And finally...

Here's the end of this chapter. Longish, but done and I know what to follow it with, now...

-------

After his outburst, Demian grew quiet. Just lay in his bed, gazing out the window and saying nothing, for hours. Unmoving except to make use of the bedpan...which soon became unnecessary because he stopped eating or drinking. He had surrendered to the inevitable and now just awaited its arrival. Sometimes he would still weep, but that had no effect on Simon. 

That was when he brought in his sketchbook, something he hadn’t touched since escaping Demian, and worked up lightly detailed images of the man. Cheeks sunken in more. Eyes more intense and wide. Skin drawn tight. Hands merely bones. Lips unable to meet. Each sketch capturing exactly what he looked like, though pen and ink. 

Once, Demian had shifted to look at him, seen the pad and his pen at work, and sighed before returning his gaze to the window. 

Simon just kept sketching. 

He took his vacation time so he could be there constantly, and he kept in contact with Yolanda. He would need her for the final part. 

Which came a week before Thanksgiving. That morning, Demian did not open his eyes. His breathing was ragged. His hands trembled as his fingers stretched out to grasp at nothing. Simon called Yolanda and she came to stay with him while he dropped by the store to let them know he would return a few days early. They were happy to hear it; the mall was already busy with Christmas shoppers. 

Then when he arrived home, Yolanda greeted him with, “He be gone before two days. Maybe tomorrow.” 

Simon nodded. “I’ll be up all night with him.” 

She sighed. “I let coroner know to look for your call. Here is number.” 

“Not a funeral home?” 

“You know one to accept him?” He shook his head. She put a hand to his arm. “They will come for him. Do what it is they do for men like him...” 

“Cremate him?” 

“No, that you arrange. Does he have money?” 

Simon chuckled. “I’ll pay for it.” And almost added, It will be worth it. 

She nodded. “You are good man, Mr. Halloran.” 

“No, I’m not,” was his instant reply. And he still believed that, even today. 

Not that he had ever really been bad. He had just...had just kept himself separate from the world and its dangers. He’d wanted no chance of a repeat with another Demian. 

The one positive aspect of the man’s suffering was, it actually did help Simon with those he tended to, afterwards. Other men who were slowly dying. Men who hadn’t been selfish monsters or sadistic beasts. Who had sought love...given love...and now were being destroyed by that love. His empathy went deep with them. Men whose families had cut them off. Like his own had. The very people who should have supported them. 

He came to believe such families were cowards. Filthy, hateful people who thought more of their position in their tiny community than those who needed them most. Who chose to believe lies. Who gladly fell in with assholes who called this a divine punishment, and conveniently ignored how it was merely a venereal disease, like syphilis or gonorrhea. 

Both of which had also once been fatal. 

He tended to these men as gently as a mother might. Listened to their regrets. To the dreams they once had. The lives they’d expected. The men they’d loved. Or hated. Or both. What cut into him the deepest was how...no matter what they said, no matter what their condition or situation, they seemed to have lived lives far richer than he had ever allowed himself to. Been far more decent and human than he. Been who they wanted to be and built new families and made friends, despite the hate cast their way. Friends who were now showing up for them and helping them in any way they could. 

 These men had lived as human beings out in the open instead of just existing in the shadows, licking their wounds like a cat or dog after a fight. They could tell Simon anything and know he would keep their secrets. And if needed, know he would be willing to go to their homes, once they were in hospice, and saint their rooms so the family that had rejected them wouldn’t be too horrified at what they found. He brought cookies and cupcakes and light salads made of fruit or carrots or macaroni, along with old movies to watch on VHS. He also talked them through depressions and...and on two occasions, remained silent when they confided they could handle the pain and heartache no longer. 

He was able to do all of this without judgement, thanks to having survived Demian’s hatefulness. With them, he felt a gentle coil of soft understanding make him part of each one. Until the day came where the disease was minimized in its horror and its death toll collapsed. When the world could accept it was nothing more than a chronic illness and begin to provide for them as it moved on to its next target of disapproval. 

And when Demian had finally drifted into a stillness that almost seemed unreal, it was so simple and easy it took Simon a few minutes to understand he was gone.

Now he’d thought he could relax. And had. And all had been fine. So long as he’d been in his own little world. But the second he stepped away from it... 

The second he’d come to this goddamned town. 

Simon looked around the bathroom, which would have been considered out of date in the Eighties. So cold and uncaring. No character to it, unlike his bathroom at home. A home he never should have left. 

He sighed...then drained much of the now cool water and refilled the tub with hot. He wasn’t ready to leave the tender feeling of lying there. Wasn’t willing to turn away from the thoughts that came to him. Questions he had. 

Why had he photographed that bastard cop? Why let his guard down? It’s not like he needed the photo; he had plenty from his online searches, any of them good to work with...to paint. 

True, Paley’s face was nice and he was well-built, but Simon had hundred...thousands of images of men who were better looking. Granted, the picture he’d made, posing under that street lamp...it had been truly elegant. And he could now acknowledge the man carried a vague resemblance to Demian. Very vague, Simon told himself, because Paley was far more muscular. And all of it was in proportion. And he’d sensed no warning signals. Had he been fool enough to think he could move freely in the world, now? 

No...it had been that cold, cruel flash of condescension and disdain in the man's eyes when he’d noticed Simon looking at him. Like he was thinking, I know what you want, faggot. Make me an offer. 

Which had caught Simon’s full attention...to the point he actually considered doing it just to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off the man’s face. He had cash with him, back at the hotel, and wouldn't mind feeling a man, again. And money always had a voice in negotiations with his type. 

At least that was what he’d always thought. 

But now he had to admit that hate could be just as great a motivator. That bastard's actions had proven it.

And Simon was self-aware enough to admit he had also proven that...with Demian.

He chuckled in the bath. 

Perhaps this was karma from it, coming back on him.

More honesty...

I don't know if this hits as hard as I want it to, but....

------

It took Demian a moment to say, “You really hate me that much?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why? We had some good times!” 

“You had some good times.” 

“What d’you mean?” 

“What I said.” 

“You’re fuckin’ ridiculous. I...I was gorgeous. Best lookin’ guy in the whole fuckin’ state. Country. I could fuck anybody I wanted. Any man, no matter how straight he said he was.” 

Simon almost snarled, Yes, I heard about that Persian pilot. Gossip was, he’d deliberately crashed his jet after Demian was done with him. 

“I’d fuck any man I wanted to,” Demian had almost whined. “Fuck anybody I wanted to.” 

“I remember.” 

“You know why I chose you? Let your skinny ass into my group?” 

“Was my ass skinny or perky? Make up your mind.” 

That confused Demian. His mind drifted as he said, “Looked good in those white disco pants. Looked like fun.” 

Simon rolled his eyes. He had never owned white disco pants, but he knew what Demian meant. “I was a toy. A party favor.” 

“What?” 

“I can see that, now.” 

“No...no...I...I liked you, lots.” 

“You liked fucking me,” Simon said, his voice still even and calm. “And me sucking you off. And rimming you. And then sharing me with your friends. Buddies. Assholes you met on the street. You cared for me about as much as you’d care for a blow-up doll. Took me a long time to accept it. And I hated myself for letting you.” 

The snarl returned to Demian’s voice. “An’ now you hate me...” 

“Yes.” A word so soft and gentle yet still a knife to the man’s heart. 

Demian leaned forward. “Fine! Fine...fine...you feel like that? Then stay the fuck away from me!” 

“No.” 

That startled Demian. “What d’you mean?” 

“I want to be here when you die.” 

“You...what?” 

“I want to know for certain you are dead.” 

“That's sick...”

Simon merely shrugged.

“I...I...I’ll make you go! I’ll get a lawyer and...and a restrainin’ order...” 

“Go ahead. See what good it does you. If you can find one who doesn’t think you’re slipping into dementia.” 

Demian was breathing hard, now, lost from the exertion of his anger. It took him several minutes to say, “You really want to...to...?” 

“Yes,” Simon murmured. “And considering how you’ve deteriorated, over the last few days, it won’t be too long, now.” 

Demian lay back, seriously confused. He was one of those people who took full pleasure in dancing with his lies, but had never been the sharpest man when it came to honest commentary. And now his left hand was grasping at air, as if he were trying to reach something...or someone. 

“We...we had some good times...” he muttered, more to himself than Simon. 

“No...you did.” His voice plain and simple, but with the hint of a snarl to it.

Demian howled and threw his still-full cup of soup at Simon. Some of it splattered over him and the cup shattered. It was still hot but only stung a little; didn’t burn. 

“You’re pathetic!” Demian screamed. 

Simon just sighed, grabbed what was left of the paper towels and began cleaning up the mess. 

As he worked, Demian continued with, “You got no balls. No backbone. No dick worth suckin’ on. Takin’ care of a man you hate ‘cause you used to love him.” 

“I never loved you,” Simon replied, surprisingly calm. “I lusted for you. Obsessed over you. Grew afraid I’d lose you. Till you went too far and I couldn’t ignore reality. But the one thing I’m glad about our time together is, it was never love.” 

“How fuckin’ sick is that? It’s weak. You can’t just walk away. You gotta sneak off. You gotta make sure I’m dead so I can’t make you want me, again. Like I did before. So many times, before. Five times you tried to break it off and each time you crawled back to me. Five fuckin’ times! Like a fuckin’ whimperin’ dog.” 

“Four times. This time doesn’t count.” 

“Oh, yeah? Yeah? Why not?” 

“Because it’s not about sex or fear. It's just a need for verification.” 

“You’re a fuckin’ monster.” Demian was close to tears. “It makes you laugh, seein’ me in pain.” 

“No. But it does make me feel good. Knowing there’s some form of justice in the world.” 

That twisted the knife.

Demian just lay back, as if in defeat. 

Simon had finished cleaning so sat back in his chair with his cup of soup, now merely warm. He knew he was treating the man inhumanely, but it was what it was. And seeing him speed closer and closer to the end...being both pleased it was coming and wanting it not to come too quickly...Simon was far too honest to not accept it all as evil within himself.

And did not care.

Blunt honesty...

I think this chapter is too long. More than 4000 words. But I can't find a natural breaking point.

So here's more of it...

-------

“Bullshit,” Demian snapped. “You loved it. Three guys. Fucking you up the ass. You loved it. Never saw you cum that much. I’ve still got the Polaroids of your ugly little dick shooting your cum. Wanna see ‘em?” 

Simon put a blanket over Demian’s lap, murmuring, “No.” 

“You got the weirdest dick. People wouldn’t believe me when I told ‘em so showed ‘em and...” 

Simon almost froze, again. “You...you showed that to people?” 

“Sure,” the man snickered. “I bet it still is...” 

He grabbed at Simon’s crotch, but his hands were smacked away. “So that’s what you liked about me.” 

“You fuckin’ kiddin’? That’s why I never...” 

“Not for sex. It’s what helped you control me.” 

“Who else was gonna deal with shit like that? 'Specially a guy who looks like me. Lucky you had a perky little ass. Skinny boys with perky asses. Love ‘em. Not a lot of meat there, but...but yours. Man, I’d never seen skin so white. Still white?” 

He grabbed at Simon’s waist and pulled at his belt. Simon twisted away, took in a deep breath and turned to stripping the bed. 

Demian continued with, “Nobody liked it as much as you, since.” 

“Being raped?” How Simon kept his voice even and cool amazed him. 

Demian choked out a laugh. “Ain’t rape if you cum.” 

“Yeah. Right.” 

A plastic cover had protected the mattress so all it needed was wiping off and cleaning with Lysol and eucalyptus oil. Then fresh sheets and everything made nice. 

Throughout, Demian remained silent. Watched him. Almost malevolently. 

Simon helped him back into the bed, which now had an additional plastic pad, then set some water boiling to scald the cleaning utensils and to make some instant chicken soup for them to eat. They both liked it mixed with onion soup. 

And throughout, he refused to let himself think about anything except what he was doing, moment to moment. 

When he finally brought the steaming cups in, one for Demian, one for himself, the man cast him a vicious glare. “You hate me, don’t you?” his voice a snarl as he accepted the cup. His hands were shaking. His lips quivered. But even now, as pale as his eyes were, they held enough anger and contempt to freeze a charging rhino. 

Simon knew...intellectually knew he should feel sorry for Demian. His mind was deteriorating quickly. His emotions out of control. Facing something he probably hadn’t thought would come for him till he was old and ready for it. But Simon was beyond any sort of empathy for the man. 

Instead, as he sat in the chair, he said, “Yes.” Surprised at himself for being so honest. And calm. 

Demian seemed not to notice. “Those stupid cunts they keep sendin’. For Home Care. Fuckin’ dykes who hate men. You can feel it. They got that stupid baby talk. How’re we doin’ today? Are we hungry? Now, Demian, all you had to do was tell me you needed to do poopsies. Got a bedpan, right here. Fuckin’ thing is cold as fuckin’ ice. They don’t last long when I start on ‘em, ‘cause they don’t really give a shit. They ain’t bothered by this disease. Think it’s good for men to have it. We deserve it. Just like the fuckin’ preachers yell about. And fuckin’ politicians. Homophobic cunts.” 

Simon just sipped at his soup. He’d heard this, before...just not all at once. 

Demian’s glare went dark. “But you. No nice talk. No nothin’. Just get it done and let me wallow in my thoughts. I keep askin’ myself why you do it. You ran from me. Fuckin’ left town. Not a word an’ you were gone. That hurt.” 

“Good.” The word whispered from him like an afterthought. 

Now the man snarled like a cornered animal. “I bet I know why you’re here. Why you do it. I bet I really know. Why you take care of me. You wanna see me suffer. Wanna see me die. May even help it along...” 

Simon shook his head. “That would be too easy.” 

Which made Demian blink, in shock. As if he finally understood Simon’s meaning. “You...you do want me to suffer?” 

“Yes.” It was time for absolute honesty. And Simon was ready for it.

More of that memory...

This is taking an interesting path into Simon's capacity for hate...

---------

Simon just aimed the water over all of Demian’s body and even shot some up to his rectum until the worst of it was gone down the drain. Then he squirted some pHisoHex soap onto his hand and smoothed it over the man’s emaciated arms and back and ass, carefully brushing extra amounts on the lesions. 

Arms that had once been so powerful. 

A back that had been so broad and defined. 

An ass...well, it had never been really round but nice to look at and...and... 

Simon grimaced and focused on cleaning Demian’s chest...

Which used to be so lovely and full, hair dancing across what was now white, barren skin and bleeding lesions. And his belly...once so flat and real, curving in smooth ways with a treasure trail of beauty, now bloated and marked with bruising and scars. 

And his genitals. Remembering how he’d once worshiped the man’s dick, and felt a twinge of sadness at how wrinkled and sickly it now appeared. 

And, to his surprise, a bit of joy at how it was now ruined...considering the things that man had done to him, with it. 

He continued down his legs, once full and elegant but now mere bones, focusing on more lesions. For Demian’s face, he rubbed a bar of Dove in a washcloth and gently stroked it around his eyes and over his cheeks and forehead, going lightly over he lesion at his temple to keep it from breaking, before dabbing all of the soap away. 

Demian was now quiet. Compliant. Almost seemed to weep. That was unsettling. Simon had never seen a tear in the man’s eyes, before. Nor had he ever seen the skin so tight around them. 

Finally, he focused on cleaning the man’s feet. Still recognizable as Demian’s. Washing between his toes and ignoring the cruel changes in his nails. 

Until he heard the man say, “There’s more.” 

Simon reached up to turn his ass towards the drain... And a stream of red-tinted fluid all but shot from him. Internal bleeding. He hadn’t thought to check for that in Demian’s shit. Not that it mattered, at this late stage. 

He used the shower to wash it away and cast a look of question up to him. 

“For now,” the man said. His expression a mixture of pain and sadness and embarrassment. 

Simon washed his ass and legs, again, then dried him off, spread some preparation H onto folded toilet paper and pressed it up to Demian’s anus. Finally had him step into a pair of Hanes briefs. It wasn’t easy. 

Demian muttered, “What good’ll this do?” 

“Contain some of it. Unless you want a diaper. I can ask about getting some Depends.” 

His voice was a near groan when he said, “You like treating me as if I’m a baby, don’t you?” 

“Sit on the chair. I’ll clean the bed.” 

“Just use Saran wrap. That’d keep the shit contained.” 

Simon’s heart almost stopped. 

As did his breathing. 

And he flashed back to... 

That day he had come home late. He’d closed the newsstand and was dog-tired...and found Demian was waiting for him. Used his key to get in. Had some friends with him. 

“About damn time you showed up,” Demian had snapped. 

 Then they had pounced on him. Carried him into the bedroom. Wound Saran Wrap around his torso and his knees. Trapping his legs, arms by his sides, and even used it to gag him. Left him fully dressed. 

Demian had unzipped Simon's pants and pulled out his dick to toy with then yanked down the back of his pants and briefs for access to his ass. 

And to have his fun. 

Hard and rough and mean...almost hateful... 

His friends followed. Each in turn. Until a vibrator was shoved up into him and used to force an ejaculation as one of them... 

One had pulled at... 

Simon jolted back to lying in the tub. He sloshed about to break the building chaos and covered his eyes. He all but keened in pain. That was one more nightmare memory he had long fought away from his brain. 

He thought. 

But Dillon Walstead had triggered its return. Caused many of them to come slashing into him. If he thought he had hated Demian, that was nothing compared to his loathing of that bastard little Assistant District Attorney. 

And his associate. 

They were monsters, to him. 

Evil and cruel. 

Monstrous.

He finally drained the tub a little then refreshed the water with some that was hot. Nearly scalding hot. Anything to refocus his mind. 

It didn’t work. He still drifted back to... 

Demian on that day. Barely strong enough to sit upright on the chair. So little of his skin left on his bones. 

Simon managed to whisper, “I’m never doing that, no matter how much you want it.” 

Demian managed to sneer at him. “Why not? You got off on it.” 

Simon took a long deep breath so he could respond, “Not willingly.” 

And again, the fucking memory of that fucking night filtered back. Unable to move. Completely helpless as they...as they... 

No! 

No. 

What was important about that night was how Simon had already begun planning his escape. Everything with Demian had been based on his wants, not Simon’s. He wasn’t happy unless he was forcing Simon to do something he hated doing. And the fact that he’d kept going along with it. That he couldn’t stop accepting the sadistic behavior of the man. Over and over. It still cut into him. His self-loathing. 

All he could do to stop it was slip away, silently, because he couldn’t take it, anymore. 

Because that night he’d started hoping Demian would just end him...and only knowing he had himself set up in Houston had kept him going.

Another memory...

I'm not sure where this will be positioned, yet. After the first day of the trial? Or before? Or once he's been released from jail? But Simon recalls caring for Alain, despite everything, for very selfish reasons.

NOTE: I'd changed Alain's name to Demian but forgot when I was working this up. Demian fits him, better, so in the next bit that is who he is.

-------

Drifting in the tub as hot water poured in, Simon half-floated as he drifted back to... 

A quiet day in the book store. The shelves neat. No bickering between the manager and owner. The mall just beginning to consider the mad rush to Thanksgiving and Christmas. All so lovely until... 

Yolanda called, her voice tight with fury. She was Alain's day nurse.

“I will accept much abuse from sick men, Mr. Halloran,” she gasped out, “but to have shit thrown at me? No. No. Never.”

Simon merely sighed and told her he’d be straight there. He let the manager know he needed to leave early, and she was fine with it. She understood the situation, having a nephew caught by the disease. Then he went to the hotel attached to the mall, hopped a taxi, and arrived at Alain’s duplex barely fifteen minutes after Yolanda’s call. 

She was still packing the last of her equipment in her little Plymouth wagon. “You come fast,” she said, the moment she saw him exit the taxi. “I thought I would be away.” 

“Was it just the shit?” Simon asked. 

“That was the last of the straw. It was words...evil words as I only try to clean him.” 

“Being his usual asshole self...” 

"I know his mind is not good but..." She hesitated then quietly said, “Never do I pray people die. Him? I make exception.” 

Simon actually chuckled. “He will, eventually.” 

“Not eventually enough. I am sorry, Mr. Halloran, I hate to leave him with you only, but I see why I am told he should die alone...” She bit her lip, suddenly ashamed. “I should not have told you that.” 

Simon shrugged. “I won’t let that happen.” 

Confusion crossed her face. “Is he so much better for you? With you?” 

He smiled and said, “I’m used to him.” 

“You are good man. I pray for you.” Then she hugged him, got in her car and all but peeled away. Which was impressive for that little Reliant. 

Simon watched her go then went inside. It stank of shit, but he was used to that. He stopped in the kitchenette for a roll of paper towels and Lysol, ran water in a pail, then carried it all into the bedroom to find... 

Alain half-sitting on his bed, shaking, his right arm outstretched and his hand dripping from a fresh explosion of the filthy stuff. 

He glared at Simon. “You took your fuckin’ time.” 

First, Simon set his things on a chair, pulled on his rubber gloves, took a length of paper towels and wiped Alain’s hand clean. Well...as clean as he could, right then. The sheets were stained from it, as were the pillows. This had been a bad one, despite the covers and pajama bottoms. 

“Get these fuckin’ things off me,” Alain snapped, pulling at the drawstring with weak fingers. 

Simon shoved the covers to the floor and pulled the bottoms off by gripping the few spots as yet untouched. Then he helped Alain rise to his feet and guided him into the bathroom. Lifted him into the tub one leg at a time. Finally leaned him against the step-stool to keep him standing and set the water to running. 

“I want to sit...” Alain growled. 

“In a moment.” 

“I told you...!” But the water was now warm and Simon was using the shower hose to spray him, which removed much of the fecal matter. And obviously felt good. Something even Alain could not complain about. The man actually seemed to sigh.

For a moment. Then he snapped, "I'm standing in shit, you son-of-a-bitch."

MQM

Oh, my God, the part of Simon's story I'm working on, right now, is so flat and boring it's putting me to sleep. Not that it takes so much for that to happen, these days. But still...

It's the beginning of the story but I feel like I'm serving up plain, non-fat yoghurt. With as much consistency. I think I'm going to dump what I have and start over, completely.

I mean, it sort of starts out okay. But so very A-B-C...

-----

Simon did not want to go. 

He had been asked to catalogue a small book collection, which he had done many times in the past for dealers and clients, but on this occasion something inside him said, Refuse the job. Do not do it. Stay home and deal with the myriad other things you have to do. So many...things. List of things. To do. Make a list to...to prove you have a list of things to do. On top of that, do not forget that every time you’ve ignored this feeling, you’ve regretted it. So do not go. 

But reality has this cold manner of dragging you, kicking and screaming, into a simple understanding...the money was needed. Simon was living on his Social Security check, and he had just repaired the brakes on his Honda CRV. That had depleted his savings below a level he was comfortable with. Of top of it, when one reaches an age where you’re considered elderly, decent employment is not easy to come by. Payment for this job would provide enough to ease his concerns. 

So he shrugged that voice off...and by the time he realized he should have listened to it, he was way past too late. 

His phone rang as he was working on a new painting...a commission for a client who'd bought two of his works. Both stark black and white acrylics on canvas, of single male figures partially dressed. The man had sent him a photograph of himself and his lover, and wanted this piece to make to join with the others in a triptych. Which Sion did...and it had turned out well enough.

Two men in an embrace, from the hips up, front three-quarter angle. One with his back to the wall. Left arm dropped to his side. His shirt open to reveal a full chest with hair. His face turned away from the other...

Whose shirt was buttoned and who was trying to kiss him. His right hand was around the man’s waist with his face lost in darkness. The shadows were sharp against the white of their shirts and bodies.

To Simon, the pose offered up an interesting tension. Want on the part of the one kissing; rejection on the part of the other. Lovely and only awaiting his signature...a dash of blood red. Like on all of his paintings.

But nowhere seemed right for it. 

If he put it on the man who was looking away, at the base of his jawline, it could look like the kissing man’s nose was bleeding. Not what he wanted. 

If he put it along his lip, it would seem as if they’d had a fight and were trying to make up. Also not his preference. 

The man against the wall had his eyes focused away from the other...and they were sad. The dash of red there would offer the same impression. Which Simon didn't think was really wanted or needed or demanded by the work.

So on his chest? No. That would be seen as a stabbing wound, and he did not want it to be linked solely to violence. 

So the call was a welcome distraction. Didn’t hurt it was Olivier Deskin, an antiquarian book dealer in London he’d known since his first year in this aspect of the book business. He had done jobs for Olivier before so it seemed an opportune way to cushion his financial situation.

But still that voice was howling, No, no, no...

The Vanishing of Owen Taylor...

 I love how this book came together. Taking a secondary character from Rape in Holding Cell 6 and making him a badass investigating the disappearance of his gay uncle. What's even more fun to me about it is...I got the name, Owen Taylor, from The Big Sleep. Because he vanished from the story.

This scene is the closest we get to seeing or knowing Owen, in the movie. He kills a man who's misusing a girl he's got a crush on, and this is his way of protecting her...but it gets him killed immediately after. We never see his body; just his feet running down some stairs.

I felt that was a disservice to him. Just a crazy kid in love with the wrong woman. So when I started thinking about my book and making it into a murder mystery, his name fit it so perfectly it's like he was calling to me. And it made the title almost evocative. 

I did not know what the story was going to be when I began writing, aside from Jake having to travel to Palm Springs to find his missing uncle. It just...it fell together in ways I'm still very proud of. And what's even better, the politics and legal aspects of the book...where a shadowy anti-gay group called PSALMS is undermining the gay community...still fit today.

I use this to remind me that if I trust the story it will come together. I'm fighting to keep from falling into my old habit of thinking what I'm doing is stupid and makes no sense, with MQM. But VoT is a very complicated mystery that does everything right and I had not planned it out the way it went.

I threw out lots of pages that went nowhere...and just need to remember that's going to happen, again, with MQM until it all falls into place. Just trust the process...

Even as you whine.,

MQM moves forward in bits...

The last of this chapter....

-------

Kenneth screamed like a little girl and danced away. His pack swirled around, shocked and confused and bleating like startled sheep. The monitors roared over to find blood spewing and the pencil wiggling in Kenneth’s bicep and saw Leon pointing at Simon, crying, “He did it! He did it!” 

Simon made himself look as shocked as he could and said, “He pushed me and my arm jerked.” 

Which carried no weight with anyone. He was hustled off to the principal as Kenneth was gently guided to the nurse, crying and wailing and certain that he was going to die. 

The principal berated Simon, viciously. Obviously, this was attempted murder and that was simply not acceptable. His parents were called in. Kenneth’s parents were called in. The police were called in. All of them milling about in the man’s already tight and tiny office, snarling and smoking and threatening a life of misery on the boy. 

Who sat impassively in the middle of it all, saying over and over, “He pushed me and my arm jerked.” 

Kenneth’s mother finally took him to a nearby hospital to be tended to as his father continued to threaten Simon with assault charges. He was close to being hauled off to juvenile detention...

Until Leon finally yelled at him, “Shut up, dumbell, he didn’t push you that hard!” 

In front of the cops. 

Who looked at him, warily, then began to question not only him but the rest of Kenneth’s pack... 

Who stupidly acknowledged they’d been ganging up on Simon by sneering about how he had refused to fight back. 

One officer rode over to the ER and questioned Kenneth. Who whined that he’d only given the little bastard (his very words) a light nudge. Effectively verifying Leon’s claim. 

And Simon’s. 

The policemen now viewed Simon’s actions as more like an accident...though one sent a sly thumbs-up to him, as if acknowledging he had acted in self-defense. Now boys being boys was giving him cover. So no charges were filed. 

Kenneth’s father howled at that decision and unbuckled his thick belt, snarling he was going to teach this little queer not to attack his son. Both cops put a harsh, loud end to that. The principal mollified the man by agreeing to suspend Simon for another two weeks. That was the most they could do. 

Again, that was not a punishment. Simon had already elected to attend an inner city school, next year, where he knew no one. So let them do their worst. 

What was even better? While he was gone, Kenneth came back with his arm bandaged like a war wound. Still king of his beasts. And he led them into taking their frustrations out on little Charles. Right under the noses of the monitors, who continued on with their boys will be boys nonsense. 

Until the kid was driven into hysterics and ran off the school grounds, headed for a nearby junkyard. 

The monitors tried to catch him but couldn’t. Nor could they find him. They had to call in the police and his parents. Everyone searched for hours. It was only his mother’s voice that made Charles come out of hiding, then he was taken home by her. 

His father stayed behind, tall, cool and well-contained as he took the principal aside. He was a lawyer and knew exactly what legal threats to make...and all very quietly.

Kenneth and his pack were shifted to a school for juvenile offenders. Problem kids. Where the teachers kept a sharp eye on them and did not hesitate to whip out a nice thick paddle to emphasize their orders. 

Including on Lorraine. 

So Simon received his first real lesson in life –- that no matter how big and strong and mean they think they are, if you sit quietly and let them yammer on they will give you a way to stop them. 

As had happened with Dillon. He thought he was the big boy. Cajoling with his pathetic deal offers and backing up his demands with threats of imprisonment. Simon remaining calm and cool and gentle with his words, refusing to let himself lose control, drove the man crazy. And gave him his counter-attack.

That Dillon had managed to talk the judge into a continuance to give him time to review the situation only proved him to be weak. And gave Simon another avenue to attack them both.

Let them spin and hiss and spit all they wanted. Simon was not willing to be bullied. 

Question was, how long would they keep going before they realized he would never back down? And to what degree would it escalate?

Quiet response, maximum damage...

More of Simon's memory...

------

Unfortunately, his time away also gave Kenneth and Leon the chance to expand their pack, which now included a girl who was on Simon’s school bus. Lorraine Ryan. Well-developed, already, and showing it off under carefully teased brown hair and carefully made up brown eyes. 

In the mornings, she got on the bus before he did and always sat in the back, but the Monday he returned, on the bus home, she made sure to get on after him. 

He’d already dealt with Kenneth and his pack during recess, twice. But he’d been smart enough to stay near the monitors so they couldn’t get too wild and crazy. And he’d refused to respond to them, in any way. Just locked eyes on Kenneth as he howled and spit words Simon didn’t really understand. 

Calling him homo...which, at the time, he thought meant homogenized milk, like it was a reference to how pale his skin was. And queer, which meant odd and he acknowledged he was not what was considered normal for a kid. It wasn’t till high school that he understood what was really being said. 

But Lorraine never said a word to him. Even after she got on the bus...and turned a ring with a large stone in it around under her right fingers...and smacked him in the head with it. 

He told her not to do that, but she just snickered and continued to the back seat where her friends held her place. 

This went on through the week, only on the ride home. The driver yelled at him, once, for snapping at her after she smacked him, but never interfered. 

Then on Friday, when she did it, he punched her in the stomach. It was actually a backhanded smack, but it was quick and hard. In response, she hit him, again, with that ring. 

He smacked her, again. 

She hit him, again. 

He didn’t get up. Didn’t say a word. Just smacked her in the stomach, again. 

By this point, there was a line of students behind her, watching, doing nothing as she hit him, again. 

He smacked her, again. 

She hit him, yet again. Harder. 

And this time, blood trailed down his face and startled the other kids. He felt it. Tasted it. Didn’t try to stop it. But he also did not move, in the slightest. So she continued to the back of the bus. 

He was let off at his stop, blood still coming down, as the driver just glared at him and shook his head. When he arrived home, his mother freaked and screamed, “What happened?” He shrugged and went to the bathroom to clean himself off. 

He stayed in his room. Sketched scenes of monsters tearing Kenneth and Leon and Lorraine apart. Limb from limb as cities burned around them. Worked up a couple dozen over the entire weekend. Kept his door locked...not that he needed to. No one ever really bothered him. Even when he came out for meals, no one ever asked him why he’d been bleeding. It’s like it had never happened.

Then came Monday morning...

He got on the bus. Saw Lorraine at the back in her usual seat. Ignoring him. He felt a smirk cross his lips. 

During first recess, he deliberately wandered away from the monitors. Waited for Kenneth and his pack to come roaring up. He stood stock still as they surrounded him. Said not a word as Kenneth and Leon both berated him in language he’d only heard his father use when he’d slammed his thumb with a hammer. 

Simon simply looked at them, unmoved...

Until Kenneth shoved him.

He hadn’t noticed Simon was holding a pencil in his hand.

A new Dixon Ticonderoga #2.

Freshly sharpened to a serious point. 

Simon jolted his hand up and rammed it into the underside of Kenneth’s arm. Hard. 

And it stuck in the muscle.

Memories grow...

I'm not sure where this will fit into Simon's story...but it's about some of his life as a teenage boy. I may have posted something about this, before, but it's now updated...

-------

When he was in eighth grade Simon found he could make a little money by sketching naked women and selling them to the boys at his school, for a dime. In the mid-Sixties, ten cents could buy a soda and candy bar. Couple packets of baseball player bubble gum with cards of players, inside, to trade. Another comic book. 

He used DC comics of Wonder Woman and Supergirl to copy from, and had an Encyclopedia Britannica to use for reference. He’d also found his father’s collection of Playboys and Penthouses in a ratty box up in the crawl space over the back of the garage. They provided pretty photos of nude females to verify how they looked without clothing. 

He didn’t remember what started him doing it, and he never broadcast his offerings, but word got around and he began to make some money off it. His best seller was of a woman standing, holding her hair up. He’d copied her off a Wonder Woman comic. She was full-bodied, legs spread, completely naked...and he had added big round breasts and a dark muff. He sold five copies in one week.

Then a boy he’d always tried to avoid bought one. His name was Kenneth Welchel, who was dark of hair and tan of skin to the point he looked Latino. But his eyes were clear blue, and at a school picnic Simon had overheard his parents talk about being English or Welsh or something, as he was wandering by. Some grandparent had been researching the family tree. They were adamant about not being Mexican. He'd paid little attention because he was more interested in another helping of potato salad and a third RC Cola, on ice. 

Kenneth already looked more adult than the other boys, with hair on his chest and legs, and he had this way of half-smiling that was more of a smirk but surprisingly attractive. He was also something of a rabid brat and had a pack of mongrels who followed him all over the grounds and neighborhood. 

His closest buddy was Leon Smith, who was long, lean, smooth and jokey. Brown hair. A goofy grin that made him the better-looking of the two. But he was nothing unto himself. Whatever Kenneth did, Leon shadowed him.

He’d seen those two harass kids to the point of hysteria as the yard monitors merely looked on. He’d even heard one say to another, “Well...boys will be boys.” That was why he’d avoided them and they had pretty much ignored him. 

Until Kenneth bought that sketch. 

Then he told Simon if he didn’t give him half the money he made, he would turn him into the principal. 

Simon shrugged and told him to go ahead.

He'd laughed and told him to think about it. The next day he repeated the threat, backed up by Leon.

Simon shrugged them off. So...they told the principal and gave him the sketch Kenneth had bought.

Simon was hauled before the man and berated as a pornographer. His parents were called. Everyone was horrified and could not understand how he had turned out so wicked. On and on they went.

Even then, all he did was listen, and would only shrug whenever they stopped wailing long enough to ask him a question. 

He was suspended for two weeks and told if he was ever caught selling sketches like that, again, he’d be expelled. This was supposed to be a punishment, but in truth Simon hated that school. Hated the kids in their packs and the teachers who let the favored ones get away with anything they did. Hated that his art instructor criticized his work in class by sniping it's not on the level of a professional artist. Picking it apart and giving him Bs and B-minuses for any imperfection. Staying home gave him a respite. 

It also gave him time to focus on tearing Kenneth apart, in pencil and pen in a sketchbook he hid under his bed. Drawings of the little bastard being beaten or hanged or beheaded or sacrificed on an Aztec altar. Usually naked. 

Simon made the sketches look as much like Kenneth as possible. He had seen his full body in the showers after gym class. The dent in his left side from having his appendix removed. No foreskin. Light scars on his back from what were probably belts. His parents weren’t known for their even tempers. Not that such knowledge concerned Simon. It only made him happier to torture him, even more.

And sense that he was, possibly, falling in love with him. Which made no sense. Only girls fell in love with boys...

Didn't they?