Blood Brothers (17 page)

Suddenly one of the dark forms stepped
forward. “You’ve got a whole summer of ass whoopings to catch up
on,” Jerry taunted.

Both shapes lunged at him.

Then

Michael lunged to the left as the shadows
became reality. Just at the last moment, he escaped their vicious
grasps. Feet pounding on the floor, he was at and through the door
before he realized he was holding his breath.

The night took him as he darted away, knowing
without hearing, that the two larger boys were behind him. He
didn’t chance a look back, but there was no way Bobby or Jerry
would go to the effort of hunting him down and then let him slip
away so easily. Whatever mischief filled their minds this night,
they were determined to complete it.

At the corner of the street he dodged
left—left had worked seconds before, so he saw no reason to change
it. At the end of this block the lighting was better since he was
moving out of the Projects and into respectable society— as it was
often called. He was breathing hard now, his pace slowing, but he
could hear the footfalls of his pursuers closing in on him. With an
unexpected burst of speed, he jumped into an alleyway that was as
well lit as the trailer park in which he lived.

He was halfway through the alley when Bobby
stepped in and called out to him. Why he stopped, Michael had no
idea. Why he turned towards them was an even greater mystery.
Seeing Jerry step beside his partner-in-crime made Michael think he
had no chance of getting away.

Mike’s breath was coming raggedly. His legs
felt like jelly and he didn’t think he could run much longer.

“What’s the matter, lardo? Little out of
shape?” Bobby laughed.

“Looks scared, Bobby. Probably already peed
his pants.”

Both boys got a good chuckle out of that one.
Mike, however, didn’t seem to find the humor in the statement.

“I want to show you what I got up to the
county fair last month, Mikey.” That was Bobby.

“Cool, man. Did you bring it with you?” Jerry
asked.

“I sure did. Just on the off chance we’d find
this tub of lard. You just never know.” As he was talking, Bobby
pulled something out of his pocket. That something caught a bit of
stray light and reflected silver in the alleyway. Michael realized
all too soon what it was. A clank of metal and a blade was
revealed. A butterfly knife, just like the ones Michael had seen in
the kung fu movies on late night cable when his parents were either
out on the town or just plain passed out. “You like it, Mikey?”
Bobby jabbed it towards him. “I think it likes you.”

There was almost twenty feet between Michael
and his tormentors. Twenty feet to someone in another situation, a
safer situation, would probably seem a decent distance. To Mike,
who knew he didn’t have much fight left in him, it didn’t seem
quite far enough. For their part, Bobby and Jerry were moving
towards him, eating up any safety zone that he might have had.

When they attacked, it felt to Michael as if
they were moving in slow motion. He saw them coming as if he were
watching a movie screen. His brain screamed at his legs and feet to
take action. They flatly refused. Electrical currents travelled
from his brain to his nerves giving commands to each muscle
necessary for him to run, but his muscles refused their
instructions. Instead of fleeing into the open—his only hope now
was to be saved by some stranger passing by, because trying to get
away from these freaks, as tired as he was, was beyond
impossible—Michael stood planted as if his feet were encased in
concrete blocks as big as Dumpsters.

Bobby and Jerry closed in on him, more and
more. Foot by foot, inch by inch, the danger they brought with them
billowed towards him at an alarming rate.

Now, Martin and Anita were not the type of
parents that attended church services regularly or even
sporadically, for that matter. In hindsight, Michael could not
remember either his mother or father darkening the door of any
house of worship. Whether they had attended services before his
birth didn’t matter to Michael. Either way, they’d never introduced
their child to the beliefs of Christianity, Islam, or even Hindu.
Consequently, Michael had never felt the urge to visit a church or
learn about their teachings on his own. Nevertheless, his ignorance
of all things spiritual did not stop Michael from trying something
he’d seen on Sunday morning TV. There in the alley, in the middle
of the night and fearing for his life, Michael offered up a short,
but earnest prayer.

Even if God had been watching the phone,
there would have been no time for this silent request to be
answered.

Jerry grabbed Michael by the shoulder and
threw him into a wall. Hard. Tonight seemed to be the night for
having the wind knocked out of him. If this kept up, he thought he
might have to add a portable oxygen tank to next year’s Christmas
list. That is, if he lived that long.

Using the dreaded pro-wrestling arm bar hold,
Jerry held the squirming Michael to that wall. Bobby brought the
knife up. The light now hit the blade from a different angle and
Michael saw how long, how sharp, how threatening the piece of steel
actually was. Long, strong, and unforgiving, the blade of a knife
can inflict artistic torture.

Michael knew a lot about what a knife could
do because it was one of Martin’s tools of terror. Not a favorite,
his favorites were the tools you’d usually find lying around the
house, ones that wouldn’t arouse any suspicion for their many uses.
An example would be his beloved extension cord; it works great to
plug in a power tool, but what a jolt it gives as it speeds through
the air and lands on a bare leg, plug first. Second by a hair, was
his thin strip of leather that he had broken in on the backs of
both his wife and son. But when Martin was really feeling the
creative urge, when ordinary run-of-the-mill punishments just
didn’t tickle his fancy, he kept a small selection of knives to
sculpt his creations.

The cuts and their resulting lacerations were
never large, not even remotely. You could beat and bruise your
child, but you could not leave lasting marks. If you didn’t like
the idea of prison, that is. Usually, small nicks on the upper
arms, thighs, or the torso—places that would most always be
covered—were where the tip of the blade found itself digging. But
even small lacerations can run deep, damaging nerves, tendons, and
muscles. It wasn’t the size of the cut, but its depth that Martin
found so very interesting.

Michael didn’t like it then, and he didn’t
like it now. He fought with everything he had.

Unfortunately, he just didn’t have
enough.

“Hold him still, man.”

“I’m trying, Bobby. I’m trying. Stout fucker,
ain’t you,” Jerry spat.

“Come on. Put your back into it.”

“Okay. Okay.”

Michael felt Jerry’s arm dig deeper into his
throat. At first the technique was being used only to hold him
still, but now his windpipe was pushed in on itself and for the
third time tonight he found breath difficult to come by. Tingles
like the pricking of needles pecked at his cheeks and he felt the
world start a slow spin as his vision grew slightly blurry. Then
the worst thing happened: his eyes began to water.

“I ain’t cut you yet and you’re bawling like
a baby.”

“Need something to suck on baby, like a
cock?” Jerry laughed, and his wasn’t a good laugh. High-pitched and
nasal, it was a painful thing in itself.

Jerry pulled Mike’s T-shirt out and away from
his body. A quick slash, and a towel-sized piece of cotton was
sliced away. No harm there, Michael hadn’t really liked the shirt
all that much, after all. Like it or not, if his father found out
that he’d ruined a good shirt, a beating would surely follow. And
Michael stopped the thought about it not being his fault before it
even started—like his father would believe that.

Mike truly hoped that destroying his clothing
was all these jokers had planned for the night. But as usual, he
was wrong. It was as if he couldn’t be right about anything. It
didn’t take long to realize that Bobby had more than destruction of
clothing on his mind.

As the business end of the butterfly knife
came closer, Michael started struggling all over again. This was
the last resort. After this newfound energy was tapped, there would
be nothing left; the well would be run dry, as they say. He
actually succeeded in pushing himself away from the wall, toting
Jerry with him the entire two feet. And then Jerry, with his free
hand, struck out, punching him in the gut. Michael doubled over,
sickness raging in his stomach.

He didn’t stay doubled over long. Bobby or
Jerry—he was so confused now, he didn’t know which one—grabbed him
by the hair and smashed his head back against the hard brick wall.
White explosions of pain burst behind his eyes making the action he
viewed look like it was all happening in a snowstorm, and the
world’s slow spin was now a rough and ready tumble. But he could
breathe again, at least. There as that much.

“You know what I believe in, Mikey?” Bobby’s
words sounded strange, like they were echoing back from a great
canyon or across a sea. It took him more time to process the words
than his attacker would allow him to answer. “I said, you know what
I believe?” This time the question was accented with a slap to his
right cheek.

“W-What?”

“I believe that everyone should accept who
they are. You know what I mean. Like if you’re a good football
player like me, or a good baseball player like Jerry, here, you
should accept that.”

As long as he was talking he wasn’t cutting,
so Michael engaged him. “I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t figure you would. You’ve got as
much fat between your ears as you’ve got on your ass. But I want
you to understand. I think you should understand. You see, my dad,
he’s a cop, and a damn good one. Jerry’s dad sells insurance. Both
make good money. My mom’s pretty and Jerry’s is a knockout. You
seeing a pattern here?”

Really, Michael was amazed that such a high
level of thought was even possible for Bobby. Still, he could have
seen this conversation on TV, which was infinitely more likely than
him thinking it up on his own. Or maybe he learned how to talk like
this in the Bully’s Class that he and all his bully friends must
have to attend on a regular basis.

“No.” That was lie. But it should keep Jerry
talking.

“Well. Your father’s a nasty bum and your
momma’s a used up whore and you, my little flabby fuck,” Bobby
reached down and pinched his cheek in mock affection, “Are a loser,
like none I’ve ever seen.”

“Put him on the ground, Jerry.”

He didn’t have enough strength left in him to
fight as Jerry obeyed, splaying him down on the damp asphalt. The
moisture was warm, and stunk like engine oil.

“Piece of shit just pissed himself,” Jerry
said.

And it was true. Apparently, he’d been wrong
yet again. The tears weren’t the worst thing he could do.

“You make me sick, Cole. Really sick.”

“Man, hurry up and get finished, he’s going
to make me loose my supper.”

“Hold your horses. For permanent results, you
have to take your time.” To Mike, Bobby said, “Just in case you
haven’t caught on to what I’m trying to explain, I’m going to give
you a visual.”

Michael felt the cold blade nudge him and
then all the coldness went out of him. Fire sparked in his stomach,
just above his bellybutton. He screamed. The fire stopped.

“That’s just not going to do,” Bobby said,
pulling himself and the butterfly knife back from Mike. He swiveled
his head left and right as if searching for something.

“We can’t have you screaming like a bitch,
now can we?” Jerry asked.

“Let me go. Come on guys, you don’t have to
do this. Just let me go.”

“Stop your sniveling, Mikey. The fun’s just
starting.”

Bobby started rummaging around in several of
the overflowing metal trash cans that lined either side of the
narrow alley. It took him a minute, but he found whatever it was
he’d been searching for. When he turned back, Michael almost lost
his supper.

Bobby held a handful of ruined, brown lettuce
and coffee grounds in his hands, a big old clump of nasty. And
suddenly Michael knew just what he intended to do with it. He
clamped his mouth shut and started struggling against Jerry.

All to no avail. Bobby grabbed hold of Mike’s
throat, digging his thumb into the tender center. Mike’s body gave
him no choice, his lips parted, and then his teeth.

“This’ll keep you quiet.”

That taste was a very bad thing. Very bad.
Michael could have bit down on the other boy’s fingers as the trash
was shoved in, but his gag reflex instantly kicked in. When the
nasty lettuce leaves were pushed back as far as Bobby could get
them, he focused his attention on Mike’s stomach. The soft white
flesh was his canvas, the knife his brush. And it was time to
create some art.

“
How about Fatso?” Jerry
asked.

“Hmm, not bad, but I was thinking more along
the lines of Faggot.”

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Make it big and
deep. So it leaves a good scar.”

Bobby merely chuckled and bent lower.

“How about you two assholes get the hell out
of here before my friend there decides to make you swallow
something besides some garbage?”

For a split second, Michael thought he’d lost
it and the words were a delusion. It was too far into the game for
help to come, for a savior. He’d resigned himself to the fact and
just wanted whatever it was the two bullies intended to do to just
be over with. If they’d asked him to strip naked, walk on all fours
and yelp like a shooed dog, he would have done it if it meant
putting an end to this torture session. Even the wrath of Martin
Cole didn’t look so bad compared to this.