Page 15 of Hearts Held
Bobby motions to him and states, “This is Roger, and this,” he motions to a much rounder gentleman who is roughly forty years old, “this is Biscuit.” Large bruising has already started to form on Biscuit’s neck and arms,and there is a large gash around seven to nine inches long on his stomach.
“Boys! Are you okay!?” I begin tending to them immediately, noticing the areas that need addressing first.
“Well, ’ello there. I ain’t nevah seen a nurse lookin’ like you before,” Biscuit remarks in a cheeky fashion, snapping his suspenders.
“Well, thank you, dear, but let’s focus on the task at hand. You look like you nearly got killed by a bucking horse!” I peek at the laceration to the young boy’s forehead.
“I wouldn’t have, love! Look at this big pile of protection I got!” Biscuit pats his belly, then winces as he realizes the contact vibrated his wound. As I reach for my antiseptic and stitching, I carefully lower the young man’s arm and see a burn on his forearm.
“What is this?” Unfortunately, I get distracted by the burn mark, noticing the scarred skin and how there is a snake in the shape of the letterA.
The young boy looks at me with bright, proud eyes despite the blood running down one side of his face, over his half-hoodedeyelid.
“This is my mark of loyalty. I earned it. I’m an Adder,” he states so boldly, so proudly.
I stare at him in confusion as Bobby interjects, “Some of the men earn that mark, to be a part of the family. To be an Adder, to show loyalty and to be a part of something bigger than themselves.”
I start to clean his wound, then prepare my stitching kit as I curtly state, “Then help me understand as I stitch you.”
The young boy begins to explain.
“I used to live on the streets. My mum was a drug user and worked in the massage parlors but refused to use condoms. So then I arrived, but she loved drugs more than me. She tried to sell me to someone, who beat me, so I ran. I found these stalls the night I ran away from that bastard. The horses were so welcoming, and I was using their stalls at night, thinking the Aftons hadn’t seen me, then stealing what scraps of food I could find.”
I notice Biscuit and Bobby look at Roger with pride instead of shame as the boy continues.
“One morning, I slept in. I didn’t get ta hide like I usually do and Mr. Everett found me. He gave me a job as a stable hand, then had me working. I slowly starteddoing more chores and gained respect. I ain’t nevah had respect ‘efore. Mr. Everett even offered me a room in the farmhouse, but I didn’t want it. I wanted my bed with my family, the horses. Then one night I was puttin’ tha horses to bed, and a group of guys came. They was gonna hurt tha horses, to hurt the Aftons’ winnings at the races, but I fought ’em off! I got my arse beat, but I kept fighting them off and made sure they didn’t hurt the horses. Right before I was about to be knocked out, Mr. Everett and Bobby came. They shot the bastard who was kickin’ me while I was on the ground half dead. After that, Mr. Everett gave me the offer of a lifetime and I made my pledge, then got my family emblem.” He gently places his forearm in front of me to show his proud scar. It makes the burn on my back itch.
I find it absurd and graphic—these poor boys wanting a place, a home, then being manipulated into this barbaric ritual.
As I finish up stitching the young boy, I assist Biscuit and notice he has the same burn mark on his forearm as well. It makes me shudder, as my own branding itches beneath my clothes.
I hold my tongue and continue my work.
*
Soon I become familiar with the sight of the OEC motorcycle as it continues to randomly pull up outside my apartment or work establishments.
I’ve assisted them five times now with medical emergencies.
All preventable.
All painful to assist with.
“You got your bag, baby?” he exclaims, revving the engine, eager to rush off on the motorcycle.
“I bring it everywhere I go now! Got to be ready when you pop up like a gopher.” My bag has become bigger and contains nearly a full trauma kit.
Some items I stole from the hospital; others were things we learned to work with during the war, like fishing wire, make-shift surgical kit and a Thomas splint.
During these beginning weeks as the Aftons’ personal nurse, I patched up four boys who were in a bar fight. They had lacerations to their faces and contusions to their torsos. I also looked at an adder bite, because the poor boy had been assigned to feed the snakes, and lastly a bullet wound from a neighboring gang that had cometo town for a troublesome visit. Luckily there was an exit wound.
But these boys are mostly fifteen to eighteen years of age. I have seen a couple branded with that bloody snake emblem on their chest or forearm. Each time I see it, anger rages inside me. It pisses me off that they allow boys to do their business in addition to branding them like cattle!
When I tried asking Bobby about it, he said it was none of his business, and that therefore it was none of my business either.
The motorcycle engine revs as we ascend a minor hill. Reaching the far side of town, we come to the town house district.
Bobby quickly shuts off the motorcycle, rushing us inside.
