Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (68 page)

"Success
consists of getting up just one more time than you fall."

— Oliver
Goldsmith

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

“I worry Miguel
might kill himself,” Danny says, echoing my own thoughts on the matter. “It’s
so different how he and I reacted. In my case, I knew something was wrong with
me all of my life. Seeing that picture was a relief. It explained
everything
.
Unfortunately, it seemed to work the opposite with Miguel. He thinks he’s a
freak.”

“Yeah,” I say
grimly, taking an exit off the freeway and slanting Danny a look. “At least now
he can deal with it and when he does I bet he becomes physically well. He needs
to vent,
a lot.
We’ll both keep in touch with him.”

“Yes, we will,”
Danny agrees. “I’m glad I got him on that ‘Abuse Survivors’ Facebook page. I’ve
found it indispensable. It’s a relief to talk to others who've been in a
similar place as us. Even if they’re strangers—at least you know you’re not
alone.”

“True. I think
telling him our own stories helped, too.”

“I’m sure it
did,” Danny says confidently. “It’s so isolating to think you’re the only one.”

I nod. “The
charity I set up will pay for his counseling, when he’s ready for it. Lord
knows, he’s an emergency case. I hope he goes to André, but that’s up to him.”

Danny grins. “André’s
amazing. Here I thought I was in love with you.” He flings up a hand. “That was
nothing. I’m definitely in love with that guy.”

I laugh loudly,
pleased Danny’s doing so well under the charming Frenchman’s care. “From what I
hear, you may need to take a number,” I warn. “André’s practically got a fan
club. He deserves it. He’s pretty lovable.”

My GPS directs
us to turn right, then informs us we’ve arrived. The house we’re looking for is
a modest three-bedroom ranch style home. We park out front, turn off the
ignition and get out of the car.

Zachary Bailey,
the man we hope to visit, is twenty-five years old. We weren’t able to reach
him when we called, so we left a message on his voicemail. Zachary is
self-employed, doing something with computer systems.

We walk up his
driveway, climb up the steps, knock at the front door and wait. We don’t even
know if he's at home

After a minute,
the door opens about six inches, stopped by a sliding chain. A pair of startlingly
intense blue eyes glares out at us.

The eyes are a
window to person’s soul, so I study his.

In the
battlefield, I’ve seen wide, dilated eyes, shaking with panic. I’ve seen mad,
suspicious eyes from those who are too broken to absorb or trust anything
around them. I’ve watched eyes filled with excruciating pain, the agony easing
with morphine until they become staring, empty eyes. Eyes blank with death.

This man’s intense
gaze is edgy and penetrating. He isn’t panicked, or sad. If anything, his alert
watchfulness is filled with rage. They focus on my scars.

Instinctively, I
step back, prepared for insanity, but I quickly see he’s not crazy—or at least
not certifiably mad. There’s intelligence and hyper awareness there.

“What the fuck
happened to your face?” a deep, belligerent male voice demands.

I grin, liking
him already. My hideous facial scars are the most obvious thing about me. While
no one
ever
asks about them,
everyone
wonders. His brutal honesty
makes for a nice change.

“I was in the Army,”
I explain. “It’s a war wound.”

He regards us
with an electric blue gaze, closely studying every part of our bodies, head to
toe. I’ve seen this before too; he’s checking for weapons. Is he paranoid? Or simply
being careful?

“OK army guy,”
he snaps. “What’re you doin’ on my doorstep?”

I tilt my head,
narrow my eyes. “Are you Zachary Bailey?”

“Who’s askin’?” His
voice is deep; there’s a menacing rumble to it.

I make
introductions, tell him we left him a phone message. “We’re looking for members
from our Boy Scout troops from a number of years ago.” When Bailey doesn’t
respond to this, I keep going. Eventually, I broach the most important subject.

“Danny and I
both received photos anonymously in the mail—they were disturbing. Did you
happen to receive any photos recently?”

Bang!

To my surprise,
the front door loudly slams shut in Danny and my face.

Whoa!
We
silently look at each other, unsure what to make of it. I figure that’s it—the
guy’s gone. He’s refusing to talk to us.

I hear the
distinctive sound of the inside chain sliding and rattling against the wood of
the entrance. The door swings open, this time all the way.

“Come in,” Bailey
growls.

Bailey looks as
though he could belong to a motorcycle gang, a heavy metal band—or maybe a BDSM
or Goth club, it’s hard to tell. He’s a big, big guy; a good three or four
inches taller than I am, with an extra fifty pounds on his muscular torso. Maybe
he’s a boxer.
Or a cage fighter.

Whatever he is,
he’s as challenging as a junkyard dog. My hackles raise as I promptly measure
him up for a fight.

I can take him.

Why my brain is
wired for this kind of alpha male pissing contest, Lord only knows. Yet, a
thought strikes me abruptly.

André says not
to imagine
he
has all the answers. He claims
no one
can tell me
what is true
for me
. He recommends I trust my own instincts. If it
feels
right, it’s right
for me.

My lips curve,
as I’m suddenly certain of a truth of mine. Why is my brain wired so when I see
a man, I prepare for battle? It comes from fear and distrust of
men in
general,
thanks to the efforts of my father.

Smiling with my
realization—which takes only an instant, I continue my assessment of our host.

Bailey has
shoulder length dark blonde hair and a darker blonde beard that could use a
trim. He’s wearing black leather motorcycle boots, black jeans, faded black t-shirt
with the name of a heavy metal band on it. This unending sea of black is muted by
a canvas of unique and colorful tattoos.

His tough features
are lean, the man is all muscle. He’s as aggressive as a prize winning bull. He
even wears a ring through the middle part of his nose.

The whole
package says
‘go-to-hell,’ ‘fuck off,’
and
‘don’t even think about
messing with me.’

Danny and I step
inside.

Bailey kicks the
door closed as soon as we clear it. Hidden behind his back, he pulls out a
sawed-off shotgun. He holds it with calm, expert confidence. The man knows his way
around a weapon.

Son of a
bitch!

I can’t believe
I didn’t take precautions.

I was an Army
Ranger! If I’d been more observant, if I’d moved in closer to him, I could have
been prepared. What was I thinking?

Bailey points
the double barrel at us. The blood drains from Danny’s open-mouthed face.

Instantly and
automatically, we both raise our hands.

“Sit over there.”
He directs us by gesturing toward a worn, brown leather sofa with his weapon.

Our hands in the
air, Danny and I walk backwards and sit down on the sofa. He pulls out two
pairs of handcuffs, throws them down on the sofa beside us.

Handcuffs?
Really? He has more than one pair? Fuck. Who the hell is this guy? What in the hell
did we get ourselves into here? So much for good intentions.

“You,” he gestures
to Danny with his gun. “Cuff that guy.” He points at me. “I want his hands
behind his back.”

Danny hesitates,
looks from Bailey to me. I regard Danny’s wide, frightened eyes and nod with a
mask of composure. No need to get all worked up just yet.

“Do it,” Bailey
shouts, a harsh whip of command.

My eyes still on
Danny, I purposely exude calm confidence. I turn to present him my hands behind
my back, quickly scanning the scene with my eyes. With time and patience, I’ll
find a way out of this.

With trembling fingers,
Danny cuffs me, locking the cool metal onto me, one wrist at a time.

Fuck.

“All the
adversity I've had in my life, all my troubles and obstacles, have strengthened
me... You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be
the best thing in the world for you.”

— Walt Disney

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

Once my hands are
cuffed, Bailey shackles Danny’s wrists behind his back, too. He then steps
back, inching away while focusing on us.

“Who sent you?”
he demands.

“We sent
ourselves,” I say.

“Bullshit,”
Bailey growls. He glares at each of us, but his hard gaze returns to me. It’s
those shocking blue eyes of his again. Intense. Direct.

Forcing myself
to regard him with calm equanimity, I assess the situation and make rapid
battle preparations. It’s a simple formula, really. I can fight this out, or I
can talk this out.

Bailey’s
obviously under a misapprehension.
Just who exactly does he think we are?

I’ll coolly
explain and everything will be fine. If not, I’ll get the upper hand.

I can take
him.

Zachary Bailey
towers above us, his body taut, his solid, muscular build menacing. I can knock
him unconscious—as long as he doesn’t bind my legs and feet.

My mind echoes with
possibilities, but this time, I’m not so sure.

I can take
him.

But I hope I
don’t have to. My adversary carries more weight and has the upper hand.

“Don’t even
think of it,” Bailey snarls, pointing his gun at me as his eyes drop to my
feet. “You’re the dangerous one. I’ve got my eyes on you. I’ve got no intention
of killing you, but bein’ kneecapped is a bitch,” he snarls the threat.

My gaze steadily
on him, I nod.
Talking better work.

“Look,” I say.
“I don’t know who you
think
we are, but we aren’t here to cause trouble.
You were in the Boy Scouts, right?”

Bailey remains
perfectly motionless, but his blue eyes flare with fresh fury. I swear I can
see his finger tighten on the trigger.

“Danny and I
were Scouts, too,” I explain quickly. “A few weeks ago, we both received anonymous
photos of us as kids. They were… graphic photos.”

His square jaw
is set, his eyes blaze with fury.
Damn, he’s a scary looking bastard,
especially when he’s pissed.

I quickly add, “You
can see mine—it’s in my back pocket. Danny has one, too. We’re just looking for
closure, you know? Justice. We want to set things right.”

This seems to
calm him down a little. He points his gun toward Danny, “You…take the picture
out of his back pocket.”

Danny and I turn
back to back. He feels his way into my pocket and pulls out the picture.

“Now what?”
Danny asks.

“Stand up, walk
over to that table.” He gestures with the shotgun toward a coffee table. “Drop
it there, then sit back down.”

When Danny is
back in place, Bailey walks backwards to the table. His motorcycle boots sound
loud on the wooden floor. His gun remains on us the whole time. From the moment
he opened his door to us, Bailey’s been extremely careful. He’s obviously had
some training.

Bailey picks up
the picture, studies it and regards me in a strangely different light. “This is
you?”

“Yes,” I say,
“me and my father.”

“He was a real
asshole.”

“Yeah,” I agree.

“And your friend
here has a picture like this, too?”

“Yes.”

“With
your
father?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”
he asks Danny.

“Back pocket.”

Bailey walks
around to the other side of the sofa, bends down and pulls the photo out of the
back pocket of Danny’s jeans with his left hand. He’s very careful to stay at a
safe distance from me.

I’m unable to
make a move against him—he’s too careful, but I don’t think I want to anymore. I
don’t want to take the risk of tackling him while cuffed. We’re talking now.
Relating. We’re getting through to him. He’s more curious than pissed off now.

Bailey steps
back and studies the picture. “Do you know who sent these pictures?”

“Not a clue, but
we’re trying to track down everyone who received one.”

Those blue eyes
stare into me. “Why?”

I shrug. “He was
my father. All this time I thought I was the only one he messed with. Until
Danny came to see me, I had no idea he’d been abusing others. I’m serious when
I say I came to make it right.”

He snorts. “How
can you make it right?”

I shrug.
“Communication, counseling… the usual things.”

Bailey pulls up
a chair, turns it backwards, straddles the chair. He’s across from us about six
feet away, his shotgun resting on one knee.

“You,” he
gestures toward Danny. “Tell me about this picture. What do you know?”

Danny launches
into his life of depression, mental health hospitalizations and suicidal
thoughts. He explains he never understood what was wrong with him, until he
received this picture. Memories of his past came back, all at once. Instead of
feeling terrible about it, he was euphoric. His whole life suddenly made sense.

“Well, that’s a
hell of a thing,” Bailey says when Danny finishes giving him a synopsis of his life.
“And you?” he adds, turning toward me.

I detail my
issues with booze, anger, self-hate and depression. I discuss my experiences
with André, how he helped me face my past, taught me to see myself differently.
André warned me pedophiles almost never stop at one child.

“When Danny
showed me his photo, I realized my father got to him as the Scout Leader,” I
continue. “It got me thinking and I decided to do something about it.”

I explain my
twelve step program for alcoholism, my need to make amends and the foundation I’ve
set up.

Bailey intently
listens until we have nothing more to say. Then he stands up, cracks open the
shotgun, removes the shells and tucks them into the front pocket of his jeans.
He places the empty gun on the table.

“I don’t trust
easy,” he says. “When you hear my story, y’all understand why, but I got somethin’
in the mail, too.”

Our gazes lock,
only this time I feel a sense of mutual understanding. I can tell by the understanding
in his stare, he feels it too.

Penetrating eyes
steady on mine, he nods. “Maybe we were meant to meet. Maybe it’s fate. Seems
to me Lady Luck can’t
always
be a God damned mother fucker. Stand up,
I’ll take those handcuffs off.”

Relieved, Danny
and I stand.

First Danny,
then me, Zachary removes our handcuffs, tossing them on the brown leather sofa.

“Thank you, Zachary,”
I say.

“Call me Zach.”

“Come into the
kitchen with me,” he says. “I really need a beer.” Zach slants me a look.
“Y’all bein’ an alcoholic and all, I’ll find you somethin’ else to drink.”

We sit in the
small living room, strangely comfortable after such a disturbing introduction. We’ve
all received naked pictures of ourselves as young boys. Weird, for sure, but if
that isn’t a bonding experience, what is?

Danny and Zach have
a beer, while I sit back and down a Coke. My throat’s dry as hell. Not surprising
when Zach’s been pointing a double barrel at me.
Thank you sympathetic
nervous system.

Trust issues are
a bitch. André warned me helping those who have suffered abuse can be a
dangerous activity. In fact, it can be downright life-threatening.

After today, I have
a visceral understanding of this truth.