Clear Water: The Kid

WARNING: This chapter contains intense and potentially disturbing material, including:

1. Depictions of graphic violence and animal abuse.
2. Themes of substance addiction and domestic neglect
3. Explicit language and slurs, including homophobic epithets
4. Sexual content and exploitation
5. Psychological trauma and references to potential self-harm
6. Implied involvement in a violent crime and underage sexual content

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Brandon Trubly hadn’t prepared for anything—not the rain, not the wind, not for Algebra.

He was going to fail the test. Full stop. It wouldn’t even be worth trying at this point—he didn’t understand a goddamned thing. His stomach was a bowl of snakes, knotting discomfort like a writhing mass in his pit.

Brandon hated the feeling.

The unease of sitting at a desk. Impossible questions. Formulas like riddles—a mystery that idiots simply understood. He hated it. Hated watching as they filled out blank spaces one after another; his paper empty of scribble. Most days he’d pretend he didn’t give a shit.

Today he wouldn’t have to.

Because algebra didn’t matter.

How could it?

How could anything matter after—

He could still hear the way the dude’s insides splattered on the floor. The hot, slippery odor of organs—

the foul vapor that filled every breath.

A defilement he could taste.

Bile crawled up his throat sneaky-quick like a hell-born spider. It almost came out. He had to think about something else, anything else. What else was there?

He’d seen the devil.

A black cold wreathed the writhing knots in his belly.

Brandon stared at the gaunt-faced stranger in the mirror; his hollow eyes and acne-pocked face, the stupid black die in his thin hair. He looked like the shit that crawled out of an overstuffed, hoarder’s trailer—because he was.

He looked at the bracelet Rosa had made for him. His hands were trembling.

Brandon flicked his phone open. Hit messages. Tapped Rosa’s name.

—

“Don’t be mad.”

—

“Where have you been?”

—

“I love you.”

—

He lingered on the photos. The ones that were just for him. It wasn’t her nude body that summoned his gaze, but her eyes. So full. The image spoiled in his soul. The dark circles round his eyes had only grown wider.

Goddamn tweaker, he thought, that’s what you look like.

He walked the narrow path from his room to the front door. A road to Mordor except with cat shit and trash. Mountains of crap were piled from floor to ceiling; food containers, boxes, books, dirty clothes, old restaurant left overs, trash, and mail all stacked in disheveled piles. It smelled like it looked. Grandma was sitting in her sofa, cooked out of her mind. The meth pipe resting just beyond her fingers in a pile of cigarettes. He turned to the cookie jar, popped its lid, and took out a fat stash of weed. He stuffed it in the usual space in his backpack.

“Love you grandma,” he whispered—knowing if anyone found out this could be the last time he ever saw her.

The corners of his eyes stung in crinkles.

He put the hard thing on; his face went dead and he walked out the front door.

The wind rushed him from out of nowhere like he owed it money. It chewed through his hoodie and made him clench his teeth. Brandon looked up and saw the black heaving mass lumbering over the mountains quicker now.

“Why haven’t they cancelled school for this shit,” he muttered. A shiver working through him. That would have solved at least one of his problems.

His problems.

He thought about Rosa; sneaking into her room at night and doing things her dad would kill him for.

But, not anymore.

He came out the gate to the dirt road. It was a five minute walk to the bus stop. He huffed. It was going to be a long, cold five minutes with wind blowing. Brandon passed old Barker’s house at the end of Turley and cut through the broken fence into Paradise Resort Lot.

A dog was already barking.

Paradise was an old pass-through park with hook-up amenities meant for fifth wheels and travelers—but that was a long time ago. The trailers parked there hadn’t moved in years. Brandon knew most the junkies there, he sold them weed when they couldn’t pay for heroin.

Fucking losers, he thought.

He came round lot ‘69’ and Earl stomped out of his trailer in a fury. The bear-belly snatched a stick and commenced to whooping on the dog. The animal was chained to a post. It yelped and whined each time it was struck. The man was unforgiving in his punishment.

“Hey!” Brandon screamed, but Earl didn’t stop walloping blows on the dog. Brandon shoved him to the ground.

“What the fuck!” he said. He was up quicker than Brandon expected, but he didn’t give a shit. The grown man started screaming and pointing at Brandon like he was going to do something about it.

Brandon didn’t move an inch. Earl got close to touch noses. The hook was a snap surprise, Brandon gave it everything. The man’s legs went jelly and the fat slob stumbled backwards.

Brandon grabbed the stick Earl had used and pointed at him, “You hit the dog again, I’m gonna whoop your ass so bad they’re gonna have to put you in hospital for retards—you goddamn junkie.”

He threw the stick down at Earl’s feet. He kneeled and reached to pet the dog, but it snarled and snapped. It got his fingers.

“Son-of-a-bitch!”

His hand came away bloody and Earl laughed at him. Brandon shot the fat man a look, but it didn’t stop Earl from smiling. Brandon looked back at the snarling dog. Then his bloody fingers. Strangely, not upset at the creature. He wanted to take it home. He’d be better than that slob in the dirt. The dog was coiled and pressed against the fence, teeth bared and ready to bite.

It didn’t know a good thing.

Brandon chuckled, “I get you dog, I get you.”

He hopped the fence and left the dog and its master where they were and came through the parking lot to Cambell and had to run to make the bus. It was already closing the doors, but Kristi stopped and made sure he got on. She didn’t say what she was thinking. He’d already heard it a thousand times. Kristi pulled the lever to shut the doors as soon as he was on the steps. He walked past her to the end of the bus and slumped in his corner.

The seat was old, the vinyl cracked. What was left of its inside padding had been pulled and torn to bits and crumbled in yellow spongy bits on the floor. Brandon picked at one of the openings, pulling its guts out in pinches bloodied by his hand.

It made him think of other things, so he stopped.

Kristi had already made her first four stops. Twelve kids. The next stop was Reed Walker, Brad Gillam, and Kimberly with the tits. The bus lurched to a stop. They all got in. Brad was a middle bus guy, Kimberly didn’t look his way, but good things never did. She kept her distance and sat a row to two before Brad on the opposite side. Reed parked himself right in front of Brandon.

“Yo,” he said without turning around, “You got me a stash.”

“Square up or you ain’t getting shit,” Brandon whispered.

“I got you, plus some—you know—to make nice for missing last time,” Reed slid the cash through the space between the seat and the wall.

Brandon plucked it and counted. It was $120.

“Another eighth then?”

“Why are you even asking?”

He pulled out a ziplock and slipped it through the crack.

“My man,” Reed said, his voice smiling, “I’ll hit you up next week for some more.”

“Might not be here by then,” mumbled Brandon.

“What?” Reed whispered louder, “What did you say?”

“Nothin’,” Brandon replied and pulled his hoodie over his head and shut his eyes.

Fifteen minutes later they were coming through town passing the market and True Value and the old rickety church with the big cross. As always, its black preacher, the only black dude in town, stood on its steps and waved at the bus. Every morning he was there waving with a smile. For the first time in his life, Brandon wanted somebody to pray for him. He thought of the other preachers and how fake they all were.

He laughed at the stupid thought.

They pulled into Clear Water Highschool.

Brandon stepped off the bus and the mountain greeted him.

The quiet giant made the world feel small. More than once, he’d imagined it an old sentinel from some bygone age, left slumbering beneath the heavens.

What calamity would befall Clear Water should the thing be roused? That haunted wood and its black secrets—toppled and churned as that colossal figure tore its limbs free from the earth’s crust. Fists like boulders. Every footfall a new valley.

Greenhouses crushed. Every cook-trailer smashed to oblivion. Their owners—and all their malevolence—flung to the wind.

Grandma would be clean.

He’d be a nobody again.

For a moment, the fiction of it was enough. The heavy things—the sentences, the jumpsuits, the years—they all dissolved into the air.

A cruel wind sunk its teeth into him.

The cold returned.

Today the mountain didn’t seem so large beneath that black herculean mass of storm crawling down its shoulders. The forest crept out from under the misty grey.

A nefandus chill worked through him, like some wormy finger of a corpse.

He could still hear how the wood had begun to talk.

Brandon shivered.

He’d never set foot in them again.

His first course was history. Down the hallway he put the dub bags in Chris and Shaun’s hands when he high-fived them. They’d pay him in chemistry. When he got to class he claimed his seat by the window in the end row.

The bell rung.

Mrs. Cutler welcomed everyone to class and blathered about the weather. Brandon folded his arms and rested his head. History was a terrible way to start the day. He wondered how anyone stayed awake to listen. It was a remarkable fact that some kids even passed the class.

“Alright class, let’s get our books out. Turn to 127. The Aftermath of World War I. Sarah, will you read the opening remarks there just below the header?”

Brandon didn’t have his book, but it wasn’t forgetfulness, not really. More like a philosophy: you didn’t have to read if you didn’t have a book.

“Certainly, Mrs. Cutler,” Sarah the kiss-up said, “God is dead. God remains dead—”

But Brandon already knew that. He stared out the window and caught the forest trying to creep closer. A slow dripping chill ran through him.

“And we have killed him…”

He remembered seeing her the last time. The forest shivering. The wood and its whispers.

“No—I didn’t,” Brandon said, almost a prayer. But, a prayer to what? God was dead.

He hadn't killed God.

But, he knew who did. He just stood there and watched.

“… How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?—”

The accusation went unanswered; like cuffs for the soul.

“…What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us—”

“Nobody,” he whispered, knowing then that he knew as much as the philosopher.

“Friedrich Nietzche wasn’t wrong,” Mrs. Cutler went on. She started reading the next section: 17 million people died in WWI; 10 million were armed forces, 7 million were civilians. 21 million were wounded—“

She was cut off by the intercom, “Mr. Brandon Turbly would you please make your way to Principal Johnson’s office?”

The class stopped. Brandon lifted his head from out of his arms. He had all of their attention. All their eyes.

“Fuck’em,” he whispered under his breath and stood up.

He looked one last time into the woods and there she was dressed like that night in red, but not a gown of it. His blood turned to ice. He rubbed his eyes and looked harder, but she was gone. A terrible knowing rattling in his chest.

“Are you good, Mr. Turbly?” Mrs. Cutler asked.

Brandon thought about telling her to fuck off. He thought better of it, grabbed his backpack, and walked towards the front office. He had to hide his stash between here and there just in case. Things could always go wrong in the principal’s office. The bathroom was risky, but the quickest bet. Maybe he’d just get detention or something. He ducked inside the boy’s room, picked the stall everyone avoided cause the broken seat, and stashed the weed bag in the back of the toilet.

When he got to the front office Brenda the receptionist stared at him unapprovingly.

What is her deal? he thought.

“You can come with me Mr. Turbly,” she said in her snoody voice.

She walked him into the principal’s office where the ‘big man’ and Mr. Miller, Brandon’s gay literature teacher were waiting.

Mr. Miller was in the office.

A wave of guilt passed through Brandon. It stopped his feet. Did Mr. Miller know? Brandon hated him, still what happened wasn’t right. He thought about how guilty he looked just standing there. He hurried to Brenda at the door. Mr. Miller was a smart dude, always seeing things in stories and book no one else saw. A goddamned Sherlock. He probably already pieced everything together.

This might be it.

Brandon felt sick.

“Come on in, son. Take a seat. Let’s have ourselves a discussion,” Principal Johnson turned to the receptionist, tapping his expensive pen on the desk, “Thank you Brenda. Could you shut the doors for us.”

She smiled back for a reply and shut the door.

For a moment, he felt about as scared as he’d ever felt, or at least almost as scared as he’d ever felt. All the hairs on his body standing. Brandon could feel both of the men’s eyes on him. He stretched out in the chair and stared at his feet. A warm nauseau came up form his gut. It was almost peaceful. Maybe he should just confess, but done with it—then he thought of her. His blood slowed to a chug. They’d kill him dead.

Shut the fuck up, he told himself, I ain’t saying shit.

“Do you know why you were called in my office,” Principal Johnson asked, but Brandon looked blankly at Mr. Miller.

“No fucking clue.”

He let his eyes wander lazily around the room.

“Mr. Turbly, I’m going to ask you to please refrain from the use of profanity in this office.”

“You can ask whatever you want,” said uncommittedly.

“What does that mean?”

“It means what it means.”

He was looking at Principal Johnson's family photos on his bookshelf behind his desk. He had three kids and chubby wife. He wondered what it was like to be married to a cow. The man had so many books. Brandon busied himself reading the spines. Orthodoxy, The Day the Revolution Began, The Biography of Winston Churchill. The man had a great deal of biographies about people Brandon had never heard about. At the end of one row there was a couple photos of just him and his wife sitting on a bible. In the photo, she looked at him like he was her whole world, but so did he. In the other picture, they were smile-kissing somewhere exoctic. One the other end of the shelf there was a photo of all his kids crawling over him as he laughed and held a smiling baby. Brandon insides groaned, all of them, all once, like they were hungry.

He wondered what it would feel like to smile like that.

The principal and Mr. Miller looked at one another for a silent moment. He’d stopped tapping.

“Mr. Turbly,” Principal Johnson went on, “You are here for the comments you made in Mr. Miller’s class.”

That was it? A snap. It was some cerebral click. A thousand pound shackle slipped from his soul. They didn’t know. It was a miracle. Brandon took a deep breath and sighed. Then a wicked thought entered his head.

“Which comments?”

Again the principal and teacher exchanged a glance.

“The disparaging, homophobic ones.”

Brandon looked Mr. Miller, “God—I can’t even imagine what it’s got to be like to tattle as a grown-up... and on a kid. What’s it like needing another adult to solve your problems?"

“Mr. Turbly, that is enough!” Principal Johnson said as stern as he could.

Brandon giggled like he did in class when he embarrassed his teacher. The relief he felt was better than a good weed high.

“Now I’m interested,” Brandon shot back, “What exactly is it that he told you I said.”

The principal's eyes went back to the sheet. His expensive pen was rolling through and around his fingers in an impressive display. He went to read it out loud, but then clamped his mouth shut. A strange intensity took over him when he looked up, “The things you said are despicable…”

Brandon turned and locked eyes with his teacher, “Is this because I called you a faggot in front of class, Josh?”

“That is enough,” Principal Johnson warned.

”Or, was it because they all laughed when I called you a cum-guzzling, chode gobbler?” Brandon said, he smiled wickedly. It had been one of his more inventive moments. The whole class laughed. The look on Mr. Miller’s face—it had been priceless. The dude had been a total prick to Brandon all semester.

Mr. Miller wore the same expression now. It was red-faced humiliation, but this time there wasn't any spoil in it.

Brandon soured his expression. He couldn't go soft now.

“That is enough!” Principal had dropped his pen and was on his feet now, staring down from his desk, but Brandon didn’t care. Maybe if he pushed a little harder he could get suspended, or better yet expelled.

“Go on then, do what you’re gonna do,” Brandon said, “I don’t care if it’s detention, suspension, or community service. You could just expel me.”

“We take hate crimes very seriously, Mr. Turbly.”

A spear of seriousness went through him. Brandon thought of all the other things that might be coming down the pike. If he got slapped with a Hate Crime it could add years to an already long punishment. He stopped laughing. He didn’t fire off his three other comments.

“If you do not shape up and clean that mouth of yours, Mr. Miller may file a criminal complaint against you for a hate crime. Homophobia has no place in this school. Do you understand me.”

Brandon nodded.

He needed to look contrite. It would be a hard sale, especially what he’d just said, but he did his best. His teacher was sitting in the corner like he’d been brutalized. The thought disgusted Brandon. The man hadn’t been through hard thing in his life.

The door swung open suddenly, it was Brenda. The sheriff and his deputy were standing behind her, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Sheriff Bradshaw is here to ask Brandon a few questions about Rosa’s disappearance.”

A cold jolt sizzled done his spine. He felt his guts plummet. The thought of the dog. Of Rosa in the woods. He still had photos of her on the phone. If he got arrested now, if they found out he'd been arrested he was dead for sure.

Then he thought about her. He almost vomited.

“Tell him to come in,” Principal Johnson said.

This was it. His life was over. They’d figured it out. He looked through the principal to the shelf behind. His eyes sat there like a sofa and rested on photo of his kids climbing over him. They'd never have to worry about anything. They probably had a clean house and homecooked meals. He decided then that he hated them all and they deserved it.

His breathing was coming fast. He had to get control of himself. He couldn't look guilty. His gaze dwindled from the happy family to the book the frame was sitting on.

The Bible. For a moment he wished.

God, he started to pray—but God was dead. Nietzche had said so. Brandon had watched it happen in the woods. The image of Rosa’s naked body… its desecration.

A mountain of guilt burdened his soul. His eyes couldn’t hide it.

Sheriff Bradshaw’s towering frame came walking through the door.

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A heartfelt thank you to anyone who has read this far. A double thank you to anyone who read the first chapter.

I am looking for conscructive feedback, thoughts, questions, likes, dislikes anything. Any little tidbit is helpful for my refining process.

Thank you again