Page 16 of Crybaby

He grabs my shoulders with his bony white fingers and breathes cold air in my face. “Run!”

Carson looks at his watch as the boy staggers off, trying to lose himself in the woods, his back covered in lashings and dirt and his feet bare. I can’t help but think something really bad is going on here.

“Don’t worry, it’s just a game,” says Carson, turning my flushed cheeks to face him.

“A game?”

“Wanna play?” He smiles down at me, brushing my hair back from my face, which I shake away with irritation.

“I don’t think I like your games.”

“Oh, but you would,” he says. He hoists me up like a little doll and pushes my legs around his waist. I’m pushed up against a tree while his lips brush against mine.

“It’s a game I’d let you win, Darcie,” he whispers against my mouth.

“Put me down.”

“Yeah?”

I’m not struggling. I should be, but my brain is on a coffee break.

“Yes, please,” I say to his mouth.

“Say it again,” he says, smiling and bringing me in tighter.

“Please put me down, Carson.” My heart is racing.

I hate this guy. I really do.

He gently places my feet back on the ground and straightens my skirt for me. “See me tonight?”

“I’m washing my hair.”

“No, you’re not.”

“What are you doing to that boy?”

“Tonight, Darcie.”

He whistles to his goons, who respond like well-trained dogs. “Time’s up, boys! Hunt!” he yells, and the three boys rush off in different directions into the forest.

Carson turns his attention back to me. His eyes burn into my soul, seeing right through my attempts to resist him.

“I have some business to attend to here. I’ll see you at eight on the edge of the clearing.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I’ll have a gift for you.”

“I don’t care. I won’t be here.”

“Till then,” he says, kissing my cheek before racing off to join the game.

I hope that boy will be okay. I don’t know if I should join in and search for him too, or just mind my own business and go home.

I feel pathetic, but I go home and pray I see that little thing at school tomorrow. Why do men have to be so cruel?

I should turn up at eight and cut his dick off. Why do I have these thoughts? Sometimes I don’t think I’m quite right in the head.

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