Stain (6 page)

“The fuck you knocking for?”

Instead of answering, he gives another knock, “Baz, you’ve got sixty seconds to clear your little girl out of the room before I get inside.”

The bit of shock I experience at Dro’s show of compassion in wanting to spare this little girl the sight of violence that’s about to take place quickly disappears at the sound of muffled crashing inside. That spurs Droski into action. Wedging the flat head of the crowbar between the jamb and the knob, it takes him three hard, forceful jerks of his hand before the door pops open. Honestly, I could’ve been spared the fucking sight of Baz’ lily-white ass trying to climb out the window. There’s another man present and while the lower half of his body is relatively covered by a bed sheet, it didn’t take much at all to see the outline of his dick. Still hard.

“Jesus, fuck.” I give him a wide berth as I make my way inside. Dro has already run ahead of me intent on grabbing Baz before he makes it out of the window. The apartment’s tiny. Nothing unexpected there. It smells like booze, sex, and cigarettes. I take a quick inventory of the place. Next to the ashtray on the coffee table are three white lines of what I can only assume to be coke. The doors to the bedroom and bathroom located across from each other have been left partially open. There are water stains on the ceiling, slowly bleeding down to the walls that had probably been white once. There’s a cigarette-burnt, green shag carpet that’s supposed to hide the heavily worn linoleum flooring beneath. Seated on the shag carpet in front of the TV that’s a throwback to the 90s is the little girl Dro wanted cleared out of the room.

There’s a cartoon on; some overly pink girlie show with ponies and castles. Something I’m assuming would’ve ordinarily grabbed her attention. But instead, her brown eyes are fixated on the all-too-real scene playing out in front of her. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t react. But the array of emotions flying across her face is all too familiar. There’s sadness there and confusion mixed in with fear. But it’s the dominant emotion, the anger gleaming in her rich brown eyes that stirs a memory from a past I can’t exorcise.

***

Don’t fucking cry.

Don’t make a fucking sound.

Those are the only two thoughts circling around inside my head. I have maybe a few seconds to breathe before I hear the whistle of the whip carve through the air. My body tenses and my teeth clench as my fingers ball into fists at my sides so tight from the strain that they appear bloodless.

Crack!

A sharp, sucking breath that’s more a gasp than breathing tumbles out from my dry, cracked lips as my back arches away from the force of the impact. The blow of the whip brings on an explosion of pain, but it’s the tiny hooks attached to the four black leather straps that makes it excruciating. The hooks claw into the wounds that are already there, tearing open the skin on my back while scraping down to raw flesh. When they’re tugged free, taking slivers of skin and blood with it, I fall forward. My hands reach out in front of me, the stiffness of my bruised arms is the only thing keeping me from cracking my head open on the concrete floor. The sweat covering my body is like salt slowly seeping into the gashes. It hurts like fucking hell.

“Look at your brother, Noah. Look at what you’re doing to him.” The voice of our tormentor taunts my brother. I hate that voice, and more than anything else, I hate the man it belongs to.

“All I asked was that you touch him. It’s not like you haven’t done it before.” There’s a short, humorless laugh. “You’ve done plenty of very bad and very dirty things to each other.”

“Cau-cause of you…you…sick fuck…” I should’ve anticipated the kick that slams into my side, sending my beaten body crashing to the ground.

“Every time you tell me no, this stupid little dog is going to get hurt. You already know this, Noah…”

“Don’t…don’t you listen…don’t listen, Noah…he can’t do shit to me…” It hurts to talk. Hurts to breath. It hurts to fucking blink. What I want more than anything right now is my mom. She’d make the hurt go away. I’d curl up on her lap. She’d pet my hair and hum a song. I’d listen to her sing and die peacefully on her lap. That’s the only thing I’ve ever prayed to God about. Not that he ever listens. But that’s what I’ve always wanted. To die in her arms. To be taken away from this hell and the demon who rules it.

But that hasn’t happened yet. Mom is one suicide attempt away from a mental hospital. No one is listening to me pray because it’s as if God doesn’t exist. No one is going to save me and Noah. That’s why I can’t pass out. He’s got nobody but me. I can’t leave him alone in this. And I think…I think Dad’s coming close to breaking him. That’s why I always try to draw Dad’s attention to me. I can handle it. When he’s beating the shit out of me, he leaves Noah alone.

The heavy thread of approaching footsteps is all the warning I get before beefy fingers fist through my hair, gripping a handful, and tug me up so that I’m dangled from only that hold, my toes barely touching the ground.

“I’m going to make sure that an ocean liner can cruise through your filthy little asshole when I’m done with you, dog.”

I’m shaking. The pain feels like it’s coming from every pore on my body, but the anger gives me something to focus on. It’s a pitch-black pit centered right at my core. With one eye swollen shut and the other barely open to see much, I stare up unflinchingly into the dead eyes of Satan himself.

I scoff, “I’m only twelve and my dick is bigger than yours, fucker.” I spit out the mucous-filled blood that lines my mouth.

He sends me sailing through the air. My body lands with a sickening thunk against the oil burner. He takes one, two, three giant charging steps toward me, barreling down with all the force and power of a two hundred and some odd pounds man subduing a child.

“NO! Dad. No! I’ll do it! I’ll do it! Please! Please let me do it!”

I can’t hear Noah over the sound of my flesh tearing as our dad makes good on his threat. I can’t hear my twin begging and crying anymore because my screams are too loud.

“AHHHHH!”

The scream brings reality back into focus as the slivers of the dark memory blur away. It’s the little girl fighting and screaming as dick-sheet guy pulls her father into the room and slams the door closed.

Even with the barrier of the bedroom door closed, the muffled “I want my daddy!” can still be heard. “I want my daddy!” she cries again. It’s a high, screeching sound that coincides with her father’s tortured scream. Looking over to the side, I see Dro raising the crowbar and slamming it down on Baz’s right kneecap. He does it again and again, like he’s hammering a nail into wood. All there is is the screaming. So much fucking screaming. “Daddy! Daddy!”

“Shut the fuck up or I’m going to blow your daddy’s head off!” Can’t stand kids.

Silence. Fucking golden.

Approaching Dro, I’m quick to realize his method isn’t going to get the job done any faster. All the goddamned screaming is bound to get someone to call the police, sooner or later. I don’t want to be around if they decide to make it sooner.

Drawing the SIG from the back of my jeans, I close the short gap between us and send the butt of the gun crashing against Baz’s face. “Where the fuck is it?”

Residual shit from my latest memory develops into blazing anger. I can’t see straight. All I want is to beat something to a bloody pulp. I press the gun to Baz’s temple. I’d settle for shooting him, too. “Talk, or I pull the trigger.” Serious as fucking cancer, I take off the safety, my finger poised at the trigger. There’s a silencer attached to the barrel. No one will hear anything.

“I…shit…okay, man, okay. There’s…there’s four grand in the back of the freezer, inside the waffle box.”

“And my product?”

Looking at his sniveling, red face makes me want to pull the trigger. I want him to say there’s nothing left. I want Dro to give me the signal. Pull the trigger. Shoot him. I’m itching. I look up at Dro, but he’s focusing on Baz.

“Fuck, Dro…fuck, man…I’m so fucking sorry, man. I…I have some left. I had to try it…my baby, Felix, he asked to try the new stuff.”

Through clenched teeth, Dro asks, “Where is it?”

“Bathroom…in the toilet. I put it…I put it inside a latex glove, like you showed me, Dro. It’s inside…inside the tank.”

When Dro cocks his head toward the bathroom signaling that I should go get it, I want to tell him to go get his own shit. I don’t want to be the goddamn errand boy right now. But I don’t say shit, mainly because I have enough respect for him to keep my mouth shut when it calls for it. Can’t lie, it takes me a good minute or two to withdraw the gun before slowly stepping away from Baz. With the SIG at my side, I make it to the bathroom. Removing the lid from the tank, I set it down on the sink counter before returning to look inside. Bobbing on top of ice-cold water is a tightly packed pale yellow latex glove. Much as I want to shoot Baz dead for no other reason than he annoys the fuck out of me, I have to give the idiot props on knowing how to store SKY. I exit the bathroom with the wet glove in hand, and Dro anticipates my throw and catches the glove before it falls to the floor. Next, I head to the kitchen where I find a white Whirlpool fridge taking up what little space there is. Still sporting my gun in one hand, I use the other to pull the freezer door open. There’s nothing in there aside from gray freezer-burnt meats well past their expiration date. I keep looking. The box of waffles is behind an empty, white ice cube container. Two bundles of rolled-up cash falls into my hands when I tip the box over. Just for good measure, I look back inside, thinking maybe the remaining two rolls are stuck frozen on the inside of the carton.

Nothing.

Dropping the box, I rifle through the freezer, careless of the dry, frozen meats that fall to the floor in loud clacks. Unrolling the elastic bands, I quickly count each roll as I make my way back to the living room.

I hand Dro the cash. “He’s short two grand.”

“Where’s the rest of my money, Baz?” Dro’s been pretty calm through all of this. Mr. Unflappable. He prefers putting his actions into words rather than displaying them. The number he just did on a weeping Baz is proof of that.

“Look, man…look, just give me a week…a week and I’ll pay you back. I’m good for it, Dro. You know that.”

With a grin, I say, “Let me shoot him.”

Baz’s eyes bounce from left to right, looking first at Dro and then me and then back again. Like he’s wondering if Dro will let me put a bullet in his brain. The anxiety and fear on his face gives me a rush. “I’m good for it! Please, man…come on, Droski, man…my little girl is in there. Please don’t fucking kill me, man…”

In the silence that follows, Dro uses the crowbar to leverage himself to his full height. He looks down at Baz.

I sniff the air and sniff again. “Jesus, fuck!” Taking two quick steps back from the puddle of piss stretching out from under Baz’s ass toward us, I sneer at the cocksucker. I manage to avoid it. Dro isn’t so lucky, but he’s wearing boots so I guess it’s not so bad.

He doesn’t seem to think so.

“AHHHHH! AHHHHH!” Ramming his size sixteen between Baz’s legs, Dro applies weight, crushing Baz’s dick and nuts beneath his booted foot. I almost feel sorry for the guy. Not really though.

“Two days. I’m giving you two days to get my money or I’m going to let the kid here shoot not only your brains out, but your little girl and that little faggot-ass boy toy of yours.”

Outside, Dro has me follow him to his car. He pops open the trunk, lifts the compartment where he keeps a spare and retrieves a brown paper bag.

“Do the drop-off tonight. Three grand. There and back. Route four, under the South Bend overpass. The cop is expecting you.” He hands me the bag but retains a firm hold on the opposite end. Looking at me with two black eyes that are pin needles on his face, he says, “Lose my shit again and I’ll put a bullet in your ass.”

“One fucking time…”

“One fucking time too many, kid. I’ve got too much riding on this business to have you fuck it up.” He finally lets go. “Take the back roads. Let me know when it’s done.”

We split. He leaves me in his dust while my truck wheezes down the road. It takes forty minutes to get to the South Bend overpass. I drive down the gravelly pathway that leads to the graffiti-covered bridge. Down here, it’s a hotbed of homeless people, with their makeshift tents made out of tarp and donated clothes. Grocery carts with their entire life’s contents parking against water-stained concrete walls fill the area. For a good eight months after the murder/suicide of our parents, this had been our life. Twelve years old with too much damn knowledge about sex and not enough about the world. We had to learn very quickly that charity on the streets wasn’t freely given. People always wanted something. Tit for fucking tat. I did what I had to do for both Noah and I to survive.

There wasn’t an amber alert out for us or anything like that, but we learned to evade cops and anyone else who looked like they wanted to take us in. We slept on park benches, under freeway overpasses like this one, and washed our asses in public bathrooms. I stole what we needed to eat from convenience stores. The plan was to eventually make it out west by hitchhiking. Nothing special was there, just figured anywhere was better than Trenton. But shit got derailed when I got caught stealing a few bags of chips, sodas, and some candy. That’s when we got shuffled off into the system.

Shaking my head to bring me back to focus, I shut off my headlights and drive farther down. I don’t bring any unnecessary attention to myself. Not that snitching isn’t a possibility but most of the people down here are junkies, too loaded to see straight let alone be taken seriously by anyone who came around asking questions.