Chapter Twelve: Golly Gee

I wasn’t going to do it.

Not really.

It was just one of those passing thoughts. It was just instinct. It was just fear.

I’m not that kind of person.

I would never hurt someone.

I wouldn’t have hurt him.

The sunlight filtered through the leaves unevenly, at times bright, like super hot pinpoints of light burning into my retinas, and at times dull green and yellow. The flickering—the transient shift between muted light and brightness, all variable, occurring at different points; in different patterns; at different rhythms, as the breeze buffeted the leaves back and forth—was like its own language. Lying on my back, the morning dew soaking through my shirt, I gazed up in a half-daze, watching the light and feeling like I was talking to nature, like any second my physical being would burst apart into a trillion fragments and the only part of me left behind would be light, which would flicker just like the tree and leaves, joining them in an exclusive conversation.

Hot. I was so hot, the t-shirt plastered to my back, sheets twisted around my…

I sighed, my breathe blending with the air, and the rustle of approaching footsteps. I let my head fall lazily to the side, my eyes sliding open, just slits, to rest on plaid shoes.

Red plaid pants. Chains that sing all the way down the aisle...

I followed the shoes up, past dark jeans, past a sliver of pale blue boxers, past a muscle-shirt, but before I could look at the face, he was on top of me, straddling my waist with a playful laugh.

Crushing weight; I couldn’t breathe…

That face I’d tried to see was right there, right above me, smiling wide.

“Steven…”

His voice was warm. I smiled, and, with great effort, pushed myself up, supporting my torso with my elbows on the ground. I rose to meet him, and, the closer I got, the further back he moved.

The wide smile, those perfect, white teeth, those full lips, disappeared as his head shifted to the side, out of my line of vision, and all I could see was the blinding light of the sun.

“Steven?”

I squinted, bringing a hand up to cover my eyes.

“Are you awake?”

I let my head fall to the side, seeing Twitch standing in the doorway, his hand still hesitantly extended and his fingers still on the light switch.

“I can come back. I’m sorry.” He sounded mortified. When he flicked the light off, I came to my senses.

“No, Twitch, wait!” Grateful that he paused before closing the door and leaving me alone, I continued, “It was a nightmare anyway. I’m glad you woke me up.” I could see his silhouette, from the light in the hall, hesitate before he turned around and flicked the light on again, easing inside and shutting the door. My eyes were better warned this time, but I still had to squint to see what he was holding in his hand.

A knife.

A plastic knife.

I felt shame war with a snort of disbelief. I wouldn’t have hurt him. It was just instinct; just fear.

I sat up in bed as he got closer. He wasn’t looking at me, which still stung a little bit, but at the same time was—I supposed—a good thing, because it meant Arthur wasn’t ordering him not to look away from me.

I could see his other hand now, the one held at his side. It grasped a plump grapefruit, almost too big for his fist. He stopped halfway between the door and my bed, his eyes glued to a corner of the room.

“I thought you might want…” he began in his quiet voice. His eyes flickered briefly towards me as he held up the grapefruit in explanation, but they fell away quickly, soon followed by his hand, which he let fall limply to his side. I saw his throat move as he swallowed.

Then, in a move undertaken with what looked like great difficulty, he took a deep breath and took a step toward me.

His air rushed out in what I recognized as anxiety, because he sucked in another breath way too fast for him to be calm, and took another step. His face was pained, his breathing ragged, as he took two more steps in quick succession, and his final breatheturned into a whimper as he took the final step, his knees hitting the end of the bed.

I opened my mouth, and he sat quickly on the mattress, a good three feet away from where I sat, legs pretzel-style, near the pillow.

“Breakfast,” he said in a rush, all air, barely any sound. He gulped loudly, breathing heavily through his nose and looking down at the mattress.

I realized he was finishing his sentence from before. God, what had I done? This poor kid had been so nice to me, and how had I repaid his kindness? By making him so afraid of me that he had to force himself to take a step toward me, had to force himself to offer me breakfast.

“Thank you,” I said. What else was there to say? “Breakfast would be great.”

If my voice was a little careful, a little confused, he didn’t remark on it; just nodded and brought the knife to the grapefruit, sawing at the thick skin, his hands shaking.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I promised quietly. He nodded again, but his hands didn’t stop shaking, and he didn’t look at me any more frequently. He focused all of his attention on sawing the grapefruit in half, and, after a full three minutes, had barely gotten past the outer layer.

“Twitch, it’s fine,” I said, wanting to reach for the fruit to take it out of his hands but not wanting to touch him, to frighten him. “We can peel it.” As I expected, when he saw my hand move toward him, just a few inches, he shrank back. When it stopped, nowhere near him, just held out and waiting, he slowly—so slowly—reached out, dropped the fruit in my hand, and withdrew his. His eyes stayed glued to my hand the whole time.

I waited until his breathing had calmed before digging two fingers into the cut he’d started and yanking the skin back. When it was completely peeled, I divided it in half, holding out the pink clump of grapefruit flesh in the center of my palm so he could take it without touching me. He accepted it silently, tearing one section away with gentle fingers.

I watched him peel the thin, transparent skin from each section, eating only the glistening pink fruit. He let the skin fall to his lap, as I had done with the peelings. The juice dripped down his chin, down his fingers. A single drop made it past his palm and slid down his wrist, leaving behind a trail of sticky juice.

The grapefruit wasn’t overly sweet. It was delicious.

“Messy,” I commented.

He nodded. He seemed much more relaxed now. I was almost finished, but he was still on his third section, since it took him so much longer to peel each piece.

“I should have brought something,” he said. “I didn’t think it through, I guess.”

He sounded way too much like he was beating himself up. I regretted bringing it up.

“Aw, it’s fine.” I stuffed the last section in my mouth and wiped my sticky hands on the sheet, which I had been using to cover my legs, since, with my legs crossed pretzel-style, my ripped shorts showed more than I wanted them too, and more, I was sure, than poor little Twitch wanted to see. The sheet was already sticky from the juice I hadn’t been able to stop from dripping when I bit into a section, and from the peels. “See? Makeshift napkin.”

He frowned at the mess. “I’ll clean them today. I’ll get you new ones.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

He finally looked at my face, and stared for a few seconds at my smile, his face expressionless, and then tipped his face down, and looked embarrassed.

“W-well, uh, that’s, that’s what I’m supposed to do…”

“I mean thanks for everything. For breakfast. For eating with me. I know it was hard for you.”

His head snapped up.

“Uh…”

The problem is that you don’t know what you’re sorry for…

“Twitch,” I continued, wanting him to understand. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I really didn’t. Please believe me.” I paused, afraid my earnest voice was scaring him. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

There was fear in his eyes, but it was a cautious, nervous fear.

“Well…I know that.” He sounded so absolutely positive, I couldn’t doubt him.

“I’m glad.”

He looked down at his hands. “I just wanted to say…I’m sorry.”

I was surprised. “For what?”

“For getting you in trouble.” He paused, and shut his mouth, then opened it again. “For making him mad at you.”

“Twitch, that wasn’t your fault.”

“It was,” he disagreed miserably.

“He did that because he’s sick. Because he likes hurting people and scaring them. It had nothing to do with you, and you have no—”

I stopped, because Twitch was staring at me, and he was plainly horrified.

“He hurt you?”

I don’t know what I expected, but it definitely wasn’t this Twitch in front of me, this Twitch who surged to his feet and stared down at me. “You’re lying!” he screamed. “Why are you lying to me?” The betrayal in his eyes was overwhelming, and to hear him screaming in a sudden explosion of sound, his prepubescent voice climbing an octave, made my skin crawl. Totally unexpected, and frightening because of that.

But I wasn’t lying, and with the automatic defensiveness of one who takes pride in his honesty, I met his anger with that of my own. “I am not lying,” I said, lowly and fiercely, glaring at him. “The second you left last night, he tried to rape me.”

“Rape you?” He snorted in disbelief, putting more scorn into those two words than I’d ever heard. “After I…”

He trailed off, the expression frozen on his face in a half-bewildered snarl, his anger overthrown by his confusion. “After I left?” he asked. Then all expression bled from his face, his mouth going lax. “Trenton.” It sounded like it should have been a question, but sudden realization flooded his voice and switched the inflection halfway through the word.

“Yes, Trenton.” I clarified just for the hell of it, just because I was pissed off, even though it was clear, now, that he thought I’d been talking about Arthur, and even though I knew this miscommunication was equally our fault.

Twitch stood there, looking down at the pieces of grapefruit skin littering the floor near the bed. Then he bent down and delicately pinched one between his forefinger and thumb, placing it in the cradled palm of his hand. He didn’t speak as he cleaned, deep in thought. Then he stopped, clutching his thin fingers around the waste, and shook his head.

“But that doesn’t make sense.”

I knew he wasn’t calling me a liar this time—he sounded like he couldn’t figure something out, not like he was trying to disprove me.

“What doesn’t?”

He shook his head again, slowly, uncomprehending. “Trenton couldn’t rape you.”

“Are you seriously trying to tell me you don’t think he’s capable?” I demanded sarcastically.

“He’s not.” His eyes were wide. “Arthur told me the first night I came here not to be afraid of him. He said, ‘Don’t worry. He can’t hurt you.’”

I snorted. “Because of the promises?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Because Trenton doesn’t have a…um…”

I waited for him to get the words out.

“Well, he can’t…. He’s lacking the equipment.” The way he said it, the words didn't sound like his own. He had that tone of voice people get when they're quoting another person.

“Lacking the…?” I repeated, confused.

“He lost his. . . th-thing.”

I stared, not comprehending. Thing is a very general term. Until Twitch’s eyes flew to the ceiling in embarrassment. Then the meaning finally sank into my brain.

My eyes went wide. “Lost it?” I asked incredulously. “What do you mean, lost it? Like, ‘Golly gee, I think I misplaced my penis’? How the hell did he lose it?”

“Um…I think that’s something you should ask Arthur.” I watched as his entire face exploded into panic. “But don’t tell him I said anything! Please! I wasn’t supposed to say a thing!”

“How am I supposed to ask him about it, then? It’s not something I would guess on my own, you know.” Trenton, sans manhood? Unfathomable.

Maybe that was why he was such an asshole. I remembered a half-overheard conversation between two girls during a bio lab: castrati, men with a very high vocal range achieved through castration, were of volatile temper. I could understand that. I’d be pretty pissed if I lost my dick.

“Please.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “I won’t tell him you said anything.” Already, it was losing its importance. I couldn’t even take the thought seriously in my head.

Of course Trenton had a penis—he wouldn’t have tried to rape me if he didn’t. He had undone his belt, had pushed my face into the bed and dragged my shorts down. That was pretty strong evidence in the “Has” column.

But then I remembered my doubts—would he really have raped me? Did he remember his promise to Arthur just in time, or was he just trying to scare me?

This was just…so bizarre. Definitely not something I needed to be worrying about.

Just focus on getting out, I reminded myself.

“Do you…promise?”

I frowned at his tentative question. Twitch was asking me to promise?

That was somehow significant. What happened if someone broke Twitch’s promises?

“Yeah. I promise not to tell.”

He breathed deeply and let it out in a rush. “Thank you.” He nodded, content, and finished picking up the peelings. Then he zeroed in on the peelings on my lap in an obvious way.

“It’s okay, there’s a garbage can in the bathroom.”

“No, I should take them…” he said, with that same cautious fear in his eyes. “I don’t think I was supposed to be in here.”

“You don’t think?”

“Well, he didn’t say not to, specifikly, but…I think he would be mad if he knew.”

“Then why did you do it?” I wondered. He seemed terrified of displeasing Arthur in any way. Why would he risk it?

“I just wanted to say sorry.” He pressed his lips together in a glum expression. “I want you to like it here. It would make him so sad if you left.”

I sighed. “I understand.” I gathered the peelings and dropped them in his outstretched hands. “I won’t tell him you came in.”

“Really?” His hope was almost painful.

I nodded. “Yeah. Promise.”

He smiled, the first genuinely happy smile I could remember him ever giving me. “Thank you, Steven!” He held the corpse of the grapefruit cradled in one hand, opened the door, waved slightly, and was gone.

With him out of sight, my mind returned for half a second to what he’d said about Trenton, but then I dismissed it, feeling silly for entertaining the thought. Arthur had probably told Twitch that on his first night to make him less skittish, less afraid. I could see Arthur taking care of the boy in that way.

It just wouldn't make sense if Trenton didn’t have a penis.

Because, if that was the case, then who raped Cecelia?

Unfortunately, this chapter isn’t that great. But it’s important…so technically it’s not filler. Normally I’d say just hold your horses and wait to see where I going with this, but I think I deserve the criticism this time. Oh, and you might want to reread the last chapter. A few things are changed to make it less fail…like that paragraph where he’s whambamIlikeyouallofasudden. I warn you, it’s still not that great. Oh, and let me know if the beginning was confusing. I didn't want to italicize the dream sequence, because I think if he can't tell if it's a dream or not, then we shouldn't either. Kind of like when he fell down the stairs and woke up all disoriented at the bottom and people were like "Wha?"

(Edit 12/02/2008): I thought I could get away with not begging for reviews but yikes, I'm really hurting in the review department on this chapter. If you could take a second to say something, please?