everything here is either the truth or a lie. toss your life up on the coat rack by the door; you won't have to worry about it for a while if you'll just sit down
i am and you are so what is what’s too far enfolded emboldened i opened my only reflection introspection introduction production of a thing it’s a thing i guess it has wings it can sing but can’t talk and can’t walk but it flies it will die but for now i am proud to be yours count by fours four eight twelve times i thought of you could not be you in the last ten minutes who’s counting i’m counting on you it was true what i do what i’d do are you here am i here is anyone here but the fear my career’s getting steered to catastrophe it’s mastery of interaction i’m after not faster than a mixed fraction compacter i’m a freak in the sheets since i don’t fuckin sleep you’re not scared of me no you’re just scared that i know what i know and i don’t feel afraid around you like i do with everyone else through my time it’s not right to be crying no you’re not the one dying if i said i would drive i’m just 6665
WOW OKAY SO I FOUND A JOURNAL. Apparently I wrote for six days and gave up. I have NO memory of this whatsoever. The words are beautiful, too. WHAT THE FUCK THOUGH.
i just finish this now in bout 15 minutes. listedn to the song iowa by slipknot throughout the whol thing. alan i s a douchebag but maria is a straightup cunt.
“They’re just children,” Maria said softly. She averted her eyes just before Alan twisted his head around to stare at her.
“You fucking bitch,” he said flatly, “I heard that. What kind of child have you met that acts like this?”
Maria wrapped her shawl tighter around her face and glanced nervously at the walls.
“That’s what I thought. Anyone else want to stand up for these monsters or can I finally blow the shit out of them?”
The room was silent.
Alan turned to the laptop and cowered over it, typing in the first of the numbers written on his arm. Just as he had finished the first row, light tapping sounds began to echo throughout the room.
Jon anxiously glanced at the door. “They’re here,” he whispered. The taps increased in volume.
“Let them knock; they’ll come in to get us soon enough,” Alan said. “But as the last real people on this fucking planet, we have an obligation to humanity to blow it the fuck up before they do.”
“Children,” Maria sobbed. Alan turned abruptly and fired his pistol into her stomach. Maria screamed in agony.
“Yeah,” Alan said, mockingly running his finger down his cheek to simulate a tear.
“Hey now,” Marshall protested. “Let’s not-” Alan pointed the gun between Marshall’s eyes.
“Shut up, old man. I do not feel remorse.”
Marshall nodded and took a seat on the floor.
Now there were five hands tapping on the door.
“Alright,” Alan said. “Where were we.” He started to copy the numbers again, but was interrupted halfway through the set by a mechanical click from behind him.
He turned and stared into Maria’s tearful, pained face. It was the last thing he saw before the grenade in her hands disintegrated everyone in the room.
im currently panicking because i can’t find my first two full red notebooks and i just got a fourth one so i cant go over them all and i think someone threw them away but who would do such a thing
[I was disappointed with how this story came out, but I submitted it anyways. My first second-person story came back to me with a rejection slip and a forced apology. Exactly 1000 words.]
You didn’t see the car coming. It was half past five, and the morning traffic had just begun, people carrying on their own mindless routines, wrapped up in their own insignificant little worlds. The driver was one of them, babbling some pointless numbers into his cell phone, as were you, explaining a sales procedure to a future customer.
It appeared to me that the initial impact was quite painful, but it faded away after a few seconds. I understand that that is a tell tale sign of shock. Your legs were shattered, blood smeared on the front bumper of the driver’s brand new Mercedes. Only when you were lying broken in the middle of the intersection did the driver have the courtesy to end his call and step out of the vehicle. When he stood over you, looking down at you, you were so far gone that you merely offered him a bloody, delirious smile, then made a rasping noise that sounded suspiciously like “Mornin’”.
Ten minutes later and here you are, with me, sirens flashing over our heads, tires squealing beneath our feet. The EMTs are rushing furiously around you, frantically trying to save your life, but you are just staring at me, me in the fetal position, staring into my eyes, into my soul. We are both terrified, you and I, terrified of the cycle of cause and effect, of action and consequence.
We are only minutes away from the hospital when the ambulance jolts with such violence and hostility that I believe we are both going to die. The car tips and rolls, the cabin spinning mercilessly. The cot you are on flips over, hinges popping and metal twisting. Your IVs are yanked out of your arm. My body bounces back and forth from floor to ceiling, still clenched in the fetal position. This is it, I think, this is where death claims me. If you are conscious enough, I have no doubt that you are thinking the same thing.
We’re both wrong, however. The EMTs, the driver, a pedestrian--all with their own separate lives and families. It is they who fall into the warm, liberating hands of death. But not us. Not you, your blood still gushing from the open wounds of your distorted legs. Not me, with a gash across my face and my right arm trapped beneath the wreck. The siren on the ambulance emits a final, desperate wail before shutting off completely, allowing silence to finally conquer the air. Silence for ten seconds, then a minute, then three. I finally realize that no one will arrive to help us for quite some time. What can I say? It’s only half past five, and people have their own problems. I begin to cry. I’ve never had anything like this happen to me before.
Then, through my blurred, watery eyes, I see you moving. I wipe my eyes with my left hand, which is still intact. You’re reaching out a hand...to me? You’ve got that mangled, delirious smile back on your face, but your eyes are sharp and focused, your meaning clear—everything’s going to be okay.
I sniffle, reaching my good hand across the wreckage to meet yours. It has warm, almost loving grip that catches me off guard—I was expecting a fragile and injured hand.
You’re losing a lot of blood, and the temporary bandages the EMTs put on are soaked and torn. Your other arm is twisted at an inhuman angle, and both of your legs are bent in different directions. We stare at each other, hands still clasped, taking everything in. I see your eyes roll into your head once, twice, but you regain control.
Looking into each other’s eyes, it’s almost as if we’ve been friends for years. I can feel your fear, sadness, and pain, as you can feel mine, all across the single bridge we’ve built, two hands holding each other for friendship and comfort. There are no words needed to communicate, for we are connected; we are one unit of love and companionship that cannot be broken.
Your hand squeezes mine tightly, and your face clenches with unbearable pain. I squeeze back, trying to reassure you of something, anything, even though I know that you don’t have much more time. Your blood is everywhere, spreading in a puddle around us.
A woman screams, and I break our gaze to look at her. I yell, as loud as I can, “Call 911.” She blinks, rooted to the ground with fear, but after a moment or two she runs back to her car to obey. I watch her pick up her phone, dial, and speak into the microphone. When she places it back in her purse, I turn back to you, your eyes still locked on me, still sentient, aware. The strength of your grip is faltering, lightening. I can feel you desperately hanging on to life, your consciousness hanging by a single thread, your power of will the only obstacle between you and death.
You are near the end, yet your eyes remain wide, staring deep into mine with intelligence and brotherhood.
Your breathing quickens, your body preparing for its final experience. Your lips move, forming words I cannot read, your last thoughts and emotions falling on deaf ears.
I try to speak, my own words choking in the back of my throat.
“I...I’m sorry.” I say softly, just loud enough for you to hear.
You just hold your gaze, giving me that stupid smile. You let out one final breath, your eyes focusing on something far behind me, above me. Your hand drops to the ground.
I begin to cry as the first of the sirens arrive, followed by footsteps slapping the pavement. Hands are pulling at me; others are dragging you away.
As the Jaws of Life yank pieces of the ambulance off of my arm, I know I will take this day to my grave: the day I hit you with my car.
I feel as though everything was ruined in one single night. My career went down the shitter, my wife got pissed, and I think my daughter hates me. Last week, I was on cloud fucking nine. I was on TOP of my life. One argument - one thing - forced me to drop my whole life in exchange for a few words. It’s no surprise though, really. I was bound to end in tragedy anyways.
Well, here I stand, on the bridge, leaning into the wind as I write this. The bay looks wonderful today, fog just barely beginning to dissipate as the sun starts to do its work. I find that on a day-[illegible]
Dwayne Roberts’s notebook was found on the Golden Gate Bridge this morning. Witnesses claim he threw the notebook behind him as he fell into the San Francisco Bay.
It didn’t matter who you were at that point; it mattered who you were going to be. And yet, although it was a damn shame to see him go, I couldn’t help but think of all the money I’d just made. I mean he was a great man, was he not? But for his final test he wasn’t ready - his preparation was seamless and broken; his defenses were perfect and weak. Death is a funny thing as funny things go - a paradox, almost. It’s totally inevitable, yet we dread it and ponder it day after day. Will we never give up and just live life as it is?
The blue light hovered under his hand for one moment, the digital numbers reflecting off of his pale skin. The ringing continued, echoing through his room, filling his ears and making him more and more alert with each passing second.
His half-conscious mind just wanted to sleep a little more, just a few minutes more, but when his palm met the snooze button, Daniel knew he would not be sleeping for a very long time.
The pain jolted him awake, tightening every muscle in his body, rendering all of his other senses completely obsolete.
Daniel began crying as he fumbled for his lamp, trying to see what had bit him, what sharp object his hand had made contact with.
Finally, he found the switch, and the whole room was illuminated. Except it wasn't his room. Daniel sat in awe and confusion for a few moments, his brain trying to process what it was seeing. He didn't have long, however--the searing pain in his hand reminded him of his priorities. He didn't really want to see what had happened to his hand--he wanted to spare himself the sight of the gruesome result of his alarm clock, but he realized that whatever was ailing him would need immediate treatment.
Doing his best to keep his hand still, Daniel slowly craned his neck in the direction of his hand.
"Oh, Jesus," he he said, his gag reflex twitching at the scene in front of him.
Three long, thin needles protruded from his right hand, one between each knuckle, accompanied by one single, massive spike sprouting from the center. Dark, warm blood bubbled from underneath the broken skin, flowing viscously off of his hand into a growing puddle under his alarm his alarm clock. The clock sparked, its electrical system making contact with the blood. DAniel instinctively twitched, the movement letting loose even more agony. Darkness invaded the corners of his vision, threatening to completely overtake him. He realized what was happening, and, in an instant of pure willpower, yanked his hand off of the alarm clock. Black spots assaulted the edges of his eyes once more, and this time they were victorious.
Daniel only came to because he thought he was drowning. momentarily, due to his half-conscious state, he saw octupi and exotic fish floating around him, all graying and bloated from death and underwater decay. Panicked, he dragged himself back to reality.
Opening his eyes took more effort than Daniel expected. When he was finally able to crack them open, he realized what had caused the drowning sensation. In his pain, he had flung his injured hand on top of his forehead as he had gone unconscious. The blood had spread all over his face, filling his nostrils and open mouth. Daniel painfully removed his hand to glance at the clock. It had finally given in and broke, the time to longer glaring blatantly from its screen.
The lamplight still shone, however, allowing him to see what his clock had become.
Thin spines were scattered across the surface, making it look like a the hair of a cartoon character struck by lightning. Growing out of the long snooze button was what could best be described as a horn. About four inches long, it started wide at the bottom and tapered rapidly to a point. Aside from a layer of Daniel’s dried blood, it appeared to be a maroon color, with small black streaks running in odd vertical paths that resembled thin, dry riverbeds. The oddest thing about this spike was the way it glowed--Daniel knew it was only reflecting the lamp, but its warm, glossy surface gave it the appearance of giving off its own light. Momentarily distracted by his curiosity, Daniel leaned in close, studying the object. Its patterned black-and-red grooves seemed to mesmerize him.
Something scuttled past his bed, behind him. Jerking his head just in time, Daniel was able to make out several thin, humanoid legs right as they disappeared from the circle of light the lamp provided.
Taking special care to be as silent as possible, Daniel adjusted himself so that he was sitting upright in his bed, giving him an almost 180 degree view of his bedroom. Or what was supposed to be his bedroom.
The ten-foot radius of the lamp let Daniel see only his bed, his bedside table (with its gnarled, broken alarm clock) and a small stretch of gray concrete that used to be soft, blue carpet. His old, dirty underwear was replaced with splotches of random oil stains.
Still pushed up against his headboard, his bare back was cold against the mahogany, but Daniel was plagued by a much more frightening inner chill that bred freezing sweat across his skin.
He could still hear the creature out there, its anthropoidal limbs shuffling against each other, the pads of its feet sticking and unsticking from the smooth floor. It reminded him of the mornings when he would have to feed the dog in the garage, his own feet making a similar, suction-cup noise.
Not taking his eyes off the surrounding darkness, Daniel leaned toward his bedside table, reaching for something. His injured hand touched one of the needles and he yanked it back instinctively. He glanced back at the table, inspecting the horn once again.
Daniel leaned in so close, he could feel the small hairs on the tip of his nose brushing the face of the spike. Its design put him in a trance once more, drawing his consciousness deep into its almost organic skin. His eyes ran up and down the slope, the black streams appearing to separate and join together periodically--an optical illusion. Those kinds of things always interested Daniel--the way they twisted your mind around on itself, combining reality and--
It pulsed.
From bottom to top, the black stripes visibly pulsed with a wave of energy.
With revulsion, Daniel pulled his face away, nearly falling off his bed. He caught himself with his good hand before he toppled, thought. As far as he cared, the floor was lava. He did not want to even exist on the same level as that half-human thing waiting for him.
His left hand still gripping the edge of the mattress, Daniel raised one of his legs and kicked his living alarm clock onto the floor. As it clattered on the concrete, the creature in the darkness momentarily scuttled in and out of the range of the lamp.
At this point, Daniel was beyond fear. His mind and his body had accepted his grim situation and had entered a kind of automatic survival mode. Listening for the frightening animal’s footsteps, he seized a corner of his bedside table and began running his fingers over the front of it, searching for the handle of the top drawer.
When he finally grasped the cool metal of the handle, he wasted no time in jerking it open and shoving his arm inside blindly. He realized absently that this was dangerous, but fortunately there were not hidden perils in the drawer. Not for Daniel, at least.
Daniel’s hand reappeared from behind the desk clutching a stainless steel switchblade. A gift from his late father, Daniel had used the knife on many camping trips. It rarely left his side.
His confidence renewed with the acquisition of his weapon, like he had a partner in this terrifying adventure. Still silent, Daniel slowly pulled the bedsheet off of his twin mattress. As quietly as he could, he spent the next few minutes cutting a strip of material off the sheet.
Daniel drudged up some old Boy Scout memories for this one. Using just a few strips of fabric, he fashioned himself a bandage and a splint for his hand. Unsure of how long he would be stuck here, he cut out another strip just to be safe. He winced as the cloth soaked with the blood of his wound, sticking to the exposed flesh. Holding his arm close to his chest and squeezing the knife protectively, Daniel stepped off of the bed.
Because of the overwhelming silence in the room, the balls of his feet made tapping noises when the contacted the concrete. The surface was so cold, Daniel could feel his body temperature drop immediately.
A foreign noise slithered into his ears from within the darkness. It took Daniel a few seconds to realize it was speaking to him.
“Hübsches kleines schwein,” it lisped almost flirtatiously. “Hübsche kleine schwein, hübsche kleine schwein und ich mag mein fleisch roh.”
All at once, more reptilian voices joined the chant around him. Echoes bounced off walls, creating hundreds, thousands of synchronized voice slamming their feet in an unheard rhythm. The chanting reached a chaotic crescendo that assaulted Daniel’s eardrums, and then all was violently, suffocatingly silent. Daniel could feel the presence of hundreds of creatures around him, waiting patiently just out of reach of the lamp’s light. Brandishing his knife in front of him, Daniel felt gallons of sweat dripping from his face, his heart accelerating erratically. He rotated 180 degrees, eyes wide and watchful for any movement at all, something he could attack. Invisible pressure pushed on him from all sides.
Broken glass crunched under her boots. Every step only seemed to get louder, each crack echoing in her mind.
Avery walked through the wreckage of her friend’s home, people whirling around her, snapping pictures and dropping things in plastic bags. Her arm reached out, fingers outstretched for a grip. They searched the air around them before finally finding purchase on the dining room table. In slow motion, Avery turned her head, staring at the table and then through it. Here she had taught Colton how to play poker. He was no good at BlackJack - the kid had no luck. She chuckled, but her laughter came out sounding more like a sob.
A tap on her shoulder pulled her out of her memories. When she turned, she half expected to see Colton’s stupid grin, laughing at some prank he had just pulled. She was disappointed to find the sheriff standing behind her, his sad, blue eyes a deep contrast to Colton’s wild green ones.
“Miss King? I know this is very traumatic for you, but I would like for you--”
Avery stared at him forcefully, and all of a sudden the Sheriff was very confused.
“I’m not here, Sheriff.” Her eyes shimmered, red specks seeming to dance excitedly over their surfaces.
“But you--”
“Sheriff,” Avery began to enunciate her syllables sharply. “I’m. Not. Here.”
“You--” He finally broke from her stare, glancing at his feet nervously. Looking lost, the Sheriff finally turned his back to Avery, muttering something under his breath.
Avery smiled, but her face was marked with fatigue. She disappeared into Colton’s living room, her hand inside her jacket pocket, stroking something hidden in her palm.
She walked toward the couch to see Matthew sitting there, staring at the blank TV. He was never one for words, but seeing him this depressed, and so damn lonely, finally broke the barrier of Avery’s resolve. Small, warm tears rolled down her cheeks.
Matthew turned his head to lock eyes with Avery. After a few moments of empathetic eye contact, he beckoned for her to sit beside him. By the time she had fallen into the couch and Matthew’s arms were around her, the small tears had turned into cascading waterfalls. Choked sobs came freely now. Soon both were crying uncontrollably, two young souls lost together in a flurry of motion and camera flashes, thrown violently into the real world without warning.
The river rolled over their feet smoothly, indifferently rushing between their toes and detouring around their ankles. Avery found herself lost in the intricate vortexes and spinning symmetry forming and disappearing in the sleek current.
On the other bank, a sky-blue dragonfly hovered hesitantly around a clump of dying tallgrass before fleeing upstream, back towards the house.
The house. The real world muscled its way back into Avery’s attention, tears threatening to regain control once more. She looked up to Matthew, whose face was dotted with the scattered sunlight coming through the canopy above them.
How many times had the three of them sat on this bank, stirring the water with their bare feet, conversing silently yet meaningfully? How many times had Colton laughed giddily, kicking a spray of clear water into her face? How many times had she lashed out at him for ruining her makeup, blinking away the blurred mascara?
No. There was no time to think about that now. She focused back on the river, whose once youthful clarity seemed lost to time. The cool aroma of the river had been replaced by a dusty, lifeless aftertaste that reminded Avery of sepia-tone photographs featuring the hazy silhouettes of cowboys or the bonnet-wielding women they sought. The river was not dead; no, life still persisted around her: sluggish beetles trudging through the dry earth, gnats mindlessly circling each other in great swarms, the ancient oaks above shading the riverbank as they had for centuries. No, not dead. Over.
Avery felt as though she had stepped out of the present and into some barren past, forgotten and abandoned by life. Or was it the future, the result of an explosive, deadly event that wiped out the exuberance that she remembered? Avery found that she no longer cared. All she cared about was the emptiness of the bank beside her, where a certain young man had once reeled with excitement as he yanked in a tiny fish with his homemade fishing pole. She cared about the way his face had seemed to brighten every time she smiled at him, his emerald eyes sparkling every time she laughed at his jokes. They were the color of freedom, of life, of love.
No, she scolded herself. Not of love.
But everywhere she looked, Colton’s eyes stared back at her, kind, wild, excited.
Beautiful.
“Sarah...” Matthew’s hand touched her knee. She slapped it away.
“Don’t call me that,” she said, staring forcefully into his eyes. That’s when she realized that he was still crying.
“Matt, I’m sorry, it’s just--”
Matthew interrupted her apology, getting to his feet. “We should go back to the house.”
Avery blinked and glanced down at the river again. “I don’t want to go back there. It feels...” She looked back up at him again for reassurance.
“I know,” Matthew said. “But we have to find out for sure.” He wiped one of his eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
She nodded, but stared out across the river once more before pulling her feet out of the water and standing on the bank. Dust stuck to her toes immediately, but it would inevitably be brushed off when they walked back through the dry grass to the house.
As the two friends ducked out from under the shade of the trees, a blue dragonfly floated belly-up down the river, dead.
Six hundred miles from home, Colton Fortunati struggled in vain against his bonds, his death looming over him like the gnarled oaks of his childhood, waiting.
It was raining harder, droplets only getting larger. For several weeks it poured, the cities drowning, streets submerged beneath a layer, growing every day, of clear and perfect water. If one passed any parks or near the forest, maybe coming home from work, the thick applause of heavy rain on leaves consoled their mind and calmed their soul. The older population dwelled on even bigger storms from seasons past. The young ones danced and skipped outdoors, unfazed by thunder, thrilled by lightning. I however, couldn’t frolic in the rain, or even mumble discontented phrases to my peers. Watching, bored and watching, I did nothing.
“Okay, Steve, why don’t you tell me everything that’s happened up until this point?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
I uncross my legs.
“That may be, Steve,” I say calmly, “but remember, I’m here to help you. You can tell me anything, it’s safe with me.”
“I’ve never been with a psychiatrist before,” Steve mutters as he adjusts the wooden dining-room chair beneath him.
“I thought you mentioned a child therapist, Steve?” I raise my hands in front of my chest, as if to prove the innocence of the question.
“Steve grunts. “She wasn’t a conventional therapist,” he says in his calm, calculating way. Without emotion. “I’m going to get a glass of water before we begin.” Not a question, or even just a statement. More like a command, but to himself.
Before I can reply, Steve stands and walks up the basement stairs, presumably to the kitchen. As soon as the door at the top creaks shut, my eyes dart to the knife on the table, the short, square bedside cabinet adjacent to the chair Steve was in moments ago. Black handle, serrated edge, a dried splash of my own blood already staining its surface. Not ideal, but good enough.
My hands are free, my elbows protruding from the coils of rope wrapped tightly around my abdomen. I’m tied to one of those rolling office chairs, a fancy black spinning one that you might find behind a CEO’s desk. I know the knot’s in the back, but my arms are too restricted to reach it.
“Steve’s got all his bases covered,” I whisper, a touch of hysteria in my voice.
I’m about to roll myself to the knife when I hear the basement door open again, hinges complaining loudly. As Steve descends the concrete steps, he says something about fixing the door.
“WD-40 ought to do the trick,” I say, trying to hide the frustration in my voice.
Steve nods, his rectangular glasses bouncing, ever so slightly, up and down on his nose. Before coming to his chair, he hits the basement’s lights, plunging both of us in utter darkness. For three terrifying seconds, I wait for the tip of the knife to slide into my throat. When the lamp on the table blinks on, I bite my tongue to cut off the cry of relief lingering there. Steve must see the beads of sweat on my forehead, because, as he sets the plastic cup of water beside the knife, he permits himself a thin smile, his eyes still cold and ruthless.
The cup he brought with him grabs my attention immediately. It’s tall and colored by stripes of the rainbow, from top to bottom.
Roy G. Biv, a memory whispers from my childhood. redorangeyellowgreenblueindigoviolet. I bite my tongue again.
The side of the cup facing me reads, in clean, black type, 2012 Gay Pride Parade! June 4 in Topeka! Bring You’re Friends!
You’re friends. Under normal circumstances, I would be disappointed.
“...from the last guy,” Steve is saying, gesturing to the gup.
“Oh,” I say. I glance back to Steve’s eyes.
“He was a gay witch,” he says, and laughs a false, robotic laugh. “So I gave him a witch’s burial.” He points to a dark spot on the floor that I had mistaken for an oil spill. For a moment it looks like blood, but it’s much too black for that.
Not blood. The remnants of a small fire, its ashes swept up not long ago.
Looking around, I now recognize the normal-looking objects of Steve’s basement for what they really are.
A baseball bat with a dried puddle of blood on the barrel.
A Phillips screwdriver with an orange handle, the tip deliberately sharpened to a point.
A small cardboard box spotted with mold, flies circling above the opening. I can’t see all of the inside, but enough to glimpse a few strands of hair beside a human ear.
“You’re not a gay witch, are you?”
I spin my head to face Steve again, shaking it in a fearful, definite no.
“Good,” he says, smiling his mask of a smile. “Then we can begin.”
_________________
Uncle Orson, my mother’s brother, loved to dance. He would always listen to that foggy old shit, though, you know? Frank Sinatra, Doris Day? I was always what I thought of as a musical connoisseur, so I would suggest music to him, cool bands like Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, even the goddamn Bee Gees, but he always branded it as Satan’s music. Once, when I was 8, I showed him that AC/DC song Let There Be Rock, but he called me an agent of the devil. Can you believe that? Me and Angus Young, agents of the goddamned devil? Anyways, this guy would bring some old record player to every family dinner and do this weird rolling dance he called the Broccoli Bopper. What a psychopath.
When my dad ran out on us in ‘78, I would be take the bus to his house every day after school so my mom could work without having to worry about me. So guess what that meant? Goodbye rock records, sayonara Angus Young, guess we’ll have to enact Satan’s will some other time, eh? Also goodbye to cool shirts and jeans, hello to formal dress!
“Just do it for him, Steven, he’s going through tough times right now,” my mom would say. Apparently, he and Aunt Jeanie had just divorced, leaving his sorry ass home alone every night.
I’d come home from school during the week to find him doing the Broccoli Bopper on the dining table to Bim Bam Baby, shaking his ass for Sinatra, or some Bing Crosby song, but not any of his Christmas music. Apparently, they “desecrate the idea of Christ” or whatever. Then, one day somewhere in 1980, I stepped off the bus and heard a lick of Stairway. Maybe the Johnson’s next door were enjoying some late afternoon rock. But oh, how sweet it was to hear that tune. I walked up the path to the door, twisted the knob, and braced myself for more Broccoli Bopper. When I stepped inside, a gust of rotten air rushed out from the living room. As it turns out, Jimmy Page’s smooth solo wasn’t coming from the neighbors’. Here was Uncle Orson, sitting at the table, not doing the Bopper but smoking. Weed, by the smell of it.
His eyes lit up when he saw me. “Steve, come here.”
“Uncle Orson, sir, what the fu... what in the world is going on?” I stammered, trying not to use profanity in his holy house.
“I’ll tell you what the fuck is going on if you come here, Steve.”
That’s the day I smoked my first joint, at ten years old. I must have coughed a hundred times after my first breath, but I stuck through it. After all, Orson was finally opening up to me. About three hours after I came home, he decided to confide in me a little more.
“You know, since your Aunt Jeanie left, I haven’t had a woman in my bed, or even gone on a date.” We were lying on our backs on the dining table, watching the ceiling fan spin, spin, spin.
“Sucks, man,” I muttered, high out of my mind.
“Sexual tension gets to you. You don’t know that yet, prob’ly haven’t even had your first kiss yet, but it really does.” I could see him turn his head from my peripheral vision. When I met his red-rimmed eyes with my own, I could recognize what he wanted to do right away. What all of this was for. School had warned me about it repeatedly, but I was about to be taken advantage of in the worst way.
For the next year, I relieved Orson of his sexual tension, at least three times a week. When I would get off the bus and hear the intro to Stairway to Heaven instead of Fly Me to the Moon, I would have to prepare myself for the scarring event to come. He’d always get me high first; he apparently thought that this is what pushed me to consent. The real reason I never told, though, was just plain fear. I was afraid that, not only would Orson kill me for tattling, I would be branded as an idiot and a baby, a weak piece of shit that deserved whatever was coming to him.
[In Steve’s basement, he takes a sip of water, but when he goes to put the cup back on the table, his hand shakes enough to dribble some of the water onto the concrete.]
In the winter of 1982, Uncle Orson started forcing me to use my mouth. He still claimed that I was helping him, I was stopping him from breaking down from his crippling “sexual tension”, but I wasn’t a stupid boy. I knew better.
One day, I told him to cut the shit. “I know exactly what you’re doing, and I should tell.”
“You little shit,” he screamed, smacking me. “If you tell a single” Slap! “fucking” Slap! “soul” Slap! “I’ll rip your puny heart out. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes,” I stammered.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
From then on, Orson no longer treated me as a companion, but as a prisoner. Now, along with the sexual abuse, physical abuse would come in blows raining on my head and neck as I pleased him.
When I was thirteen, I met a girl. I couldn’t even begin to objectify her sexually - despite the teenage hormones in my veins, sex was ruined for me, thanks to Uncle Orson. However, her personality was incredibly attractive and her laugh reminded me of a dripping faucet - bubbly and smooth. I saw her in biology class every day, her face bright, laughing, everything that my life wasn’t. The best part of all was the way she dressed. She hung out with a normal group of girls, but she wore the same leather jacket every day, with patches from 70’s rock bands stitched (by her own hand, I think) sloppily on the sleeves. I was in love with her before she even knew who I was.
About a month into the school year, her demeanor changed. She lost friends, quit wearing makeup. Bags formed under her eyes, and she lost enough weight to look anorexic. I cried for her, sometimes. I don’t know why, but it felt like whatever was hurting her was hurting me, too.
