Hidden lives of ushers (chapter 3)

         Chapter 3:

"hay there Jailbait" he jumped out of the bushes and knocked me to the concrete.  Adam Merrech and his little lackeys had been giving me shit since the second grade.  I guess that when I came back to start grade 9, I thought they would have a smaller kid to pick on.  But apparently, no matter who was smaller, weaker, more afraid, I was the one bullies singled out.  Same thing at St Andrew's.  Somebody sees a tiny guy who's scarred shitless from all the rumors he's heard, and suddenly they act like the only thing that makes them get out of bed in the morning is the promise of kicking the crap out of you. 

I didn't try to get up, or say anything to him.  They were like wild dogs, if you played dead for long enough, they lost interest in you.  I closed my eyes and waited for him to hit me.  He laughed.
"same wimpy little fag that you were in grade 7" he studied me like I was a piece of road kill on the sidewalk
"god, you've got more makeup then my girlfriend" he elbowed his buddy, who apparently was trained to laugh on cue.  Eric Rollen, the scum of the earth, future fry cook, was standing over me mocking me.  He and Adam made a pretty good team, one big and stupid, the other just plain evil, like two villains out of a superman comic.  Nobody liked them, but they disliked them the same way peasants dislike a dictator.  Because they knew that if they ended up on his list, life was hell.  He kicked me in the ribs, but not hard enough to do more than make me curl up in a ball.  He shook his head.
"what's wrong" he cooed "ain't gonna fight back?" he kicked me again in the back, but full force.  My whole body jerked backward, and I uncoiled like a pill bug.  Eric gave me a few more good kicks as Adam went over to get my backpack, which I dropped when he jumped out at me.  He unzipped the main part and spilled the contents out on the concrete, sending loose papers cascading down the street. 
"sissy" he snorted, going to unzip the second pocket.  And before I could stop myself, I opened my mouth and shouted
"Stop!"
He turned his head, looking almost shocked, then grinned.
"something in here that you don't want to share with the class?" he dangled it in front of my face.  I took my hands out from under me and tried to snatch it away.  Before I knew what was happening, he had his sneaker on my hand, and was grinding it into the sidewalk.  Apparently he was getting some type of immense joy from causing me pain.  I'd been surrounded by sadists like him for the past 18 months, and knew there was no winning.  If you broke down and begged them to stop, they'd just laugh and call you names.  If you tried to be tough and ignore the pain, they made it their goal to not only disable you to ignore, but make sure you couldn't forget.  And so I chose the lesser of two evils.
"Please stop!" I begged "Please, I'm sorry"
He rolled his eyes and took his foot off my hand.  I thought I was safe until I saw his sneaker coming at my face at around the same speed as a bb gun bullet.  It hit me right between the nose and the mouth, busting open my lip.  I gagged at the taste of the blood, sending the two of them into a laughing fit.  Adam kicked my backpack across the street, sending anything still inside spilling across the road.  An old lady was a few houses down, watering her lawn.  And I was sure she knew what was going on, but she just kept watering the damn grass.  I thought if I lay there for a few more minutes, they'd loose interest.  But apparently they weren't about to let me off that easy.  Eric grabbed the back of my shirt and yanked me to my feet,  I looked at the splatter of blood on the sidewalk, surrounding a piece of a tooth.  And I couldn't help but flash back to St. Anthony's, the scene was so familiar.  Two guys would hunt you down, beat you up, and then make you wish you were dead.  But I tolled myself that not even these guys would sink that low. 

I looked up, staring Adam straight in the eye.  He punched me in the gut a few times, until not even Eric could stop me from crumbling to the cement.  They swore at me, called me a few bad names, but they eventually just walked away, leaving me on the pavement.  When I felt like I could, I stood up and checked myself over.  All my bones seamed intact, and aside from my busted lip, my shirt could cover all the damage that they'd done.  I lifted it up; three dark purple bruises had formed on my chest. 

I gathered up all the papers that I could find, then shuffled across the street to get my backpack.  I opened it up and stuffed everything back in, trying to calm down.  They were gonna pay.  I opened up the second zipper, the beaver was still inside, creepy as ever, looking at me with it's big glass eyes, like it couldn't believe that I just sat there and took it.
"You think you could have fought back?" I mumbled to it
"No, I'm taxidermy road kill, but you could have at least hit them.  You never hit anybody, you just let them do whatever they want to you" it silently responded
"I'm still alive, right?  So I guess it's not working that bad"
"But you wish you were dead" it's non-existant voice was cold and calm
"You didn't see what happened, ok?  Those guys just came out of nowhere"
"I'm not talking about those punks" it laughed, "I'm talking about Chris and Dean"
"Shut up!" I screamed.  The old lady put down her hose and stared at me like I was insane.  And I guess I was, I was standing in the middle of the street yelling into my backpack at a dead beaver. 
"I'm gonna make you wish you never brought that up" I whispered at it, zipping up the backpack. 

I finally stumbled all the way home, wiping the blood off my lip.  If my mom saw it, she'd flip.  I snuck past the kitchen where she was sitting, filling out some paperwork.  If she didn't see me coming up the stairs, she wouldn't notice that I was late.  My ribs and back were killing me, and I could actually feel the blood gathering under my skin, spreading the almost black bruise.  I stared at it, feeling the fear again.  I promised myself that once I was out, I wouldn't think about it, I wouldn't feel it anymore, but I couldn't fight it off. 

It was like a movie flashback, like staring at the bruise on my chest was staring into a magic mirror.  And suddenly it all fell over me, like a dark curtain, and I heard the voices.
Hands on the wall bitch
I could practically feel the freezing water numbing my scalp.  And like the images, like the fear, I knew that I couldn't make the water stop.

C'mon princess, you're only making it worse for yourself
And suddenly I got an all too familiar feeling, a sort of shame that made me want to throw up and die.  In the black and white memory, the only color came from the blood that ran down my legs and fell like little red tear drops on the linoleum floor of the shower

Get ready for it pretty boy
And suddenly my head shot up and I snapped out of the memory.  The beaver was watching me from my backpack, laughing at me.  I practically tore off the zipper, grabbing it by the throat and shaking it.  But I couldn't hurt it.  And it knew that I couldn't.

"Fag" it laughed "I bet you liked what those guys did to you"
"No" I shook my head "shut up"
"What would your momma say if she saw your tattoo?"
"She didn't" tears slithered down my face, making my mascara run "and if she did, she wouldn't know what it means"
"But you do" it grinned
"Do you want to mess with me, you little furry bitch?" I hissed, but it only shrugged.  I grabbed a red marker from my backpack and tore off the back, pulling out that little inky sponge.  I squeezed it, letting the red ink drip down the beaver's leg.  It screamed and cried, begging me to please, please stop, but I only laughed until the ink was drained.  I took the whimpering creature and shook it again hard, wetting my finger with spit and wiping it on the beaver's eye to make him sob.
"Now you're a fag too" I hissed, and then shoved it in my backpack.

I looked at myself in the mirror.  Maybe I was a fag.  I didn't do anything to stop what happened.  After the first few times, I just let it happen.  Maybe that's why they singled me out, not because I was small but because they knew something that I didn't.  Maybe that's why I kept my hair long, and put on makeup.  Before it'd seamed like a natural thing, I had worn eyeliner and mascara since grade six, and a lot of girls liked it.  But it wasn't something that most guys did.  Maybe I wasn't like most guys.

I shook off the thought.  What would Aaron think.  My hero.  I knew that I wasn't.  At least I think I knew.  I guess it's normal for people who have crap like that happen to them to think it was their fault.  That's what all the talk show hosts tolled the cheerleaders who came on their show bitching about date rape.  I tolled myself that as I lay down on my bed, trying to clear my head.  It wasn't my fault.  It wasn't my fault.

But they were all girls.  That kind of stuff didn't happen to boys.  I lifted my shirt again to look at the tattoo.  I didn't know what it meant when they were giving it to me, all I knew was that it was 4 in the morning and two guys were sticking a needle in my side over and over again.  At first it looked like an upside down five-pointed star, but one of the lines was missing.  I dug my nails into the tainted skin, dragging it along the lines of the tattoo to turn them white, to erase them even if only for a second.  I dug my nail in deeper, dragged it along harder, until I felt the skin break.  Until I felt the warm blood turn my fingers sticky.  I rubbed it across the skin, masking the blue lines.  You were supposed to bleed from your side, your leg, your face.  Skin was supposed to bleed.  It was the only thing that was supposed to bleed. 

The air stung the cut as I squeezed along the sides of it, trying to make enough blood to cover the whole star.  But the screen of red only masked it, and I knew that underneath the micrometer of red was the truth.  I wiped it all away and put my shirt down. 

Detention had been brutal.  They all knew, I could feel it.  Everybody in that room, in that school knew what I did to wind up in St. Anthony's, and what Caleb's brother did to get life in prison.  They never found out what bullet killed whom, so as far as my lawyer was concerned, I missed every shot, and Aaron was the one who killed the men.  But everybody in the room knew who hit the target.

The only good thing about detention was Rachelle, when we whispered about our little plan for revenge; to take that god damned creepy beaver off the old bat's desk.  I think she sort of liked me, and I liked her too.  She wasn't pretty like a model, but there was something cool about her.  You could tell she'd make a good mom just by looking at her.  She wasn't into brand names, didn't do anything crazy with her hair, dressed like she was trying to avoid attention, in mom-like clothes.  Jeans, sweaters, t-shirts, all in colors and styles that most girls in our school didn't wear, styles that you saw at PTA meetings. 

I was about to take the beaver out and torture it some more when the phone wrung. 
"Is Isaac there?"
"Speaking"
"It's Rachelle" I could hear her smiling on the other end of the phone.
"Hay" I tried to sound cool, but with my voice, it was pretty impossible.  My voice never really broke, so it came out sounding like a mix between a duck and a bike horn, not good for talking over the phone to girls. 
"Did you get it home?"
"Yah" I looked over at my backpack "you know, I've got a better idea then just tossing it off a bridge"
"What's that?"
"let's wreck it up, and then return it" I had to do something so that I wouldn't look like a toy-torturing psycho  the next time I showed it to her
"yah" she was a little over-enthusiastic, but she seemed like the kind of girl who'd never even lost recess before.  And maybe I'd have been feeling the thrill of it too if I feared in school suspension.  But I didn't.
"hay, meet me up at the lake by millstone bridge, I'll give it to you there, that way I wont need to take it to school" the real thrill was talking to a girl for two whole minutes without making an ass out of myself, which was a new personal record.
"Cool" she gave a little nervous giggle "see you there" and then hung up.

I put the phone back on the receiver, a little wave of accomplishment running over me.  I could still taste blood coming out of my lip, and there was a good bruise on my nose from being kicked.  I crept into the bathroom and rummaged through the cabnet for the foundation, knowing that if I wanted to go downstairs, I had to make sure mom didn't see the bruises.  She'd call the school up, and then I'd be twice as screwed.  If I'd learned anything during my eighteen-month stay at St. Anthony's, it was that telling only made things worse.  It was a mistake that I only made once.

I unscrewed the peach colored bottle and poured some of the skin colored liquid onto a cotton ball, dabbing it over the bruises.  I lifted my shirt and covered the ones on my chest, and then moved down to the tattoo, always back at that damned tattoo, and blotted it out with the makeup. 

I took a wet towel and wiped the black, inked tear lines from under my eyes.  That was the bad part about mascara. If you cried, it showed.  I scrubbed until the tear mark was almost completely gone, and took the rest off with baby oil before heading downstairs.

"hay mom" I crept up behind her
"hay baby" she turned around "did you just get home?"
"no, been home for almost two hours now" it hurt to stand, those guys worked me over pretty good, and I guess the pain showed in my voice.
"Are you ok baby?" she cooed, suddenly worried, her mom senses kicking in
"yah" I nodded and flashed a smile
"no" she shook her head "no you're not.  What happened?"
"nothing mom" I tried to assure her, but she wouldn't hear it
"Are those boys giving you trouble?" she looked me in the eye "that Adam kid, is he still picking on you?"
"Nah" I shook my head "just some kids at school been talking"
"about what?" and I knew she was about to go psycho mom on me "Because what happened that night wasn't you're fault baby, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you gotta let people know that"

I wished that I could believe that, and I guess part of it was true.  I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.  But when I saw those drug dealers going at Aaron, I couldn't help it.  I picked the gun up off the seat of the car and fired ten shots out a window, watching two distinctly rip through the neck and stomach of one of the men.  So I was guilty of murder.  I deserved to be like Aaron, locked up for the rest of my life.  My bullets killed.  But my lawyer had a better story.  And to nod and agree that I was innocent felt like a lie.  But I'd been lying about plenty to her.  No ma, nobody hurt me. 
"I know" I nodded "I... I'm sure things will get better"

She smiled "that's my strong little boy" but her smile faded "why do your clothes smell like smoke"
"I'm trying to stop" I assured
"That Aaron boy took away a whole year of your life, and his filthy habit ain't gonna take another minute, you know smoking kills"
"I'm trying ma" I rolled my eyes "You smoke"
"I smoke because I can't stop" she raised her voice "you can"
"I've been doing it for two years, you think I can just stop"
"Isaac" She stood up, a crazy look in her eyes "If I ever catch you smoking, I swear I'll send you right back to St. Anthony's."

And as she said that, I could tell by the look on her face that she took it back.  I felt my eyes fill up with tears.
"oh baby, I didn't mean to..." she wrapped her arms around me "I'd never want you to leave me, I'd never send you away, you know that"
I tried to stop the tears, but they fell like tap water from a leaking sink.

I wondered if she knew.  I think she knew that something bad happened, but she never asked what, and even if she did, I never would have tolled her.  That's just the kind of stuff that you don't tell a mom.  My hands were shaking.  They always did that when I was realy upset, they'd done it since I was a toddler. 

I was almost a little bit mad that she didn't know.  I mean, it's safe to assume that a kid can grow out of sleep walking, but when somebody leaves just like any other kid and comes back unable to ride a bike, you have to know that something was wrong.  Part of me wanted to break down and tell her, and scream at her for never visiting me.  Maybe if she'd visited I could have tolled her.  Maybe at the start of it I could have begged her to do something to get me out. 

"I'm trying to stop mom" my hands finally stopped "I am"
"You try harder" her voice was angry, but not as mad as before
"I will" the tears stopped
"Good boy" she nodded

I hated those words.  They always said that right before they made you bleed.  I wanted to think that it would all go away when I was free, but I guess I was damaged goods.  And maybe deep down, I wanted to be damaged.  Maybe I didn't want to get better.  There was something almost cool about being broken, a sort of attention that followed you wherever you went, that was almost nice.  People noticed me; they picked me out in a class.  Maybe not for the right reasons, but I'd gone from a quiet, pissed off little nobody to somebody that people talked about.  Somebody that people spent even a small part of their time thinking about.
I guess I was no better than the whores on the cheerleading team who dressed like skanks simply for the attention of the principal, who'd stop them in the hall and demand that they changed their clothes.  It was like a badge, something to identify yourself with.  We all carried it.  Rachelle was stamped with foster child, somebody who nobody got close to, because there was no telling when she'd be gone.  Mackenzie was semi-famous for being the best friend of a kid who got murdered.  Danny was famous for his psycho, crack whore mom.  Caleb was known as the little brother of the guy who shot those other guys down in the street.  And I was the kid who watched him do it and spent 18 months in prison for it.  It was just a title, but nobody can ever see past titles.

My title offered a little more freedom though.  It could go either way, depending on how I acted.  I could either be "Isaac, the scary kid fresh out of St. Anthony's" or "Isaac, the kid who spent the last 18 months as somebody's bitch".  So far, I was pretty sure that it was going to come out that I was the second, not the first.

"you're just not you anymore" My mom's voice brought me back
"what do you mean" I looked away.  She hugged me tighter.
"I mean ever since you came home, you walk around here like the undead.  You won't eat, you won't talk, you won't sleep" she stressed the last part.  And maybe I hadn't been sleeping like I did before I went away.  I was just afraid that when I opened my eyes, there would be somebody in the bed next to me. 
"I'm just trying to get back to normal" my voice was barely a squeak "things have been... weird"
"you know you can always talk to me, right?"
"I know mom" she let go of me
"and there's nothing you want to talk about?"
I shook my head
"if there ever is, I'll always be ready to hear it.  It's not good to keep stuff bottled up inside"

I almost wanted to tell her.  I almost wanted her to know.  But I didn't want her to think about it.  I didn't want her to be upset.  Plus, there was nothing that she could do.
"love you" I smiled before shuffling back upstairs.