Together We Fall

Smeader

1.

Shawn

Monday, October 12, 7:00 p.m.

1400 S. Wingate #9, K.C., Missouri

Shut the FUCK up!

Shawn’s face was struck by a fist so hard his body hit the ground with a loud thud.

What’d I do this time? Shawn screamed from the floor, holding the side of his face.

His watery brown eyes met the bastard’s blue eyes, set in a dark, ashy face scarred with craters, some bigger than dimes, and blotches of black whiskers that barely covered a sharp chin. The dude was sure strong for being so short and skinny. And those eyes were nothing but evil. Shawn managed to get to his feet while the man walked slowly toward him.

I’m gonna go see my mom!

The hell you are.

Shawn glared, trying not to show any fear. He knew he had to look tough right now, but inside he was trembling. And he got angrier, and with each step the man took, he felt a burst of adrenaline flow through his veins. He wanted to punch every square inch of that face until the guy started choking on his own blood. Shawn would wait for a split second and then, when the asshole opened his eyes wide, gasping for air, he’d grab the man’s head on both sides, ramming his thumbs deep into both eye sockets. He would push the eyes so far back that they either got squashed against his skull or came out the back of his head. Then he’d rip the guy’s arms and legs off and tear out his still-beating heart like the Aztecs did, and then stick it real far up his ass, all the way up to the dude’s throat. He wanted to make the bastard feel pain he would never forget. Fuck him up real bad!

Suddenly, his conscience came to life and he suppressed his rage like he always did, and got so completely quiet inside that he seemed to turn into stone. But then he felt a tear well up in his right eye, the same side of his face that had been hit, and he turned away. He had to get this son of a bitch out of his life, but it seemed damn near impossible. More tears came. He wouldn’t dare let the asshole see him cry so he stomped off to his bedroom and slammed the door.

To his surprise, the bastard didn’t follow him. Usually he did and kept at it.

Francis—if that was even his real name—chuckled as he went to the refrigerator to grab another beer.

Yeah, that’s right, punk, run away, just like your ol’ man. Fuckin’ pussy!

Shawn could hear Francis walk towards the back of the trailer home, probably into the bedroom he shared with Shawn’s mother, and where she spent most of her time these days, either high or passed out.

Shawn hated him—hated everything about him—especially his left shoulder tattooed down to the middle of his forearm. Francis said he was religious, which may have explained the massive cross with vines growing over it, but not the skull with flames below it. He had a couple smaller tattoos on his right arm and had some crazy reason for why he got each one of them. The guy was totally nuts.

Most of all, Shawn hated how his own mother thought Francis was such a great guy. She’d gotten heavily into drugs—heroin now, not just crack—about six months earlier and already looked like death. Whenever Shawn confronted her, he always got the same answer: It makes me feel good, honey. Don’t you want me to feel good? He never knew how to answer that question. He just felt sad and sick inside.

Shawn suspected Francis hit the crack pipe himself, at least once a week, so who knew what else the guy might have brought into their home. Weed for sure, and probably crystal meth. The year before, during a period when, for some reason, Francis was calmer—or at least he didn’t hit Shawn or talk shit about his mom—he had actually offered Shawn some marijuana saying it would mellow him out and even help him in school. Shawn went along with it for a few days, and sure enough, it did make things seem like they were better at home. He could almost forget how bad it really was. But the school thing? That was bullshit! He couldn’t concentrate in class, and one teacher actually confronted him and asked him if he was on something so Shawn hadn’t touched the crap since. And as far as all the other stuff, no way, not ever!

Shawn was no dummy. He knew drug dealers needed protection so he figured there had to be a gun around the trailer somewhere. He made a promise, again, to himself to find it. Nothing would make him happier than to wake Francis up at night by hitting him with the handle of the gun. He even thought about making him stick a finger inside the muzzle, and Shawn would shoot off a finger for each time Francis had beat the shit out of him. He debated whether to end the torture by finally killing the son of a bitch.

Back in his cramped room, breathing like he’d just sprinted the quarter-mile at school, Shawn’s mind raced with shocking and murderous thoughts like he belong in the Mafia.. Kill your enemies before they kill you. And those visions of Shelly, his mom, sticking the needle in her arm; what would he be able to do about her? He was going crazy. He needed to talk to somebody. Call the police! He reached for the cell phone in his backpack. Wait! He couldn’t call the police; what about his mom? Anyway, the phone wasn’t there. That bastard Francis had made sure of that. The cold fact was, even if he did have a phone, there wasn’t anybody he could tell all this shit to.

Shawn recalled one time he had stood up to Francis, who was lecturing, or practically yelling at him about what a piece of crap Shelly was. He went about how she wasn’t working, and how the money from drugs was paying their rent. Shawn couldn’t believe it. He’d thought she still had that job as a secretary. When had she stopped working? He’d told Francis to shut the fuck up, the same phrase Francis used all the time on him, like a computer key stuck on the same letter across the page. Shawn felt good throwing it back at him. Caught up in the fact that he’d dared to do it, he never even saw the fist coming. He couldn’t tell which was worse: getting slammed in the face, or getting the news about his mom and how they were both now living off drug money. He knew Francis didn’t love his mother, never took her anywhere or bought her anything—except for the drugs—and he was only using their trailer as a stash house. Probably had other drugged-up girlfriends in other places, too.

Shawn sat on the bed almost in a trance and let the reality of his crummy life wash over him. He flipped over on his stomach as memories of his mom came flooding back. Shelly Fitzpatrick—a name she probably stole from the novels she used to read —had told him that his real father, Joe Fitzpatrick, bailed on them when Shawn was just a couple months old. She’d called him an asshole and a scumbag, and at first that’s what Shawn believed as well, but as he grew older, he wondered if his dad—whatever his real name was—had seen it coming about Shelly being a drug addict. If that was true, Shawn couldn’t blame him. But still, if his dad had really cared, why hadn’t he taken Shawn with him? Okay, but even if his dad wasn’t the things his mother said, Shawn still hated him and wasn’t sure if he wanted him to come back at this point. After all, there was still Shelly to deal with, with her ugly skeleton body deteriorating away. Although Shawn may have wanted his dad to show up, he would probably be disgusted by her and wouldn’t stick around anyway.

Shawn stood up and walked to the window and got a blast of chilly air, damp from October’s rising humidity. For some reason he’d figured this might be a night he’d be locked out of the house by Francis and have to sneak back into his room through the window. Instinct probably. He opened it wider to immerse himself in the Missouri autumn air. It felt good against his cheek, like an icepack, which at the moment he really could use. He touched the swelling carefully and winced. The wind picked up, whistling through his brown, wavy hair that he wore down, nearly to his shoulders. The teachers and his track coach weren’t all that happy that he didn’t have a crew cut. So what? He’d stopped going to track anyway and nobody’d said anything. He’d try and find some ice or a bag of frozen vegetables later on so that by school tomorrow maybe his face wouldn’t look like he’d met up with a truck.

There was a pack of cigarettes on the battered nightstand near his bed. He grabbed it and a lighter and went back to the open window. Shawn knew smoking was bad, but growing up he’d seen his mom do it all the time. He’d long since stopped doing push-ups and cared less and less about having a cool physique, especially now that his ex-girlfriend was with somebody else. His mom had always said that she only smoked when she was upset or stressed. Well, Shawn was pretty stressed, and with that bastard in the house, he had good reason to be. He’d been smoking now for nearly a year.

Only when I’m stressed or upset…she does it! he mumbled to himself, lighting the cigarette.

He immediately regretted what he’d just said about his mom. He got a flash of Shelly’s once- pretty face and the way she used to push his hair back out of his eyes when he was small. His chest tightened. No, he wasn’t going to cry again. This was clearly the time to smoke a cig instead. He inhaled deeply, keeping it in his lungs for just a second, and then blowing it hard out of his mouth, pushing it out into the night sky. He promised himself he would smoke another one right after this one. He took a longer drag this time and exhaled it slowly through his nose. He looked up and thought, no other 16-year kid has to go through this!

But he knew that wasn’t true.

2.

Christian

Monday, October 12, 6:00 p.m.

201 Magnolia Lane, K.C., Missouri

Our Father, Who Art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name…

Christian sat at the table pretending to mumble the same prayer the family said before every supper. But in the background chatter of his mind, his private mantra never shut up: my perfect fucked-up family, my perfect fucked-up family…

Besides, he had something else going on right now. He glanced at his father leaning over the ostentatious table with his hands interlocked in front of his face. Look at him, the Reverend James Beauregard Densmore, the pastor who pretends he cares about the whole world. He’s really just a fuckin’ liar. He preaches about feeding the poor, but we throw out leftover food every day.

The Densmore family lived in a mansion at the end of a too-long entrance drive. Five cars lined the smooth pavement today. Christian’s father took the Bible literally and preached that it was the guidebook for all aspects of a person’s life. It was laughable to Christian that his father believed Noah actually built an ark and saved all of the people and animals of the earth, two by two. Or that a woman was created out of Adam’s rib. Was he serious? Christian was so certain that neither thing could be true, and he was embarrassed to have a father that dumb. But worse than anything, his father often used the forbidden F word himself, to describe homosexuals and believed those people were immoral, even possessed by the demons of Satan. Christian had begun fearing his father when he was just a kid, and now that fear had become pure hatred. He couldn’t even look at his father anymore and switched his eyes and thoughts to his mother.

Madelyn Densmore acted pious and loving, but she wasn’t a nice person. Christian knew she was secretly wealthy and that was the real the reason the family lived the good life. Christian had figured out the truth when he was a kid, that it was actually Madelyn’s father who had all the money. His mom didn’t even work and thought she was better than other women who did. Of course, in public she played the proper preacher’s loving wife, but Christian heard her all the time putting others down and saying how much lower than herself they were. It was as if she was in competition with the whole fucking world and had to win. She had to prove that she was the best, that her husband, the good minister, was the best, and that her precious children were the best. She did nothing to hide her conviction that she and her family were among God’s favorites.

Christian hated to go shopping with Madelyn because she always made it evident to everyone who would listen that she didn’t buy store brands. He remembered the time his older brother ran up to her holding up a pair of black shoes with yellow and white stripes, and pointed out to her that he liked the texture of the sole. When Joey begged her to buy them for him, she looked at him with disgust and ordered him to take those poor-people shoes right back to where they came from. As Joey walked slowly back, his mother lectured him that he needed to get a better fashion sense, and that no one in her family was ever going to wear clothing beneath their class. Remembering this, Christian hated her even more than he hated his dad, if that were even possible. For a moment he wondered if his rich grandfather, living in Texas, knew about his horrible parents, or the existence of Christian, the ill-begotten grandson, and if he did, what he thought about all of it. As far as he knew, his grandfather had never even mentioned him.

Across the table sat Christian’s siblings, Joseph and Mary, named after you-know-who. When their third and last child came along with milk-white skin, blond hair and beautiful blue eyes, his parents felt they had been especially blessed. Of course, they couldn’t very well name the baby Jesus, after Our Savior, so they settled on Christian. No, he didn’t really hate his older brother, Joseph, nor his sister who was only a year younger than he was, but he wasn’t very close to them, either. He took it for granted and hardly listened anymore when his parents reminded him that he’d be even more successful than his siblings if he’d just shape up.

But why fucking bother?

Mary was the captain of the cheerleaders, the leading thespian in the drama club, and had a 4.0 GPA. Still early in her sophomore year, she’d already been told that, upon graduation, she’d have her pick of any college in Missouri. He wondered if his parents had anything to do with the fact that she’d narrowed her choices down to only two—Trinity College and Covenant University—both expensive private schools in Kansas City. Actually, Covenant was in Harrisonville, but that was only a 15-minute drive away. Still, Christian hoped she would pick Covenant, not because her parents told her God would like her more, but because she might get just far enough away that she’d learn what horrible people their parents really were.

Joe, as he now wanted to be called, had come home from school for the weekend. Christian wanted to ask his brother what the hell for, lucky guy, but wouldn’t dare. Westmore Baptist College was in Troy, a small town northwest of St. Louis, where Joseph was studying journalism with the dream of starting his own religious magazine. The thought made Christian want to vomit all over his plate, especially because he knew the truth about Joe. His centerfold older brother regularly drank and smoked pot and managed to hide it from their clueless parents. Joe had even taken Christian to one of his college parties where there wasn’t just alcohol—normal enough for college kids—but the marijuana smoke was so thick it gave Christian a headache. And that same night Christian learned the meaning of a fruit salad, and it wasn’t the dessert kind his mom made with grapes, melon, oranges and whatever. It was a giant bowl filled with pills—blue, white, red, yellow—that people were eating like fucking candy. Christian was disgusted. He could have ratted on Joe a long time ago, but never did. Nope. As a straight-D student—by choice just to piss everybody off—Christian was the black sheep in his lousy family and regarded by all of them as an outsider. He felt like the dwarf, Tyrion Lannister, from the Game of Thrones series. The only difference was that everybody actually liked that character.

As Christian sat down to eat that night, by habit he pulled out his cell phone, slid the side button to silence, and hid it in his lap. He was texting with somebody called D, whose latest text had put him in a state of excitement. Do it to me. Christian glanced down and, using one finger, replied: Im up talk later.

Christian! his father said, making him jump. Did you even say the prayer?

Of course I did.

I didn’t hear you.

But God did. And that’s all that matters, isn’t it? Christian answered back, opening his knees far enough so the phone slipped under them. He was pleased by his quick cover-up and even more by his sarcastic comeback.

I don’t appreciate backtalk. Neither does God, nor the rest of your family.

Christian’s right eye began to twitch. Damn! His anger rose, but so did his courage.

And what will God do about it, huh? Send me to hell? If he’s got a fuckin’ problem with me, then he can talk to me about it!

Knock it off and eat your supper!

Christian knew his dad was controlling his own temper and wouldn’t yell right now since God wouldn’t approve of a preacher raising his voice at his children at the dinner table. Christian shut up and shut down; it got suddenly quiet around the table. He noticed and appreciated that Mary and Joseph didn’t say anything and minded their own business.

Then of course, his mother chimed in with her snotty tone. At least you could show us some respect. She stuck her fork into her food, raised it, haughtily, hoping it would intimidate her disobedient son. To Christian, she just looked like a cow chewing her cud.

And don’t think I don’t know you brought your phone to the table again. We don’t do that in this house.

Yeah, bullshit.

Madelyn kept her own phone with the pearl-studded case in her purse, which was never more than a foot away from her. Christian despised the way she always got dressed for dinner and how she nagged him to do the same. He bet none of the kids at school had parents who paid so much damn attention to how they looked when they were at home.

Your father and I ask almost nothing of you Christian, except that you act like a gentleman and show us respect.

Madelyn wiped her lips even though it wasn’t necessary; it was just another one of her snobby habits.

Christian rolled his eyes and snapped, Really, guys? You don’t ask for much?

He went for it. Hey, guys, I have some free time tomorrow. You up for another laying of fuckin’ hands? Whaddya’ say?

His mother looked horrified. She’d just put another piece of roast in her mouth and now it rolled out and fell back onto her plate.

His father slammed his glass of water down.

That’s it! Go to your room and take your supper with you! Maybe some praying while you eat by yourself would do you some good!

Christian jumped up and pushed his chair against the table so hard it rattled all the glasses.

Fuck you guys and fuck praying!

He stomped upstairs and slammed the door to his bedroom. His father was still yelling. Christian couldn’t understand the words, but didn’t care to, either. There was no lock on his door —of course, privacy wasn’t allowed in the house—but he knew that if he wedged his desk chair up underneath the door handle, he’d at least know immediately if anyone was trying to get in. It gave him some sense of safety, but deep inside, he knew it was a false sense; experience had taught him that.

He threw his phone across the room and was relieved when he heard it land on the desk. Probably wasn’t broken. Without switching on the light, he leaned against the door, hands covering his face, feeling hysterics rising. Suddenly, mindlessly, he was banging his head on the wall. One second he could feel the blood vessels popping out from his neck, and the next second, his heart sank back into that familiar hopelessness. He didn’t want to cry —he was so tired of that—but the tears came anyway. He sat on the bed using his pillow as a punching bag until all the strength was gone from his fists. After what seemed like hours, his breathing slowed down and he began to get calm. He lied down stared up at the ceiling,

I was born into the wrong fucking family. Otherwise why would they all hate me so fucking much?

But, truth be told, he already knew very well why. He remembered what happened in his bedroom after he made the mistake of revealing to his parents what he’d known about himself since he was five. He’d finally revved up the courage to tell them he was gay believing they would understand and maybe even help him build a stronger relationship with God—who supposedly loved all His people. Instead, his parents became furious, not only at Christian, but also at themselves. What had they done or failed to do that caused such despicable behavior? Christian became the horrible child in a shocked and ashamed family.

He covered his mouth to keep from wailing his anguish. He felt so weak that one gust of wind would blow him totally to pieces. At the same time, he wanted to take a hammer and hit his family over and over—though the idea of killing his brother and sister made him feel a little guilty. But they hadn’t stood up for him, so in a way, they deserved whatever they got. Was it his choice that he was gay? He didn’t think so. But then why would God let this happen? There couldn’t be a God. No way. Being sure of that comforted him. Without a God, what did it matter what he did? He could hurt himself or, hell, anybody he wanted to for that matter.

Yeah, make everybody feel the fucking pain I’ve felt my whole life.

Crying was useless. Nobody cared about him. They wouldn’t miss him if he was dead. But they’d sure as hell be embarrassed. He pictured his mom and dad in church trying to explain why their poor little boy, Christian, wasn’t around anymore. Wait a minute! He’d better quit thinking like that. It felt too real. His tears stopped instantly as he pulled back the now-wet sheet. A couple deep breaths and he was strangely calm. He remembered the phone text from D. Probably should answer it; but he didn’t want to, at least not right now.

He went over to the window and slid it open, not enough to lean his head out, but enough to feel the cool, soothing air. He looked out into the cloudy blackness. I’m seventeen, and I really don’t give a shit about anything!

3.

J.J.

Monday, October 12, 5:00 p.m.

200 S. 7th Ave., Apt 6, K.C., Missouri

Juanito José. Ven acá por favor. Vamos a cenar.

The 14-year-old kid could hear his mother from his room. Glued to the bed by his own sweat, he could not possibly go to the table and eat. He knew he would just throw it back up.

Juan José, Junior—who liked to be called J.J. because it was easier to disappear in a crowd if his heritage didn’t give him away—gave in to the pounding in his head. It felt like his own heartbeat. He tried to loosen his jaw, which hurt already from how tight he