Ring in Mine
Kim Terry
Now that Medicare Annual Election Period is over I can get back to editing.
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My thanks go out to Zack for proofreading this chapter.
Kim ----------
Ring in Mine: John Chapter 13
Late Sunday afternoon a beat up white pickup and camper pulled in front of the Litchfield home and honked three times.
Mark came out of the house. "You're early. This had better work. I can't have a gay son."
"What we do sticks. He'll be fine in a couple of hours." The man in the back announced as he pushed a semi-conscious John into his father's arms. The truck nearly hit the pair. Its tires squealed as it raced into the distance.
Mark gathered his son into his arms and carried his burden into the house. John was supposed to come home spiritually uplifted and straight. They returned him broken. A sick feeling grew in Mark's stomach. He wished Ruth were home. He wasn't sure what to do. John's unfocused eyes disturbed him. If it hadn't been for John's shallow breathing he could have been dead. Mark tried to close John's eyes. The bastards had glued John's eyes open. He carefully separated the eyelids allowing them to close.
John smelled of urine and feces. Mark filled the tub and placed his son in the warm water. He carefully washed his abused son. Wide bands of raw and bruised skin wrapped around John's wrists. He found matching bands on his ankles and his forehead. These people had tied his son up.
There was spotting on John's underwear, but no more than the first time Mark had anal sex. John's scrotum was bruised and swollen. Mark's tears kept flowing as he finished dressing his drugged son. He had wanted to protect his son and he had paid someone to do this to his boy.
He was angry at the men. He was mad at himself. He was angry at the world. What was he going to do? The fear of losing his job raised its ugly head. He tucked John into his bed. John sat next to his son holding his hand. Ruth joined her husband. As John began regaining consciousness he pulled his hand away from his father and curled into a ball. "Don't hurt me anymore. Go away!"
Mark tried to apologize. John continued crying. Every time Mark touched his son, John pulled away. Feeling helpless, Mark fell into a well-worn path of anger. Mark left, leaving Ruth with John.
It wasn't long before Ruth walked up to her husband and slapped him.
"They said he would be fine in a few hours." Mark tried explaining. She slapped him again.
John woke from a terrible nightmare. He looked around his room and he sighed in relief; he was alone. An image from his dream haunted him. He couldn't fall asleep. This had happened before.
John sat at his desk, pencil In hand. The image on the paper bothered him. Where had he come up with a guy tied to a heavy table? He was sure the three hooded men were raping him. He rubbed his sore wrists. Could he have been the one tied to the table? His ass was sore. When he went to the restroom there was some blood spots on his underwear. He had a terrible headache. As he reached for the doorknob of his parent's bedroom, his hand began shaking and he didn't know why. He pulled it back and it quit shaking.
He tried opening the door again giving up this time. He retreated to bathroom and found his own aspirin. He poured a glass of milk and swallowed his pills. Hungry, he poured a bowl of cereal. The bowl was half-empty when he heard a noise behind him.
John wasn't sure how he came to be under the table, but he didn't want to come out.
"John, come out from under the table." Ruth begged.
"No! Go away! Leave me alone!" John cried curled in a ball protected by the chair legs.
"What's all the shouting about?" Mark demanded from the doorway. He surveyed the scene before him and was filled with self-anger. He pulled the chairs away from the table and dragged his son into the open. He pulled the shaking shape of his son into his arms and carried him to his bed.
Ruth covered the whimpering fetal ball that was her son. She sent her husband to bed. She silently sat in the corner watching over her son. As John lost the battle with sleep, his body relaxed. Ruth saw her son repeatedly reach out for something then toss and turn for a moment. Inspiration hit her. She quietly rummaged through the closet.
The next time John reached out his arms found a furry shape that meant safety to the infant part of his subconscious. Ruth smiled at the young boy and his teddy. She remembered a proud father bringing the small infant and the much larger bear home from the hospital. Where had things gone wrong?
John began thrashing around in his bed, clutching the much loved and worn animal. It tore at Ruth's heart. She moved closer and began singing the lullaby she had sung so many years ago when her little Johnny was fussy. It seemed to help.
Ruth more than anything wanted to rock her little boy making everything better. She finally crawled into bed with her boy held tightly to her. She rocked back and forth softly singing. The programming instilled into her child over his lifetime, overrode his more recent experience. John calmed and slept in the calm seas of his mother's love.
The next morning John woke with the memory of his mother rocking him as a baby. It was a peaceful pleasant memory. The house was silent. He noticed that there was some spotting on his underwear. He got out of bed and showered, washing his bum carefully. It seemed really swollen. John couldn't remember why it was sore. It was the long weekend. Andrew was out of town. He debated what to do first.
First, he decided, he needed to get a couple of aspirin for his headache and something to eat. In the kitchen the cereal and now warm milk were on the table with a dirty bowl. Chairs were tipped over.
Puzzled John straightened the kitchen, dumping the spoiled milk down the sink, and rinsing out the bowl. As he bent over the table to wash off the spilled milk, he began to shake uncontrollably and he didn't know why.
He woke in his own bed with a severe pain on his forehead. Gently he explored the sensitive area. There was bump on his head.
`How did he get back to his bedroom? Where did the bump on his head come from? Why did his watch say Monday? It should have only been Friday.' John had more questions than answers. The more he thought about the questions the more uncomfortable he became. Something was wrong. Mark came into the room.
"How are you doing? You bumped your head pretty good." Mark asked.
John pulled his knees up to his chest wishing his dad would go away. He looked at this strong individual looming over him and for a moment saw a man with a black hood.
"Don't hurt me! Please don't hurt me any more." John cried.
Mark reached out to his son and John pulled away from the touch. Mark stepped back. Mark was becoming increasingly angry. He was mad at himself for allowing this to happen to his child. He wanted to cause bodily harm to the men who did this to his son. He was angry at his son for pulling away when all he wanted to do was help.
Mark's eyes fell upon John's drawing of the rape. "My son is not gay!"
Mark flew into uncontrollable fury. He balled the drawing up and threw it into the garbage can. He hated the men who had done this, but they weren't here. He pulled the belt from his pants and began beating his boy just as his dad had beaten him.
This little piece of him was crying out in fear and pain. Mark stopped and realized what he had just done. He flew from the room and out of the house. In a bush just outside the door he lost his breakfast. What have I done?' he sobbed to himself. I promised I wouldn't be like my dad!' He sat on the porch with his head in his hands sobbing.
Mark was unsure what he would do. He knew what he should do. Amidst the torment Mark remembered a chance meeting during the Christmas Season. At the grocery story Mark had literally run into Bob, the counselor that had helped him so much after Marcus had been murdered.
After apologizing for not watching where he was going with his cart they talked for quite a while. Bob was now in private practice in the next town. Mark dumped everything out of the glovebox looking for Bob's card. Not remembering the President's Day holiday, Mark drove the 15 minutes to Bob's office.
The office was a restored two story old craftsman home. The windows were dark and the door was locked. He rang the bell and knocked on the door hoping beyond hope that someone would answer. Once again Mark found himself sitting on a cold concrete porch with his head in his hands.
The chill found its way through Mark's jeans and into his soul. For the first time since college he was seriously considering suicide. He had failed himself. He had failed his wife. He had failed his son. He had decided to get into his car and drive up the canyon. There were many places with 1000 foot drop offs. Just a quick turn and it would be over.
A hand landed on Mark's shoulder. "Mark what are you doing here?" Bob asked. Mark looked up into Bob's brown eyes like a lost child.
"I've really screwed up this time and I don't know what to do. I was just debating ways to take the easy way out." Bob had heard Mark say the same thing nearly word for word fifteen years earlier.
"Let's go in out of the cold and talk." Bob suggested. Mark followed Bob not into his office but through a conference room that ran the length of the house and up a flight of stairs. At the top he found himself in Bob's beautifully restored living room. With the touch of a button Mark was warming himself in front of a fire.
Bob returned with two cups of cocoa. Mark usually avoided sweets, but the sad little boy buried inside needed attention. His eyes sparkled at the marshmallows and whipped cream on top. Bob understood that sometimes you to have to reassure the child before you could talk with the adult.
Mark slowly sipped his cocoa in silence. Bob was willing to wait. He took the time to mentally review Mark's visits in college. Mark didn't identify himself as homosexual; after all he had an active physical relationship with his long time girlfriend. It wasn't men in general Mark was attracted to as much as his close friend, Marcus. Mark had lived in fear of being found out by the football team. It would not only ruin his chance of a professional career, but his would be the next body found in the forest.
Mark had also been afraid that his father would find out. He loved his father, but had grown up in a demanding household, especially when it came to athletic performance. Mark's father had never been satisfied with Mark unless he was a winner. There were seldom demonstrations of affection from his father. He was prone to uncontrollable fits of anger. Yet, Mark had loved his father deeply and craved his attention.
"Bob, I've made a mess of things. I always said I wouldn't treat my son like my father treated me."
Bob waited. When Mark was ready he told Bob the horrible things he had done to John. Even locking John out of the house just as his dad had done.
"I've really tried these last few months. My boy loves gymnastics, he'd never be Olympic level, but he does pretty good. I have let a dead man stand between me and my son."
Bob was good at sitting silently, occasionally nodding his head.
"My son may only be thirteen, but he has paintings hanging in at least one gallery, I'm told there are others." Mark looked around the room at the art on the walls, stopping at a watercolor. "Where did you get the painting of two men?"
Bob thought for a moment. "Does it make you uncomfortable?" Bob asked.
Mark moved closer to check the signature. "If you meet my son, He'll personalize the back for you."
Bob was impressed. "It doesn't look like you've screwed up too badly."
Mark took the brochure from his pocket and handed to Bob. Bob read it quickly.
"Did you get involved with these people?" Bob asked. Mark nodded. "Was John one of the missing boys on TV?" Mark nodded.
"I'm going to call a lawyer friend of mine, if that is alright with you?" Bob asked concerned. He had dealt with more than a dozen young men whose sometimes well-intentioned parents had sent them for `THE CURE.'
Some programs were like the brochure. Others involved various aversion therapies including electroshock, deprivation, pain and some even rape. Bob knew of a few instances of partial or complete castration. From Mark's condition Bob feared the worst. If that was the case he wanted legal backup.
Trevor much like Bob had his practice in the row of restored classic old homes. Trevor also chose to live above his office. How much space did a single individual need. Trevor told his friends he didn't want any more square footage that needed cleaning.
Bob took Mark on a tour of his home while they waited for Trevor Thompson, Attorney at Law to arrive. Ruth would have been in heaven to have this kitchen. The craftsman style was blended with highend finishes and appliances. Mark was surprised that there was only a small table for dining. It was almost as if Bob read his mind.
"I do most of my entertaining in the big room down stairs." Bob answered the unvoiced question. Bob demonstrated the dumb waiter that ran all the way to the basement. "It's great for getting food to the conference room and clean clothes up from the basement."
The bedrooms were of equal size with lots of natural light. They shared a bathroom with a tub and a separate shower big enough to hold a small party.
The tour ended when a voice called out. "Builder Bob I'm home!"
Bob looked at Mark chuckling. "You don't really want to know, so don't ask."
"It has something to do with towering structures," Trevor laughed. "and pounding things in the dark!"
Trevor acknowledged Bob with a hug and Mark with a handshake. After filling Trevor in on the needed backstory, Mark told about finding Andrew naked in his son's room and the panic that filled him. Mark was terribly embarrassed when he got to the part about hitting his son. Trevor outlined what he felt was the best plan for dealing with the mess.
A half hour later found Mark and Trevor sitting in an interrogation room at the police station telling Mark's story. Both the police and Trevor had their tape recorders going. Trevor highlighted the fact that Mark was under the impression that he was enrolling his son in the program outlined in the brochure. Then Mark told of the condition his son was returned to him. He ended with him hitting his son, realizing what he was doing, and throwing up in the bushes.
John heard his father slam the front door. Shaking uncontrollably John gathered his soft cuddly blanket and retreated into his closet. He came out once and retrieved his bear. Its nose was missing and its eyes no longer matched. There was a bald spot on the back of its head and a gingham patch on its bum. It was a wreck and John loved it.
Confused John tried to figure out what had happened. His father had come into the bedroom. John needed his dad. He wanted little more than having his dad hug him as he had done more often over the last few months and make things better. If he wanted it so bad, why did he pull away when his dad offered?
John could see the telltale signs that his dad was going to lose control. He face became red and the vessels in his neck became visible. John saw his dad pick up the drawing of the rape.
"My son is not gay!" His father shouted as he took his belt and hit John six times. John counted each one.
Then it stopped. John watched the color drain from his father's face. He looked like he was going to be sick as he ran from the room.
John pulled the blanket over his head and fell asleep.
Ruth came home to an empty house. She only had gotten part of the day off work for the holiday. Mark had the whole day off. She had left John in his care. Maybe Mark had taken John to the hospital.
Phone in hand she heard a faint sobbing coming from John's room and her heart fell. The sound was coming from the closet. She stuck her head in the door.
"Go away. Don't hurt me any more." John pleaded.
Ruth retreated from the closet. "What happened?" She asked.
"Dad saw the picture of the guys raping me and he lost it. He hit me with his belt." John sobbed.
The doorbell rang. Ruth was going to ignore it. Then the pounding began. Ruth finally relented and left her son to answer the door.
"What do you want? If you are missionaries or salesmen you had better leave before my husband returns." Ruth warned them hoping they would go away.
The man introduced himself as an FBI agent and the woman represented Department of Family Services.
"We are here to talk to John." The agent explained.
"He is in the closet. My husband refuses to have a gay son and sent him to a program that was supposed to be counseling and scripture study. John hasn't been the same since he came back. He won't let anyone touch him." Ruth's paused while she wiped away the tears. "John said his dad hit him with a belt."
The social worker sat on the floor outside the closet door and talked to John about his interest in art. John mentioned the drawing that had made his dad lose it. The agent, that Ruth had already learned not to like much, retrieved the crumpled paper from the waste bin and showed it to the social worker.
"John do you remember anything about the weekend?" She asked.
"No." He answered. "I dreamed about the picture and then drew it. I think I was raped. I have blood back there. Dad says faggots don't need a doctor for a little blood."
It took a while before John was willing to come out of the closet. He kept his distance from everyone, especially the agent. John was an artist; he watched people. The look on this man's face was not good.
"Are you sure you can't remember anything?" The agent asked.
"I don't." John answered keeping the social worker between himself and the agent. The look on the agent's face changed from interest to anger. This pompous man didn't care about John personally, only about how he could use him. Since John couldn't be of any use he was ready to move on.
If you would like to be notified when a new chapter is available drop me a line. ringinmine@yahoo.com