I was referred here by Elenisil, one of the people I write with on Elliquiy.
1. I have indeed read the rules.
2. I am 19, going on 20.
3. Male.
4. I live on the Pacific Coast of the United States, so I'm at -8 GMT.
5. I'd like access to both boards, please.
6. “It wasn’t a great leap from one to the other,” he said, the bore of the gun pressed against my temple hard enough to bruise. “She always was a bit of a cunt either way.”
“You’re just lucky she liked English accents, Julian. If it wasn’t for that she would have been all over me and we both know it,” I said calmly, trying to figure out if I could wriggle a hand free and stab Julian in the balls without him shooting me in the head.
“Be that as it may, she still liked me better.”
“Is that why you have a gun pressed to my head, to make yourself feel better?”
“Piss off, cunt,” he told me congenially, earning me a light crack in the back of the head with the butt of the pistol.
“I’ll do that as soon as you take the duct tape off.”
“We both know that’s not going to happen.”
“Then why are you delaying? You’ve got your perfect fucking plan all laid out ahead of time. I’m at your mercy.”
“Because I want you to fully fucking grok why you’re here, why there’s a gun pressed against the side of your head and you’re duct taped to a chair.”
“You’re a cowardly bitch who slipped me GHB?” That was another crack to the back of the head. At the rate this was going if I survived the night I would do so with permanent brain damage. Julian always did like the dull thud of success, guess it comes with being a drummer in a punk fusion band.
“Shut up, you bloody skinhead.” He said with the venom of a thousand arguments.
“Iggy Pop wannabe fag,” I spat back. “You always wanted in my fucking pants, just weren’t man enough to put yourself out there.”
Julian laughed and squatted down in front of me, gun leveled at my crotch. I froze. “Tell me about when you realized that shit wasn’t going to go as planned in your life.”
Thinking back, maybe this wasn’t the best choice ever made. I spat in Julian’s face. So he shot me in the kneecap. So I screamed. It was like a game of dominoes, just connected the numbers to make the right, cohesive pattern. That’s when I blacked out.
“AAAARRRRR!” I screamed, Julian’s thin, girly fingers pressing into the gristle revealed by the bullet to my kneecap.
“Do I have your full attention now?” Julian politely asked, his face a mask of European politeness. I guess the fact that I puked answered his question to the full of the parameters required. “Good, now, tell me when you realized shit wasn’t going to go as planned in your life.”
“When I found out about Ebola,” I told him, panting for breath and trying to spit out the bile flavor.
“Don’t spit—it’s rude. Ebola?” He asked, perplexed.
“Right, yeah, Ebola. I was raised Roman Catholic, know the difference between right and wrong, confessional name, the whole deal. Here’s the thing, my Padre was always saying that God was good, and right, and that he allowed evil things to test us. I mean, what’s the point of having a distinction between good and bad if there isn’t a distinction between the pure and the sinner? I can dig that, so I dug it.
“The problem was, in tenth grade remedial biology I saw pictures of Ebola patients. I mean, I’d heard of it, but I really didn’t fucking—what’s that word you use?—grok it until that moment, seeing that African chick fucking disintegrate, her skin turning into a hard husk and her inside just liquefying. I mean, think about it. You live in a shitty little village in Africa often as not working to death, seeing most of your siblings die in one shitty little civil war or another that doesn’t really solve anything, having to pay fealty to some warlord or another. Fifty-fifty chance you’re got AIDS ‘cause someone raped you when you were two or three to try and cure themselves.
“That by itself is fucked. But excusable, because they’re either heathens, or they’re good Christians who are being tested by the Lord. A lot of problems are a lot more abstract when you don’t have a picture presented to you, when you can’t see their faces in your fucking dreams. No, no one ever sees picture of a man with Kaposi's sarcoma raping a little crying girl so that he doesn’t get sick anymore, but dies a week later because of tuberculosis having doomed this little innocent girl to pain and suffering.
“So that’s when I realized things might not always go my way.” I breathed out hard, cold sweat traveling down my neck at the pulsing pain where my kneecap was. “Anything else you want to know, lover?” I asked sarcastically.
That earned me another squeeze in the bloody mess of my knee. I need to really learn to shut the hell up sometime. “Now, now, children—we mustn’t break our fucking toys especially if we’re Iggy Pop wannabe fags!” I yelled through clenched teeth, trying not to bite of my tongue from the pain. It was shaping up to be a great day.
“Cunt,” Julian said, hitting me up the side of the head with the pistol butt. “How can you dare to come off like you give a shit about anyone but yourself, you homophobic fucking cunt?” Another blow, this time to the jaw. “You always thought you were so fucking wise, but you were just another armchair philosophizing skinhead prick. I hope you rot in the fucking hell.”
I could feel loose tooth. “Hey, Julian, at least we’ll be rotting in hell together. Oh, wait, fags go to a different level of hell.” Stars shattered my sight, Julian hit me so hard the aluminum chair toppled backwards onto my arms, cracking the back of my head against the ground.
“I’ll never go to your hell. Never.” Then he spat on me, the hypocrite.
“Hey, didn’t you have some intricate plan about killing me?” I asked, wiping the blood on my face against my shoulder. Shirtless, the blood just dribbled down my skin, smearing my chest with blood, the blood making my chest hair sticky and clotted. “Or did you tie me up in my boxers and beat me because that’s the fetish du jour?”
“Do you get it, though? Do you really grok the situation?” Julian asked, peering closer to my ruined face.
“We each get a bottle of champagne, you dose mine with GHB, then you tie me to a shirt to beat, harass and threaten me?” I said sarcastically. “Or are you looking for another answer?”
“Yes, I am. Do you know why I dosed you, you ignoble cunt?” Julian’s pale, blonde beauty queen features faded in and out as my eyes fought to readjust. His blow really fucked something up.
“Because you’re jealous I get more groupies?” Another blow. “Wait, okay, any groupies?” Another. “Because I won’t let you suck my cock?” And another. “Fine, fucking whatever, I don’t know. Because Lori’s dead, Lori’s dead and there’s nothing anyone can do but you want to take it out on someone to bring her back.” This time, even though I cringed when he brought the pistol up above his head, there wasn’t a blow.
“I hid her note.”
Shock. “You what?”
“It wouldn’t have looked good for her parents.” Julian said.
“You fucking lying Iggy Pop, David Bowie wannabe glitter faggot!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, spitting in the lying bastard’s eyes. Lori didn’t leave a note, Lori didn’t have to explain, the toxicology report said she was all fucked up on antidepressants—the kind that have one of those pesky little suicide side affects. “You fucking can’t respect the fact that Lori died for no fucking reason and you’re taking it out on me!”
And there I said it. That was the heart of the matter, or so I thought.
Julian always did like to be right, which was probably why he was smiling like a spider does when it convinces the fly to come into its parlor. He held the note above my head, and in Lori’s crabbed handwriting, between the tear stains, and a few bloodstains as well, I could see.
Fuck.
I gave her cancer.
“Now you grok?” Julian asked, leaning in close enough to kiss. I fidgeted a little, as I had each time he hit me before. “You grok why I’m going to end your petty little cunt hair of a life?”
“Yeah, you’re jealous I fucked Lori and you never did.” Julian had this uncomprehending look, which is why I was able to use my free hand to wrench the hand holding the gun, head butting him at the same time. The gun fell to my chest and Julian screamed curses, clutching his broken and bloody nose.
That’s when the police came in, when they entered on my most perfect moment, beaten and bloody, gun laying on my chest, Julian clutching a hand to his ruined pretty boy nose. It almost made me want to go back to Church so that I could thank God and shoot the Padre in the head.
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