Stories of an Old Boy
By:
XPud
(© 2018 by the author)
The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's
consent. Comments are appreciated at...
xpud@tickiestories.us
Chapter 10
****Matty's Point of View****
I wake up on Thursday with my alarm clock this time, and when I sit up, it takes a moment before I actually remember that I had a pull-up diaper on. I look at my bed and covers, and notice that everything is dry. Huh. I guess they DO work, after all. I mean, usually I still have to pee a little bit in the morning, even if I wet my bed, so I guess it's probably not like my full bladder in the diaper? I dunno.
I stand up and look at myself in the diaper; one side of me is disgusted that I'm a huge baby. One side of me is just happy that I don't have a mess to clean up. And one tiny little piece of me is just kinda interested in the way it all feels. I poke it; it's squishy.
I walk to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. I still look like I'm 9 or maybe 10, not anywhere close to the way most 12-year-olds look (I know I'm not 12 yet, but it's in like 2 weeks). The diaper REALLY doesn't help that look, either. But I guess it isn't that bad-looking, other than the SpongeBob part. That's definitely kiddie-level there.
I haven't gone pee this morning yet, and I do have a diaper on, so I push a little to see if I need to go. Why not, right? I immediately start to feel it in my wiener ('cuz I usually can't feel it before it gets there), so I push a little more, and then it just starts rushing out on its own. It feels weird to pee like I'm wetting myself but not feel it run down my legs. I don't have a whole lot to let out, though, and I kinda get a little hard from it anyway (not really sure why though), so I slip off the diaper and get in the shower. Afterward, I get dressed (with regular briefs) and head out.
Long story short, I have a nice, long, boring school day. Seriously, like nothing happens. Classes are boring, nobody bullies me in Choir or Gym...oh yeah, there was the thing in Science class. I'm almost falling asleep in class, right, when Phillip lets this HUGE fart right in the middle of class and makes everyone laugh. He probably did it on purpose...he sure didn't seem embarrassed about it. The funny part is that we were talking about the states of matter, and the teacher seriously says, “Thank you, Phillip, for demonstrating the next phase of matter we're going to talk about: gas.” Everyone giggles again, and class moves on. I was really surprised the teacher didn't get mad at him, honestly. A couple of kids started making fart sounds in the background, but the teacher walked over and hovered right by their desks until they stayed quiet.
Okay, so after school, we did the whole 'buying diapers' thing, which was super embarrassing. I mean, I get it that it's a good idea, but oh my God, it's freaking embarrassing! We went to this specialty store that Mrs. Mercy suggested, where people go to get diapers that are, y'know, bigger than babies' diapers. But yeah, so we get to this place, called 'Designer Home Care Supplies,' and it looks like a doctor's office or the back side of a drugstore where they sell all the, like, special toilet seats and things for old people.
We go up to one of the aisles where a sales guy is and Mom asks, “Hi, I was wondering if you could help me with sizing for youth diapers.” I feel my face flush and my heart sink into my guts.
“Absolutely. Are we sizing for this young man?”
I look away, about to cry. Then, Mom says, “Not quite, but his older brother is too embarrassed to come here. They're almost the same size, though--only a year apart. If it fits Matty here, it'll fit his brother.”
Wow. I look at Mom in a whole different light for a moment. She looks down at me and smiles just a little bit, and says, “Thanks, by the way, for coming along. Your brother was way too shy.”
“Sure thing, Mom,” I say, trying my best to believe that I have an older brother for right now.
The man says, “Sure thing.” He leads us over to the youth diaper section and asks Mom all sorts of questions, like how much 'my brother' wets when 'he' has accidents, how often, is it at night as well, all those kinds of things. Eventually we settle on these pull-up style diapers that were designed to look like actual underwear. I mean, I guess it's better than SpongeBob. Anyway, they're supposed to hold a pretty good amount, though the man warned that they probably wouldn't hold for a full 'emergency' type situation, and that 'my brother' would have to try his best to keep holding it until he could get to a bathroom so he could slow the flow down. Nighttime would be okay, though.
Mom buys a pack of the diapers and the man gives her a sample of these little liners that you can put in the diaper to make it hold more, just in case. We head out and get home, and I change into one of the diapers, just to see. It fits pretty well, but again, it still looks like I have like a big wiener or something when I put my shorts on. It's not too bad, though.
Okay, so the next part gets kinda weird. Mom asks me to test out the new diaper. I'm like, “Mom, really? ”
“Matty, we need to know if these are going to work for you the way you need them to, right?”
“Yeah, but Mommmmm...”
“It's not like I'm going to sit and--look, all you need to do is drink the normal amount that you usually do, and go play games a while. When you feel like you need to pee you can, you know, test it out.”
“Ugh! Why do you have to embarrass me?!”
Mom purses her lips and stares at me a moment. “Because I'm your mom, I care about you, and because talking about your bodily functions -is- embarrassing...but necessary. Get over it and go play.” She goes over to the TV, leaving me to go do whatever.
I decide to go play some Black Ops. I take one of Mom's diet sodas from the fridge as well, because if I'm gonna try this thing out, I'm gonna try it out right. I drink and play a while, and when I start to feel like I need to pee, I stand up and relax my muscles. I start to pee pretty fast, and I can feel it warming up my balls and wiener and going down under between my legs. As I keep peeing, the diaper starts puffing up, like someone was inflating like a floaty around me or something.
Then I remember what the man at the store said about the whole 'emergency accident' thing, and I try to clench my muscles to stop peeing. It only works for like a second, and then they open up again and I start peeing even harder. I can't keep my muscles closed for very long, but I keep trying. Finally, I try to pinch my wiener shut, but I can't grab it through the thick diaper.
Suddenly, I start to feel a trickle down my left leg. Oh no--it's leaking! I run to the bathroom, but by the time I get there, the flow finally stops and I'm left with a wet leg and a soggy diaper. Thankfully, though, the wetness down my school uniform pant leg doesn't quite reach the bottom, so I end up with no mess on the floor to clean up. Not too bad, I guess, though if I end up with a major accident, I'll have to remember that I only have a little bit of time to get to the bathroom before these diapers start leaking.
I take my pants off carefully and look at myself in the bathroom mirror again. This time, the normally white diaper is super yellow, and way puffier than it started. It's actually kinda impressive how much it grows, like one of those sea monkeys. Okay, not that much, but still. I slip off the diaper and leave it on the pants; they're messed up already, so it doesn't really matter.
The cold air immediately whooshes across my privates, making my balls scrunch up a bit. I wipe away some of the pee, and the combo of sensations causes me to start getting hard. I need to take a shower anyway, so I get into the shower and turn it on. Of course, once I start getting hard, I can't do anything about it, so by the time I even get the water to the right temperature, I can see my heartbeat in my dick as it points up at me.
I set the shower head to the right place and wash off, spending a little extra time rubbing my dick, of course. I start to think about the night Phillip and I spent over at the Fedorovs' house, and how hot it was watching the other boys have sex. Then I remember when Phillip was sucking my dick, and how sexy it was watching him, and then watching him shoot sperm all the way over me--I still don't know how he shoots so much--but that's all it takes before I feel everything tense up. It feels so good that I can barely stay standing through the whole thing. Finally, I open my eyes again, and a few more twitches make me shiver all the way up my spine. I wash away the few globs of sperm that are on my hand--well, really, I guess it's just semen, since it's clear--and enjoy the feeling for a moment before I wash my hair and all that.
I get dressed in my favorite cargo shorts (even though I only use like two pockets at a time) and throw the diaper away. Mom stops me on the way to the kitchen and I guess she saw me in different clothes cuz she asked, “Did it not work?”
“It did, mostly,” I reply. “He was right, though; I can't just like use the whole bathroom in them, so I need to at least like find a restroom or something.”
“You know,” Mom points out, “if you pee in it a little bit at a time, it can absorb ore.”
Really, Mom? “Okay, one, that's weird. Two, I can't stop once I've started. It just comes out.”
“No, I mean if you intentionally try to go earlier and pee in the diaper on purpose, before you can feel the need, it will probably last longer.”
“MOM! What?! Ew!” Is my mom seriously telling me to pee myself a little bit at a time? So I can sit there in a wet diaper for like, I dunno, hours?
She puts up her hands to calm me down. “Matty, please. Remember that we're only looking at using these diapers in long- duration situations, like movies or long car rides. If Zacky's pull-up did fine for you overnight, then these won't have a problem there at all, so all you have to worry about for what I'm talking about is if you have no access to a bathroom for a very long time.”
“Wait, what?” I ask.
Mom sighs really loudly. “Zacky's diapers. They worked for you for the bedwetting, right? So all we have to worry about is daytime emergencies, and you can prevent those by not letting it all go into the diaper at once, but over time. That way it can soak in before you go again. Make sense? ”
Now that I think about it, Zacky said he basically has no control, so he always pees a little bit at a time. I guess it's not that weird. Still...ew. “Whatever. I'm not gonna wear them at Daddy's.”
Mom looks at me for a moment with her eyebrows lowered. “Why not?”
“I just...” I start, but I don't want to say the real reason, but I'm a terrible liar, too. “I don't want Daddy to think I'm a baby.”
“Matty, honey, he's your father. He knows what you've gone through, and he cares about you.”
“Then why does he drink?” I ask without realizing it.
Mom stops dead for a moment. She takes a deep breath and says, “Because he doesn't care about himself.” She thinks another moment. “Otherwise we'd still be together, I imagine. Does he drink while you're over there?”
“Sometimes.” It's true that there were a few days that he didn't drink.
Mom begins to look concerned. “How...how drunk does he let himself get?”
I want to tell her so badly, tell her that Daddy gets so drunk that he abuses me, but what if he really can make us lose the house? He still owns part of it, right? What if he gets mad enough to make us lose everything, like he said? I respond, “He...sometimes he falls asleep after having too many.” I can't risk it. I don't want Mom to lose her house 'cuz of this.
She makes that 'tch' sound--the one people make when they're frustrated with someone--and shakes her head. “He's not fit to be a father right now. I'm going to set up a court date and force that man into rehab, so help me--”
“No!” I say before I can stop myself. “No, it's--it's fine, Mom. He's just, he just, y'know. Sleeps a lot. It's fine. I can take care of myself there, like I do when you're at work or taking a nap. Maybe...if I talk to him about his drinking, he'll go into rehab without being forced.”
“Well, Matty,” she says through another sigh, “you can try. Here's what you can do: I want you to make a note of when he's drunk and how bad he gets, like 'falling-down drunk' or 'passed-out drunk'. If you want to help him, he needs to see how bad it is. He'd never listen to me, and frankly, I don't want to talk to him anyway. But maybe if you show him just how often and how drunk he is, maybe there's a chance he'll listen.” She looks through the kitchen door at a family picture in the bedroom hallway and adds, “If he cares at all.”
“I think he does, Mom,” I say to make her feel better. I don't really know how much I believe it, but maybe it'll help her to hear that. She smiles at me, so I guess it does.
The rest of the day is boring, and I actually end up going to bed a little early from feeling extra-tired for some reason. I still make sure to pee before I go to sleep, and surprisingly, I wake up to a dry bed and a dry diaper, too! At least, I think it is. It's still all white on the inside (, so yay!
I check my phone and see that Phillip tried to text me after I went to bed. I wonder if he ever sleeps, sometimes. He just asked if I was awake and didn't text again after that, so maybe I'll just ask him later today.
I get ready to go to school when I open the door to see that it's pouring down raining. Great. “Mom?”
“I'm already grabbing my keys, honey. Get an umbrella.”
The rain comes down basically sideways and doesn't let up until right when I get inside the school, of course. Then it's just like 'k bye lol' and leaves me with pant legs that are soaked from the knee down. And that means that stupid Chris has some stupid thing to say.
“Hey, it's Mr. Wet-Pants!” he says to his friends while I walk up. “You did a good job this time...you really soaked yourself!”
Haw haw, giggle, so funny. Before I can respond, though, Kasha calls down from the third row, “You know the only way he can do that is because how long he must be.” He taps the inside of his knee for emphasis, and a bunch of the boys around him start laughing and hooting.
Chris says, “Pff, yeah right. How come it's on both sides, then?”
It didn't make sense in the first place being on both sides, but I don't have to say anything; Kasha replies, “Must be that long and twice as good, then, no?” He puts both his hands between his legs and waves them around like, well, wieners. The whole boys' section is cracking up, and some of the girls, too, when the choir director slams down on the piano keys, making everyone jump, which stops all the fun. I look back behind me a little while later and smile at Kasha, who winks back at me before he starts singing his line. Chris actually doesn't do or say anything else, but he does look pretty mad for the rest of choir. I guess he can't take what he gives out.
After class, I go over to thank Kasha for sticking up for me when suddenly, Chris comes out of nowhere and shoves Kasha right in the chest. “You watch your fucking mouth, you little shit,” Chris growls. Holy shit; I've never seen him get seriously angry like that.
The next thing that happens is just as surprising: Vik, who had gone just a little ahead, sees Kasha get pushed, and I can almost see something snap in him. His nose scrunches up, he hunches down, and he basically charges Chris from behind like he's playing murder football. I dodge out of the way as Vik slams his shoulder right between Chris's shoulder blades. Chris makes a kind of a squawking sound, but it gets cut off when he hits the door to the choir room with his face.
Chris spins around quickly with kind of a roaring sound and tries to grab for Vik, but as soon as his back is to Kasha, Kasha kicks as hard as he can right at the back of Chris's knee. He falls flat, and before he can get back up, Vik and Kasha both start kicking him like crazy! I was about to tell them to stop when one of the teachers comes running over with one of the police officers at school, screaming at them to stop. The two adults grab the twins and pull them back, but they don't fight back or anything.
We all have to go to the principal's office and explain ourselves; the real sad part is that Chris barely gets a slap on the wrist for starting it, and the twins end up with tickets from the police officer for fighting. How fair is that?! The good part, though--and I know I'm a bad person for saying it--is that Chris was crying like a little baby and wouldn't look at any of us the whole time I was there. I had to go to class after I told my side of the story, but the three boys were sent home for the day. I hope everything turns out okay for the twins. I'd hate if they got in deep trouble for sticking up for me.
So by the time I get to Gym class, I realize that Phillip isn't here today. That's weird--he's like never sick. What's even weirder is that when I'm getting into my gym clothes, Beto comes over to me dressed only in his gym shorts and asks, “Matty, right? You're Phillip's friend, yeah?”
“Um, yeah?” I say, not sure where this is going, especially since I heard about him being one of the bullies. I flinch a bit when he walks up.
“You know if he's here today?”
“Um...” I dunno what he wants from me, or from Phillip. I don't trust this one bit. “...I don't think so. Uh, why? ”
He kinda stutters a bit when he says, “Um, yeah, if you see him, like after school, tell him I said...that I said thanks. For the talk. Cool?” He must have seen how confused I was because he adds, “He'll know what I mean,” and walks off to go finish changing.
Weird. A bully talked to me and I'm not being picked on.
Speaking of which, class just kinda goes quietly, and at lunch, the table is all excited to know what happened with the twins. After that part of the conversation, though, everything gets kinda quiet and boring. I think maybe the rain is making everyone tired. I dunno.
Anyway, fast-forward, school is boring, and when I get the chance after I get my phone, I text Phillip.
Well, it's time. I get home and Mom's already telling me to go get packed. I grab my backpack and put a couple of pairs of shorts in there with a few shirts, some underwear, socks, my toothbrush, all that.
“Matty,” Mom says as she comes into my room, “I know you said you don't want to wear the diapers, but you should probably at least take some for nighttime. If he asks, he already knows you wet the bed occasionally, so just tell him you didn't want to mess up his mattresses, right? ”
“Mommm...”
“Just bring them. I can't make you wear them, but I can make you bring them.” With that she goes over to the diaper pack, grabs two of them, stuffs them in the backpack, and zips it up. “Now let's get going. You got everything?”
“Ugh,
fine. Yeah, I'm good.”
“You got your homework?”
“YES, Mom, I'm good.” Let's just get this over with, right?
I go to the bathroom before we head out and we get going. It's only like a 20-minute drive, so it's not like it takes forever to get there or whatever. On the way there, Mom keeps telling me to be on my best behavior, even if I don't want to be there, and soon enough we'll be able to go to the court and tell the judge that I don't wanna go over here anymore, and all that. The truth is, I still love Daddy. We used to have so much fun together, and he was always into Science like I am, and he made sure I did my homework, and we always used to play games together like Candy Land...I just miss him, is all. I mean, I miss Daddy being Daddy more often. He is sometimes, still, when he's not drunk, but even then something is different. I dunno what it is. I know Mom thinks I hate him or something, but I just...I dunno. I still love him. I just wish I didn't have to be scared of him, too.
We show up to his place, and the first thing I notice is that the grass is freshly mowed. Normally, he does that over the weekend and I help pick weeds. Today it's raining still, though, so maybe he just did it a few days early.
Mom drops me off. I take my backpack and my pillow (it's my favorite pillow), and head up to the door, with Mom waiting until Daddy opens it before she drives off. Daddy takes one look at me and throws his arms wide. “Hey, Buster!” (It's his nickname for me.)
“Hi, Daddy.” I hug him with my face buried in his chest. It's nice, like old times, except that even now I can smell whiskey. After we go inside, I ask, “Um, have you been drinking?”
“Yeah, but only a little bit,” he says. He can still talk fine, so I guess he's telling the truth. “How are you? How's school?”
I shrug. “Pretty good, I guess. Public school is way different than the old school, but I already have a bunch of new friends.”
Daddy walks into the kitchen and pours a can of soda into a big plastic cup he always drinks out of. “Good,” he says, “good to hear. Hey, you want a Coke?”
“No thanks, I'm good,” I say, but he interrupts me before I can even finish.
“Aw, come on! We have to toast your success in school and friends, and also a good weekend!” He pours a Coke into a glass for me and brings them into the living room. “To...all those things!” he says, raising his cup.
I pick up my glass and clink it against his, but don't say anything. I change the subject, instead: “So, how are you doing? ”
“Me?” he asks, as if surprised. “Aw, you know. Same ol', same ol'. Well, I did change jobs, but other than that, it's all normal.”
“Oh,” I say, expecting him to continue. When he doesn't, I ask, “Where...do you work now? ”
“At the Unemployment Office. At least, they're the ones givin' me a check right now, so it counts.” He takes a sip of his drink. When I don't say anything, he continues, “Got laid off from the refinery. Damn recession's hitting the entire industry pretty hard...do yourself a favor and go to college to be a programmer or something.” Suddenly, his face lights up. “But you're not here to listen to your old man ramble. Why don't you go pick a board game out from the game closet and we'll play a round or two?”
I get up and go into the 'guest bedroom,' which is basically my room since I'm the only person that ever sleeps in there as far as I know. (I dunno why he doesn't just call it 'my room' instead of making it sound like I'm a 'guest'...whatever. It's my room.) There's a couple of good board games in the closet, and some that I really don't like playing (like Scrabble). I grab a deck of cards and start to pull Candy Land off the shelf, but I decide at the last minute that maybe that isn't the best idea. Maybe I should play a more grown-up game, like...maybe The Game of Life. I kinda like that one.
We play Life for an hour or so; I end up in Millionaire Acres, but I think maybe he let me win. I make sure to use the restroom about every half-hour or so, just to be on the safe side, especially since I'm drinking Cokes. He's still sipping out of his big cup--I mean, the thing is really big--and of course he has to go once or twice, too, but y'know. Anyway, after that, he starts watching TV.
“Help yerself to wha'ever's in the pantry. I don' got a lot of food right now.” He yawns, and goes back to watching TV. I look in the pantry, but there's not a whole lot other than peanut butter and bread, and some cans of tuna, and a bunch of other cans of stew and things that look pretty gross.
I'm not hungry yet, so I go hang out in My Room. It's nice, with a double-size bed and my old PS2 from way long ago, and also my Yamaha keyboard. It's got a little over 5 octaves and over a hundred instruments...it's pretty neat, really. I put it on the bed and sit in front of it cross-legged (I take my shoes off first), and start playing some of the old songs that I learned by ear. Sadly, I only know like the first half of a lot of them, but if I practiced, I could probably learn the rest of a lot of them. All told, I spend about a half-hour messing around with it and trying to play some of the old sheet music I got (I can sight-sing pretty well, but I never really got super good at piano sight-reading).
I begin to hear Daddy grumbling and sometimes cursing at the news on TV. That's something he has always done...I wonder why he even watches the news if all it does is make him mad. I close the door to my room and set my keyboard up so that I can play on one side with a harp-type sound with my hands, and split it so that the last few keys on the left make seashore sounds (this thing is neat). Now, I know this part sounds weird, but I made this really relaxing song that I like playing, but I actually have to sit in front of it like this, because I need both my hands for the melody and the harmony, but then I play the seashore with my big toe. It works, okay? Anyway, so I play that for a while, and just enjoy the sounds. Then the bedroom door slams open, which makes me jump straight off the bed and turn around to see what happened.
Oh, God. It's Daddy, and he looks pissed. I didn't even do anything! Wait--how could I have been so stupid?! He was drinking whiskey in that cup the whole time! I just stare at him, afraid to say anything.
“Matty? You remember how I told you that you need to grow up?” He is slurring his words pretty heavily, but he's talking really quietly, too. It's freaking me out. Then, he holds up his fist.
Oh God no. He's holding one of my diapers. My heart starts beating fast and I start panicking. He asks, “What da fuck izzis? A diaper? A fucking baby diaper?”
Only two things go running through my mind: one, I'm so screwed right now, and two, my bladder just let go, and Daddy is in the way to the bathroom. So I start peeing my pants. Bad. I'm frozen in place, afraid to move, and I can't stop peeing. I'm so screwed.
Daddy stumbles forward and yells, “What da fuck!? Are you PISSING yourself?!” As he reaches for me, I duck under his hand and run into the bathroom, locking it behind me. I can barely catch my breath, but I sit on the bathroom floor, still peeing 'cuz I can't stop it, and with a shaky hand I get out my phone, call Phillip, and put it back in my pocket.
****Phillip's Point of View****
Please, please, please work this time. I'm tired of the police taking too long! I've gone through this fucking scenario three times already, and each time, I know that Matty gets...you know what, fuck this. It's time to be grounded for the rest of my life.
Step One is to tell Mom that I'm feeling sick today, so that I can set the rest up.
Step Two is to call the police to get a patrol going in Matty's dad's neighborhood:
“Yes, I'd like to report suspicious activity...my name is Phillip Bontemps. I heard from a good friend who has contacts that there will likely be a gang meeting in the Creekbend subdivision around 7:00...no, my friend really doesn't want to give his name out for fear of retaliation; he would prefer to remain anonymous...yes, this number is good to reach me. I don't think it like needs to be a swat team or anything, but if you have the manpower to send maybe one patrol out in the neighborhood, it'd be great. ...I understand. Thank you. You too.”
Step Three is the agonizing wait until just the right moment. I know exactly when Matty calls me, so now I've just got to get to his mom's place faster so she can call the cops while I have my phone as evidence, so...here goes nothing.
“Mom? I'm going to go for a walk.”
“Okay, dear. Be back by dinner.”
“Sure. Um, I left my keys in my room; can I just take yours? I won't be long.”
“Oh, yeah that's fine. They're on the hook by the door.” She says this without even looking away from her crochet work she's doing on the couch. I think it's another doily. Whee.
I take her keys and head out the door, locking it behind me on the way out. We have a double-deadbolt lock, so she doesn't have the time to stop me before I drive off in her car. Thankfully, I'm not that much shorter than her and she drives in practically the fetal position, so everything's in reach for me if I sit a little uncomfortably.
I know the way to his house already, so I drive carefully (I am SO out of practice). Mom starts blowing my phone up, so I ignore it until I'm parked outside Matty's place--thank God no cops were on the road, or I'd've been fucked--and I open the text app, where Mom has sent somewhere around 10 messages already about how much in trouble I am, how I'm grounded for life, how Dad's going to whip me senseless, what am I thinking, I could die, all that good stuff. I text her back on the way to the front door, saying, 'Sorry for the scare, but Matty is in emergency trouble and I needed the car. Drove safely. Car is at Matty's place. Dad can help pick it up. Ground me for life later.' I give her the address just in case, as well, and knock on the door.
His mom answers with “Phillip? I'm sorry, but Matty is at his father's for the weekend.”
“Listen,” I say with all seriousness. “Matty is in trouble. I need you to call the police, right now.”
She begins to panic, but confusion fights with it in her eyes. “What are you talking about? What's happening? ”
I step inside past her and turn to face her in the entryway. Taking a deep breath, I say, “You remember how I said I was psychic? I had a vision that bad things were going to happen at his dad's place, so I told Matty to call me and leave his phone silent if his dad started getting violent. I need you to call the police right now and send them over there, because in just about...” I take out my phone and check the time, “...30 seconds, Matty is going to call me. You'll hear it. I promise you. Please. Please call.”
She stares me down, looking for some joke in my face, but apparently finds none. She takes her phone out cautiously, telling me, “I swear to God, if you're lying or if this is a joke, you two are going to be in the deepest shit ever.” Nevertheless, she dials 911.
My phone rings. I pick it up and put it on speaker, muting it so that his dad can't hear that it's on. Then, I minimize the call screen and open up an app I specifically downloaded for this: basically, it's the sort of program people use to record phone conversations 'for quality assurance' or whatever bullcrap they say.
The first thing we hear is a second of silence followed by crazed pounding on a door.
“OPEN THE FUCK'N DOOR, Y'LI'L SHIT!” His dad's voice, even from behind a door, is loud enough to fuzz out in my phone's speaker.
I lock eyes with his mom, tears of frustration and empathy beginning to well in my own. Hers fly wide as she realizes that everything I've said is true.
The emergency operators answer her call, and she responds, “Yes, I'm reporting an active child abuse in progress.” She gives the location, her name, all that, all while practically dragging me by the arm to her SUV.
Good. I think I have the timing right. She drives like a maniac, swerving around cars and running red lights; she hasn't wrecked any of the times I've gone through this scenario, so I'm not worried. Well, not rationally so. I'm still gripping the car door like it's going to fly off.
Through the phone we hear more loud pounding on the door, followed by an extra-loud THUD sound, as if he were trying to bash the door down with his shoulder. “WAIT'LL I GET MY HANDS ON YOU, YOU FUCK'N PISSY LI'L FUCK!” Matty screeches in response to the battering-ram attacks against the bathroom door.
Come on, come on, work this time! A few minutes left to get there...The pounding and yelling subsides for a moment; all I can hear is Matty crying. He says, “Phillip? Are you there? I think he's gone.”
No no no, don't talk to me! Not yet! I unmute my phone just long enough to hiss, “Hang on! Shh!” and mute it again. I know what his dad is doing, and we hear it start up a minute later in the form of metal objects wiggling and clinking together--he's trying to unlock the door.
Matty's mom continues to drive her SUV like it's a Ferrari on the Autobahn until we get to the exit leading to his dad's neighborhood. From the phone comes a loud, “FUCK!” and the sound of something metal hitting tile, followed by a loud roar that ends with a thundercrack and the sound of splintering wood. Matty screams at the top of his lungs.
I'm sorry, but I'm not going to go into detail about what we hear next, other than to say it's a lot of screaming and shouting. The next few minutes are pure torture as we listen to the struggle, trying our damnedest to get there. We pull up to the house just in time to see the two officers from the patrol kick the door in. From the phone we can hear them yell, “POLICE! LET GO OF THE KID AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP!” and a high-pitched scream.
His mom sprints inside, regardless of protocol, and of course I follow her. What we see is horrifying: Matty is draped over the arm of the couch with his pants in a bundle underneath his feet, and his father is standing, staring at two guns pointed at him, with his pants down around his ankles and his dick pointing straight back at them. That sick fuck. At least this time I got here before too much harm was caused; I don't want to talk about the other times.
Matty's mom's face contorts into a visage of pure disgust and rage as she spits, “You...fucking...MONSTER! That's your own SON!”
Holy shit do I ever not want to be in her way. She's like a wolverine protecting her cubs. Matty looks over at the sound of his mom's voice and upon seeing both of us, he bursts into tears, crawls fully onto the couch, and huddles in the fetal position, crying uncontrollably.
One of the officers tries to stop her, but she stares him down. “The victim is my son, and this sick fuck is my ex-husband. I have every right to be here. Phillip is with me.” Surprisingly, that works; they continue to read the Miranda rights to the dad with his mom standing there, staring death at her ex-husband, the rapist.
The police escort the father into the vehicle (after sadly allowing him the dignity to put pants on), and I present my phone as evidence. As I'm about to hand it over, though, I realize that I missed multiple calls and messages from Mom asking where the hell I was. I text back that they should meet us at the local police station and that no, I'm fine, but my friend was being assaulted and I had to help save him. I'm sure that will only open more questions than it answered, but that's what they get for now.
The police tell me to hold on to my phone since we were all going to head to the station to give reports. In the meanwhile, though, we make sure Matty has a clean pair of shorts and underwear on, and after his mom hugs him like she may never get to see him again, I also hug him like I may never get to see him again. By this point, he has stopped crying; I'm sure it's only because he's run out of tears, though. He looks more like he's in shock than anything else.
I sit in the back of the car with Matty huddled close as his mom follows the police to the station, getting an occasional light scent of the dried pee that we didn't have time to wash off of Matty's legs. It's not like he stinks of it, but to a trained nose, up close...right, sorry, distractions. Anyway, after a long silence, he looks up at me, the last vestiges of tears glistening in his eyes, and says in a shaky voice, “You...s-saved me.”
I look at him and smile, though there's a heavy sadness behind it. “I wish there was another way to do it, but you're safe, and your dad can't hurt you anymore.”
He doesn't respond; he simply lays his head on my shoulder and stares forward, occasional sobs escaping his throat as he meagerly tries to suppress them.
After another pregnant pause, his mom says, “I have so many questions right now, I don't even know where to start. I--how did you know about this? Why didn't *I* know? How did the police get there faster than we did? How...what...”
I answer, “I get feelings sometimes, or visions, when people I'm close to might be in danger. I can't explain why, but basically, I can predict the future.”
She takes a moment to process that somewhat-true line, and replies, “I'll believe anything at this moment. I didn't believe my ex-husband would rape his own son, and I didn't believe in psychics, either, but I'm wise enough to know when I'm wrong. Now that I think about it, I didn't believe in guardian angels, either, but you fit the bill.”
“Oh, I wouldn't call me an angel,” I say wryly, “but I'll accept the 'guardian' part.”
More time to think, and she asks, “This isn't the first time, is it? The first time he's done something to you, Matty.” She looks through the rear-view and sees him shake his head. “But why? Why wouldn't you tell me?”
Matty takes a shuddering deep breath and looks as if he's going to speak, but a wave of emotion overwhelms him, sending him into rapid-fire sobbing.
I wrap my arm around him, hugging him closer, and reply for him. “Matty told me it was because he said he'd make y'all go broke and he'd take everything away from you and him.”
She mutters, “That son of a...” and then strengthens her tone. “No, his mother is a saint. He's the scum of the fucking earth. Matty, he can't make us go broke. He never could. The worst he could do is stop child support, but we'd still make it. Besides, you're worth everything to me. I'd trade it all just to see you healthy and happy. I love you more than things. More than the sun and moon.”
Matty's sobbing calms down a bit as he quietly intones, “And ice cream put together,” as if it were the words to a childhood rhyme that he couldn't bear to leave unfinished. That must be some inside thing. It's cute...and it seems to have done the trick. Matty's sobbing slows down and eventually dies away as we arrive at the station.
As we're getting out of the car, Ms. Petersen says, “Phillip, I still don't understand what all happened here, but I can't thank you enough. You've saved the dearest thing to me--”
“PHILLIP GEORGE BONTEMPS, YOU ARE IN SO MUCH SHIT.” The voice of my mother cuts through the hubbub and actually causes one of the officers to pause, his hand going toward his gun as if being assaulted.
My parents march over to me in the last vestiges of twilight, but I could swear there's a fire burning in Mom's eyes. Dad is having a hard time keeping up without jogging, even though he's easily half a foot taller. “What on God's green Earth made you think you could STEAL our car and drive, DRIVE, at 12 years old, without a license, without even KNOWING HOW TO DRIVE, without permission--”
“Mrs. Bontemps,” Ms. Petersen interrupts, “your son just saved my child from being raped. Whatever punishment you were thinking of, please keep that in mind--wait. Phillip, you drove to my house?”
By this time, I notice the officers have taken Mr. Petersen inside for processing, leaving all of us alone out in the muggy air. “The bike wouldn't have been fast enough. Besides, I followed every traffic rule, buckled up for safety, never went over the speed limit, and parked nicely by the curb.”
Mom has no ready answer for this, and sputters for a moment before Dad chimes in, “Even though you did a fine job parking the car, you didn't follow every traffic rule. You drove without a license, and underage, at that.” Mom looks at Dad with this look of incredulous frustration, but just sighs and rolls her eyes. Dad continues, “We'll talk about punishment when we get home. For now, you're safe, your friend is safe, all the cars are safe.” He then walks to Matty's mom and introduces himself. “Herbert Bontemps. Phillip's father.”
“Adria Petersen, Matty's mom. Your son is a miracle.”
Mom finally composes herself and joins in. “Isabel. Good to finally meet you and the boy that Phillip has been hanging out with so often.” She nods with a sincere smile at Matty, who smiles shyly in return.
One of the officers peeks their head out the front door to the station and announces, “We need you inside for statements now.”
“I have important evidence that I need to explain to them, so I need to go,” I tell my parents. “Can y'all wait a little bit?”
“You're going home with us,” Mom says firmly, “so we're here until you're done.”
The rest of the night is torture, watching the police question Matty and hearing him give excruciating testimony about what happened, having them take pictures of welts where his dad hit him, and listening to them explain everything as far as procedure goes. I won't bore you with the details, but the important bits are that apparently Mr. Petersen did actually penetrate Matty enough to, well, 'leave evidence' (like skin and precum, but not not semen--thank God), though apparently it was only a very short time before he was caught (which means my timing was as good as I can get it). Matty will have to go through the rape evaluation to collect the evidence of sexual assault; nothing was broken, though Matty himself is going to need a long time to recover.
One of the officers assures Ms. Petersen off-record that if the father is convicted, they won't ever have to worry about custody--or seeing the father at all--again. The fact doesn't even seem to register on Matty's face; I've noticed he retreats inward when he's feeling really vulnerable or uncomfortable.
I'm about to go show the evidence on my phone when I remember a very important thing I have to do first: I delete the text messages that have him in a diaper and my dick pic. I really don't want to go to jail on child porn charges, you know?
So anyway, I show them the evidence; they point out that electronic media is easily doctored and it may not hold well in court, but it's one more piece for the defense to fight against. Annoyingly, they elect to keep my phone instead of copying the data, just because it's one less thing for the defense attorney to try to poke holes in. Damn good thing I deleted the pics.
After they're done with me, they have conversations with the parents, mine included. I tune them out as I sit with Matty in the not-so-comfortable chairs provided to the guests at the station. “You're going to be okay,” I assure him.
He nods, but doesn't say anything for a moment. We sit silently, watching the paint peel as the parents and officers go on and on. Eventually, Matty takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and says, “Phillip?”
“Yes?”
“I think I figured it out.”
“Figured what out?” I ask, confused.
“That I love you.” He locks eyes with me; gone is the thousand-mile stare, replaced with a burning purpose and determination almost at odds with what he actually said. It must have taken him all of his courage to say that.
“I love you, too.” I smile as my 12-year-old heart soars, but my old mind cautions my 'outer child' that people are often more emotional after trauma, and he may not feel the same way after everything calms down. In defiance of my own caution, though, I grab his hands, still shaky from the experience, and hold them tight until they calm down. I look aside to see our moms both looking at us as the police talk to my dad. I don't really care who sees, now--the world will know, eventually. Just to make things official, though, I ask, “So, um, since we love each other, do you...want to be my boyfriend?”
Matty giggles in response, probably half from nerves and half from how awkward I'm being. “Yes. I wanna be your boyfriend.”
I can't take it anymore; I pull him up by his hands and pull him into a hug like I'm trying to absorb him. I kiss him on the lips--no tongue or anything, that's just inappropriate here--and he says, “Um, can you be careful with my shoulder? I think it's bruised.”
I realize that I'm basically crushing him, so I let go quickly. “Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry.”
He giggles again, which makes me laugh, which makes us both laugh. I catch another glimpse of my mom, who looks like she's about to 'squee' like a fangirl. Ms. Petersen looks pretty happy about things, too. Even my dad is looking at us with this sort of look, one that says, “...huh. Go fig.” Frankly, I'll take it; that's definitely not the worst opinion a father could have.
All in all, this moment is totally worth being grounded for the rest of my childhood.
To be continued...
Posted: 07/06/18