Nocturnal

The Only Thing We Have to Fear Is …

He had a flashlight pinned under his right armpit, its oblong of illumination dancing madly off a drawing of Jay Parlar taking a fire ax to the stomach. The beam danced because of what Rex was doing with his left hand. It was bad, it was unclean, but he couldn’t stop. His cast-clad right hand rested on the edge of his desk, the only thing stopping him from falling down.

Rex’s left hand did the nasty thing. Even though he’d never done it before, he knew it felt wrong.

He was right-handed.

Come on, come on …

He’d woken up all wet, his blankets soaked with sweat, his breath ragged and his heart beating so loud he heard it. The dream. It had been so real.

He’d watched Jay Parlar die.

And that had made his dick hard, so painfully hard.

Naughty, awful, bad. Dreaming it was shameful, but now he was making it worse just stop it Rex just stop it but he could not.

The fingers of his right hand curled tight against the cast across his palm. He couldn’t think. Come on come on couldn’t think come on come on come on …

The flashlight dropped to the floor. He grabbed at his right hand, pulled, tore, smashed his right arm into his desk making a big bang, then pulling and tearing again, and then it feels so good come on come on come on.

The flashlight no longer lit up the desk, but that didn’t matter; he saw his drawing in his mind — a pencil sketch of Jay Parlar, eyes wide and wet, snot hanging from his nose, mouth open and pleading for his life.

Die you bully I will kill you I will come on come oncomeoncomeon …

“Hate … you …” Rex said, then his breath locked up in his throat and his thoughts faded away. All sensations vanished, all but the sound of Jay Parlar’s final scream.

Rex’s knees buckled. He caught the edge of the desk to stop from falling. Sweat dripped down his forehead.

He picked up the flashlight and pointed the beam at his drawing. Oh, no … he’d jizzed right on the picture of Jay Parlar’s pleading, terrified face. What did that mean? Rex felt tears well up — what was wrong with him? Why did he have to do the thing that Roberta told him was bad, that she said was sinful and dirty?

His right arm tingled with cool dampness.

Rex held his right hand in front of the flashlight beam.

The cast was gone.

The skin on his arm goosebumped, still tacky with sweat that had built up inside the plaster. He pointed the flashlight at the floor. The cracked, floppy ruin of his cast lay on the carpet.

He looked at his right arm again. He made a slow fist. The spot where Alex had stomped … it looked fine. It didn’t feel broken anymore. The doctor had said he’d be in the cast for weeks.

The doctor had said that the day before yesterday.

Rex suddenly realized that the aches he’d suffered for days, his pains, his fever … all of it was gone.

Gone.

But that didn’t matter right now. He had to clean up before Roberta saw what he’d done. Just leaving his bed unmade got three hits with the belt — how bad would she beat him if she saw he’d been jacking off? He’d get the paddle for sure. He was in trouble, so much trouble. The pieces of his cast went into the trash. He could dump that tomorrow while Roberta watched the morning news. He grabbed tissues from a box of Kleenex and wiped at the picture. Some of the pencil lines blurred, smudged. Would Roberta know? Probably not, she never looked at his pictures anyway.

And that cast had been expensive. Roberta would freak out that he’d ruined it. Rex looked around his room. Nothing really seemed out of place. Sometimes she went days without coming in here at all. Sometimes he slept in the park and didn’t even come home. Once he’d been gone for two nights in a row and she hadn’t even noticed.

Maybe he could do that again, go hide in the park or something. Maybe in a few days he could tell her the cast just fell off.

Rex wiped snot away from his nose. He crawled into bed and pulled the blankets tight around him. He shouldn’t have done that nasty thing, but now he felt better. He’d gotten it out of his system. Imagining Oscar’s murder, jizzing to it, that was a onetime thing. It was bad, but he would never do it again.

Never.

But still, what if Roberta found out?

Rex’s breath suddenly stopped. He stared at the ceiling without really seeing it. A thought, so new, so shocking, so … revolutionary … had flashed through his head, grabbed him and wouldn’t let go.

What if Roberta found out? No. So what if Roberta found out. So what?

Father Paul Maloney.

Oscar Woody.

Both of them had hurt Rex. Rex had drawn them, and now they were dead. Roberta hurt Rex all the time … he could draw her, too.

Maybe Rex didn’t need to be afraid anymore.

And tonight, he’d drawn Jay Parlar. Would Jay still be alive tomorrow?

Rex closed his eyes, a smile on his lips as he fell asleep.