The Spell - 3. Chapter 3

It was the next day, and Michael had just gotten home from work. Immediately, he noticed everything was gone in the living room, so he called the landlord. “Is this Linda? Hey, Linda, this is Michael in 220. I think someone broke into my apartment,” he said, but then paused, “that could be true. No, I’m okay. Thank you.” He walked to the bedroom and found that only Brock's clothes were missing. Automatically, he tried calling Brock, but the number was disconnected. Then, he tried calling some of his and Brock’s friends, but no one answered. “Pricks,” he grumbled.

He turned around and saw that the angel picture was shattered on the floor. Trying to keep his cool, he moved to it and tried to carefully pull it from the glass, but it tore anyways. Resultantly, he began to cry.

*          *          *

It was a few hours later, and Michael was a gas station and was buying snacks and lottery tickets. “I’ll take ten of the five dollar ones. The green ones,” he said.

“You must be feeling lucky,” the cashier said.

“Maybe.”

*          *          *

It was that evening, and Michael was standing outside Royce’s apartment. He looked like he had been drinking. Seconds later, Royce answered the door. “Mike, hey. Are you alright?” Royce asked.

“Can I talk, just…?” Michael slurred.

“Of course, come in.”

Michael entered. “I’ve been at the casino all day. It’s been rough.”

“What happened?”

“Brock left.”

“So what’s the bad news?”

“Royce.”

“I know, I know. You love him.”

“Yes.”

“I never wanted to tell you this, but—“

“He’s a gigolo, porn actor, god knows what else.”

“Well, yeah.”

They were quiet for a few seconds. “It’s just that I never got to say goodbye.”

“So?”

“It was the second time.”

“You guys broke up before?”

Michael was lost in his thoughts. “When I was seventeen, I had this school project, where a group of us volunteered at a hospital. Each of us got a sick or injured child. My kid's name was Brendan, and he was eight and had cancer. He was the sweetest little guy. And he had these beautiful, blue eyes that were so calm, no matter how much pain he was in. Anyhow, a few weeks later, the project finished, and I left it. I left him. A month later, his mom sent me this, along with a letter saying he only had a few days left.” Michael pulled out the angel picture, which was taped up. Then, he handed it to Royce, and Royce stared at it. “I loved that kid more than anything in this world.”

*          *          *

A few days had passed, and Michael was having lunch with James and a few others. Another group of guys was eating next to them and was talking about a local person winning the lottery. “I don’t think he’s come forward yet,” one of them said.

Suddenly, something dawned on Michael, and he rushed out.

*          *          *

Nervously, Michael was standing at the gas station counter, as the manager ran his lottery ticket again. Abruptly, she looked up at him. "You won," she confirmed.

*          *          *

It was a few months later, and Michael was at a gay club with a bunch of super hot, young guys. He had a twenty-two year old, Pierre, on his arm. Pierre had a tall, slender build; dark, beautiful features; and a preppy, Eurotrash look.

Brock came up with a cute boy. “Hey, Tristan, Evan,” Brock said, glancing at Michael. “How’s it going, Pierre?”

Pierre beamed. “Brocky,” Pierre exclaimed and hugged him, "what you been up to?”

“Just work and school.”

Brock glanced at Michael again and nodded his head, but Michael looked away towards Royce, who kept glancing at him with a look of jealously and loneliness.

*          *          *

It was the next day, and Michael was in his new apartment, which was spacious, immaculate, and filled with electronics and Parisian décor. Michael and Pierre were lying on the floor and were playing video games and text messaging. Also, Michael was in his regular boxers, and Pierre was wearing tiny briefs. “Everyone wants to meet at the gallery tonight and then go to that new cantina,” Pierre said.

“I thought everyone was broke,” Michael responded, as Pierre then rolled his eyes. “Just kidding.”

“It’s not like we have anything else to do. It’s so boring here.”

Pierre rose up, plopped down on a canapé, and finished a cocktail.

*          *          *

It was hours later, and Michael and Pierre were at the art exhibit. They were wandering around, texting. Furthermore, it was still early in the show, and not many people were there.

Michael noticed a painting, froze for a few seconds, and walked over to it. It looked like his angel picture. “I know this picture,” he said in shock.

Pierre glanced at the painting. “It’s one of his most famous ones.”

“No, no, I know this picture.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s this picture I have at home.”

“You have a fake then."

“Someone stole this idea.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I’m telling you, someone stole this idea.”

Pierre snickered, rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just ask the artist himself?”

“He’s here?”

Pierre hesitated. “Yes.” Michael began to walk franticly. “Um, what are you doing?” Pierre followed him and glanced around. “You know they have security here, right?”

Michael noticed a small group around a man, and he stopped. The man was facing away from Michael. “He’s young.”

“Yeah, early twenties, I think. Why?”

“What’s his name?”

“Scott. Braden or Brandon Scott. Something like that."

“Brendan?"

“Yes, that’s it. Why? You know him?”

Brendan started to turn his head. Resultantly, Michael squirmed and bolted towards the entrance. Confused, Pierre followed after him.