"Gifune, Greg F. - obedient flies (SS)(txt)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gifune Greg F)

By the time sheТd turned back to ask him if he needed anything, heТd fallen asleep.
In the ten years since sheТd fled PotterТs Cove with four years worth of waitressing tips, a bag of clothes, the beginnings of a portfolio, and her camera, for what she perceived as the ambiguous safety of the metropolis, there had been other brief relationships, but nothing of value. A small town girl who had embraced the city, Lydia soon learned that the city did not embrace one back. It existed instead as a living entity with its own needs and desires, its own will, its own wrath.
A welcome isolation followed, along with a sense of freedom she had not enjoyed in some time. Freedom to resume her portfolio, to pursue her art, her passion without the false hope and fleeting promises of perpetual strangers masked as friends or lovers occupying space and ripping away chunks of her she only realized were missing once theyТd gone. Expending the energy to reconstruct herself from scraps like some urban scarecrow was pointless. Open wounds and bleeding hearts healed, but only to a point. That was, after all, what scars were for.
And then she found Devon, with his small but sinewy frame, shock of spiked, bleached blond hair and the greenest eyes sheТd ever seen. They sat together in the center of her living room floor on throw pillows, surrounded by candles while a James Taylor CD played softly from the stereo speakers. They had left the club together just after closing, stopped at an all-night Chinese dive for noodles then settled at LydiaТs apartment. Devon had a few joints, and together with a bottle of cheap wine they got hammered there on the floor, talking about everything and anything, sometimes laughing, sometimes teetering on the verge of tears.
Lydia had photographed him that night; occasionally snapping a shot here or there as the night wore on and gradually became morning. Like Lydia, he had left home early and abruptly, already aware of his need to escape the restrictive confines of small town life. But for Devon, with little education and no job skills, he had turned to hustling, then dancing, then a combination of the two. Yet he still maintained a child-like demeanorЧinnocence almostЧfrom the way his eyes blinked to his quiet laugh to his soft voice and unconscious mannerisms. HeТd also been fascinated with her photography. It made most people uncomfortable, her constant need to lug the camera around, but Devon had thought it enchanting from the start, and so she opened up to him and discussed things she had never spoken about with anyone.
The decision for him to move in had been an easy one. HeТd been staying with an older man, a regular patron of the club who had taken him in, but Devon had grown tired of the tradeoff and welcomed the chance to live with someone who wanted nothing more from him than loyalty and genuine friendship.
Once exposed and drawn deeper into the true essence of LydiaТs art, heТd asked, УHow did it start? Where did it all begin?Ф
And it was then that she did something she never dreamed she could.
She showed him the portfolio.
Lydia slammed shut the door on those memories and found herself back in the present, moving toward her bedroom. She went to the closet, and from a shelf retrieved the lock box containing her portfolio. Once on the bed, she unlocked it with a key she wore around her neck on a delicate chain, flipped open the lid and stared down at the leather bound photo album.
There was no need to open it just yet. Arranged in chronological order, she knew each piece it contained by heart, down to the minutest detail. The early entries were Polaroid pictures she had taken with an instant camera, a gift from an out of town aunt she seldom saw but received gifts and cards from on holidays. A present for her thirteenth birthday, Lydia had at first been disinterested in the gift, but over time, experimenting now and then, she soon began to understand its potential. And then its power.
Slush and snow painted the bedroom windows, reminding her of how it had clung to tree branches that day so many years before. The forest behind their home transformed into a frosty landscape of ice and snowЧbarren, silent, still, pale. Like the dead. A day when school had been cancelled and children took to the streets to build snowmen, to sled, to ice skate on nearby frozen cranberry bogs, and a day when she had decided to venture into the forest with her new camera, hoping to capture it on film. A day when she had positioned herself on a large boulder, and, inhaling the crisp fresh air, scanned the surrounding trees in search of her first shot.
How did it start? Where did it all begin?
Lydia set the album aside with a sigh and stared at her hands. Rings on nearly every finger, nails natural and void of polish or color, ashen skin stretched tight over bone. Narrow wrists cloaked in countless silver bracelets, which led to thin arms and delicate shoulders. She slowly brought her hands to her face. Where had the time gone in those twenty years since her thirteenth birthday? Glancing at the portfolio, her question was answered. A quiet moan seeped in from the living room, but she ignored it. Devon, still only twenty-two, would never experience a moment like this. A moment where one still felt relative youth and vibrancy while afforded the luxury of gazing back over the course of many years. But she had given Devon a gift of greater depth and lasting value. УWe know the truth,Ф she said softly, fingers tracing the edge of the album. УDonТt we, Dev.Ф

Footsteps crunching the snow and leaves beneath echoed through the forest, the sound intrusive in an otherwise hushed atmosphere. Sitting on the boulder, cradled by a ring of birch trees, spindly branches stripped and weighted with frozen snow, Lydia cocked her head, watching, listening, even then knowing there was something about the sound that signaled urgency. She held her position, her hiding place, and focused on two indistinct forms darting through a dense patch of trees in the distance, their breath escaping them in billows of rolling steam. The smaller of the two, the one in the lead, staggered into the clearing, nearly lost his footing then looked around in a frantic spinning motion. Lydia squinted through watery eyes at Kyle Watson, a boy from the neighborhood two years younger than she. Even at a distance of perhaps fifty feet, she could see the fear in his eyes and the frenetic rise and fall of his small chest. From behind him emerged the second figure, and Kyle made a break for it, but caught his foot on something and lurched forward, face-first into the snow.
Todd Mantrich grinned and sauntered triumphantly toward his fallen prey. A boy she had grown up with and gone to school with, Lydia knew Todd as the violent and sadistic bully he had always been. Held back twice, he was fifteen while the rest of his class had just turned thirteen, and Todd lived on the wrong side of town, the poor side, where the houses were not neat and proper and presentable, with manicured lawns and paved driveways. His home was more of a shack, with a dirt patch for a front yard. His clothes bore none of the designer labels the rest of the children of PotterТs Cove wore like badges of honor, and his parents didnТt frequent the yacht clubs or private golf courses most others did. His father pushed a broom for a living and his mother drove a school bus. There were rumors, always spoken in hushed voices by adults at cocktail parties and children in the school cafeteria, that his parents abused him. They were alcoholics, and Todd had УproblemsФ which accounted for his low grades and constant suspension from school for fighting or smoking or brutalizing other students.
Lydia knew him as the boy who always called her УSkinny LydieФ, the boy who had cornered her one morning in the hallway just outside the boyТs bathroom. The boy with breath like cigarette smoke; eyes like she had never seen before. Eyes that appeared calm and controlled at first glanceЧalmost lifelessЧbut that harbored something else. Like snake eyes, just before the fangs are exposed and it lunges for you. There was gleeful rage behind those eyes, something she had seen firsthand when heТd pinned her against the wall and run his hands first across her breasts and then around to her back.
УShit,Ф heТd laughed quietly. УYour shoulder blades are bigger than your tits, Skinny Lydie. Might as well walk backwards.Ф
And upon seeing the tears fill her eyes he had walked away, satisfied.
Lydia didnТt tell, never mentioned it to anyone, because even then sheТd realized Todd was capable of much more than mere intimidation, a cheap feel, and dirty words.
And that morning, safely hidden and watching him slowly circle little Kyle Watson, she saw that same dead look in ToddТs eyes.
УGet up, you little prick,Ф he said, pushing the smaller boy with his boot.
Kyle rolled over, his padded snowsuit making maneuverability difficult, and pushed himself further away, still on his back, his body forming a trough in the snow. УQuit it, Todd!Ф
УYou think you could outrun me, you piece of shit?Ф Todd put hands on hips and laughed, an odd hollow sound, void of joy. Reaching down, he grabbed Kyle by the front of his snowsuit, yanked him to his feet and shook him so violently Lydia feared he might snap the boyТs spine. A punch to the gut followed, and as he released him, Kyle gasped, doubled over, and sank slowly to his knees.
Lydia felt herself shrink, as if hoping the boulder would absorb and hide her. Breathing carefully, slowly through her nose, she clutched the camera in her lap, eyes trained on the scene playing out before her.
Todd ripped the knit cap from KyleТs head, tossed it aside, then pulled the boy to his feet and slapped him twice. Still crying, Kyle tried to break free, but Todd clamped a hand around his throat and leaned in so close their faces nearly touched. He spoke, but in a softer tone, and Lydia could not make out the words. Still holding him by the throat, Todd grabbed the zipper and ripped it down until the front of the snowsuit was open. That laugh echoing through the trees again, he spun Kyle around, and with one violent tug, pulled it down. He released the younger boy, shoved him to the ground, the suit tangling around his feet as he fell. Todd dropped the snowsuit and placed one of his boots on the small of KyleТs back.
УQuit it!Ф He struggled to rise; his face pink, cold and streaked with tears. УIТm telling! IТm telling!Ф
Todd slid his boot to the back of KyleТs head and pushed down, grinding the boyТs face deeper into the snow. УYouТre not gonna say shit, pussy boy.Ф
Lydia wiped the moisture from her eyes with the back of a gloved hand, careful to move slowly, and no longer certain the tears had been caused by the chilly air alone. Her heart pounded in her chest and her mouth had gone dry, palms sweating beneath the knit gloves as shivers which began at the nape of her neck fanned out across her back and shoulders. Do something.
Todd stepped away, and his eyes searched the nearby trees. With a purposeful stride he closed on one small tree in particular and snapped free a branch. He broke it over his knee, chose the shorter of two lengths and threw the other aside. Moving closer, he slapped the stick against his thigh, the sound mingling with KyleТs sobs. Eyes wide, like that day in the hallway, Todd cocked back his arm and swung the stick down across the back of the boyТs legs. УYour mommyТs not here to save you this time, is she? Is she, pussy?Ф

Lydia reached out with a steady hand, slid her fingers beneath the album cover and flipped it open. Her eyes found the first series of photographs. The earliest traces of what would become her life, her art, stared back, a bit faded; corners brown with age but still potent beneath plastic sleeves.

Todd had a hold of KyleТs shirt collar. He jerked the boy to his feet and shoved him toward a tree stump. As he fell forward, flopping onto the rotted bark, a fine spray of snow exploded around them, joining the flakes still descending so gracefully. And then he was whipping the boy again and again with the stick, harder it seemed, with each arching swing as cries and laughter became one. Todd suspended his assault long enough to catch his breath then the waistband of KyleТs long thermal underwear was in his free hand. Tugging it down, the pants were suddenly around the boyТs ankles, the backs of his thighs and tiny rounded buttocks streaked with crimson blotches and scratches already spotted with blood.
Lydia was certain, even after all these years, that Kyle never uttered another word. Even his crying had stopped, and silence returned to the forest, only this silence was no longer natural, no longer one of peace and uninterrupted solitude.
Her eyes locked on ToddТs right then, until a shrieking howl fractured the stillness and she found herself choking back bile and trying desperately to remain still, even after her eyes had left Todd and focused on the stick now protruding from Kyle WatsonТs backside. And as the boy whimpered, his body shaking but still bent over the stump, Todd staggered back and steadied himself against a nearby tree. He shivered, his body quaked, stiffened, then slowly went limp, and he leaned his full weight against the tree before sliding down into the snow on the seat of his pants, his face slick with perspiration, enveloped in clouds of labored breath.
They remained frozen for what seemed an eternity, these three, until Todd finally forced himself to his feet and crouched down next to Kyle. He touched his back, tenderly at first, then seemed to realize it and instead grabbed a handful of the boyТs hair, yanking his head up and back, so he could look into his eyes. УYou tell anybody about this, you little faggot, and IТll fucking kill you.Ф
Todd released him, regained his feet and ran back through the forest, vanishing into the cluster of trees from which heТd come. Kyle Watson remained where he was, the slow rise and fall of his back the only indication that he was even still alive.
Lydia felt a rush of relief, and granted herself permission to cry. But no tears would come. She slid off the boulder and moved cautiously through the trees.
The boy lifted his head slightly, found her, and began to cry.
She sensed movement, and for a moment thought she was falling, fainting dead away, but she had only crouched down next to him. Her hand touched his wet red cheeksЧso coldЧas she studied the branch, still inside him. УItТs okay, Kyle,Ф she heard herself say. УItТs okay. I wonТt tell.Ф
УGet itЧФ the boy gaggedЧУget it out.Ф
Lydia pushed forward, onto her knees, realizing only then the camera was still in her hand. Slowly, she lifted it to her eye.
It spit free a photograph, and she pulled it loose, watching as the blank gray square gradually formed a picture, as if by magic, as if she had willed it to do so. Then she took another, and sat next to him in the snow, studying the results.
KyleТs sudden movement distracted her. He had reached back for the stick.
She placed a hand on his back, and his hand fell free, flopping lifelessly next to him. УItТs going to be all right, Kyle,Ф she whispered, not even certain he had heard her. УWe wonТt tell anyone about this. ItТs not that bad, itТsЧitТs not that deepЧyouТll be all right.Ф
Now convinced that the boy had been more humiliated than physically injured, she rubbed his back for a time, studied his bare buttocks then returned the camera to her face. With her other hand, Lydia grasped the stick.

She turned the page.