The Bad Seed Page 18

  Love,

  Mother

  Brandon crumpled up the decorative paper and threw it angrily against the wall. Even though he expected as much, the simple words stabbed at him without mercy. He fought hard to keep his tears at bay because tears were a sign of weakness, according to his father. He thought about his brother and his parents and his loneliness and wanted to lash out. He threw the empty glass against the wall and watched it explode into a dazzling display. The empty words from her note rang in his head like the cackle of Macbeth’s witches. The words he read were not the words she wanted to write. The message that he read between the lines of her pretty note packed a much stronger punch:

  Brandon,

  We still can’t bear to look at you, especially so close to your brother’s birthday. To avoid any awkward moments, we have decided to put a thousand miles between you and us. It is so very hard sharing a house with you, knowing that you are responsible for Patrick’s death. We wish we could love you the way we used to, but we simply don’t feel the same way anymore. And, the way you are makes us sick, so we ignore it. We’ll see you when we see you.

  With love,

  Mother

  P.S.: Your father has made arrangements for you to attend college in Europe when you graduate, though I think putting an ocean between us still may not be enough.

  Brandon had a hard time understanding why his parents didn’t understand that he, too, was in pain. Why couldn’t they see that he grieved? Did it ever occur to them that he needed to talk about what happened? Did they even know that he would gladly take Patrick’s death into himself if it meant that his brother could live? Why did they refuse to even talk about Patrick? Why did they treat him like the enemy instead of the drunk driver that rammed into their car at seventy-miles an hour?

  As thoughts and memories and pain and loneliness and heartache and images of Patrick overwhelmed him, he felt his knees buckle and he collapsed slowly onto the floor. The emptiness of the vast house offered no mercy; it was a living entity that fed off his misery and reveled in his anguish. He pulled his knees into his chest, resting his back against the wall. He was alone and left to deal with haunting memories. Alone in the house, he was free to cry without paternal retribution, but even in the midst of solitude, he felt ashamed to let his tears flow. He looked around fearfully, as if his father would suddenly emerge from the shadows like a wraith and condemn his emotional outburst. He cried. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop the tears from falling; he couldn’t will the tears away or beg them to return to his eyes. They flowed freely almost without pause.

  CHAPTER 4

  After some time spent sobbing in the kitchen, Brandon pulled himself together. He rose slowly from the floor and moved into the den, leaving his grief and his pain in a puddle on the kitchen floor. He felt suddenly renewed after his emotional purge. By now, it was close to seven in the evening, according to the clock on the wall, and Brandon had yet to confirm his plans for the night. He had a couple of options but decided to go with one of his regulars; he longed for the danger. As he passed his book bag and cell phone, which he had left on a table in the foyer, he stopped, pulled his phone from the bag, and finally replied to a text message that he had received earlier in the day. His laconic reply contained three simple words: I’LL BE THERE.

  He moved over to the bar and took the top off a bottle of expensive brandy. He grabbed the bottle and poured more than a healthy shot down his throat. The burn of the dark liquid set him on fire, igniting in his throat and chest a fiery passion that could only be quenched by ritual. He took another swig, hoping to feel the full effects of the power of this magic potion sooner rather than later. He had cried enough for the night; now, it was playtime.

  He picked up his bag, slid open one of the inside pockets, and pulled out the most perfectly rolled joint he had ever seen. He had rolled it in the bathroom at school earlier in the day and took pride in his handiwork. He wanted to blaze right there in the middle of the room, but feared the lingering scent of the weed. His mother had the sense of smell of an overwrought bloodhound. If she smelled any usual odors, she’d question him relentlessly until he confessed so he could get her to shut her mouth. Even though she was out of town, he didn’t want to take the chance. If the scent lingered in the tiniest amount and she caught wind of his special cigarette, their uneasy peace would be breached.

  Instead of smoking in the house, he walked out onto the patio and took a seat by the pool. The sun dipped right below the horizon, offering fleeting slivers of burnt orange light that jetted up like spikes in a colossal crown. He plopped down on one of the patio chairs and as he lit the marijuana cigarette he inhaled deeply, pulling the thick smoke into his lungs. Slowly, he exhaled. He closed his eyes and let euphoria wash over him.

  Almost immediately, he felt the effect—this was high-quality marijuana. The Jamaican dude he had fucked on Tuesday always had the best weed. He repeated this action several times and finally opened his eyes. When the world came into view, he became intrigued by the picturesque scene. Something mysterious, almost magical, seemed to dance on rays of sun. For a few moments, he felt completely at peace as he watched glitter-like sparkles ping-pong their way on rays of hope. He wondered what lay beyond the horizon, right out of his reach. Were the dancing diamonds he viewed the manifestation of happiness or were they dancing fairies playing fairy games? He nervously extended his arm in the direction of the setting sun, hoping he could capture one of those fairies and place it in a jar for his exclusive use; yet, he remained fearful that whatever shone in the light would always be just out of his reach. His reach became more desperate and he grabbed futilely in the air, trying to snatch a piece of joy out of the sky before night fell. Helplessly, he watched the shine from the glittery dots fade and, right before his eyes, they lost their luster and faded into nothingness.

  He inhaled again and again and again as the light vanished and gave way to a growing darkness.

  Brandon arrived in the designated neighborhood at the designated time and found the correct house. This was the usual meeting place for one of his usual tricks. The white two-story edifice sat on the corner and looked like the typical American house with the two-car garage and the white picket fence, but when he got inside it would be nothing like Mayberry. Tonight, he needed to walk on the wild side.

  He slowly approached the house, fully aware of the routine.

  He slowly opened the door and crept inside the dimly lit structure. There were no sounds or signs of life, but they were watching. They were always watching.

  On the coffee table, he saw the white envelope that contained the $1,000 he’d get for his services. He picked it up, thumbed through the stiff bills, and stuffed them into the pocket of the jeans he wore.

  In the envelope there also was a note on white paper written in blood red ink that instructed him on the next steps he should follow. The note commanded him to put on the costume he’d find in the black bag that was draped over the couch and proceed to the basement.

  Brandon opened the bag and found a strap-on pair of white angel wings, a white mask that fit across his eyes, and a white jock strap.

  “Interesting,” he said to himself. Before he began removing his clothing, he noticed the customary tray of drugs provided by his client. Of all his clients, Brandon enjoyed this one the most. He took a seat on the couch and leaned his face close to the silver tray on the coffee table. He took a bump of cocaine and waited for the quick high to hit him.

  Brandon had participated in several of this client’s secret sex games over the last few months, but he had never seen his face. Usually, the client sat back in a dark corner and watched. He loved watching. He sometimes masturbated while Brandon performed whatever act he was instructed to by similar pieces of white paper with red lettering. Sometimes, he only wanted Brandon to strip. Other times, he wanted Brandon to masturbate or pleasure himself with some newfound sex toy. Brandon was eager to please. Sometimes, his benefactor would hire another man so
that he could watch the two fuck. Brandon never knew what to expect, but he was always up for the challenge.

  After he was dressed in costume—wings strapped to his broad back, mask on his face, and a thin cloth covering his unmentionables—he took a look at himself in the full-length mirror propped unnaturally between a small table and the wall. Indeed, he had the face of an angel and the body of a god. He turned from side to side to get a view of himself at every angle.

  And Brandon saw that it was good.

  Once he finished admiring his form, he made his way over to the door leading to the basement. He paused, just long enough to get himself together. He didn’t know what he was about to walk into but based on the costume alone, it was sure to be an interesting night. This client was known for his bizarre fantasies.

  He placed his hand on the knob and pushed the door open. Immediately, he was greeted by the thick smell of marijuana and funk. With extreme caution and care, he took his first step and the old wooden staircase leading to the bowels of hell creaked with agony beneath his heavy feet. He took a few more steps. His pulse quickened, as did his breathing, as he slowly descended into a maddening darkness. Moans and sighs rose from the depths and beckoned to him like the nefarious sirens that he had learned about in class whose sweet music enticed mariners to their ultimate demise.

  He reached the bottom of the staircase in almost complete darkness and gave praise that the staircase didn’t collapse and send him hurling to the bottom. He stood motionless for a moment, in order to acclimate himself to this brave new environment. A thick, dry heat immediately wrapped itself around him and he could feel beads of sweat already forming on his forehead. He looked to his left and saw a crimson glow sneaking out from the edges of another room—the room from which he heard deepening moans. Like Carol Anne, he too, went toward the light.

  He opened the door and stepped boldly into the room, even as the warning in his heart told him to otherwise. He was excited and thrilled and scared and prayerful that this experience would give him the pleasure he sought. His purpose tonight was beyond rabid carnal desire; he sought to blunt out the force of artificial memories and to create his own existence. Drugs, alcohol, and extreme sex would anesthetize his imagined pain and joy would come in the morning.

  His eyes took a moment to adjust to the pulsing red glow from the lights that hung from the ceiling. As he focused, writhing and slithering naked bodies came into full view. Men of all sizes and shapes were scattered throughout the room and were engaged in various sexual acts. Legs parted like church gates and heels pointed heavenward like steeples; mouths called out for forgiveness and the slapping sound of flesh upon flesh rang in Brandon’s ears.

  He continued to survey the room, which was sparsely furnished, except for a tattered loveseat in the corner and a leather swing that was in use by a wild pair who did not pause or slow their rough grind. They simply looked up at Brandon as he moved slowly about the carnivorous space. Various devices and sexual gadgets were strewn about, as if there had been little time to return the articles to their proper place. Brandon looked to his right and noticed an oversized wheel with velvet straps laying dormant in one of the more ominous corners of the cave. It waited, it beckoned; it waited to be used.

  Brandon stepped deeper into the room and almost as if on cue, all of the men—regardless of how close they were to release—stopped their sex games and surrounded him. Like Pavlov’s dogs, they salivated at the sight of fresh meat. They, completely naked and some fully erect, circled him, trying to size up their prey; they sniffed him and eyed him up and down as if he was meat on a bone. They licked their lips and barked at him in deep, husky voices that fanned out in all directions in the pit. They, too, were masked but wore wings of a darker hue; pointed horns jetted out from the sides of their heads. A ghoulish grin formed on Brandon’s face as these devils reached out to him and corrupted his pretty young flesh. Countless hands rubbed his body and poked and prodded him. Their hands were moist and their bodies sweaty and they rubbed his body with a peculiar kind of flesh worship. His breathing quickened as he felt a wet mouth latch onto each of his hardened nipples. They sucked and pulled and bit and licked on him and their efforts gave rise to Brandon’s massive erection.

  Soon, he felt a mouth toying with the head of his dick as another one licked at his low-hanging balls. He felt aggressive tongues and sharp teeth and wet lips on each side of his neck and another forked tongue darted between his cheeks. Brandon had never known such ecstasy. He eagerly embraced the righteous pleasure, mixed with a divine pain, which forced him to scream out. Weakened by the intense sensations that spread across every inch of his body, he struggled to stand. Never before had he buckled under the weight of pleasure, but he felt weak and wobbly and his groupies, sensing his plight, supported his weight as they continued their nonstop sexual assault. They ravaged his body and devoured everything he had to offer; they tore at his flesh with tongues, teeth, fingers, lips and dicks while Brandon cried out… with pleasure.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a menacing presence approaching him, dressed in what appeared to be a shiny black robe. Based on the way he walked and his sizeable build, Brandon surmised that it was his benefactor. Brandon closed his eyes and bit down hard on his lip as the pleasure he felt built up inside of him and threatened to burst. The masked benefactor stepped with authority to Brandon and put a drink to the youngster’s lips. The strong taste of an even stronger alcoholic beverage filled Brandon’s mouth. He tried to drink the potion like a shot, but he couldn’t take it all into his mouth and much of the brown liquid spilled down his chin and raced down his now sweaty body. The devils, eager with their tongues, frantically licked up the spilling liquid that poured from Brandon’s mouth and raced down his chin, neck, and torso. Their desire to taste him prevented even the slightest drop from going to waste. Greedily, they licked his body and coated him with their sticky saliva. Their tongues fought each other for every drop!

  Brandon watched the benefactor move back to his corner. He pushed open his robe and started to gratify himself at the perverse sight of this young angel being consumed by his hell hounds.

  As the devils worshipped their fallen angel, a bell—as clear as day—rang out in the cramped space and the fiends parted from Brandon and fell back into their respective corners; they waited. They waited for the main attraction. From behind a curtain in the far corner of the room, a behemoth emerged wearing nothing but a pair of thick utility boots on his heavy feet. He was the only one without a mask and his striking facial features looked to be carved from granite. His lips were curled in the corners in a permanent scowl to match the permanent scar that ran the length of the right side of his face. His dark eyes offered no emotion. They were simply black pools and the giant cast a dark shadow across the room. The Herculean figure suddenly stood before Brandon, erect and motionless. In two steps, he had conquered the distance of the room. He eyed Brandon from head to toe and licked his lips with a twisted delight. The beast reeked of cigarettes, gin, and sweaty sex funk. The man was all brawn and power, with muscles on top of muscles, and he heaved like each breath was a struggle. Brandon watched his muscles flex as his chest expanded with each deep inhalation. It sounded as if he was trying to suck all of the air out of the room and suffocate the whole lot of them in the underground chamber.

  Brandon matched his stare—he was not one to yield. He smiled. This was just what he needed. He looked in the direction of his benefactor and saw his dark face in the shadows; he nodded his head in approval. Brandon smiled again, acquiescing to what was to come. High on weed, cocaine, and a strange beverage that lingered in his mouth, he displayed no fear, not even when the beast’s dick engorged to the size of a small log.

  “I am not afraid of you,” he said defiantly. Brandon’s voice emitted a fearlessness that contradicted the hesitation in his heart. In that moment, when he should have been deciding between fight or flight, he decided to give in to his base desires, even while the ball tightened
in the pit of his stomach. He convinced himself that he was a man of steel, impervious to pain; yet, he swallowed hard. This hulk of a man may have been more than he bargained for, but he would certainly make the evening memorable, if Brandon survived his assault.

  Brandon looked around the room and watched all of the imps slowly stroke themselves in anticipation of the main event. They cackled and cooed, calling out for their own satisfaction.

  Brandon stepped closer to the monster, looked directly into his eyes, and spoke clearly.

  “Fuck me like you own me.”

  CHAPTER 5

  After the effects of drugs, sex, and alcohol wore off, Brandon was left with the dried memories of dangerous dicks dancing around his body. He drove recklessly and furiously down the dark highways, weaving erratically down the road, trying to get home as soon as he could. His skin burned and ached for a long, hot shower to wash away the residue of an evening that had already burned itself into the darkest place in his soul. Regardless of how hard he pressed his heavy foot on the accelerator, he could not go fast enough, or arrive soon enough to suit him.

  When he finally did arrive, he wasted little time. He pulled into the garage and tore through the house like a track star, tearing clothes off as he ran down long corridors, leaving behind a trail composed of socks, his underwear, and his soiled T-shirt. He jetted up the staircase and down the hall until he reached his room. By the time he entered his room, he was completely naked and sped headfirst into the bathroom like a sprinter. He leapt into the walk-in shower and turned on the water, not caring if the first blast caused his skin to freeze or melt. He grabbed his favorite scented soap and lathered it onto his loofah sponge. As the water warmed and the steam rose high, he scrubbed. He scrubbed like he hadn’t showered in days. He scrubbed his face and neck and chest and legs with force and vigor, but he couldn’t wash away the feel of the grubby hands of faceless fiends clawing at him, nor could he cleanse the smell of sweaty sex funk, gin, and musty balls from the giant who had delivered such exquisite pain. A part of him wanted to forget.