Two Southern Gentlemen

Content/trigger warning: This series contains bullying, homophobic language, and non-consensual sexual acts, but they are integral to the plot and character development so please take them in context.

Author's note: Sorry, a pair of solo chapters before we see these two interacting again. But it won't be too long!

JESSE

I don't know what happened, but one minute that twisted fucking asshole is pulling my hair and beating the crap out of me trying to get his piss in my mouth like a psycho, and the next second he's stopped. I'm spending all my energy trying to keep my eyes and mouth firmly shut from his forceful stream of piss and I'm still in a lot of pain all over, I can't even tell where specifically, so I don't even realize he's let go of me and that the beating and pissing have stopped until a good half minute after the fact.

...

...

Finally it does sink in and I cautiously open my eyes, simultaneously wiping piss and blood from my face with both hands, and I don't see him in front of me. As I wipe I see that my nose is still bleeding, so I hold it again as I slowly turn my head around and look all over the area. He's gone. Disappeared.

What the heck? Where...? Did the Rapture just happen, and he ascended to heaven? No chance that could ever happen. More like descended to hell. Or abducted by aliens...?

My wonder is very quickly replaced by much more physical feelings as my pumped up levels of adrenaline start to subside. There's a steady pulsing throughout my whole body. The main source of it is the throbbing in my nose and face. Even without seeing them I can feel the bruises gradually developing like a black and blue Polaroid picture. My face feels swollen and getting more swollen by the second, and my body just plain hurts all over, my chest where he pummelled me, and especially my side where he kicked me.

"Fuck! Fuck! Goddamn mother fucker! Goddamn mother fucking sick asshole shit demon from hell!" My voice is raspy, oh, right, from when he was pressing down on my throat with his arm, and I continue to mutter long strings of expletives, as many words I can think of to call that crazy fucked up sick asshole son of a bitch.

After the initial burst of anger subsides a little, I turn my attention to the practical. There are things to take care of. First things first. I've wiped most of the gunk off my face, and I still have no idea what to do with my bloody nose. I try tilting my head back for a second, but that doesn't work at all. It feels like I'm just drinking my own blood. So instead I tilt forward a bit and just try to hold my swollen nose kind of half closed, because I suspect holding it any tighter would probably make me pass out from the pain.

For a few minutes I just concentrate on getting my breath back and holding my nose, but eventually I've recovered enough that I can glance over at my clothes. I sigh a long sigh. What a fucking mess. I gingerly grab the disgusting pile with my free hand, still reeking of that asshole's piss, and unsteadily start to carry them towards the water. I dump them in and sort of kick them down with one foot so that they're fully submerged.

Once I'm sure they won't float away I stumble back, looking for my bag, phone, and glasses. Phew. That asshole must have been in too much of a rush to move them, or maybe he just didn't see them. They're lying a little off to the side of where I was sleeping, half hidden by some grass and weeds, perfectly intact. I put my glasses on and wince again due to how tight they are over my face, which seems to be doubling in size every minute. Then I tentatively check to see if my nose is still bleeding. It is. Fuck!

I pull out my shitty phone ,and as I unlock it and catch a shadow of my reflection in the screen I dread seeing how I actually look. I switch to the camera and... damn. Definitely got a balloon face, definitely going to have one hell of a shiner. There are also some cuts around my face from when I was thrown to the ground but those aren't too deep. I look down at my body and see some lighter bruises forming and some minor cuts there as well. Swell, just swell.

At that point I check the time, and oh, shit, it's already almost a quarter to 4. For a full minute I just stand there, frozen to the spot. I'm mighty, mighty tempted to just say fuck it to taking care of the kids and just ignore 'em, leave 'em to fend for themselves. That guy is an asshole, but I have to admit he was right about my dad. He is a deadbeat and the town drunk. But if he can leave the kids to burn the trailer down, I sure as hell could too, just this once. Right? Right? ... But no, no matter how much I wish that I could take a break from them just once, I know I can't. Sometimes, I swear, sometimes I think the promise I made to my momma is the only thing keeping me from dropping everything and running far, far away from all of them. But then I wouldn't be any better than that fuckin' deadbeat, and I sure as hell know that I'd never stoop to his level. I'd rather kill myself than end up as worthless as he is.

...

...

...

I stand there just letting myself wallow in the pain for a little longer, but finally I know I just can't stall any more and force myself to move. I gotta get back to the young 'uns as soon as I can since Ms. Lucille has to leave for work. I stumble back over to the water, bend down and swish my clothes around a bit, and then, bracing myself for the new source of pain, splash some water over my face, my hair, and body. It stings, but it's not too bad since the water's so warm.

Right. Check my nose again. The bleeding has definitely slowed, but it's still dripping slightly. I can't wait any longer, so I carefully but quickly shrug into my clothes, splotchy pinkish in most places, and try not to get any more blood on them, grab my bag, and set off for home. I still smell faintly of piss, but there just ain't time right now to do any more about it.

All through the walk home (more of a limp as I seem to discover more body parts screaming in pain with every step), all through my stone-faced refusal to explain to Ms. Lucille what happened (what good would telling her the truth do?), all through the young 'uns' clingy attention, less welcome than ever, and their endless questions, all through my painful rushed washing up at the communal shower, trying to ignore the looks of my deadbeat or drunk neighbors as I walk there and back. All through the rest of the afternoon my anger grows and grows and grows. It peaks when Maebelle tries to give me a hug while I'm trying to get the young 'uns' dinner together and I snap at her to "Leave off for God's sake, Maebelle! Jesus H. Christ!", set a cheap plastic dish down so hard that it cracks in half. Of course she immediately bursts into tears and I have to waste even more energy comforting her, pretending to give a flyin' fuck about her little hurt feelings.

Finally the kids are in bed and I can really stop for a minute, collapse on the ground outside the trailer, and just let my body go limp. I lie there aching and hopefully healing enough to get through my shift at the diner tomorrow morning, but even though my body is quiet my mind is still going. After blowing up at Maebelle my anger has evened out somewhat and now instead of a crackling storm of rage I feel a cool intense white glow inside me, in my core, like a live wire just waiting, daring for someone to get near and get completely fried.

I'm gonna get back at him for this. Gonna get back at him. Gonna get back at him. Gonna get back at him, I find myself repeating over and over and over again. As I lie there in a heap of sore limbs I think about all the shit that asshole has put me through. Cornering me with his friends whenever they could, beating up on me regularly. Never anything nearly as bad as this, but the constant dread, constant looking over my shoulder, the constant humiliation of it, being held down, the constant reminder of being weak and powerless. And now this. Beating me up would have been bad enough, even with the bloody nose, but the piss, all over me, all over my face... Don't think about that, Jesse, boy. Goddamn that mother fucker. Goddamn him.

Well, good for you, Dusty, you've pushed your punchin' bag to the breaking point. Ain't you gonna be surprised when your punchin' bag turns 'round and punches you back. My momma was always so meek. She was always telling me to keep my head down, heed the Good Book, turn the other cheek whenever anyone said anything or did anything hurtful to us. What a steaming hot load of horseshit. The Bible also says "an eye for an eye", momma. "An eye for an eye." I'm not gonna take it lyin' down anymore, momma. Never again.

Even though I'm exhausted as hell and know I should get to bed to heal, that cold white rage that's made a permanent home in my belly fuels me and keeps me wide awake. I remember the old rusted Bowie knife I'd found in a trash heap when a trailer near us left about a year ago. I'd half buried it a ways from our trailer so the young 'uns wouldn't find it, and now I drag my aching body to take a look at it. It's bigger than I remember, its blade maybe a good nine or ten inches. At the time I thought it might be fun to play around with it, but now I've got different plans. I can scrub the hilt to get the crap off of it, and there's gotta be a way to get the rust off the blade. I'll ask Ray at the diner. He'd know.

I spend that entire long sleepless night sitting up, brooding, just holding that knife in my hand. Swinging it in the air every once in a while, imagining all the things I could do with it, all the things I could do to him. Blue, who'd been smart to steer clear of me earlier, has come up to me and is lying close. Normally my dog is my best friend and being with her would relax me, but even she can't distract me from my one and only focus right now: that asshole, my knife, payback, an eye for an eye.

Gonna get back at him for this. Gonna get back at him. Gonna get back at him. Gonna get back at him. Gonna get back at him...