Page 2 of Something So Strong

“I bet he’s a fag,” Jonno piped up.

“Yeah,” Josh agreed, stepping closer to me. “Probably why he’s never tried out for anything. He knows he’d get a hard-on watching us shower. Is that what it is, Kai?” Looming above, Josh nudged me with his toe. “Are you a fucking fag?”

I spat at his feet. “So what if I am?” The answer should have made them happy, even if it was a lie. If I was gay, there would be no danger of their girlfriends straying.

Ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four…

I’m close enough to home that I can see one of Dad’s empty beer cans roll along the porch. White. Shiny enough to pick up the moon’s reflection as it clangs down the steps.

Stopping, I let the breeze whoosh past me, hoping it will take with it some of the pain. The throbbing of my head, the wheeze every time I take a breath, the shame of where they’d forced me, or even just the tiniest sliver of the agony in my hands.

Over a utility pole is where they did it. The barrier of the park’s public land with gravel on the other side. I’d been sitting on it ten minutes before a foot pressed my cheek into the rocks and my hands were crushed. Jumped on. My fingers broken. All so I didn’t try to get away.

One-hundred-and-five, one-hundred-and-six, one-hundred-and-seven…

The toe of my shitty shoes catches on the curb as I step onto my lawn and I have to let go of the fabric I have pushed between my palms so I don’t fall on my hands.

They… He… Josh ripped my jeans—the button falling off and the zipper cracking as he hurriedly tore at them. I tried to kick my legs, but he held them down with his own. Soon enough, any willpower left inside me was focused on making sure I was still breathing as the three of them laughed above me… Behind me.

What kind of cruel satire?

Josh was hard, but I was gay?

He was on top of me; thrusting and grunting, but I was the faggot who needed to be taught a lesson?

What lesson?

What could forcing his dick into me possibly teach that my broken ribs and fingers hadn’t already?

One-hundred-fifteen, one-hundred-sixteen, one-hundred-seventeen…

It’s that time of year in Manitoba where the days are still reasonably warm, but the cold of night frosts any moisture in the air. Stomach down, I pull myself along the icy grass by my forearms before collapsing by the front steps. Laying here, with the unmowed grass standing high around me, I contemplate dragging myself back down Russel Road to Millie’s place.

I’ll get sympathy there.

She’ll hug me, put me in the bath, and insist I call the police. It’ll feel good at the time—like justice is what I need. Even though I know telling the cops means the town finding out and my father consumed with even more hatred for me than he already has because now people will know his son has taken it up the ass.

Elbows on the bottom step, I pull myself back upright and—using the porch railing as a crutch—stumble to the side of the house.

One-twenty-one, one-twenty-two, one-twenty-three…

Blakely’s room is first. Her night light is on and unicorns dance across the ceiling. She’s too young for this shit. Too tiny. She already cries most nights, and that’s without Dad ever laying a hand on her. She’s the only thing that keeps me going, though I’m not even sure if I have the strength for that, anymore.

Beneath my window, I wish I could call out to my mom and she’d run to my side, let me cry on her shoulder, and promise no one would ever hurt me again. That she’d protect me from Dad’s cruel tongue. Leave him and take me, too. But as quickly as the thought enters my mind, it’s gone again. I’ve already wasted too many hours of my life expecting things from that woman. Dad’s never hit her, but that wouldn’t stop me from killing him if I thought I could get away with it. Or if I thought my mother wouldn’t just end up turning me in.

One-twenty-four…

I was already Josh’s sloppy thirds by the time Trevor got back. The back of my legs were coated with blood and cum and misery, and he was told he had to go next. They all had to have a go, like I was a ride at a carnival you lined up for. An inanimate object with no feelings or thoughts that could be used until it didn’t work anymore and was dumped like trash.

But I am trash.

I’ve always been trash.

Filthy, dirty, and good for nothing.

One-twenty-four-and-a-half…

Gritting my teeth, I manage to push up my window with the heels of my hands until there’s enough room for me to fit, only I can’t pull myself through. My fingers don’t work, my jeans are around my knees, and the rest of my body is too battered and bruised.

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