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- 10/05/2015
- 2,087 Words
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- 46 Comments
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
A to Z - 4. Catastrophe
THE Wednesday
(undated entry)
Hurts. Hurts so bad. Everything just fucking hurts. No Dad. For how long? Days – I don’t know. Hungry. Tired. And so cold. Somebody finds this – Dad did this to me. Remember.
(undated entry)
The shit has really hit the fan now.
Good news: Dad hasn’t been home for two, maybe three days. At least, I don’t think so.
Bad news: he disappeared after just about killing me. I can’t even write about it right now. I’m cold. I’m tired. But I’m alive, and I guess that’s something.
(undated entry)
I need to write down what happened before I do anything else. I need to tell it, even if it's just to these silly pages for myself. .
I think it was Wednesday, at least that's what I remember it was. Gym class. I got to the locker room early hoping to avoid you-know-who, but no luck. James fucking Ackerman was there, waiting for me. As I went to my locker, he grabbed my arm, and twisted it behind my back. My face got mushed up against the cold metal. I looked around, hoping for a rescue.
“What did I tell you, ratface? You don’t get to share the locker room with real men. Don’t you ever listen to what I tell you? Huh?”
I could hear him breathing hard in my ear. He jabbed an elbow in my back and ground my cheek a little harder into the row of lockers. I tried to squirm away, but it was no use at all.
“Listen, you little shit, you have to pay a penalty for coming in here. Get that?”
There was the rustle of clothing. Another hard shove against the wall. My breath was squeezed out of my lungs. Then a hard kick in the back of my knee sent me down to the floor. There was serious pain there. James must have taken lessons from my Dad. I felt a hand roughly spin me around, and another grab my hair. Damned if he didn’t almost tear it out by the roots. My head was pulled back. I was shocked. James had his pants down, his dick exposed, long and thick and hard.
“You know you want it. You’re gonna suck it. Now.”
“No! Get off of me!”
I tried to be loud. I shook my head, tried to break away, but he held on tight. I got slapped really hard right then, and I went still.
“Shut up, ratface,” he hissed. “Now, suck it!” He tried to smack my face with his dick.
I shook my head. Sure, I’d thought about sucking off another guy. I'd even fantasized about getting a chance to suck a dick that size. James had all the right equipment. The problem was that it was attached to James. Under different circumstances, I might have been grateful to let James Ackerman be my first blowjob, but not like this. And then, it seemed that the miracle I’d been praying for happened. The door to the coaches’ office opened and out stepped Mr. Harney, one of the Gym teachers.
“What the hell is going on here?”
The teacher’s voice was loud and clear.
Ackerman dropped my hair and tried to bolt, but his pants betrayed him. He couldn’t move fast enough to avoid being grabbed in Mr. Harney’s vice-like grip. I was saved.
“OK, you two, we’re going to the office. Right this minute.”
I was too stunned to protest as we were marched down the hall. This wasn’t my fault. I’d been attacked.
In the office, we sat while Mr. Harney spoke to the principal alone. I looked at the door, numbly reading the nameplate: Dr. Herbert Messersmith. James looked like pure hatred when he glanced at me.
“Mr. Ackerman. In here.” The principal beckoned. I looked up. “You wait there, Mr. uh…” he faltered.
“Ericsson,” I volunteered. “Stefan Ericsson. This kid – "
The principal held up a hand. “OK, Ericsson, just wait. It will be your turn in a minute.” The door closed behind James as he went in.
I was beginning to get a very bad feeling about this.
It was probably only a few minutes later that James came out. He scowled angrily in my direction and strode out the office door.
The principal followed him out and looked down at me coldly.
“Mr. Ericsson? Come into my office.”
I rose slowly and walked into the office. Dr. Messersmith indicated a chair. I sat.
The principal cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“Mr. Ericsson – er – Steven…” He didn’t get my name right, either. He continued, “Mr. Harney reported to me a serious incident between you and James Ackerman in the locker rooms this morning. Is there anything you want to say?”
I could think of a million things to tell him. Like how James has been bullying me for the past few weeks. How he attacked me in the lockers, twice. How humiliating it was to be smacked around, forced to my knees and nearly made to suck his dick. My mouth was dry, and my tongue seemed glued to the top of my mouth. I tried to speak, but nothing came out; just tears beginning to run out of the corners of my eyes.
“This is a shameful thing, Steven, you understand? We can’t tolerate this kind of thing in school.”
He paused, obviously waiting for a response from me. I nodded, but I still couldn’t find my voice. He cleared his throat again.
“You may have feelings for another boy, Steven. That’s OK. But you can’t act on them here. Not in school. We have rules on that in school, for everyone. Not just boys…er…in your situation.”
It was all so unfair. My situation? My situation was that I was getting beaten, threatened and assaulted. So I like boys. Nobody knows that – and I sure as hell don’t like James fucking Ackerman.
“But it wasn’t like that.” I looked up at Dr. Messersmith, my voice finally cracking to life.
“No? You mean you and James aren’t, um…involved?”
Involved? He was a bully, not a boyfriend.
“No. We’re not friends. Not like that.”
Dr. Messersmith looked at me as if I was a maggot he’d discovered in his breakfast cereal. He shook his head.
“Ugh. So it’s just you doing that in the lockers for anyone who comes by. Really.”
Now it was my turn to be shocked.
“I don’t do that –" I spluttered, but I was cut off.
“Well, obviously, you actually are doing that. Mr. Harney was quite clear about it. Now, really, if you haven’t got anything else to say for yourself, you can wait in the outer office for your father to arrive. You’re going to be suspended from school for the remainder of the week, and I’m going to suggest to your father that he get you some counseling. As I said, I don’t care if you are, um - that way – but you need to learn to avoid the kind of high-risk behavior we saw today.”
With that, he motioned me to the door.
I rose to my feet, with my heart in my throat. I was going to puke. Dad. I’d forgotten about him. Dad was on his way to the office. Here. This was not going to be good. If I was lucky, he’d just hustle me out of school, give me a thrashing and go back to work. That was something to hope for.
I shuffled out to a seat across from the secretaries and sat down. I didn’t have that long to wait. Dad stormed into the office a little while later, his face as black as thunder. He was so mad, I don’t think he even saw me at first.
He walked up to the secretaries’ station. The secretary at the desk visibly cringed, Dad was that scary.
“I’m Gunnar Ericsson.”
Dad spoke in a barely controlled whisper, the voice he used when he was most dangerous. His tone hardly concealed his rage.
The secretary pointed over at me, and Dad turned to look in my direction. His eyes narrowed, and he expelled a heavy breath out of his nose. He took a step closer. I expected Dad to take a swing at me, but the principal opened his door at that moment, so we’ll never know what he might have done.
“Mr. Ericsson?”
Dad turned at the sound of his name.
“Mr. Ericsson, won’t you step into my office for a moment, please?”
Dad steamed into Dr. Messersmith’s office, and the door shut. My heart sank. I heard voices through the door, but I couldn’t make anything out. I didn’t really need to; whatever the principal said would piss Dad off.
It didn’t take much time for them to conclude their business. The door to the principal’s office opened, and Dad walked out, his fists balled at his side. He didn’t say a word to me – he simply gestured with his head to get out the door.
I gathered my backpack, got up and followed Dad outside, down the steps and into the parking lot where his truck was parked. He didn’t say a word.
Dad unlocked the passenger door and opened it. He motioned for me to get in. Dad went around and slid into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut. Still nothing from Dad, but he was clearly pissed off.
The engine roared to life, and Dad drove off.
I thought he’d drive towards home, but that wasn’t the direction he took. We were headed east, out of town, in the direction of the quarry where he worked. Once the buildings and houses thinned out, the truck slowed, and Dad pulled onto a side road he must have known about. After a hundred feet, it narrowed to a single lane dirt track.
Dad stopped the truck in the middle of the road, without pulling over. He wasn’t expecting company.
Dad got out, walked around, and opened my door. He spoke one word.
“Out.”
I hesitated. Another mistake. Dad grabbed my collar and hauled me out of the cab.
“I said OUT, damn you!” The silence was broken. The last words were a roar. I was propelled out in front of the truck and spun around with my back to the grille.
Dad fisted the front of my jacket, lifting me up so he could look into my face. I trembled, scared shitless about what might happen next. I didn’t have to wait long.
“You little shit.”
On the word shit, Dad brought his knee to my groin with every ounce of his pent up rage. I doubled over.
“Not only are you a disobedient, worthless, witless, ignorant, useless excuse for a boy, you’re not even a boy at all,” he stormed, each insult punctuated with a vicious blow to the gut; he paused, breathing heavily, and I sank to my knees.
“In fact," he continued, “I had to be called down out of work to hear from your principal that you’re a stinking faggot.”
On this last word, his steel-toed work boot crashed into the side of my head.
I went dizzy, but I remember him hitting me again and again. I think I remember being tossed into the bed of the pickup. I do know that when we got home, Dad dragged me out over the tailgate, cracking my jaw on the way over.
By then, I was awake enough to realize I was being carried into the house and across the kitchen. The cellar door was flung open. With a grunt, Dad literally hurled me down the steps into the basement. I felt the sting of my backpack hitting my head; Dad had thrown it down the stairs. Now the sound of heavy feet descended. Light streamed down from the kitchen. Hands grabbed my ankle. Dad dragged me by the foot over to the workbench.
Dad had given me this punishment for my stupidity many times before; he has a short chain with an old iron leg cuff anchored to the workbench. It took just a couple of seconds for him to cuff my right ankle and lock the padlock. One carefully placed kick to the midsection later, and he was on his way up the stairs. The door slammed shut.
Darkness.
This is what I remember of the worst Wednesday I've ever lived. There's more... but I'm exhausted. The rest can wait, I think. Tomorrow.
Reviews of any sort are most welcome.
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