Proof of Pain

Kirk kneeled on the concrete floor and roared WHERE IS IT loud enough to travel up the stream of blood, past the cracked eardrum and shake the young man’s brain awake. Receiving no response other than a pained grunt, Kirk kicked the exposed flesh below the ribs. Waxing half moons congealed into a purple nebula.

“Where is it, Billy? Such a stupid name.”

Billy winced and struggled against the zip ties holding his hands, digging into his back. Along with a glob of blood, he spat out his words, “Like yours is a prize. Not many of you out there. Especially not this town.”

Kirk stalked around the storage unit. He turned over everything he could, which wasn’t much, and then turned it over again. Using his penknife, he had gutted Billy’s pillow and flayed open the sweat-stained mattress. Cut his green rucksack at the seams, tossed the pair of rolled-up pants, dirty socks, and underwear to the ground. There wasn’t even an extra t-shirt in there. Not that he’s going to need one, Kirk thought. There’d been a small sketch book, with a couple of kids’ drawings that fluttered out. No sign of the the pictures. Like a drunken prom date, he pawed the metal walls for some kind of hidden space, but neither of them was got any satisfaction. He emptied the piss bucket over Billy’s prone body so he could look under it.

“Tell me where they are, or I will use this knife to start connecting the goddamn dots up and down your arm.”

“Why couldn’t you just give me the money?”

Kirk snorted, “ Because I know enough stupid men who couldn’t keep it in their pants. Once you’re on the hook, monsters like you never let them off. Greedy little monsters like you just stick that money right up your nose and come begging for more. NOW WHERE ARE THEY?”

Turning away, Billy closed his eyes against the blood trickling down his forehead. He felt a tooth come loose in his throat and swallowed, “So angry ‘bout a couple pictures, why take it out on me, why not him?”

“Shut up and tell me where they are. I want those pictures!”

“Why? Havin’ a hard time picturing what he used to do? Or do you need them to get hard? I hear that happens sometimes - “

CRACK! Kirk kicked another pair of teeth out. They clattered against the metal walls. Billy started choking on his own blood, and Kirk rolled him over to let him vomit and open his airways.

“I was just a boy! A boy! It wasn’t my fault! Why come after me? Why? Look what I made of myself. I have my own business. I have kids. A wife. I do charity work, I go to ch… I go to church every Sunday…”

“With him. You go to church with HIM.”

“It’s…it’s different now…”

“Why, cause he’s too old to do any damage? You let your kids be around him. Who's the monster? Course, yours ain’t really his type, huh, your little girls?”

Stepping away, Kirk leaned against the cold wall and pressed his cheek to the steel. Spat out the taste of iron that hung in the air.

“You want pictures? Take a look at the book and those papers you dropped. There’s your damn pictures.”

Kirk picked up the flimsy paper. A kid’s drawing with thick lines of bright crayon. A happy family floating over the grass, their home in the background. There’s a little boy in the house. Behind the window, crying. The next was the little boy again, surrounded by angry flurries of pencil, like a flock of angry crows, scratching out everyone else in the picture. Switching to the sketchbook, the lines grew taut, the shadowing more sure, but the same boy. Over and over, shedding a storm’s worth of tears as the face learned not just to be sad, but ashamed and angry. Then angry at that shame. On the final page, the boy was gone. A man took up the space now, his face half covered in shadows. Tongue poised to taste sin or fervently denounce it. A white collar, starched with hypocrisy.

“He did it to you, too? When? I don’t remember you.”

“You’d escaped. Gone off to college when my family moved in. He was so welcoming. Helped my Dad find a job. Which made us all very grateful. Made me feel like I had to be so very grateful.”

“Why me? Why not him?”

Billy sighed, “I tried. Couldn’t. Too afraid of God, maybe? I don’t know.”

“Then just give me the pictures and I’ll let you live.”

“Those are the only pictures I’ve got.”

“What?”

“I got nothing on you but your name. Not too many people in this town with your name. Not too many that went to our church. I know because he called me by your name once. He must have really loved you. Maybe you loved him too, coming back like you did.”

“I came back because my father needed me! And he loved that church! More than anything! More than anything! I couldn’t destroy it. Not…not without proof.”

“Your old man’s dead, that old man’s still in the pulpit, and you ain’t done shit but beat me up for knowing your secret.”

Kirk slid down against the wall and whispered, “I just want the pictures.”

A wave of pounding steps rolls to a stop outside the unit door. It rolls open with a bang, and a flood of policemen stepped inside, guns drawn. They see Billy, bloody and beaten, Kirk crumpled against the wall, pressing the blade into his palm.

“Mr. Matthews? What are you doing? Mr. Matthews?”

Kirk got up, stepped slowly towards Billy, and pounced. Pounding the sunken chest, painting blue uniforms a rusty red.

“WHERE ARE THEY!? GIVE THEM TO ME!”

Two policemen grabbed his arms, struggling to hold him still. They knocked the knife away, sending it clattering across the cement. Twisting his arms behind, they cuffed his wrists. He started sobbing.

“I want the pictures. I need them. I need proof. Proof that it happened. They said it never happened. I just wanted proof. Why couldn’t you give me the proof?”

Billy, cut free, grabbed Kirk’s ankle as they hauled him past, “We are the proof. It just wasn’t enough. Not for them. We just weren’t enough.”