Tuesday, August 14, 2012

...the unedited truth... (1)


Winter isn’t coming this year. And oh, I should have locked that door. Things you never consider. Too late. There’s a lesson here, there has to be, of course, there is. Cautionary tale to pass on to the young ones, make them terrified of the outside so they always stay snuggled up to mommy. My mother, she’d tell me about boys face down in swimming pools, little girls gone missing with a stranger and found in halves, a cousin I’d never heard of had died in a dishwasher, her best friends son choked on peanut butter, eaten with a spoon right out of the jar. I learned at a very young age that no matter how safe you think you are, there's always an easy way to die.

Sky’s blue end to end, only interruption is right above us, that perfect circle a million miles away. Still so close, enough to fry us. My brother, just a boy, I call him Rolly because his real name is so ugly. He calls me Lolly for no reason. The road we’re walking down, there’s only colours and barely a sound. The dusty brown below out feet, the green all around us, the black or brown and white of cows with no clue, the grey of the road cutting down the middle. This time of day, sun’s as hot as it’s going to get and when I see that car, oh I better be ready. I could use this walk, this journey back home to teach Rolly all I know. Not for him, wouldn’t make sense to him. How do you tell a kid the truth? The unedited truth. It’d frighten him but it’d put me at ease. The sounds, no wind, no traffic, the random bird squawking, the klopp klopp klopp scratch of Rolly’s loose shoes scraping over the road behind me, the squish squish squee squish squee of blood-soaked shoes.

Rolly’s wearing the same exact overalls I wore at his age, six years old, that perfect kid age. Now I’m wearing clothes my father wore at my age and it haunts me to the core but I shut all that away and close my eyes and listen to Rolly’s song, Ro-lleee loves Loll-lleeee loves Roll-eee loves Lo-lleeeee, absently falling out of his mouth through breaths, his focus is on maintaining the ice cream cone in his hand. A race against the heat, a losing battle but he wouldn’t understand that. Little eyes of wonder set and focused on the edge, where his choco-swirl ice cream meets the waffle cone, his fingers wrapped around, sticky and sweet with melt, a trail of brown crawling down his arm to his elbow. Still at least ten miles away from home, out in the open, on the road to be seen by anyone looking. Oh, I should have locked that door.

Earlier, in the bathroom. Her name, Remi, her position: ass in the sink, hair wiping the mirror, legs over my shoulders. My position: hands clutching breasts, standing, swinging hips, feeling her. It was our ritual, every Sunday at the Cone Zone where she worked. Cone Zone, where ice cream is a lie, a front for darker sorts of business. Remi’s position: moaning and humping ice cream girl, girlfriend of the boss and I mean The Boss. Every Sunday, she watches the store, he conducts his dirty deeds elsewhere. Every Sunday, we have 5 two-minute quickies throughout one hour, I’ll sit and wait and lick all the flavors until she gives me the signal. This has been going on months, since my motorbike broke down a mile away and I walked here, since she saw me stained with sweat, since she pulled me by my hand and didn’t tell me who her Man was and she made a mess of me in the bathroom. 

I left poor Rolly sitting at the counter with his cone, told him to stay there, stay there, don’t move, stay there. Like it means anything to a child. First minute into the first round with Remi, front door chimes. Rolly’s unsure, no trust, he goes to the unlocked door to find me, and oh, he finds me. Ass naked, I see him in the mirror, just staring. Past him, I see my life end. Unexpected. Hugo Huge, ice cream man, criminal, psycho-killer, The Boss. All he can see are her legs and feet, I’m blocking the rest, having the staring contest of my life with this man. I’ve seen, Hugo’s seen, most of the men that pass through have seen the tattoo on the back of her calf and with ink like that you don’t need a face to be recognized. Rolly asked me, why is the ice cream lady in the sink? Remi, oh Remi, she screams Hugo help me, this bastard forc…and I pulled out, the sensation catching her breath and ending that sentence. Hugo took one damn step forward and I bolted, grabbing the shoulder of Rolly’s overalls one hand and turning the other into a fist, one mighty swing that’d either buy me some time or result in immediate death. Landed directly on his nose, the blood still crusted on my knuckles, broke it right into his skull. Remi was screaming for real and I just ran, holding my little brother tight as I could, wet dick still hanging out my fly.  

(End of Part 1)

This is original writing and copyright and all that fine print kind of stuff. Please credit this to Chessterr Hollowberry. Thanks!

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