Blood Brothers (3 page)

Still, he smiled. And why shouldn’t he? The
fun was about to begin.

Inside there was a moan. Not a cry of
ecstasy, it was deeper, more sorrowful. He smiled wider.

From the bedroom, he walked the length of the
back of the house, and careful to avoid detection, he peered into
the kitchen. A woman, not at all unattractive, watched a coffeepot
as it brewed. He couldn’t smell the coffee, but he imagined he
could. He also noticed the woman’s face; red and puffy, as if from
prolonged crying. A very good sign that all was not well in the
Cole household.

Stepping away carefully, until he reached the
corner of the house, he found he took more than a little joy in his
discoveries this morning.

Then

I wish I’d never been born, Michael Cole
thought to himself. It was first recess and the playground was a
flurry of schoolchildren relishing in the first break of the day.
Ice cream had been sold, milk was being drunk and everyone, even
the playground monitors, was delighting in the warm spring day.
Everyone, that was, save Mike.

Eight-year-old Michael was up under the red
cedar tree house. He’d stepped on a sherbet push-up and had to
swipe ants from the top of his sneaker. Still, he stayed where he
was. The shadows were cold, dense, and concealing. He looked at his
G.I. Joe wristwatch. Only ten minutes left before the bell. The
bell that signaled the end of recess was his saving grace, if only
he could make it.

Bobby Crew and Harry Tims were on the prowl.
They’d told him so during Math. It was a pure miracle Michael had
made it out to the yard without one of them snatching him up.
Michael knew they’d smash him if they got half a chance.

Of course, he didn’t think it was fair. He
didn’t deserve their abuse; he’d done nothing for them to single
him out. True, almost every guy, and even some of the girls, used
Michael as the butt of their jokes and foolish pranks, but none
were as vicious as Bobby and Harry.

Both were big for their age. No, not big,
huge. Michael knew they’d been held back at least one grade.
Michael didn’t bother anyone. Heck, he rarely spoke to anyone but
an occasional teacher, and that was only in a have-to type of
situation. He mostly doodled on his paper and tried to make himself
inconspicuous as possible.

It was probably because he was fat, but
surely that wasn’t the only reason. Frank Walker was twice as big
as Michael and he didn’t get picked on half as much. He’d tried to
tell on them, to Mr. Haynes, his homeroom teacher, but he’d only
laughed and walked off.

After that, Michael kept it to himself.

What was worse, though, was that Harry lived
close to Mike, too close. So, even when school was out, he still
had to watch his back. Once, over the Christmas break, he’d met
both boys on the street in front of the trailer park where he
lived. They’d been on bikes; Michael hadn’t. They’d chased him
until his lungs burned and screamed in agony. To make matters
worse, the shoulder of the road was gravel. They’d had a big time
pitching rocks at Michael as he tried to get away. But get away, he
couldn’t. Michael had run down the street, through yards, behind
houses, but the boys’ bikes handled any and all terrain that
Michael could find. The stones stung like the dickens as they
struck his back, his neck, his head, and his butt. There had been
tears in his eyes when he’d finally collapsed.

That was when the real bad things
happened.

Michael was not a fighter. He never had been.
But he’d fought that day, but only because he’d been left with no
choice. They’d run him way off the road, off into a wooded area.
Pines grew tall and close together, making a tight perimeter. Once
you were ten feet or so in, nobody could see what you were doing.
This meant to Michael Cole, that his chance of any help was about
the same as a snowball’s chance in hell.

The two bullies had quickly overtaken Mike. A
right hook to his cheek had rendered him almost to the point of
unconsciousness. Harry, the taller of the two with a blond crew cut
and a complexion like a pepperoni pizza, delivered a swift kick to
Mike’s groin. Using both of their belts, they’d tied him to a thin
tree, the bark pressed hard into Mike’s back.

Then they pulled his pants down…

The end-of-recess bell rang out through the
air, and Michael thought that the Angel Gabriel’s trumpet couldn’t
have sounded any sweeter.

He stayed there underneath the tree house for
a few extra minutes, almost invisible in the shadows. If he rushed
in he’d be ahead of the crowd, and more importantly, the ground
monitors, but if he waited too long, he’d be in the same shape: all
alone.

Mike waited, hoping for the perfect moment to
present itself. Just the right time and number of people so that he
could just blend in with the kids heading back into the school. He
saw Harry Feldman and Vicky Swanson and the group they always hung
out with, the preppies, and sprinted from his hiding place. The
preppies were mean, always thinking they were better than everyone
else, but they’d never gone so far as to inflict physical pain upon
him. In this situation Michael chose to put up with their possible
taunting and teasing, over a knuckle sandwich. Sticks and stones,
right?

He followed close behind Jake, a tall,
good-looking kid with hair the color of coal. Not too close,
though, he didn’t want anyone to think he was a homo. That would
just be something else they could call him, another needle to prick
him with.

Mike made it to the concrete steps leading
into the old, dark hallway of the school. The school was ancient
and looked more like the dungeon of some long ago castle than a
place of education to him. And he knew all about those. Michael had
no brothers, no sisters, and no cousins close to his age. He had no
friends, and the only nice people to speak of were Mr. Barley, the
mailman, and Mrs. Gertrude Gant, one of the librarians down at the
city library. Really good people, but they couldn’t understand the
problems of an overweight and shy ten-year-old who constantly tried
to stay away from bullies who would like nothing better than to
pound his face into the ground and dig holes with his teeth. So, he
read obsessively. Anything he could get his hands on really, but
especially fantasy and science fiction. Those two were his
favorites. He knew that those books set him apart from the other
kids in his class. While they were talking about sneaking peeks at
Playboys, he was imagining himself cruising through the galaxy
saving one world or another from certain chaos, or rescuing the
beautiful princess from an evil wizard.

Mike filed into the hallway with the other
kids. The world of red and blue monkey bars, red cedar tree houses,
bright yellow seesaws, and tractor tires in every color of the
rainbow was left behind. Inside the schoolhouse it was much darker,
much more serious. The air smelled like old chalk dust and sour
milk. The shoes of the kids squeaked on the shiny pea-green tile.
Noises echoed into a far oblivion and it took time for your eyes to
adjust to the dark. Still, Michael was more hopeful than ever that
he could make it to Social Studies without catching a beating.

Then he saw Harry’s blonde head less than
five feet away.

Instinctively, Mike slipped through the first
door to his right: the boys’ room.

He squatted and looked under the doors to
make sure all the stalls were empty. It looked like Mike had the
pee-soaked floors, yellowed urinals, and filthy walls to himself.
He immediately selected a stall, locked the door behind him, and
climbed on top of the toilet, balancing on the rim so nobody would
know he was there.

And not a second too soon.

The door was thrown open, banging the wall.
Michael heard feet come shuffling in. “Come out, come out, wherever
you are,” Bobby Crew said.

“That’s right, fat ass. Quiver on out here
like the pussy you are.”

Mike swallowed hard. His throat was closed up
tight. He focused all his concentration on staying perfectly still
and as quiet as a mouse. Maybe he’d get lucky and they’d go away.
If he waited long enough maybe they’d decide that punching him
senseless wasn’t worth a tardy for class.

Maybe not.

The stall door kicked in so quick it really
scared Michael and when the edge of the door smashed his elbow, he
was pitched to the floor and landed like a sack of potatoes. Bobby
and Harry were on him like stink on a dog turd, in a flash.

Mike’s lungs burned as his head was pulled
from the toilet. The yellow water in the bowl made him want to puke
but the threat of drowning was enough to keep his mind off being
sick for the moment. When his head was clear of the rim, he sucked
in the good sweet air and forced it into his empty chest.

“Down she goes,” Harry said, plunging his
head back into toilet once again.

“You know what I like about fatsos, man?”

“What’s that?”

“They got jiggly butts.” Both boys laughed as
Bobby clamed a hand on Mike’s rump.

“I like the huge tits.”

“Y’know, old lard ass here, he looks just
like a woman.”

“Yeah, a dog ugly one.”

“Yep, but a woman anyway.”

“I bet he could give a great BJ.”

“As much as he eats, he’d probably gobble it
up like a link sausage.”

Harry heaved Mike’s face back up out of the
water. The dumb shit was gasping for air and Bobby couldn’t
remember ever having seen a funnier sight. Well, maybe when they’d
cut him in the woods. That had been a hoot, but this was a close
second. The only thing that could make it any funnier would be if a
big log had been floating in the bowl. That’d be some cool
shit.

“Hey, Twinkie. You like to give
blowjobs?”

“With tits like that, Bobby, I bet he’s as
fruity as a box of Fruit Loops.”

He tried to speak, but he’d swallowed a bit
of the nasty water and his breakfast was threatening to resurface.
His lips trembled and his eyes were scorching.

“Hey, Harry. I’ve got an idea. Stand him
up.”

Bobby exited that stall and disappeared into
the neighboring one. After a few grunts he returned, a turd wrapped
in toilet paper in one hand.

“You like to eat so much, lardo, how about a
shit taco?”

“Mmmm, just like Mom used to make.”

“Open wide.” When Mike clamped his mouth
shut, Harry grabbed his face and squeezed—hard. It didn’t take much
effort for him to pry it open wide enough.

Bobby made jet engine sounds as he swiveled
the turd taco towards Mike. The flabby boy looked as if he were
about to toss his cookies then and there. “Airplane coming in for a
landing, zoom zoom!”

Mike passed out a fraction of a second before
the dripping piece of paper-wrapped crap touched his lips.

The first thing Michael did when he woke was
plunge his face over the toilet and barf. The crap was stuck
everywhere, to his teeth, tongue and the roof of his mouth. They
painted his face with it and even managed to get some in his hair.
It was gross! It reminded him of the smell when he passed the
sewage treatment plant downtown. When his gut was empty and he’d
wiped the majority of the crap away with his fingers and toilet
paper, the humiliation hit, and it hit hard.

Tears stung his eyes and burned trails down
his face, and they still came from the corners of his eyes. At
first he cried softly, and then he began to full-out bawl. The fit
of crying brought on another round of gags, and he vomited a few
more times before he could control himself.

Why, he asked himself. What had he done to
deserve this? He’d suffered a lot prior to this, but to actually
eat someone else’s crap? To be defenseless against two bullies who
had the combined IQ of a dead rabbit? It was just more than he
could take. Heck, it was more than anyone should have to put up
with.

Hel lay down on the floor and pulled himself
into a tight ball. He was still crying and at that exact moment he
didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop. He felt alone, he was
scared, and knew, more than ever before, that the world was an
awful, despicable place that held no good, no worth, for him.

Michael Cole woke with a start. Trembling, he
jumped from the bed, ran across the bedroom, threw the door open to
the bath and fell to his knees in front of the toilet. He vomited
until there was nothing left to come up and then he dry heaved. The
smell of human excrement was strong in his nostrils; the taste of
putrid commode water filled his mouth.

After a while he was finished.

Michael stood, his body weak, and moved over
to the sink. He turned on the cold water and cupped his hands
underneath. Once filled, he brought his hands to his mouth and
sipped the water. After swishing the water, he spat it out and
repeated the whole process. When he finished swishing, he brushed
his teeth until his gums bled and then took a shower. Using the
hottest water tolerable, he tried to wash away the top layer of his
skin.

Satisfied that he was now clean, he dressed.
Pulling on a pair of brown slacks and a long sleeved Ralph Lauren
shirt the color of a turned maple leaf, he inspected himself in the
mirror. Michael James Cole did not look bad for a man of
thirty-nine. At five-eleven he carried the small amount of excess
weight he’d accumulated over the last decade very well. He still
jogged often and worked out at the gym downtown religiously. Though
he did drink, he did not smoke, and didn’t take any drugs. His face
held few lines or wrinkles. Dark jade eyes remained clear and
intelligent after a life of images, and his dishwater blonde hair
was cut expertly. His full beard was slightly darker than his hair
and just as carefully trimmed. Not a knock-out, but very
presentable.