Date: Mon, 10 Dec 2007 10:24:39 -0500
From: ronyx <ronyx@woh.rr.com>
Subject: Brittle as a Bird   Chapter 1

The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities to anyone are purely
coincidental. The story is intended for a mature audience. It may contain
profanity and references to gay sex. If this offends you, please leave
and find something more suitable to read. The author maintains all rights
to the story. Do not copy or use without written permission. Write Ron at
ronyx@woh.rr.com with your comments.  Ronyx is a Nifty prolific writer.

Other stories by Ronyx which have appeared on Nifty:
*  Apple of Her Eye
*  Writing for Joe
*  You Promised Me a Tomorrow
*  Mark's Revenge
*  Scott's Story
*  A Different Road
*  Love on Trial
*  Taking Off the Mask
*  No More Rainbows

Brittle as a Bird      Chapter 1



I hate my life.

There, I've said it. I've been lying here for hours contemplating this
hellish nightmare I call a life. I think when I was born, God took some
paint and splattered it on an easel and said, "Joey, my young man. This
is your life. No order or neat lines; just random blotches that will not
give you any sense of continuity. Do what you will; your life will be no
more than the ugliness you see before you."

And that has been my life. Blotches of ugliness on a splattered easel. Do
you understand what I'm saying? Hell, why should you. I don't even
understand it myself. At seventeen, I don't know how my life became so
messed up- so unordered. I tried. I swear to God I tried. Until I was
twelve, there weren't any blotches. Then I guess, the shit hit the
proverbial fan. Or I should say in my case, the paint splattered on the
easel.

Black seems to be the predominate color. There's some crimson red, and
occasionally a tint of gray, but most of the time it's black. In my
world, the sun stopped shining five years ago.

Do I sound morose? I really am sorry. But I can't help it. It is how I
feel. It is how I always feel. In five years I've gone from being a
really sweet kid who loved to play baseball in the field in back of my
house with my best friends, to being a hustler, a pothead and a future
alcoholic.

I've turned tricks in back alleys just to make a few bucks so I could
buy me a couple of joints. I've drank so much trying to erase the filthy
memories of fat men stuffing their fat cocks in my mouth, but I still
wake up in the morning craving more. Not the cocks. The money I receive
from pleasuring some man whose wife stopped giving him sex years ago.
I'm always there, waiting to satisfy his needs.

Man. I need another drink. All this sad shit has depressed me. I hate it
when I travel down this road. It's useless because nothing is ever going
to change. I'll go to bed tonight sad and alone. If I'm lucky, I'll be
drunk and high. It makes the night more bearable. Of course, the
nightmares don't cease. They only become more vivid. When that happens I
get up and go out into the cold night.

Damn nightmares. I wish they would end. I would like just one sound night
of sleep. I used to cry myself to sleep, but I stopped doing that shit
when I was fourteen. No more tears for Joey Carpenter. What good are
they? They only flow down your face and disappear with the wipe of a
hand. Once they are gone, the same hurt is there. Tears. A waste of time.
I made myself tough and I refuse to be weak. Tears are for the weak.
Right? That's what my old man used to say.

"Stop that fucking crying, Kid." This statement was usually followed by
a fist to my stomach and a kick in the ribs after I fell down. "Fucking
pussy," he'd shout, after hitting me again. "Real men don't cry." So
I don't cry anymore. I guess I'm a real man now.

My old man. What a work of art. If I am the splotches on an easel, then I
guess he's the shit in a cow pasture. God really did a number on him. I
guess I got my drinking from him. I don't think I've ever seen him
sober.

He's an auto mechanic. That is, if he can drag his drunken ass out of
bed to make it to the shop. He dropped out of school in the ninth grade,
and married my mom when she got pregnant with me. He was my age when that
happened. He's always said his life would be better if I had not been
born. I don't know about him, but my life would be a hell of a lot
better if that wish had come true. My old man- what a piece of shit.
Yeah, I guess shit in a cow pasture would be appropriate.

Thankfully, my mom never had any more children. I guess one mistake was
enough. She claims to love me, but then I see the look of disappointment
in her eyes when she looks at me. I guess she thought I was going to be
her meal ticket out of the shit house. I have always been smart and made
good grades in school. I could tell she put a lot of hope in my future.
She always told me I'd be a doctor or a lawyer someday. I had promise.

But then God picked up the palette of paint and tossed it at the easel.
Hell, I was twelve, but I could still hear it hit with a sickening thud.
And the crimson red? That was my blood hitting the bedroom wall when my
old man beat the proverbial shit out of me. Only this time, he literally
did it.

Then God took the black paint and covered me ass deep in it. Even the sun
couldn't shine through. I haven't seen the sun in five years. Sure, it
rises in the sky every morning, but I don't see it. I don't want to see
it. I've become accustomed to the dark, to the blackness that is around
me.

Damn, this shit is depressing me. It's alright though. When I leave
here, I'll find another old man who needs a young kid like me. I'll
satisfy his needs, and he'll satisfy mine. Twenty bucks usually makes me
happy. If I do a really good job, sometimes I'll make more. They love it
when I call them Daddy. That usually makes me more money. I'm always
glad when I hear them moan, "Here cums Daddy," because then I know I
can get paid and go get me a bottle of cheap wine and a few joints. That
satisfies my needs.

I do afford myself one pleasure. It's funny how the simplest thing can
be called a pleasure. The alcohol, drugs and sex don't bring me
pleasure. They block the pleasure. They make me numb so I can't feel. I
don't want to feel. If I do, then the blackness overwhelms me and I
can't control it. It consumes me and drags me down into a bottomless
pit. Then the cycle continues- more alcohol, drugs and sex.

But occasionally, I give in to my pleasures and I come out here to
Sullivan Lake. I'm always sober when I come here. You know, for just a
little while I want to feel. I want to feel alive again. I watch the
birds flying overhead and I imagine I'm one of them, flying to a far
away place where I can be free.

I listen to the water lapping against the shore, and for just a brief
moment I feel at peace. Since it is a desolate lake where hardly anyone
comes to anymore, sometimes I'll strip off my clothes and lie naked and
feel the warmth of the sun's rays soaking up my body. I close my eyes
and wonder if this is what God gives the good people of the world- a
bright sunshine filled with warmth and gentle breezes.

Then I get sad, and this shitty depression swoops over me- like it has
now. I beat my chest and throw my fists into the air and curse an evil
God. Then I think, no, there is no God. If there was, how could he let
all this shit come into my life?

And then the need to satisfy my real needs appear. Soon I'll hit the
streets and look for a trick. Afterwards, I'll head over to Louie's and
get me a bottle of wine. He'll sell to kids, but he charges twice the
price for a bottle. I don't mind, though. It's easier than standing
outside the door all day trying to con someone into buying it for me. I
can't count the number of times a guy has emerged from the store and
hurried to his car and quickly drove off with my money.

A few months ago, I got even with one guy. I was sitting on the side of
the building waiting for Louie to bring me my bottle when I saw the blue
Taurus pull up in front. I remembered the dent in the right front bumper.
The guy got out and walked into the store. I knelt down and snuck up to
the side of the car and carefully let the air out of his tires.

I thought I was busted when another car pulled up. But then a young guy
got out and noticed what I was doing and started laughing. "Damn, Dude.
I hope I don't ever piss you off," he exclaimed as he flashed me a
thumbs up and disappeared into the store. I carefully snuck back to the
side of the building and awaited the old fart to come out of the store.

He didn't notice the flat tires until he started up his car and began
backing up. He beat on the steering wheel and jumped out of the car and
ran to the side. "Mother Fucker!" He shouted to no one in particular.
He hit the roof a few more times, and then pulled out his cell phone.
About that time Louie opened the side door and handed me my bottle. I
took one more look at the flat tires and then skipped off down the alley
behind the carry out. That was a good day.

I don't get many chances to laugh, so I have to take them when I can. I
laughed a lot until that day when I was eleven and the darkness came.

******************

"Come over here, Joey." My Uncle Mike was motioning for me to come sit
beside him on the couch while we were watching television. I had been
stretched out on my back on the floor. Since it was summer, the only
escape we had from the heat was a small fan blowing the hot air around
the room. I was lying with nothing on but a pair of small shorts covering
my body.

"You're growing into a big boy," my uncle stated when I sat down
beside him, nestling my body into his. "How old are you now?"

"Eleven," I said proudly. I looked up and grinned as he looked down at
me and laughed.

Uncle Mike was like a hero to me. He was my father's youngest brother.
He was twenty eight years old and worked as an accountant. He had stepped
in on more than once to protect me when my father went into one of his
rages. Once when my father reached out to hit me after he had polished
off a fifth of whiskey, Uncle Mike decked him and left him lying
unconscious on the floor. When I became concerned that he had killed my
father, he simply remarked, "Let him sleep it off." He lay there the
rest of the night, snoring loudly. And Uncle Mike was right. In the
morning he arose, not remembering what had happened to him.

"Bet you've started growing hair on your pecker, Huh?" I giggled when
he reached over and grabbed my dick through my shorts.

"No!" I giggled as I wiggled around on the couch.

"No, What?" He asked playfully. "No hair, or no tickling?"

"No, both!" I giggled. I was curling myself into a ball so he couldn't
squeeze my small dick.

"Well, you will soon enough," he assured me. He stopped tickling me and
we resumed watching the show. I was disappointed because I had enjoyed
the attention he had given me.

I leaned further into him. He took his large hands and positioned me so
that I was lying in his lap. He put his hand on my side as we continued
to watch television. After a while, he slowly slid his hand down my body
until he was caressing my small butt. Underneath me, I could feel his
dick begin to grow hard.

His breathing began to quicken as he looked around the room to make sure
we were alone. He then placed his hand inside my shorts and started
rubbing my small cock. It immediately grew hard as he wrapped his large
hands around it and rubbed it up and down.

"Feel good?" He whispered hoarsely. I mumbled a weak, "Yes." I knew
what we were doing was wrong, but I didn't want to tell him to stop.

He took my small hand and led it to his large cock, holding it while he
ran it up and down the length of it.

"That feels good, Joey," he said. "You're making your Uncle Mike feel
real good." He then reached down and slowly unzipped his pants. Again,
he looked around to make sure we were alone and that no one was watching.

Carefully, he snaked out his enormous dick. It was extremely hard with
drops of liquid on the tip. He took my head and pushed it down to it.
"Take it in your mouth, Joey. Make your Uncle Mike happy."

That was the beginning of my darkness. I think it was on that day that
the paint splattered the easel. For a year I made Uncle Mike `happy.' I
became his constant companion. He was good to me. He took me places my
father never would. We went fishing and hunting. On several occasions he
let me drive his car when we were on the back roads.

We went to Five Flags several times, and I delighted in playing arcade
games with him. He'd always beat me, but I didn't care. I was rewarded
afterwards with a trip to get pizza. The best time I ever spent with
Uncle Mike was the afternoon he rented an ATV. We spent an entire weekend
traveling trails on a mountainside of a friend's property.

My parents never questioned why I was spending so much time with Uncle
Mike. I guess they were happy I wasn't around the house so much. It was
one less mouth they had to feed. Besides, I was constantly wearing new
clothes and shoes. I was happy, and I never questioned the price I had to
pay for Uncle Mike's generosity.

He always treated me nice and never hurt me. Not once did he ever hit me
like my father did. I always felt safe when I was curled up against his
body when we were naked in bed at night. In the back of my mind I knew it
was wrong, but I kept telling myself that I was still a good boy.

"I wish you were my son," he said softly one night as he gently pulled
me into him. I felt tears start to fall down my face. I wished he was my
father, too.

Then it ended. It ended and my personal hell began.

About a year after that night in the living room, Uncle Mike had stayed
at our house to watch me while Mom and Dad went out for the night. That
usually meant that they would go to a bar and my father would drink until
he picked a fight with someone and would be asked to leave. After being
arrested twice for disorderly conduct, he was careful not to return to
jail. So he'd usually stagger from the bar after getting in a final
word, and then he'd pass out while my mother drove them home.

I had made Uncle Mike happy earlier in the evening, and we had fallen
asleep naked on the couch. For some reason, my parents came home early
and found us together. We were startled when we heard a gunshot. My
father was standing in the middle of the room looking down angrily at us.
He walked over and placed the gun in Uncle Mike's mouth. I covered my
eyes and screamed; afraid he was going to blow his brains out.

"You have exactly thirty seconds to get your faggot ass out of my
house," he hissed angrily. "If I ever see you again, I'll finish what
I goddamned want to do right now. Kin or no kin, I'll fucking kill
you." His words sent chills down my spine.

Uncle Mike grabbed his clothes and ran naked out the front door. I never
saw him again. Of course, I didn't see too much for the next few weeks.
My father almost killed me that night. I still wake up late at night with
nightmares reliving the hits to my body he inflicted on me. Before it was
over, I was begging him to shoot me with the gun he had lying nearby on
the dresser.

My mother took care of me and mended my bruised and battered body, but I
could tell that she felt disgusted by my presence. I really couldn't
understand what I'd done wrong. I knew that what Uncle Mike and I did
wasn`t right, but I didn't think it warranted the beating I received.

The next year at school, I began to understand when boys started making
crude jokes about fags and cocksuckers. At thirteen, I wasn't sure if I
was gay, but I realized that Uncle Mike was and that he had involved me
in something perverse. Even now, I still don't have any ill feelings
towards him. He was the only person who had ever remotely cared for me.

********************

Feeling sorry for me yet? Well don't. I got over it and moved on; at
least that's what I've convinced myself. I now know that I'm gay, and
that Uncle Mike had nothing to do with that. I'd have been gay even if
that shit with him hadn't happened. I knew at twelve I enjoyed it a
little more than I should have. If it hadn't been him, it probably would
have been some other guy. At least he treated me good.

Man, look at that water. It is crystal blue as it laps against the shore.
I could sit here all day and listen to it. The sun feels soothing on my
naked body.

I need to eat more. I'm a little too scrawny for my 5'11" frame. I can
feel my ribs when I run them over my side. Last time I weighed myself I
was about 135 pounds. Most guys like my thin body. They say it makes me
look boyish.

I have to play on that. If I'm going to be successful hustling, then I
need to keep myself looking young. I'm too tall anymore to pass as a
kid. I keep my pubes shaved to give me a younger look, but I'm not too
sure how long that's going to last. I've seen what happens on the
street when guys lose their looks. If I'm not careful, I'll be sucking
cock for ten bucks.

Guys still tell me I'm cute, but I know they're just saying that to
convince themselves they are with a young guy. To them, all guys my age
are cute. The zits have popped up on my face, probably from hanging
around the dusty streets. I look around school and everyone has pimples,
but that doesn't help me out any. If they get any worse, my tricks may
not want me anymore. Then how do I survive?

I'm not homeless. I do have a home, if you want to call it that. My old
man won't let me in the house, but he will let me sleep in the garage. I
got me a corner there with a bed and a small dresser. My mother gets mad
because she has to park her car outside so that I can sleep there.
There's a bathroom just inside the door, so they let me use it to shower
and take care of my business.

Mom's good about bringing me food. She doesn't talk much to me when she
brings me a plate of food, though. Most of the time I feel like a dog who
has to stay outside. Fortunately for me, we live in the South, so the
weather doesn`t get too cold. If it did, I think my old man would let me
die of hypothermia before he'd let me come back into the house to live.
He's already told me that when I turn eighteen I have to leave. Right
now he's afraid of going to jail if he puts me out.

Childrens' Services was already here when I was thirteen. A teacher
reported me when I went to school with bruises on my arms. I tried to
lie, but all I did was end up bawling my eyes out. She reported my dad,
but when they came by the house a few days later he told them I had
fallen out of a tree. I knew if I told them the truth, he'd beat me as
soon as they left the house. So instead, I told them what my father had
said was true.

One good thing occurred because of that. He never hit me again that
entire year. I guess he was afraid that my teacher, Mrs. Zachary, would
report him again if she saw any more bruises on my body. It didn't stop
the verbal abuse, however.

I came to stay in the garage when I turned sixteen. That was my birthday
present. I came home from school and found my room empty. When I asked
where my stuff was, he led me to the garage and told me that it was now
my new room. So I get to fall asleep smelling motor oil and the cat's
litter box.

It is really not so bad. It gives me the independence I need. I can come
and go when I want. There is a side door to the garage, so my parents
don't know where I am most of the time. As if they'd really care to
know. They lock the house at night, so I usually shave and shower before
nine. After that, I just go outside and piss in the bushes.

I only see my old man once a day- when he leaves for work. He makes sure
he wakes me up by revving the engine on the car and filling the garage
with gas fumes before he pulls out. I'd let the air out of his tires,
but he pretty much leaves me alone anymore. I don't want to antagonize
him. I guess he's just waiting a few more months before I leave his
house. If I had anywhere to go, I'd have already left.

Being here at the lake energizes me. It clears my head and helps me see
things better. Problem is, most of the things I see sucks. What kind of a
future do I have? At seventeen, my life is pretty much over. I've hit my
peak and every thing is now downhill. Downhill. That's a joke. When
you've hit rock bottom, there is no down.

The sun is setting, so I better get up and get dressed. I'm meeting
Ticker downtown. He supplies me with weed. People call him Ticker because
he has a bad heart. When they diagnosed the problem when he was six, his
old man joked about him having a bad ticker. A friend over heard it, and
since then he's been Ticker. His real name is Albert Wendelmeirer. With
a name like that, I think I'd also prefer to be called Ticker.

He's the closest thing I have to family. He doesn't like me turning
tricks to buy the weed I get from him. He's always telling me he'd just
let me have it, but I don't want to be a charity case.

I volunteered once to suck his dick for the weed, but he told me no. He
said I was too much like a brother to him and it would feel like we were
committing incest. I told him I'd already done that so it wouldn't
bother me, but he didn't find that funny. Ticker's the only person who
knows about Uncle Mike. We got drunk a couple of years ago and I told him
everything. I know he feels sorry for me, but I don't need his pity. I
don't need anyone's pity.

Everyone gets weirded out when they first meet Ticker. He's a big guy
with a full head of red hair. I don't think he's cut it in years, and
it's probably been that long since he's brushed it. He must weigh about
250 pounds, but he's nothing but a little kitten inside. He tries to act
intimidating, but it doesn't come off very well. I once watched him
break down in tears when a little kid in the neighborhood lost their dog.
A week later, he went out and bought them a new puppy.

Because of his heart condition, he's also prone to seizures. It scared
the shit out of me when he first experienced one when we were in the
fifth grade. I ran out of the classroom screaming like a banshee because
I thought he was dying. Later his father took me aside and explained what
had happened.

A few months later he had another one when we were walking through the
mall. That time I watched him thrashing around on the ground, making sure
he wouldn't do anything to hurt himself. When he quieted down, I sat
down and put his head in my lap and held him until he could get back up.

Yeah. Ticker's the closet thing I have to family. He's about the only
thing stable in my life. I know he'll be there when I really need
someone. Same goes for me.

***************

"Yeah, Boy, make Daddy feel good."

Jesus, I wish he'd get it over with. This time it's a guy I call Roger.
At least that's the name he gave me when I met him last year. He's one
of my regulars. He drives around looking for me, usually on a Wednesday
or Thursday night.

Roger is in his fifties. He's fat and bald. He wears a wedding ring, so
I know he's married. His wife probably stopped giving it to him years
ago. That's why he searches for me.

"Yeah, Baby. I'm almost there."

I hate those little terms of endearment. They make it sound like I'm
someone special to them. Hell, I wish they'd just call me whore or
cocksucker. That's really what I am. I'm not their Baby or Honey. One
guy goes so far as to call me his Pumpkin. Pumpkin. What the hell kind of
name is that? No wonder his wife quit having sex with him. Pumpkin. Damn.

I like Roger because he's a great tipper. He knows I charge twenty bucks
for a blow job, but he usually will double that if I make him feel really
good. I need the money tonight, so I'm doing a really good job. I can
tell he's close because he has a habit of grabbing my head and pushing
gently down on it when he's getting ready to cum.

"Yeah, Baby. Here it comes."

I start to gag from the rancid odor. That's the only problem with Roger.
It doesn't taste too good. But like I said, he's a great tipper. Maybe
he gives me extra money because he can't get anyone else to do him like
I do. I don't know. I really don't care. All I want is to get paid and
get the hell out of the car.

"Same time next week, Baby?"

"Yeah, sure."

He drops me off at Louie's. He knows the routine. I've never had anyone
drop me off at my house. My parents would shit if an old guy ever came
back and knocked on the door asking for me. Or worse yet, if he ever got
busted by the cops and ratted on me. Of course, it would give my old man
another reason to beat the shit out of me again.

"Hey, Fucker!"

I turn and Ticker is walking up the sidewalk. I can tell by the
expression on his face he isn't happy with me. He knows Roger's car, so
he's probably figured I just made some money. You'd think he'd be
happy. Most of the money will go to him. But like I said, he doesn't
like me turning tricks.

"Roger?"

"Yeah."

"When you gonna stop doing that shit?"

"When you run out of cannabis."

"Come on." Ticker puts his large hands on my back and starts to lead me
away.

"Hold on a minute." I stop suddenly. "I gotta get some happy juice.
Stay put." I run to the side door and knock. Tina, Louie's daughter,
opens the door and I hand her a ten. A minute later she returns and hands
me two bottles of cheap wine inside a paper bag.

"Got it." I run up to Ticker. "Let's go get high, My Man."

This is my life. It's what I do. What else have I got?

***************************

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