The Killing Vision - By Will Overby Page 0,27

to help. If he had known then that in a year or so the condition would suddenly disappear, almost like magic, it might not have been so unbearable. The physical pain was bad enough, but the torment of going to school with his appearance was pure hell.

One day while he was standing in line in the lunchroom some ass-wipe two years his senior made the mistake of calling him “leper,” apparently trying to coin a new nickname. Wade jumped on him and beat the shit out of him, breaking a lunch tray over the fucker’s head in the process. He had been suspended for three days over the incident, but no one had made fun of him again. Ever.

Unfortunately, Clifton was out of work at the time, and he spent his days getting drunk and railing against everything he didn’t agree with. Though he especially hated the government and taxes, he wasn’t above going off on a tangent when the occasion called for it. When Wade was sent home, Clifton demanded an explanation. Wade gave it to him—told him what the guy had said to him, what he had called him, and what Wade had done to him. For an instant, Clifton’s eyes were clear and lucid; the next moment they were drunk and hazy. “You know what causes them pimples,” Clifton told him. “It’s because you play with yourself too goddamned much. You leave your cock alone, them things’ll go away.”

Infuriated, Wade stormed off to his room, not only insulted and offended by Clifton’s remarks but wounded by his lack of understanding and sympathy. He flopped on his bed, his eyes stinging with angry, hurt tears. In a little while, drained by everything that had happened, he fell asleep.

He was awakened abruptly by his door being flung open. Clifton stood just outside his room, swaying slightly, a bottle of Jim Beam clutched in his hand. “What’re you doin’ in here?” he demanded. He tipped the bottle and drained the last of the bourbon into his gaping mouth.

“Nothin’,” Wade answered. “Sleepin’.”

“You’re doin’ it again, ain’tcha?”

Wade shook his head, trying to clear out the grogginess. “What? No. I was sleepin’. Honest.” He moved to scuttle off the bed and out of the room, but Clifton was too quick for him. He seized him by the shirt collar and slammed him facedown onto the bed. For a drunk, he was surprisingly strong and agile.

“You’re gonna see how they do it, the fuckin’ faggots. You’re gonna get it like they get it.”

Wade felt his jeans being wrenched down, and terror seized him. He was screaming, hoping his mother—or anyone—could hear him. Clifton pinned him down and held him tight against the mattress. “Shut up, faggot,” he whispered in Wade’s ear, and his breath was like acid. Sweat was pouring down his face, dripping onto the bed. “Let’s see how you like it now.” From the corner of his eye, Wade could see the lips of the upturned bottle moving toward his bare buttocks.

With the last of his strength, Wade pushed himself off the bed, flinging Clifton back across the room. The bottle hit the floor and shattered. Clifton slammed into the wall, then slid down to the floor, his eyes round and startled. Wade went for him. “You bastard!” His fist connected with Clifton’s nose, and a sudden spray of blood erupted down the man’s shirt. “You fucking bastard!” Clifton curled into a ball as Wade’s fists pummeled him.

There was a sudden gasping, choking sound. Clifton’s face was twisted and red and wet, and he was crying. Wade brought his foot back and kicked Clifton as hard as he could in the side.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Clifton kept repeating, his voice broken and sobbing.

“Don’t you ever fuckin’ touch me again,” Wade spat at him.

Wade never told anyone about the incident, not even Joel. He was left feeling violated and ashamed, but he hoped that by fighting back he had cured Clifton of his mean streak.

That lasted about two months. The hostility began at first with a few smacks to the back of Wade’s head; soon it had escalated back to point it had been before. Wade remembered the bottle incident, and was tempted to fight Clifton again. But after Clifton punched him and broke his jaw—this time for smoking, the self-righteous prick—Wade was too afraid of him. He made the decision that he would escape from that hell as soon as he got the chance, and when Marla came up pregnant he took