right back to rooming with a sadistic beast, that particular one who was now furious with me.
It didn't matter, really, who they were.
They motioned me to a locked metallic door, and opened it. I strolled inside ahead of them, to see it was just a storeroom for rakes and shovels and a wheelbarrow, and like the yard, it had no roof.
"Down," one of them said. "Against the wall. On your knees. And make sure you stay quiet."
I figured I would just obey them. Not like I needed to do any talking, and soon I wouldn't be able to, but they looked so serious that I just had to say, "Does moaning count? Knowing you guys like me so much gets me all hot and bothered, I may not be able to control myself."
"What a sweetheart you are, Dylan. Next time we'll invite a few friends along so you can really enjoy yourself," the same guard went on, he was the one with the high forehead and shaved head. He looked like Lex Luther. The other one had black frizzled hair on his block shaped head, and I thought; Fred Flintstone. I glanced down at the second one's feet. They weren't bare of course, but they were certainly caveman large enough. I laughed softly, as I sank down to ground zero.
"Damn, where's a humorous comeback when you need one?" I answered mildly. "There has to be some twisted twisting of the words 'penal colony'.
I got slapped, but good, by Fred. My head bounced off the stucco wall. "Mind your manner, boy. And tell us why you're here."
"I don't see any wine, or candles, so I guess I'm here to suck you off, right?" I sighed, wincing, with a hand on my head. I couldn't chance them telling Treye that I was too much of a smart ass. Besides, the sooner it started, the sooner it ended. I squinted up at the sun, it was real hot today.
"I want to hear you say you want our cocks in your mouth, that you crave cocks in your mouth."
"I crave your cocks in my mouth," I looked up again at the sun, that lit torch way off in space. I wondered how hot it was? In degrees, I mean. A few thousand? Ten thousand? A million? For some reason, I suddenly craved a cigarette.
"Both cocks- at the same time, tell us how much you want both of them at once, I want to hear you beg for it like you mean it," Lex Luther's voice wasn't as loud, but it was more sinister, than Fred Flintstone's. Fitting.
"I beg for... wait. What? C'mon, that's impossible."
Fred's meaty hand grabbed my hair, his foot lifted an inch or two as if to aim at my very tender ribs. "Beg, punk."
"Okay, okay. I beg for both at the same time. I just mean that geometry may get in the way... circumferences and diameters. However... if I've wronged you mathematically, and you're both just real, you know, small, well, sorry."
Why do I do it, you ask? I know what they wanted, me with kicked-puppy eyes at their feet, pleading, trembling at their power over me. But I know something else, too. They will be rougher with weakness than they will be with annoyance.
It was Fred who unzipped first, and went at it, pressing what was in no way small to my mouth. I licked my lips, and felt him jerk as I took him in. He just stood there a minute, his hands balancing on my head, letting me suck on him peacefully, but then he leaned forward, placed his hands against the wall and slammed his hips to my head- driving me backwards right into the cement.
"Yeah, ram him good!" Lex's heated laugh echoed in my ears. My hands went to his thick thighs, but I didn't dare push as Fred stayed buried down my throat and kept me pinned that way.
Point made. Maybe I could tease them, but they could bash my fucking skull in.
Luckily for me, the position wasn't comfortable for Fred, nor the angle right. I was dizzy as he stepped back and pulled me by the hair with him. I went right to work, sucking for all I was worth. It took awhile, but finally he was close, I could tell by the tightening of his grip in my hair that watered my eyes... just before he pulled out. I had barely time to snatch a quick breath before Lex stepped up and was demanding my attention. More wanton than Fred, he held on like a bulldog, panting, as he eagerly thrust himself in and out of my mouth .
I spent well over an hour that way, while they took turns rutting on my face. I kept bringing each to the brink, and then having them switch places without a second's break in the action. Talk about exhausting. Didn't these clowns have work to do?
I heard them talking, but I was too miserable by this time to hear the words. My throat was burning raw, and it was about to get worse. Lex moved over, and took a really good grip on me. Fred joined him, as they shuffled for position before the second cock forced its way in beside the first one.
So it was possible, but I won't lie and say it didn't hurt. My mouth felt like the corners were ripping apart. Four hands pulled my hair as they set up a rhythm and fucked me half-senseless. Lex came first, after many minutes of this torture, and it seemed he spurted forever. I could barely swallow, I inhaled some of it, and I was coughing weakly when Fred got off thirty seconds later, holding me right down on him to the root, drowning me as he came. With a satisfied grunt, he pulled out and stood back. I could breathe again. Somewhat.
"Bastards," I choke-coughed, falling forward onto my hands, gagging. Lex placed the toe of his boot under me, and lifted me back to my knees. I glared up at him, but stayed how he put me.
"You really should be nicer, Dylan. We know about your lawyer friend, but he can't do shit, you're never getting out of here, you know why?"
"Because you think I'd miss all of you too much?" I wiped his semen off my lips, made a face and spat close to his shoes.
A rough hand grabbed my chin and jerked my head up. "You nasty little fucker," the guard snarled.
I tried to move my head away. "First of all, ouch, dammit, I've got something of a headache, if you don't mind. Secondly, let me up, I assume you're finished?"
Lex growled, "No, Dylan, you're the one finished. You're just too stupid to know it. You killed a cop, or you were with someone who did. Either or, don't matter, we can't let you loose to chance it happening again. Get it through your head, boy. There's more than just us two who will see to it that you die here, or that you kill here. You'll be framed if it's necessary, we'll do whatever we have to, anything and everything. You can't win."
They got to me. Fuck. It felt like I withered right into the hard-packed earth.
I took long, deep breaths, hating the fact that they could see I was crying. Maybe not crying, but two hot tears rolled down my face. "I've never hurt anyone, and I didn't really know the guy, or what he was doing. It's a long story, but can't you just back off and give me a fucking chance?"
"Not possible. You get no chances, Dylan. You're an uneducated, half-breed menace, and I know I won't lose one minute of sleep over making sure you and that talented little mouth remain right here with us."
The guard stroked my cheek, with an evil grin on his face.
I could feel it, inside. I really did want to kill him, or better yet, myself. My fingernails were drawing blood from my clenched palms, keeping me from striking out at him.
Jeremy. I needed him. I needed to see him and tell him and beg him. No. I needed to kiss him, touch him, be reassured that he really was trying to help me, that he really did care. That there was a chance. Fucking hell, I needed all of it.
I looked up. "You know," I said softly. "Bringing me here was such a waste of time, when two boys like you could have easily just sixty-nined each other."
"You are so fucking stupid," Lex said, giving me a rousting kick in the leg, "Get up and out of my sight."
I did. Quickly, if without much coordination. I stumbled out in the yard, and the guards starting rounding everyone up to return us to our cells.
My two new buddies stopped and chatted for a few minutes with some of the members of one of the higher ranked gangs. They are enemies of DeLucca's, so I should have sensed something, right?
Unfortunately, I never saw it coming until too late. The heavy padlock swung in the toe of a sock shattered my elbow, and I fell like a rock to my knees, screaming. Then it came down on my head, wrapping me in distant thunder and ---
--- nothing.
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"But I'm not going to tell you. Not yet," Tracy said, turning to face me. "Jeremy, you'll get only one chance at this. Love will make you impatient, the way you are right now."
Her cryptic answer was testing my patience. "Tracy," I implored, "he's in danger. You should have seen him, how bad he was hurt. I need to know everything you know."
"Of course, and you will. First though, I want to tell you about Aaron Jackson."
"Who is he?"
"Dylan's worst enemy. Only he never knew it, and neither did I."
"Hold on," I said. The sign for an RV park came into view, and I pulled my car in. But as we looked the place over, I thought I needed to find somewhere else. The rows of baked sand and rocks were marked off for the campers, but there was no grass, just muscle-arm cacti without a shade tree in sight.
"What the hell, the tourists may as well just set up in a parking lot somewhere," I scoffed.
"What about over there?" Tracy asked. It looked like an old western saloon, but the sign on it said 'Office', and not far from that and behind it, was a small, low-fenced area of bright green grass surrounding one very large shade tree. I smiled.
"Perfect."
I parked and we hopped the fence and sat down under the tree.
"So," I said. "Aaron Jackson."
"The biggest liar I ever knew," Tracy looked at me. "That's saying something. Dylan and I both found trouble with the name love on it. Or lust, anyway. I was first. Aaron was as homeless as we were, and some fairly well off drug cowboy was using him for deliveries. I wanted nothing to do with drugs anymore, or with him. But the guy wouldn't go away, he didn't beg money for food, all he spent it on was me. Every time he managed to scrape up another twenty-five dollars, he was all over me, and no, I wasn't flattered. He was a pest, but a paying customer, too. Only, he started talking like we were going to get married, have kids- all that crap. No matter what I said, he believed he'd change my mind. And Dylan was afraid of him, I mean Aaron acted nice enough around him, but there was a look in his eyes that was scary."
So, she told me, Aaron had hated Dylan, because of how close they were. Dylan's fear wasn't for himself, it was for Tracy. He feared what the man was capable of, and worried that if she ever really rejected him, he would not take it well.
She and Dylan, meanwhile, spent their time earning money. Dylan, after his harrowing experience with the law and the social services, was hell bent on following her example and saving for some kind of life for himself. He did odd jobs under the table, for very low pay, but Tracy made him put every dime away, while she kept using her own money to take care of the two of them. Only because, she said, he made so little and worked so hard.
I was glad to hear that Dylan had spent his sixteenth birthday with Tracy. It got me smiling when she told me how pleased and surprised he was when she bought him a cake and candles, and had a present for him to open, but what Tracy gave of herself, was his real present. She had given him some stability, a goal and some sense of family. These things he had always needed.
I thanked her for that.
She shook her head. "These have been the worst years of my life. If it wasn't for Dylan, I'm not sure that I wouldn't have just given up. I owe that boy. I just hope you can help him, Jeremy."
"I have to," I simply said.
"I'm ashamed to tell you the next part, but I'm the one who introduced him to Miguel."
"Miguel. The boy who was killed in the robbery. You couldn't know how it would turn out," I consoled her.
"I thought it would be a good thing. Miguel was eighteen, and Dylan- he spent all his free time with an older lady like me, and had no friends his age. Dylan brushed off all the advances made on him, whether it was for friendship or someone attracted to him, he wanted nothing to do with anyone except me. I was pretty sure Dylan would reject Miguel, too, but if nothing else, maybe Miguel could help him find work."
Tracy sighed, long and deep.
"So, did he?" I asked.
She looked at me, her eyes were soulful, like Dylan's, drenched in sadness.
"I did not know many things about Miguel, but I found out one of them the day they met. Miguel took one look at Dylan, and no shit, he stopped breathing. He just stared like he was frozen, and I knew."
I almost wanted to laugh. "How did Dylan take it?"
"Like always, he ignored it, he was used to it. But he knew, too. Miguel was smitten right there on the spot. Badly. He didn't end up doing much to help, but he was always around after that. Dylan tried to stay away from him, but Miguel, like Aaron, had his sights set. Then, he and Aaron met and things changed. Dylan and I should have moved away, I should have known nothing good could come of it."
All this got me thinking of how skittish Dylan was with strangers.
He and I used to make up games with rocks, sticks, trash, whatever we could find. Once in a while though, some other kid would try to join us, and Dylan would just edge away and then disappear. It never took me long to miss him, and I'd say bye to whatever friend I'd briefly made and search him out. He always looked at me so gratefully, and I always asked him if he was mad at me.
But he never was. In fact, Dylan has never been angry at me, not even the few times I got mad at him. He would take me yelling at him patiently, and then, when I finished and was ready to come to blows, he would say he was sorry. That always ended that, I couldn't fight alone. Two boys together all day like brothers who never fought? Hard to believe?
I told this to Tracy, just a cute side note, and she said, "I don't think he ever knew he had that right."
I stared at her, almost startled.
Once, my mother had brought Dylan home to our trailer. She was carrying him. I had forgotten the incident until now, and I don't remember much, I was very young. She said she had heard him scream, and had gone over on pretense of asking if Dylan could sleep over with me, and his mother hadn't cared one way or the other. On our small sofa, he huddled, shivering, with both of his arms sprained and with marks all over him. My mother made him comfortable and covered him, and he slept there, all that day and night. In the morning, he woke up his usual self, except for being sore with his injuries. He was cheerful when he saw me, though, as always.
When I asked him what happened, he told me how the man who lived with them then had held him down, beaten him, and twisted his arms, and that he had to go home and tell his mom how sorry he was. I hadn't understood it then, but now I was seeing many things more clearly. To be fed, to have a place to sleep and any semblance of care... to survive, for him, was to be sorry.
I nodded to Tracy, sadly, and urged her to continue with the story.
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I dreamed, I was tied to a cactus and I was being stoned, while I kept pleading, "Mama, Mama..." I could see her off to the side of my vision, talking to someone, and she didn't seem to hear me. Or she was ignoring me, more likely.
Faceless people were laughing as they kept throwing rocks, and I was twisting in pain...
I gasped. I may have had no choice about waking up, but there was no chance that I was opening my eyes. If no one knew I was awake, they wouldn't hurt me, or send me back or... be real. I thought I could just stay like I was in a coma, how would they know the difference?
It's more difficult than you think to do this, though. Every survivalist bone in my body kept trying to make me open my eyes to see where I was. The heat was stifling, or maybe it was just my burning head. That didn't matter. My bladder did, though, I realized soon after. If I didn't want to piss on the bed, I was going to have to get up. I didn't think I could pull off that I was only sleep walking. Fuck.
Discovering I wasn't on a bed in the infirmary, but on a floor mattress in solitary was somewhat disorienting. It hurt to think, though, my head throbbed horribly. I rolled over to get up, and yelped. I had forgotten about my arm. I looked at it, it was in a cast, so I'd received some sort of attention before being dumped in here.
I got gingerly up, in care of any other injuries I might find or had forgotten, and made my way to the silver latrine. The only furniture in the room. Well, at least I was alone, right?
My first thought once I'd collapsed back on the bed, was that I wanted to call Jeremy, and I wondered, why? To whine and moan about this place? What could he do? Besides, I knew the guards and the warden would make me jump through hoops of humiliation for the privilege. It wasn't worth it.
So what did I want. I closed my eyes. To sleep, that's all. To sleep forever.
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They kept me in solitary for a few days, as punishment for starting a brawl- what a joke to call it that, or to insinuate that I had even for one second fought back- but they had to cover themselves. It gave me time to mend, I guess, or time enough to die if I got a blood clot or something from the head injury, and with no one to blame except myself. If that sounds like I worried for the possibility, it's true, I did. Like a pup with a chew toy I gnawed at optimism. No matter my many past thoughts of killing myself; I found some blatant hope that bordered on certainty. Jeremy was going to save me. Jeremy loved me. He had said he did, and Jeremy never lied to me. I would have him, he would have me and we would have life. It just had to be, didn't it?
No one could want something as badly as I did, and do so hopelessly. My life just couldn't end like this. I was innocent, that was the fucking bottom line, unless I had some amazing ability to shoot people while unconscious.
The guards, my two comical fuck buddies, swore they didn't see who hit me, and there were so many of us in the yard at the time, so many who didn't like me, it could have been any of them, they said. The weapon had been left in the pool of blood beside me, things easy enough for anyone to get their hands on. There really wasn't much in this place that hadn't been turned into a weapon, besides the soggy food. Even plastic straws had been melted together into sharp lumps of stabbing potential.
What the guards said was true, I was not well liked by the general population. I was the crazy smart-mouthed little whore who made a deal with the devil to save his ass.
All I've got to say is, what the fuck's wrong with that?
You show me the guy who would willingly be Monster's bitch toy if he could think of a way out of it. I want to shake that drooling, triple-dosed on Prozac man's hand. Er, well, hypothetically.
Now I had all of DeLucca's enemies, sure, but I had made a batch of my own as well. I knew who attacked me, but I wasn't going to tell anyone, that could get me seriously killed. There was going to be trouble enough, anyway. Treye, he found out somehow, although not the entire truth- still, it started a minor war. Not because I was hurt, but because his property had dared to be fucked with without his permission. So he made sure to fuck them up some. No one died, which is a fucking miracle, and then the dust settled back down. Treye never did find out what part the guards played, and neither did I.
The prison officials of course, they laid the blame for all of it on my head. Like I had any power over what anyone did in this god-forsaken place. I knew they were just eager to smudge black marks on my record to look bad on appeals. Even more than on DeLucca's, after all, he may have had dozens murdered, he may have supplied drugs to grade schools, but none of his victims had been badged members of Arizona's finest.
They threw me back in with Treye, finally. And he wasn't exactly glad to see me, but the fact that I was here at all had me grateful. The first thing he did, however, was bitch-slap me a good one.
I hung my head, soundlessly, so what if I had a concussion and fifteen fucking stitches just behind my ear? There were lessons to be learned.
"Next time, kid, I pimp you, you will not say a word. You will do only what you're told. I give you this one chance, because I've got a soft spot for you," Treye told me. "Try to remember who came to who, begging, in the first place."
"Yes, sir," I lamented. "I'm sorry."
He sighed, and touched my face. "You all right?"
I looked up. "I'll live. The guards, they were so serious, Treye. And they looked like comic book characters, and well, you had to be there. It was funny in a sick sort of way. I guess I'm still learning how to deal with it all. But it won't happen again, I'll behave. I give you my word."
"Good boy," he smiled. He gave me credit for knowing enough to keep promises.
"Treye, I don't mean to impose or anything, but the damn guards have it in for me. They said-"
"I know," Treye stopped me, and his voice was low. "The word is, that you'll be committing suicide soon, and I knew as soon as I heard it what it meant. Be easy to get away with for them. It's common for guys your age, especially under these circumstances."
Yeah. These circumstances. "What do I do?"
"Look, kid, I can't be using up favors to protect you anymore than I am. My advise? Cozy on up to one of the guards, if you can find one with that certain look in his eyes. One who wants more than to see you on your knees in front of him, understand?"
I did understand. Three years on the streets had taught me what I needed to know. That look, like Miguel had had.
"What if there isn't any like that?"
"C'mon, Dylan. Enough. You're eighteen years old, pretty as fucking hell, and convicted of murdering a cop in cold blood. What did you think your chances were of living a long life in here?"
DeLucca turned from me, and went to his desk. Conversation over. I climbed, awkwardly with the cast on my arm, up to my bunk, and I lay there and closed my eyes. I had to play mind games with one of the guards. I had to fucking drool over him. God.
Mind games. I'm familiar with the concept. I'd sure as hell had them played on me. One bad decision, two years ago, had started it all.
Tracy had been gone several hours, and I was wiped from working in the groves all day. But more than wiped, I got so little pay I couldn't see how I would ever save enough to afford a place to live and then study for my equivalency. I was in maximum depression when Aaron, who was always around like the litter blowing against the curbs, sat down beside me, and said, "Here, Dylan. This'll help."
I glanced at the snowseal lying invitingly in his palm, and knew it was coke mixed with E, his specialty, the guy used it every day. I shook my miserable head.
Aaron scowled. "C'mon, I hate seeing you so down. If you don't like it, it wears off fast, and just don't do it anymore," he said this very softly, like he cared. "It might make you feel better."
He rested a hand on my shoulder. "Peace offering," he went on, picking away at my low defenses. "No charge. My way of saying sorry for bein' such a dick about Tracy."
Dully, I thought, what could it hurt? What did it matter? I took it, looking it over, and he handed me this little mirror, what looked like a small piece of a cd, and a rolled up dollar bill.
Five minutes later, I was telling this creep all about my dreams for the future, and I knew it was the drug, but I didn't care. It felt good to talk to someone, really talk, and for the first time, I liked him. He was a good listener. I just chatted away, me, usually so quiet, I had found myself inexplicably unable to shut up. I felt so much better that I wondered why I hadn't tried this stuff sooner. Over the next two hours or so, I finished what was there, snorting more whenever it started to wear off.
And then there was no more, and exhaustion set in. Aaron took charge, with paternal firmness. He brought me, holding on to my shoulders, to the bushes where I slept most nights while I waited for Tracy. All I wanted was to pass out, and I didn't even think to mind his hands, after all, he and I were friends now. His touch was in no way indecent, he rubbed my shoulders, brushed back my hair. I thanked him for helping, and he sat beside me and rubbed my back into sleep.
It had been such a relief, the brief time of happiness that felt all too real, that I was actually grateful, and so Aaron and I began to spend more nights that way. We would walk along the streets sometimes, and I would smile at people as if I was one of them. You can't imagine the wondrous experience of that. Most even smiled back.
I didn't tell Tracy. She'd once been a meth addict, which had turned her to heroin for relief from the horrors of 'jonesing' - coming down- and had eventually led to her selling herself on the streets. She had fought hard to get clean, and was still battling to get her life back.
Avoiding lectures from her, I kept my new friendship, and my little foray into chemicals to myself. I could handle it. I wouldn't let myself get addicted, I wouldn't touch meth or heroin. I just wanted a few peaceful hours when smiling didn't come so hard.
Only, I was going to learn another lesson the hard way.
It was just two weeks later, when I woke up, disoriented, as I was grasped and hauled to my feet. I blinked at two cops, one on each of my arms, and remembered the last time I had been in the grip of the police. I fought them this time, for all the good it did. Funny thing, they roughed me up a lot less than last time. I guess they had just wanted to make fucking points with that bastard Sebastian.
They found the mirror in my pocket with some trace of residue on it, even though I couldn't remember putting it there. They said they had an anonymous tip that I was dealing Exstasy, and I remember thinking; Aaron, who else knew and who else could have planted that damn mirror. Why? But it didn't much matter at that moment. I was a parole violator, and now I was charged with drug possession. I found out later that it should have been the lesser crime of having drug paraphernalia, but either way, I was fucked. I had just turned sixteen two months earlier, and now I wouldn't see freedom for almost another year.
Once more, I simply survived. In the Youth Correction Facility, it had been much easier to just bluff my way through than it is in this place. There was some small measure of concern and culpability. It helped that I got a cell all to myself. They considered me too unpredictable for placement that didn't jeopardize one of us, for I was not a member of any gang. High risk, I was, for assault of one type or another. I won't say I didn't take a few beatings, but I gave back what I got, and I didn't mess with the guards. They were all on edge, with the overcrowding and ongoing reform, afraid to really fight back with us kids and lose their jobs. Hardly a day went by when one didn't get a milk carton filled with piss to the back of his head. Or worse.
So to them, I was one of the good ones. Morose and quiet, they could handle, and I think most actually liked me. It was easy time, if boring and somewhat crazy. There were people who seemed sincerely to want to counsel me out of drugs, and my destructive lifestyle, but where were they when I had needed them? Like, before any of this? You really want to help? I had asked one of them. Then get me a decent job, somewhere to live and the money to start with. But no, of course, no real help was coming. I was not seventeen yet, so none would get it through their heads that I wasn't a kid. Maybe, I had never been one. Maybe childhood is a luxury some of us can't fucking afford.
When I got out, three months early, I was deposited in another foster home. This one was 'specialized' for rotten kids like me. I met the Merrigans, who were anything but merry. They were tyrants. With a long, long list of rules and a schedule to follow. Written out on paper, no shit. First thing I had to do was sit at the kitchen table and read it. The hard part was trying not to laugh, especially at the military times for everything. 0600- Out of Bed. 0615- Breakfast. 2200- Bed, lights out.
Like that. I'm serious.
Okay, so they weren't really tyrants, not exactly, but that first night, when I had words with Brandon, the other kid they had taken in, Mr. Merrigan had stormed into our room and grabbed my shoulder. Why not his? That asshole had started it, giving me a shove for going near his dresser, and then telling me I had to do what he said, too, since he was older and had been there longer. Yeah, six months older, and he'd been there four months. That he was so much of a pathetic retard is the only reason I didn't shove him back.
"I'm not afraid to mess with you, Dylan, if I have to," Mr. Merrigan had growled, his hand tightening painfully.
"Like I fucking care," I snarled back, shaking loose. "All I want is some damn peace and quiet so I can think!"
"I can already tell you're going to be trouble. I want you job searching first thing in the morning, got it?" He pushed me to the wall, and stood intimidatingly close. There was no escape. I looked up into his eyes and he glared back with unblinking menace.
I looked down and weakly nodded. Mr. Merrigan relaxed. Brandon smirked. I went to the bed I was supposed to sleep in and curled up, facing away from my new life.
I snuck out the window that night. I just couldn't stay, even though I had promised the social worker, and my probation officer that I would. I had meant it, I really had wanted to just live for awhile, safe, and do some thinking.
I can't explain, it's just... I couldn't handle any more, not of anything. Especially not of being bullied out of some 'tough love' handbook. It was... smothering. Claustrophobic. Like prison. It was defining, also. It told me who I was, and it whispered its terrible truth to me as I slipped off into the darkness like some sneaky, nocturnal creature.
All this time, ever since leaving school and leaving home, I'd had a purpose. Never had it wavered, I may have lived on the streets, and done time in juvie, but I was not one of those who did likewise. I was like Jeremy, just not as lucky, and one day we would be the same again. One day, he would walk up to me and it would be as if only minutes had passed since we'd been together. Okay, so maybe that would never happen, but what I mean is just the idea.
Now, it was different. Back on the streets, I realized that this is who I am, this is what I know. Much time had passed, for Jeremy, too, and I saw it clearly that day. He lived, and I died. It wasn't his fault. But he would not come running back looking for me. If he even remembered me if we ran into each other again, he would walk fast the other way. That part of my life was over. What was it I was supposed to be looking forward to?
I found Tracy that morning, and when I saw her, I dissolved into tears right on the spot. I hadn't even seen that coming, but I was shaking as I ran to her. Aaron was there, but I ignored him. And then she and I were hugging, and she held me while I closed my eyes and forgot everything else.
Except... Jeremy. I held to Tracy and I grieved over Jeremy. I had never missed him more.
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"He came back again, but he wasn't the same," Tracy told me. "And Aaron was pissed that he was back, and didn't want me encouraging him to be around us anymore. Dylan was surprised that the two of us were together. I should have been, too, but I had gotten lonely and tired, and he was just... there. He could be charming when he wanted to be."
Tracy shrugged. I wanted to put a hand on her shoulder. I wanted to thank her for at least being there for Dylan. The more I learned, the more I knew he was lucky to still be alive.
"So, Dylan backed off. He was not like Aaron, or Miguel. If he thought he was unwanted, he was gone. And Aaron made sure he knew he wasn't welcome in our lives anymore. I didn't see him much for awhile. A long while. And then he came around, with Miguel. I guess that's no more unlikely than me being with Aaron. Like I mentioned, Dylan had changed. He looked tired, worn out, he barely spoke. I got this impression that Miguel had just taken advantage of his weakness. Miguel told me they were moving to LA, to find work modeling or acting or something. I looked at Dylan, I was really surprised, he wasn't the type. But Dylan just gazed off, standing perfectly still, as if unconcerned where he might be headed."
Tracy stood up, her brow creased with what looked like fury. "Goddamn him."
I stood up beside her. "Tracy. This is interesting and all, but I need information on the robbery and the shooting."
I was already thinking of spending all day tomorrow going over the court transcripts. There was nothing Tracy could do to help, I was beginning to realize. Hearing about what Dylan had gone through while I had enjoyed my new life, made me feel like a traitor. Besides, none of this was going to help me get a case up for the Parole and Pardons Board. Actually, in this state, it's called the Board of Executive Clemency. I had to have the evidence to push for a new trial. I just had to, somehow, and I was sure it wasn't coming from this poor woman.
That is, until she sat back down and said, shaking her head, "I didn't even know about that Smith guy. Not then."
Puzzled, not having heard that name before, I decided to hear more. I sat back down, too. "Who?" I asked.
"Smith. That's right. I don't think he was even mentioned at the trial. He's the guy they robbed the bank for," Tracy answered.
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Back* * *Next
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They turned out to be guards, those two I met in the yard.
Well, I guess Treye did need to make arrangements with these bumble-fucks from time to time, after all, someone brought drinks and ice and batteries in to stock his cell with, and it had been guards who had taken me from Monster and brought me to him. Besides, hesitating or complaining might see me right back to rooming with a sadistic beast, that particular one who was now furious with me.
It didn't matter, really, who they were.
They motioned me to a locked metallic door, and opened it. I strolled inside ahead of them, to see it was just a storeroom for rakes and shovels and a wheelbarrow, and like the yard, it had no roof.
"Down," one of them said. "Against the wall. On your knees. And make sure you stay quiet."
I figured I would just obey them. Not like I needed to do any talking, and soon I wouldn't be able to, but they looked so serious that I just had to say, "Does moaning count? Knowing you guys like me so much gets me all hot and bothered, I may not be able to control myself."
"What a sweetheart you are, Dylan. Next time we'll invite a few friends along so you can really enjoy yourself," the same guard went on, he was the one with the high forehead and shaved head. He looked like Lex Luther. The other one had black frizzled hair on his block shaped head, and I thought; Fred Flintstone. I glanced down at the second one's feet. They weren't bare of course, but they were certainly caveman large enough. I laughed softly, as I sank down to ground zero.
"Damn, where's a humorous comeback when you need one?" I answered mildly. "There has to be some twisted twisting of the words 'penal colony'.
I got slapped, but good, by Fred. My head bounced off the stucco wall. "Mind your manner, boy. And tell us why you're here."
"I don't see any wine, or candles, so I guess I'm here to suck you off, right?" I sighed, wincing, with a hand on my head. I couldn't chance them telling Treye that I was too much of a smart ass. Besides, the sooner it started, the sooner it ended. I squinted up at the sun, it was real hot today.
"I want to hear you say you want our cocks in your mouth, that you crave cocks in your mouth."
"I crave your cocks in my mouth," I looked up again at the sun, that lit torch way off in space. I wondered how hot it was? In degrees, I mean. A few thousand? Ten thousand? A million? For some reason, I suddenly craved a cigarette.
"Both cocks- at the same time, tell us how much you want both of them at once, I want to hear you beg for it like you mean it," Lex Luther's voice wasn't as loud, but it was more sinister, than Fred Flintstone's. Fitting.
"I beg for... wait. What? C'mon, that's impossible."
Fred's meaty hand grabbed my hair, his foot lifted an inch or two as if to aim at my very tender ribs. "Beg, punk."
"Okay, okay. I beg for both at the same time. I just mean that geometry may get in the way... circumferences and diameters. However... if I've wronged you mathematically, and you're both just real, you know, small, well, sorry."
Why do I do it, you ask? I know what they wanted, me with kicked-puppy eyes at their feet, pleading, trembling at their power over me. But I know something else, too. They will be rougher with weakness than they will be with annoyance.
It was Fred who unzipped first, and went at it, pressing what was in no way small to my mouth. I licked my lips, and felt him jerk as I took him in. He just stood there a minute, his hands balancing on my head, letting me suck on him peacefully, but then he leaned forward, placed his hands against the wall and slammed his hips to my head- driving me backwards right into the cement.
"Yeah, ram him good!" Lex's heated laugh echoed in my ears. My hands went to his thick thighs, but I didn't dare push as Fred stayed buried down my throat and kept me pinned that way.
Point made. Maybe I could tease them, but they could bash my fucking skull in.
Luckily for me, the position wasn't comfortable for Fred, nor the angle right. I was dizzy as he stepped back and pulled me by the hair with him. I went right to work, sucking for all I was worth. It took awhile, but finally he was close, I could tell by the tightening of his grip in my hair that watered my eyes... just before he pulled out. I had barely time to snatch a quick breath before Lex stepped up and was demanding my attention. More wanton than Fred, he held on like a bulldog, panting, as he eagerly thrust himself in and out of my mouth .
I spent well over an hour that way, while they took turns rutting on my face. I kept bringing each to the brink, and then having them switch places without a second's break in the action. Talk about exhausting. Didn't these clowns have work to do?
I heard them talking, but I was too miserable by this time to hear the words. My throat was burning raw, and it was about to get worse. Lex moved over, and took a really good grip on me. Fred joined him, as they shuffled for position before the second cock forced its way in beside the first one.
So it was possible, but I won't lie and say it didn't hurt. My mouth felt like the corners were ripping apart. Four hands pulled my hair as they set up a rhythm and fucked me half-senseless. Lex came first, after many minutes of this torture, and it seemed he spurted forever. I could barely swallow, I inhaled some of it, and I was coughing weakly when Fred got off thirty seconds later, holding me right down on him to the root, drowning me as he came. With a satisfied grunt, he pulled out and stood back. I could breathe again. Somewhat.
"Bastards," I choke-coughed, falling forward onto my hands, gagging. Lex placed the toe of his boot under me, and lifted me back to my knees. I glared up at him, but stayed how he put me.
"You really should be nicer, Dylan. We know about your lawyer friend, but he can't do shit, you're never getting out of here, you know why?"
"Because you think I'd miss all of you too much?" I wiped his semen off my lips, made a face and spat close to his shoes.
A rough hand grabbed my chin and jerked my head up. "You nasty little fucker," the guard snarled.
I tried to move my head away. "First of all, ouch, dammit, I've got something of a headache, if you don't mind. Secondly, let me up, I assume you're finished?"
Lex growled, "No, Dylan, you're the one finished. You're just too stupid to know it. You killed a cop, or you were with someone who did. Either or, don't matter, we can't let you loose to chance it happening again. Get it through your head, boy. There's more than just us two who will see to it that you die here, or that you kill here. You'll be framed if it's necessary, we'll do whatever we have to, anything and everything. You can't win."
They got to me. Fuck. It felt like I withered right into the hard-packed earth.
I took long, deep breaths, hating the fact that they could see I was crying. Maybe not crying, but two hot tears rolled down my face. "I've never hurt anyone, and I didn't really know the guy, or what he was doing. It's a long story, but can't you just back off and give me a fucking chance?"
"Not possible. You get no chances, Dylan. You're an uneducated, half-breed menace, and I know I won't lose one minute of sleep over making sure you and that talented little mouth remain right here with us."
The guard stroked my cheek, with an evil grin on his face.
I could feel it, inside. I really did want to kill him, or better yet, myself. My fingernails were drawing blood from my clenched palms, keeping me from striking out at him.
Jeremy. I needed him. I needed to see him and tell him and beg him. No. I needed to kiss him, touch him, be reassured that he really was trying to help me, that he really did care. That there was a chance. Fucking hell, I needed all of it.
I looked up. "You know," I said softly. "Bringing me here was such a waste of time, when two boys like you could have easily just sixty-nined each other."
"You are so fucking stupid," Lex said, giving me a rousting kick in the leg, "Get up and out of my sight."
I did. Quickly, if without much coordination. I stumbled out in the yard, and the guards starting rounding everyone up to return us to our cells.
My two new buddies stopped and chatted for a few minutes with some of the members of one of the higher ranked gangs. They are enemies of DeLucca's, so I should have sensed something, right?
Unfortunately, I never saw it coming until too late. The heavy padlock swung in the toe of a sock shattered my elbow, and I fell like a rock to my knees, screaming. Then it came down on my head, wrapping me in distant thunder and ---
--- nothing.
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"But I'm not going to tell you. Not yet," Tracy said, turning to face me. "Jeremy, you'll get only one chance at this. Love will make you impatient, the way you are right now."
Her cryptic answer was testing my patience. "Tracy," I implored, "he's in danger. You should have seen him, how bad he was hurt. I need to know everything you know."
"Of course, and you will. First though, I want to tell you about Aaron Jackson."
"Who is he?"
"Dylan's worst enemy. Only he never knew it, and neither did I."
"Hold on," I said. The sign for an RV park came into view, and I pulled my car in. But as we looked the place over, I thought I needed to find somewhere else. The rows of baked sand and rocks were marked off for the campers, but there was no grass, just muscle-arm cacti without a shade tree in sight.
"What the hell, the tourists may as well just set up in a parking lot somewhere," I scoffed.
"What about over there?" Tracy asked. It looked like an old western saloon, but the sign on it said 'Office', and not far from that and behind it, was a small, low-fenced area of bright green grass surrounding one very large shade tree. I smiled.
"Perfect."
I parked and we hopped the fence and sat down under the tree.
"So," I said. "Aaron Jackson."
"The biggest liar I ever knew," Tracy looked at me. "That's saying something. Dylan and I both found trouble with the name love on it. Or lust, anyway. I was first. Aaron was as homeless as we were, and some fairly well off drug cowboy was using him for deliveries. I wanted nothing to do with drugs anymore, or with him. But the guy wouldn't go away, he didn't beg money for food, all he spent it on was me. Every time he managed to scrape up another twenty-five dollars, he was all over me, and no, I wasn't flattered. He was a pest, but a paying customer, too. Only, he started talking like we were going to get married, have kids- all that crap. No matter what I said, he believed he'd change my mind. And Dylan was afraid of him, I mean Aaron acted nice enough around him, but there was a look in his eyes that was scary."
So, she told me, Aaron had hated Dylan, because of how close they were. Dylan's fear wasn't for himself, it was for Tracy. He feared what the man was capable of, and worried that if she ever really rejected him, he would not take it well.
She and Dylan, meanwhile, spent their time earning money. Dylan, after his harrowing experience with the law and the social services, was hell bent on following her example and saving for some kind of life for himself. He did odd jobs under the table, for very low pay, but Tracy made him put every dime away, while she kept using her own money to take care of the two of them. Only because, she said, he made so little and worked so hard.
I was glad to hear that Dylan had spent his sixteenth birthday with Tracy. It got me smiling when she told me how pleased and surprised he was when she bought him a cake and candles, and had a present for him to open, but what Tracy gave of herself, was his real present. She had given him some stability, a goal and some sense of family. These things he had always needed.
I thanked her for that.
She shook her head. "These have been the worst years of my life. If it wasn't for Dylan, I'm not sure that I wouldn't have just given up. I owe that boy. I just hope you can help him, Jeremy."
"I have to," I simply said.
"I'm ashamed to tell you the next part, but I'm the one who introduced him to Miguel."
"Miguel. The boy who was killed in the robbery. You couldn't know how it would turn out," I consoled her.
"I thought it would be a good thing. Miguel was eighteen, and Dylan- he spent all his free time with an older lady like me, and had no friends his age. Dylan brushed off all the advances made on him, whether it was for friendship or someone attracted to him, he wanted nothing to do with anyone except me. I was pretty sure Dylan would reject Miguel, too, but if nothing else, maybe Miguel could help him find work."
Tracy sighed, long and deep.
"So, did he?" I asked.
She looked at me, her eyes were soulful, like Dylan's, drenched in sadness.
"I did not know many things about Miguel, but I found out one of them the day they met. Miguel took one look at Dylan, and no shit, he stopped breathing. He just stared like he was frozen, and I knew."
I almost wanted to laugh. "How did Dylan take it?"
"Like always, he ignored it, he was used to it. But he knew, too. Miguel was smitten right there on the spot. Badly. He didn't end up doing much to help, but he was always around after that. Dylan tried to stay away from him, but Miguel, like Aaron, had his sights set. Then, he and Aaron met and things changed. Dylan and I should have moved away, I should have known nothing good could come of it."
All this got me thinking of how skittish Dylan was with strangers.
He and I used to make up games with rocks, sticks, trash, whatever we could find. Once in a while though, some other kid would try to join us, and Dylan would just edge away and then disappear. It never took me long to miss him, and I'd say bye to whatever friend I'd briefly made and search him out. He always looked at me so gratefully, and I always asked him if he was mad at me.
But he never was. In fact, Dylan has never been angry at me, not even the few times I got mad at him. He would take me yelling at him patiently, and then, when I finished and was ready to come to blows, he would say he was sorry. That always ended that, I couldn't fight alone. Two boys together all day like brothers who never fought? Hard to believe?
I told this to Tracy, just a cute side note, and she said, "I don't think he ever knew he had that right."
I stared at her, almost startled.
Once, my mother had brought Dylan home to our trailer. She was carrying him. I had forgotten the incident until now, and I don't remember much, I was very young. She said she had heard him scream, and had gone over on pretense of asking if Dylan could sleep over with me, and his mother hadn't cared one way or the other. On our small sofa, he huddled, shivering, with both of his arms sprained and with marks all over him. My mother made him comfortable and covered him, and he slept there, all that day and night. In the morning, he woke up his usual self, except for being sore with his injuries. He was cheerful when he saw me, though, as always.
When I asked him what happened, he told me how the man who lived with them then had held him down, beaten him, and twisted his arms, and that he had to go home and tell his mom how sorry he was. I hadn't understood it then, but now I was seeing many things more clearly. To be fed, to have a place to sleep and any semblance of care... to survive, for him, was to be sorry.
I nodded to Tracy, sadly, and urged her to continue with the story.
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I dreamed, I was tied to a cactus and I was being stoned, while I kept pleading, "Mama, Mama..." I could see her off to the side of my vision, talking to someone, and she didn't seem to hear me. Or she was ignoring me, more likely.
Faceless people were laughing as they kept throwing rocks, and I was twisting in pain...
I gasped. I may have had no choice about waking up, but there was no chance that I was opening my eyes. If no one knew I was awake, they wouldn't hurt me, or send me back or... be real. I thought I could just stay like I was in a coma, how would they know the difference?
It's more difficult than you think to do this, though. Every survivalist bone in my body kept trying to make me open my eyes to see where I was. The heat was stifling, or maybe it was just my burning head. That didn't matter. My bladder did, though, I realized soon after. If I didn't want to piss on the bed, I was going to have to get up. I didn't think I could pull off that I was only sleep walking. Fuck.
Discovering I wasn't on a bed in the infirmary, but on a floor mattress in solitary was somewhat disorienting. It hurt to think, though, my head throbbed horribly. I rolled over to get up, and yelped. I had forgotten about my arm. I looked at it, it was in a cast, so I'd received some sort of attention before being dumped in here.
I got gingerly up, in care of any other injuries I might find or had forgotten, and made my way to the silver latrine. The only furniture in the room. Well, at least I was alone, right?
My first thought once I'd collapsed back on the bed, was that I wanted to call Jeremy, and I wondered, why? To whine and moan about this place? What could he do? Besides, I knew the guards and the warden would make me jump through hoops of humiliation for the privilege. It wasn't worth it.
So what did I want. I closed my eyes. To sleep, that's all. To sleep forever.
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They kept me in solitary for a few days, as punishment for starting a brawl- what a joke to call it that, or to insinuate that I had even for one second fought back- but they had to cover themselves. It gave me time to mend, I guess, or time enough to die if I got a blood clot or something from the head injury, and with no one to blame except myself. If that sounds like I worried for the possibility, it's true, I did. Like a pup with a chew toy I gnawed at optimism. No matter my many past thoughts of killing myself; I found some blatant hope that bordered on certainty. Jeremy was going to save me. Jeremy loved me. He had said he did, and Jeremy never lied to me. I would have him, he would have me and we would have life. It just had to be, didn't it?
No one could want something as badly as I did, and do so hopelessly. My life just couldn't end like this. I was innocent, that was the fucking bottom line, unless I had some amazing ability to shoot people while unconscious.
The guards, my two comical fuck buddies, swore they didn't see who hit me, and there were so many of us in the yard at the time, so many who didn't like me, it could have been any of them, they said. The weapon had been left in the pool of blood beside me, things easy enough for anyone to get their hands on. There really wasn't much in this place that hadn't been turned into a weapon, besides the soggy food. Even plastic straws had been melted together into sharp lumps of stabbing potential.
What the guards said was true, I was not well liked by the general population. I was the crazy smart-mouthed little whore who made a deal with the devil to save his ass.
All I've got to say is, what the fuck's wrong with that?
You show me the guy who would willingly be Monster's bitch toy if he could think of a way out of it. I want to shake that drooling, triple-dosed on Prozac man's hand. Er, well, hypothetically.
Now I had all of DeLucca's enemies, sure, but I had made a batch of my own as well. I knew who attacked me, but I wasn't going to tell anyone, that could get me seriously killed. There was going to be trouble enough, anyway. Treye, he found out somehow, although not the entire truth- still, it started a minor war. Not because I was hurt, but because his property had dared to be fucked with without his permission. So he made sure to fuck them up some. No one died, which is a fucking miracle, and then the dust settled back down. Treye never did find out what part the guards played, and neither did I.
The prison officials of course, they laid the blame for all of it on my head. Like I had any power over what anyone did in this god-forsaken place. I knew they were just eager to smudge black marks on my record to look bad on appeals. Even more than on DeLucca's, after all, he may have had dozens murdered, he may have supplied drugs to grade schools, but none of his victims had been badged members of Arizona's finest.
They threw me back in with Treye, finally. And he wasn't exactly glad to see me, but the fact that I was here at all had me grateful. The first thing he did, however, was bitch-slap me a good one.
I hung my head, soundlessly, so what if I had a concussion and fifteen fucking stitches just behind my ear? There were lessons to be learned.
"Next time, kid, I pimp you, you will not say a word. You will do only what you're told. I give you this one chance, because I've got a soft spot for you," Treye told me. "Try to remember who came to who, begging, in the first place."
"Yes, sir," I lamented. "I'm sorry."
He sighed, and touched my face. "You all right?"
I looked up. "I'll live. The guards, they were so serious, Treye. And they looked like comic book characters, and well, you had to be there. It was funny in a sick sort of way. I guess I'm still learning how to deal with it all. But it won't happen again, I'll behave. I give you my word."
"Good boy," he smiled. He gave me credit for knowing enough to keep promises.
"Treye, I don't mean to impose or anything, but the damn guards have it in for me. They said-"
"I know," Treye stopped me, and his voice was low. "The word is, that you'll be committing suicide soon, and I knew as soon as I heard it what it meant. Be easy to get away with for them. It's common for guys your age, especially under these circumstances."
Yeah. These circumstances. "What do I do?"
"Look, kid, I can't be using up favors to protect you anymore than I am. My advise? Cozy on up to one of the guards, if you can find one with that certain look in his eyes. One who wants more than to see you on your knees in front of him, understand?"
I did understand. Three years on the streets had taught me what I needed to know. That look, like Miguel had had.
"What if there isn't any like that?"
"C'mon, Dylan. Enough. You're eighteen years old, pretty as fucking hell, and convicted of murdering a cop in cold blood. What did you think your chances were of living a long life in here?"
DeLucca turned from me, and went to his desk. Conversation over. I climbed, awkwardly with the cast on my arm, up to my bunk, and I lay there and closed my eyes. I had to play mind games with one of the guards. I had to fucking drool over him. God.
Mind games. I'm familiar with the concept. I'd sure as hell had them played on me. One bad decision, two years ago, had started it all.
Tracy had been gone several hours, and I was wiped from working in the groves all day. But more than wiped, I got so little pay I couldn't see how I would ever save enough to afford a place to live and then study for my equivalency. I was in maximum depression when Aaron, who was always around like the litter blowing against the curbs, sat down beside me, and said, "Here, Dylan. This'll help."
I glanced at the snowseal lying invitingly in his palm, and knew it was coke mixed with E, his specialty, the guy used it every day. I shook my miserable head.
Aaron scowled. "C'mon, I hate seeing you so down. If you don't like it, it wears off fast, and just don't do it anymore," he said this very softly, like he cared. "It might make you feel better."
He rested a hand on my shoulder. "Peace offering," he went on, picking away at my low defenses. "No charge. My way of saying sorry for bein' such a dick about Tracy."
Dully, I thought, what could it hurt? What did it matter? I took it, looking it over, and he handed me this little mirror, what looked like a small piece of a cd, and a rolled up dollar bill.
Five minutes later, I was telling this creep all about my dreams for the future, and I knew it was the drug, but I didn't care. It felt good to talk to someone, really talk, and for the first time, I liked him. He was a good listener. I just chatted away, me, usually so quiet, I had found myself inexplicably unable to shut up. I felt so much better that I wondered why I hadn't tried this stuff sooner. Over the next two hours or so, I finished what was there, snorting more whenever it started to wear off.
And then there was no more, and exhaustion set in. Aaron took charge, with paternal firmness. He brought me, holding on to my shoulders, to the bushes where I slept most nights while I waited for Tracy. All I wanted was to pass out, and I didn't even think to mind his hands, after all, he and I were friends now. His touch was in no way indecent, he rubbed my shoulders, brushed back my hair. I thanked him for helping, and he sat beside me and rubbed my back into sleep.
It had been such a relief, the brief time of happiness that felt all too real, that I was actually grateful, and so Aaron and I began to spend more nights that way. We would walk along the streets sometimes, and I would smile at people as if I was one of them. You can't imagine the wondrous experience of that. Most even smiled back.
I didn't tell Tracy. She'd once been a meth addict, which had turned her to heroin for relief from the horrors of 'jonesing' - coming down- and had eventually led to her selling herself on the streets. She had fought hard to get clean, and was still battling to get her life back.
Avoiding lectures from her, I kept my new friendship, and my little foray into chemicals to myself. I could handle it. I wouldn't let myself get addicted, I wouldn't touch meth or heroin. I just wanted a few peaceful hours when smiling didn't come so hard.
Only, I was going to learn another lesson the hard way.
It was just two weeks later, when I woke up, disoriented, as I was grasped and hauled to my feet. I blinked at two cops, one on each of my arms, and remembered the last time I had been in the grip of the police. I fought them this time, for all the good it did. Funny thing, they roughed me up a lot less than last time. I guess they had just wanted to make fucking points with that bastard Sebastian.
They found the mirror in my pocket with some trace of residue on it, even though I couldn't remember putting it there. They said they had an anonymous tip that I was dealing Exstasy, and I remember thinking; Aaron, who else knew and who else could have planted that damn mirror. Why? But it didn't much matter at that moment. I was a parole violator, and now I was charged with drug possession. I found out later that it should have been the lesser crime of having drug paraphernalia, but either way, I was fucked. I had just turned sixteen two months earlier, and now I wouldn't see freedom for almost another year.
Once more, I simply survived. In the Youth Correction Facility, it had been much easier to just bluff my way through than it is in this place. There was some small measure of concern and culpability. It helped that I got a cell all to myself. They considered me too unpredictable for placement that didn't jeopardize one of us, for I was not a member of any gang. High risk, I was, for assault of one type or another. I won't say I didn't take a few beatings, but I gave back what I got, and I didn't mess with the guards. They were all on edge, with the overcrowding and ongoing reform, afraid to really fight back with us kids and lose their jobs. Hardly a day went by when one didn't get a milk carton filled with piss to the back of his head. Or worse.
So to them, I was one of the good ones. Morose and quiet, they could handle, and I think most actually liked me. It was easy time, if boring and somewhat crazy. There were people who seemed sincerely to want to counsel me out of drugs, and my destructive lifestyle, but where were they when I had needed them? Like, before any of this? You really want to help? I had asked one of them. Then get me a decent job, somewhere to live and the money to start with. But no, of course, no real help was coming. I was not seventeen yet, so none would get it through their heads that I wasn't a kid. Maybe, I had never been one. Maybe childhood is a luxury some of us can't fucking afford.
When I got out, three months early, I was deposited in another foster home. This one was 'specialized' for rotten kids like me. I met the Merrigans, who were anything but merry. They were tyrants. With a long, long list of rules and a schedule to follow. Written out on paper, no shit. First thing I had to do was sit at the kitchen table and read it. The hard part was trying not to laugh, especially at the military times for everything. 0600- Out of Bed. 0615- Breakfast. 2200- Bed, lights out.
Like that. I'm serious.
Okay, so they weren't really tyrants, not exactly, but that first night, when I had words with Brandon, the other kid they had taken in, Mr. Merrigan had stormed into our room and grabbed my shoulder. Why not his? That asshole had started it, giving me a shove for going near his dresser, and then telling me I had to do what he said, too, since he was older and had been there longer. Yeah, six months older, and he'd been there four months. That he was so much of a pathetic retard is the only reason I didn't shove him back.
"I'm not afraid to mess with you, Dylan, if I have to," Mr. Merrigan had growled, his hand tightening painfully.
"Like I fucking care," I snarled back, shaking loose. "All I want is some damn peace and quiet so I can think!"
"I can already tell you're going to be trouble. I want you job searching first thing in the morning, got it?" He pushed me to the wall, and stood intimidatingly close. There was no escape. I looked up into his eyes and he glared back with unblinking menace.
I looked down and weakly nodded. Mr. Merrigan relaxed. Brandon smirked. I went to the bed I was supposed to sleep in and curled up, facing away from my new life.
I snuck out the window that night. I just couldn't stay, even though I had promised the social worker, and my probation officer that I would. I had meant it, I really had wanted to just live for awhile, safe, and do some thinking.
I can't explain, it's just... I couldn't handle any more, not of anything. Especially not of being bullied out of some 'tough love' handbook. It was... smothering. Claustrophobic. Like prison. It was defining, also. It told me who I was, and it whispered its terrible truth to me as I slipped off into the darkness like some sneaky, nocturnal creature.
All this time, ever since leaving school and leaving home, I'd had a purpose. Never had it wavered, I may have lived on the streets, and done time in juvie, but I was not one of those who did likewise. I was like Jeremy, just not as lucky, and one day we would be the same again. One day, he would walk up to me and it would be as if only minutes had passed since we'd been together. Okay, so maybe that would never happen, but what I mean is just the idea.
Now, it was different. Back on the streets, I realized that this is who I am, this is what I know. Much time had passed, for Jeremy, too, and I saw it clearly that day. He lived, and I died. It wasn't his fault. But he would not come running back looking for me. If he even remembered me if we ran into each other again, he would walk fast the other way. That part of my life was over. What was it I was supposed to be looking forward to?
I found Tracy that morning, and when I saw her, I dissolved into tears right on the spot. I hadn't even seen that coming, but I was shaking as I ran to her. Aaron was there, but I ignored him. And then she and I were hugging, and she held me while I closed my eyes and forgot everything else.
Except... Jeremy. I held to Tracy and I grieved over Jeremy. I had never missed him more.
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"He came back again, but he wasn't the same," Tracy told me. "And Aaron was pissed that he was back, and didn't want me encouraging him to be around us anymore. Dylan was surprised that the two of us were together. I should have been, too, but I had gotten lonely and tired, and he was just... there. He could be charming when he wanted to be."
Tracy shrugged. I wanted to put a hand on her shoulder. I wanted to thank her for at least being there for Dylan. The more I learned, the more I knew he was lucky to still be alive.
"So, Dylan backed off. He was not like Aaron, or Miguel. If he thought he was unwanted, he was gone. And Aaron made sure he knew he wasn't welcome in our lives anymore. I didn't see him much for awhile. A long while. And then he came around, with Miguel. I guess that's no more unlikely than me being with Aaron. Like I mentioned, Dylan had changed. He looked tired, worn out, he barely spoke. I got this impression that Miguel had just taken advantage of his weakness. Miguel told me they were moving to LA, to find work modeling or acting or something. I looked at Dylan, I was really surprised, he wasn't the type. But Dylan just gazed off, standing perfectly still, as if unconcerned where he might be headed."
Tracy stood up, her brow creased with what looked like fury. "Goddamn him."
I stood up beside her. "Tracy. This is interesting and all, but I need information on the robbery and the shooting."
I was already thinking of spending all day tomorrow going over the court transcripts. There was nothing Tracy could do to help, I was beginning to realize. Hearing about what Dylan had gone through while I had enjoyed my new life, made me feel like a traitor. Besides, none of this was going to help me get a case up for the Parole and Pardons Board. Actually, in this state, it's called the Board of Executive Clemency. I had to have the evidence to push for a new trial. I just had to, somehow, and I was sure it wasn't coming from this poor woman.
That is, until she sat back down and said, shaking her head, "I didn't even know about that Smith guy. Not then."
Puzzled, not having heard that name before, I decided to hear more. I sat back down, too. "Who?" I asked.
"Smith. That's right. I don't think he was even mentioned at the trial. He's the guy they robbed the bank for," Tracy answered.
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