Date: Fri, 23 Aug 2013 17:43:41 -0700
From: Rich H <rlhsanclemente@gmail.com>
Subject: When the World Changed, Part 17 (Graphic Violence)

Here is the latest chapter of this story.  As always, this is fiction, so
please don't go looking for your uncle or something in it, because he's
not there.  My thanks, also as always, to Flip (author of "Val 'n' Tyne"
on this site) for his editing help, and to those who've been kind enough
to write to offer comments, critiques, and advice - keep it coming, I
need all the help I can get.

Those who enjoy this story might also want to take a look at my other
Nifty Story, "Seal Rocks," also in this section, with the final chapter
posted in April 2011.

My thanks,  finally, to Nifty for providing a forum for people like me to
share their ideas and imaginings.  If you enjoy any of the stories here,
you should give the site a contribution, to help it stay afloat.  I know
this sounds like a pledge break on PBS, but it's the truth.

Enjoy!

When the World Changed Part 17

	Brady's breath condensed in a small cloud before him as he walked
to breakfast the next morning.  Several shaded patches of grass along
center campus wore sparkling veils of frost. Brady pulled his suit jacket,
one his mother had found among the discarded clothes at her cleaners, and a
size or so too small, tightly about him and tried to hurry along.  David
seemed still half asleep, striding with is customary speed but with vacant
eyes.  Stud Douggie shoved by them both, his brusqueness belying his
apparent mood: he was casually singing "Did You Ever Have to Make Up Your
Mind?"  as he walked along.

	David blinked, his eyes remaining blank.  "I fucking hate John
Sebastian, I hate the Lovin' fucking Spoonful.  I hate happy people."
Brady started to laugh, but realized David might not be entirely facetious.

	Brady finished his morning campus cleanup assignment quickly (in an
effort to get out of the cold as quickly as possible), and got to Spanish
several minutes early.  He'd been catching up fairly well, but still took
every opportunity to pick Dr. Cortes' brain.  For his part, Dr. Cortes was
unfailingly happy to help, though his habit of flapping his legs beneath
his desk was mildly disturbing - Stud Douggie's speculation that he was
beating off had struck in his mind.  He also had help from Alan Black, who
sometimes forced Brady to converse with him in Spanish while they warmed up
at practice.  This of course drew sneering disdain from Ian, which they
ignored.

	As Brady tried to work through the irregularities of 'querer' in
the imperfect with Dr. Cortes, Stud Douggie stomped into the room, still
singing in a loud off key voice.  Dr. Cortes frowned at him - Douggie
wasn't doing well in the class, even though he was re-taking it, and he
didn't seem to care much about either the class or Dr. Cortes.  "Something
wrong, sir?"  Stud Douggie asked, his voice fairly dripping with contempt.

	"Please do not disrupt here when I am working with a student,"
Dr. Cortes replied, his accent almost turning the word "student" into a
three syllable word.

	"Oh, a student," Stud Douggie answered, imitating the accent.  "Que
lastima, sir."

	Dr. Cortes looked very coolly at Douggie for several seconds, and
Douggie seemed to become uncomfortable.  "What?  I was apologizing!"

	"I see."  Dr. Cortes nodded at Brady, ending their session, and
turned to put some new material on the blackboard.  Stud Douggie, as soon
as Dr. Cortes' back was turned, rose from his desk and mimed jerking off
with expansive gestures.  Brady watched with open disgust, until Douggie
gave him the finger.

	Between periods, Ian McShane made a point of pushing past Brady to
get to the water fountain in the first floor hall.  "Go drink from the
trough, Jethro."

	"You guys really got your dickhead batteries recharged over the
weekend, huh?"  Brady commented, his tone lighter then the anger he felt.

	Ian put his thumb over the fountain nozzle, intending to spray
Brady, but he missed and the jet of water flew into the crowd of students
passing behind.  Several let out yelps of protest.  Among them was Brendan
McCracken, who had broken a bone in his hand during the previous weekend's
game (which Wilson had won) and was visibly in no mood for any provocation.
"What the fuck, McShane?" he shouted as he turned to confront Ian.

	"It was him," Ian stuttered as he quickly stepped away from the
water fountain.

	Brady couldn't help snorting.  "Bullshit it was.  What the fuck is
your problem?"

	Dean Storeman appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.  "Anything wrong
here, gentlemen?"

	McCracken gave Ian a long withering look.  "No, sir, nothing at
all.  Just a nice, cold -" he flicked his tie, trying to dry it "- wet
day."

	Brady watched him move off.  When he turned back, Ian had gone.

	In English, the class had reached Act III Scene 1 of "Julius
Caesar" - the Ides of March.  Brady had found he loved Shakespeare,
especially as he was learning it, and was rapt all period long.  The
teacher, Mr. James, ran his hand through his bristly flattop.  "So how dumb
is Caesar here, anyway?"  he asked, his Brooklyn accent making the direct
question seem even blunter.  "He's getting all these warnings and omens,
his wife's begging him 'Stay home, stay home,' he goes anyway to the
Senate.  He just walks in as if nothing's out of order at all - no
soothsayer, no omens, nothing.  Like he owns the place.  And then he starts
talking like he's already their king.  Look at this speech - "if I could
pray to move, prayers could move me.  But I am as constant as the northern
star," blah blah blah.  Exactly the sort of stuff you'd expect someone who
thinks of himself as lordly to say."

	"B -but he's supposed to be so smart and stuff.  Why would he do
that?  It doesn't make sense," Precott Hills said behind brady. He rarely
spoke in class, so this was a surprise.

	"Why do you think?  Mr. James retorted.  "What makes a man walk
heedlessly into a really dangerous situation without thinking about the
danger?  Is it courage?  Arrogance? "  The class murmured for a few
seconds.  "It's arrogance, isn't it?  This selfish belief in yourxelf as
all powerful and untouchable.  As if you were a king, right?"


	"So Cassius is right - Caesar wants to be king?"  Vic Stenkowski
was frowning.  "Doesn't that mean it'd be OK to kill him?  For, for the
greater good, and all?  I mean, according to them, anyway, the way they
think and all . . ."

	"Is it ever OK to kill, or do much of anything else, for the
greater good?"  Mr. James peered over his half moon reading glasses at Vic.
"Isn't that just a rationale for doing what you want?  You set up some
noble abstract goal, you call it 'the greater good,' and suddenly all this
stuff that'd otherwise be morally reprehensible is just fine: it's for the
greater good.  Presto!  That's what Brutus keep falling for, isn't it - the
idea that some greater good justifies murder.  That's his blind spot, and
Cassius plays on it like a violin, appealing to that so called noble side
of Brutus, that's really just a justification to himself for murder.  Now,
as for Caesar, the point here isn't so much that he wants to be king, but
his arrogance: the arrogance of thinking you're invulnerable.  He walks
right in to the Senate, among all these guys who he knows don't like him,
some he already suspects want to kill him - remember 'Yond Cassius has a
lean and hungry look'? - and he treats 'em like crap.  He never sees the
blow that'll kill him coming, when we all see it from a mile off.  He can't
imagine it actually happening to himself.  But we're all holding our
breath, waiting for the storm to burst here."

	"Well," Evan ventured, "if he's so great and all powerful why
doesn't he see it?"

	Mr. James smiled.  "Maybe he's not quite so great and all powerful,
huh?  Maybe he's just like us, blind to what's about to happen to us, but
overconfident enough to think that nothing can happen to us at all.  Caesar
may think he's superhuman, or divine like the later emperors claimed to be,
but here he's just another dumb schmuck who walks right into it."

	He and Doug hung out in the canteen for a while between classes,
sipping Cokes and listening to whatever people played on the jukebox.
"Light My Fire" came on twice, as did "Tiny Bubbles," a song which many of
the boys had mockingly adopted as an anthem of sorts.  Neither song held
much interest for Brady or Doug - the former had been played to death, and
the latter was entirely too shitty even to make fun of for long without it
becoming tiresome.  They talked idly, about nothing in particular.  Well,
Doug talked, mostly.  Brady found himself staring openly at him too many
times, having to force himself to look down at his Dixie cup or his feet.

	David, sitting with Jerry Solomon at a table nearby, watched him
while sipping his coffee.  Every so often, his thin lips would curl into a
slight smile, and his head would shake at Brady ever so slightly.  That
didn't help.

.  After lunch, David buttonholed him in the hallway in Geiger.  "Is
McShane being weird today?"

	Brady laughed.  "Which one?  They're both in like full asshole
mode.  I think your dad was right, they must've gotten an earful when they
were at home."

	"Yeah," David said, his voice oddly uncertain.  "Look, be careful,
OK?"

	Brady shrugged.  "OK, you too."  He shook his head as David slid
away.  Wow, is he paranoid, he thought.

	Practice started slowly.  They did more sled work, then moved back
into scrimmaging and working on plays.  Mr. Glendon was trying to teach
Evan (and to an extent Brady) how to recognize linebacker blitzes, so they
could audible over to the quick slant in pattern they had worked on the
previous day.  The rain clouds had blown away, and the sky was bright blue,
windy, and cold.  He split the first unit, with several people, including
Alan Black and Ian, on defense.  Ian played outside linebacker on the
strong side, away from Brady at the other end of the line.

	The guys playing linebacker were enjoying the blitzes, because it
let them fly past attempted blocks by the lineman and into the backfield
(and Evan).  Mr. Glendon spent time with the offensive linemen as well,
showing them how to read and react to a blitz, in order to afford Evan as
much time as possible.  "Get it right, guys," Evan pleaded with them after
about tem minutes.  "I'm getting' fucking pounded back here."

	Mr. Glendon ducked into the offensive huddle and called for a draw
play - a delayed handoff to Jack Spencer, designed for blitzing linebackers
to run right past Jack as he got the ball, so he could run free into the
defensive secondary.  "Remember," he said to Evan, "it won't work if
they're coming with a safety in addition to the linebacker.  Too many
people rushing, and at different levels - you'll never get to the handoff
point.  If the safety comes up, you check off to the slant."  He looked at
Brady.  "You understand too?"  Brady nodded.

	They remained in the huddle while Mr. Glendon trotted over to give
the defense its call for the play.  When they broke the huddle, Brady saw
the linebackers inching forward to blitz, but the safeties hanging back.
They ran the draw play, and Jack burst past everyone.

	"Fucking shit, Black, tackle somebody back there!"  Ian shouted
angrily at Alan Black, who was one of the safeties.

	Brady was for once out of patience.  "Ease up, Ian, it's a drill."

	"Swear on my field one more time, McShane," Mr. Glendon glowered at
Ian, who stood a moment staring at Brady, then turned away.

	They called the draw play again.  This time, as Brady trotted to
the line, he saw Alan cheating up toward the line, digging in his feet to
charge.  Evan apparently noticed it as well.  "Green 3!" he shouted, part
of the regular cadence in which he called out usually random colors and
numbers, but the particular combination which he and Brady had agreed would
mean the slant.  Trying not to reveal anything, Brady scanned the defense
as he prepared to drop into his stance.  The linebackers were coming for
sure.  Among them Brady could see Ian out of the corner of his eye, across
on the other side of the formation, bouncing up and down, ready to attack.

	On the snap count, Brady took one hard stride downfield, then cut
inwards to the middle, his arms up to catch Evan's pass.  He saw Evan,
already under duress, leaning back and in the act of throwing.  The ball
came slightly high, and Brady reached for it.

	A sudden white jolt of pain crushed his ribs on the right side.  He
felt that whole side of his body cave inward, the breath leaving him.  From
somewhere he heard a scream, and realized it was his own.  He was crumpled
on the ground, writhing, unable to focus his eyes, his side stabbing with
excruciating pain.

	One sound came to him through the agony.  "Suck on that, Jethro."
Ian McShane hadn't blitzed.  Instead, he had run full tilt the length of
the formation, laterally, and hit Brady as he reached for the ball.  The
crown of his helmet had driven full force into Brady's exposed ribcage.
Now Ian lay atop his conquest, enjoying the moment.  "Oh, I forgot," he
added, and punched Brady in the crotch - a quick rabbit blow, hidden from
those above.  Brady barely felt it, so great was the pain coming from his
side.  His eyes were watering, he couldn't breathe.

	"McShane!!!"  Mr. Glendon's shout was furious.  "What the hell are
you doing?  You're blitzing on that play!"

	Ian was rising from his knees, his hands out beseechingly.  "I saw
the play and I made it," he answered calmly.

	"Like hell you did!!!  You just speared a teammate!"

	"Sir -" Ian began, but that was as far as he got.  Doug was upon
him, throwing him to the ground, tearing his helmet off, and pounding his
face with punch after punch.  Whistles blew from every direction, a riot of
shouting erupted, other boys and coaches moved in to separate the
combatants.

	Brady lay for several seconds unattended, gasping and wheezing as
if drowning.

	Mr.  Glendon appeared over him.  "OK, son, lie back," he said in a
soothing voice, rolling Brady fully onto his back,.  The movement sent
fresh stabs of pain through Brady's side, and he grabbed Mr. Glendon's
jacket with both hands.  "Easy, Brady, just get your breath and let's see
what we've got here."  The scuffling behind Mr. Glendon seemed to be dying
down, but Brady no longer was paying any attention to it.  His whole world
had contracted to Mr. Glendon's voice, and the hands that now moved
carefully over him.  His waist was lifted from the ground, by his belt.
"Breathe in, now."  He tried, the intake coming in short hiccups and the
exhales in pained gasps.  Gradually he found the ability to take deeper
breaths - a small shift on weight to one side made the pain slightly lessen
- and as he recovered ho\is wind, his senses began to focus as well.

	His helmet had been removed, by someone.  He turned to see Ian
standing wobbly about thirty feet away, being yelled at not just by
Mr. Duquette but by no less than Coach Drake.  Evan and Alan Black were
still wrestling with Doug, whose face was deeply flushed as he tried to get
to Ian again.  Ian's nose seemed to have lost its shape, and blood ran from
it, his right eyebrow, and his mouth.

	Doug's face joined Mr. Glendon's above him.  "Bray?  Bray, you OK,
man?"  His hand touched Brady's face, a soft beautiful touch in the midst
of the pain and chaos.

	Brady started to cry then, moving his cheek against Doug's hand.

	"It hurts.  It hurts when I breathe."  He tried to lift his left
leg, to put his foot on the ground, only to have his groin object loudly.
"Aaaawww," he groaned, "he hit me in the balls, too."  Now that he felt
that pain as well, he suddenly wanted to vomit.

	Mr. Glendon's lips pursed angrily.  Doug flew away again toward
McShane, only to have Evan and Alan again intercept him.  "All right, you
breathing OK now?"

	"Yes, sir," Brady answered in a thin cracked voice, "but I think I
might puke."

	Mr. Glendon smiled slightly.  "Try not to, that'll hurt your side
even worse, OK?"  He patted Brady's cheek, and wiped the tears from his
cheeks.  "Let's try to sit you up now."

	If lying down had been painful, sitting up was agony.  Brady pulled
himself through it, teeth gritted, only a small highly pitch whine
escaping.  He blinked as if awakening from a deep sleep.  Ian McShane was
being walked off the field by Mr. Duquette and two other coaches he
couldn't quite make out.  The rest of his team was gathered around him, at
a wary distance, as if afraid to get closer and cause any more problems.
On his own, Brady started to stand, only to have the pain knife through his
side and groin, collapsing him back downward.  Doug caught him and held him
beneath his left shoulder.  Evan and Alan Black joined him a moment later.

	"Bray, you gotta stay down."

  	"Wanna get up," Brady gasped.  "Got to.  Please."  He had no idea
why he had to stand - in fact, he thought it was a pretty dumb idea right
at that point - but he did it nonetheless, swaying alarmingly for a few
seconds while Doug, Evan, and Alan steadied him.

	Mr. Glendon appeared again in front of him.  "Just what the hell do
you think you're doing?"


	"Sorry sir.  Wanted to stand up.  It - it doesn't hurt as much,
like this."  And it didn't.  So long as he stood just so, his right arm
held close to his side but not touching it, he felt almost normal - except,
of course, for the lingering sickening ache in his crotch.  He took a deep
breath - too deep, the pain shot through him again.  He groaned, despite
his best efforts to suppress it.

	From near the gym, Ian turned his head briefly and looked back.
Brady standing, raised his hand.  Ian stopped walking for a second, until
Mr. Duquette roughly shoved him forward again.

	"Bray?  God, Bray, are you OK?"  Doug's face was no longer flushed.
It was paler than Brady had ever seen, his dark eyes were wide and fearful.

	"I'm OK," he whispered to Doug.  He put a hand in Doug's hair,
realizing it wasn't a very appropriate gesture but not caring.  "I'm OK,
really."

	Mr. Glendon began tracing Brady's right side with his fingers,
gently.  He quickly found several points where the pain was the strongest.
"OK son, let's get you looked at.  You look like you have some cracks
here."

	Brady looked at Doug, trying to appear more cheerful than he felt
at that news, and let Mr. Glendon take him back to the gym.

	Walking actually helped.  The ache in his groin abated faster than
he could have hoped (he kept thanking God he had worn a cup), and he found
that unless he moved in some sudden or jerky way, he could keep his side
from flaring badly so long as he kept his right arm still.

	In the training room, Mr. Glendon cut his jersey off and helped him
out of his shoulder pads.  Brady felt vaguely guilty, and sad, to lose his
practice jersey like that.  It costs money, he thought, and it was mine.
Mr. Pierson, a math teacher who also served as trainer, looked him over,
prodding uncomfortable at the large bruise that was spreading quickly along
his flank.  "I think we need to get you X-rayed, here, Mr. Conover.  Paul,
can you take him to Izzy's office?  I can call ahead for arrangements."

	"No problem.  Brady, go get showered as best you can, and I'll be
back with my car in fifteen minutes."

	Mr. Pierson frowned.  "Funny thing.  You just missed the older
Mr. McShane.  Came out of practice claiming his leg hurt.  Damn if I could
find anything wrong, but I sent him on back to the dorms anyway."

    	Showering was no mean feat.  He was able to do most of the washing
with is good hand, but the twisting and turning it required made him cry
out several times.  At least I'm along in here for once, so nobody can see
me, he thought.

	Drying and dressing was even more difficult.  By the time he has
his shirt on, he was sweating, his eyes watery.  Don't cry, Goddammit.
Don't give Ian the satisfaction.  He wondered for a moment where Ian was,
what might happen to him.

	The doctor's office turned out to be just across the lake behind
the gym and down the road about half a mile.  Mr. Glendon walked Brady
directly into a large impersonal examination room.  Almost immediately, a
tall thin man with little hair and a long thin nose pushed through the
other door, smoking a cigarette.  He cleared his throat rather rheumily.
"Izzy Fishbein, son, good to meet you.  Paul, what we got here, some ribs?"

	"I think so, Iz."  He briefly described the injury, with
Dr. Fishbein leaning casually on a metal examination table, listening.

	"OK," he said when Mr. Glendon had finished, turning to Brady.
"Now you tell; me what happened and where you hurt, what restrictions you
feel in how you can move, all of that."

	Brady took a breath and winced a bit.  "Well that answers one
part," Dr. Fishbein laughed easily," now go on with the rest."  Brady
described how he could only move a certain way without pain, the way he had
to hold his arm by his side.  "OK then. Let's get some pictures,"
Dr. Fishbein said, clapping his hands.  He stubbed out his cigarette in an
overflowing ashtray, and pulled a large unwieldy machine away from the
wall.  "Get your shirt off, there, and let's have a look, and we'll see
what the x-rays tell us."

	Brady peeled his dress shirt off with some difficulty, Dr. Fishbein
watching with interest as he did so.  Both he and Mr. Glendon were startled
by the size and coloration of the bruise on Brady's side.  "That's a pretty
good one, son," Dr. Fishbein said.  "Geez, Paul, this was a teammate did
this?  What kind of practices you running up there?"

	"Let's just say we have a problem with this one boy," Mr. Glendon
answered in a clipped tome.  The sight of the injury seemed to have angered
him again.

	Dr. Fishbein lit another cigarette, took a long drag, set it on the
ashtray, and moved to Brady.  "OK, let's see what we got here."  He began
tracing Brady's ribs, one by one, from his breastbone around to his right
side.  His touch was surprisingly light, almost tickling or caressing.
Brady felt himself getting goose bumps from it, at least until he reached
the sore points on his side.  Even under that gentle a touch, the pain
there was bright and alarming.  Dr. Fishbein took several minutes to cover
the entire area, stopping occasionally to drag on his cigarette.

	"OK," he finally said, "I count maybe four cracks.  Nothing feels
actually broken, just cracked No displacement.  Now let's get some pictures
and see if I'm right."  He pressed a button, and a matronly woman in a
crisp (and oddly tight, as if she'd gained too much weight to keep wearing
it) nurse's uniform, strode into the room.  "Estelle, I want a full set of
films here, dextral rib area.  The bruising will tell you where to focus."
He motioned himself and Mr. Glendon out of the room.  "The pictures will
only take a few minutes, kid," he said over his shoulder.

	They in fact took forever, it seemed.  Estelle turned out to have
the bedside manner of the McShane family nanny (as Brady imagined it),
brusquely moving him about, yanking his arm up to expose the damaged area
and making him yelp with pain repeatedly.  When he proved unable to hold
his arm up long enough to allow one angle, she sniffed disapprovingly and
jury rigged a sling he could grab onto to keep the arm raised.  Can I get
an aspirin or something here, he thought, this hurts like a bitch . . . .

	When Estelle was done, and bustled out with eight bulky metal
negative frames in her arms, Dr. Fishbein and Mr. Glendon returned.  They
chatted amiably while Brady sat on the exam table, starting to feel chilled
(and hungry).  "Just waiting to get the films developed, son," Dr. Fishbein
shrugged.  "Nothing to do but wait."

	By the time Estelle brought the x-rays back in and stuck them on a
large fluorescent board, Brady was shivering slightly.  Dr.  Fishbein
pulled a pair of half moon glasses from his lab coat and peered at them.
"Let's see, you got one, three, no four cracks, all in a row.  Just like I
thought.  Not bad, no displacement.  Now, let's wrap you a little, just for
now."  He pulled several wide Ace bandages from a drawer.  Don't keep these
on all the time.  The wrapping can help ease the discomfort, and protect
the injury site - a little, anyway - but there's nothing like a cast we can
do here for ribs, OK?  And I don't want you wrapped up so tight you can't
take good deep breaths, even if they hurt.  That can cause problems with
your lungs - pneumonia, even.  So you got to breathe real deep for me at
least once every half hour or so - biggest breath you can possibly take."
He wound the bandages around Brady's torso as he spoke.  "You got a
roommate, right?  He can help you do this, After a few days, though, you
probably won't need it anyway."

	Brady nodded.  The one thought he'd been keeping out of his head
suddenly found voice.  "How - how long will it be till I can play again?"

	Dr. Fishbein clipped the bandage in place and stepped back.  He
looked at Mr. Glendon, whose face was impassive.  "Hard to say.  A week at
least, maybe more.  They're not bad cracks," he added, looking back at the
x-rays, "but they're there, and they're going to be plenty tender until
they're healed."

	"Sir," Brady objected, trying to move his right arm in a normal
manner (the combination of the wrapping and the pain made it difficult),
"We only have maybe four weeks left in the season."  This news was, to him,
shattering.

	Dr. Fishbein nodded.  "And you got maybe seventy years or so left
in that body.  Right?  So give up a couple of weeks to make the rest of the
seventy years go good."  He looked at Mr. Glendon.  "Not the worst news, is
it, Paul?"

	"Not the worst," he answered though he looked very unhappy, "but
not great either.  This young man doesn't deserve to miss time because he
got cheap shotted."

	"Well, that part's for you to sort out."  He turned back to Brady.
"Do whatever running and stretching you can, just don't push the pain too
much.  Right now all you have are cracks.  You get too crazy you could
aggravate them.  Just be patient, son."  The idea of running sounded pretty
unappealing to Brady at that point, given how even a deep inhale made him
jump, but he nodded silently.  And stretching?  Geez.

	It was pitch dark by the time Mr. Glendon dropped him off behind
Linsley.  He'd missed dinner.  Study hall was well under way.  I didn't
realize it took so long, he thought to himself as he climbed the stairs
slowly, holding his right arm just so.  Maybe I can get some food from the
canteen after.  Or maybe David or somebody grabbed some for me.  Maybe
Doug.  That idea made him smile a little.

	The hallway was quiet.  Cureton was pacing its length, looking a
bit nervous.  "Conover!"  he said, in an artificially loud voice.  "Where
the hell have you been?"

	"Got hurt at practice," Brady answered, handing him the excuse slip
Mr. Glendon had written out.

	Cureton glanced at it, then wadded it up and stuffed it into his
pocket.  "OK, well, um, just get to it then.  Your, um, your roommate must
be sick, he missed dinner."  He turned quickly and strode away.

	"David?"  He grabbed the doorknob only to find it locked.  Puzzled,
he pulled out his key, opened the door, and started in.  The room was
unlit, and an utter mess.  Desk and dresser drawers had been pulled open
and the contents strewn about.  One leg on a desk chair was jammed into the
front of one of David's prized speakers.  The stereo was knocked over and
looked broken.  He looked about wildly.  "What the fuck -"

	"Shut up," a small voice said from David's bed.  "Just close the
door, OK?"  A huddled bump in the middle of the mattress, with no body part
visible, was all Brady could make out.

	"David?  What's up, man, what's wrong?"  Silence.  "David?"

	"Leave me alone."

	"David, what - "

	Then he saw it.  A small T shirt, wadded at the foot of David's
bed, bloodstained.  And a pair of underwear, similarly stained..  Brady
turned to David, eyes wide, and tried to pull the covers back.

	"Leave me alone, Goddammit!"  But he made no effort to stop Brady
from uncovering him, or anything else, for that matter.  He hid his head in
his arms, eyes averted, curled fetally on his bed.
	David's face, so far as Brady could see it, was puffy and
discolored.  He gently pulled David's arms away for a closer look.  "No,
please," David protested quietly.  His left eye was closed from swelling.
His lower lip was fattened, with angry were red marks about his throat.  He
was naked under the covers, and had bruises .in several places on his chest
and belly.  Brady lifted him up gently, not even feeling the pain that
using his right arm caused him, and pulled him, to a sitting position.
David was docile, limp.  He looked straight down at the floor.  Brady knelt
in front of him, examining his face with his good hand.  "Davey, man, what
happened?"

	David suddenly snorted, and he slapped Brady's hand away.  "What
the fuck do you think happened?  What happened to you this afternoon?"

	"I just - oh crap, was this Ian?"

	David shook his head.  "I should be so lucky," he muttered thickly.
"Stud Douggie."  He sniffled.  "He wanted the pictures.  He tore the room
up looking for them, tried to get me to tell him where they were."  He took
a breath.  "No, actually he just did all this 'cause he liked it."

	Brady was suddenly boiling with anger.  "Did he get 'em?"

	"What d'you think?"  he muttered, and looked for a moment as if he
might cry.  "He got everything he fucking wanted."  Brady felt a gnawing
horror in his gut.  David tried to roll back into bed.  "Just leave me
alone, OK?"

	Brady tried to steady him, with the intent to get him into the
bathroom o clean him up.  But when David tried to roll back into bed, Brady
saw the thin stain of blood on the sheet where David had been sitting, and
his anger, and concern, turned to dread.  He grabbed David and lifted him
up, turning him, seeing the welts across his back and buttocks, and the
darker clotted red stain in the crack of his ass.  "Oh, God, Davey," he
whispered.

	David was like a rag doll.  "Please," he said, "just leave me
alone."

	Cureton appeared in the doorway, looking nervous.  "Um, everything
OK here?  You guys, you gotta, you know, do study hall and -"

	"Bastard!!!"  Brady had Cureton against the door in an instant,
ignoring again the stab of pain he got from the sudden movement.  His eyes
watered a moment as he gathered himself.  "You knew, didn't you?  You
fucking stood lookout for him, like you were just now!  Take a good look at
it, what he did!"  Cureton's eyes were wide, fearful; he was trying to
avoid looking at much of anything.  "Look at it, motherfucker!!!"

	"I'm a Prefect, let me go," Cureton said in a quavering voice that
had no conviction whatever to it.


 	David was starting to cry.  "Leave me alone!" he wailed, falling
back on the bed and pulling his blanket around himself.

	Brady threw Cureton into the room.  "Take care of him!  You're the
fucking Prefect, right?"  He strode down the hallway, ignoring David's
cries from the room behind him: "Bray, don't!"

	People started poking heads out their room doors.  Evan looked at
Brady curiously.  "Hey, are you OK?"

	"Take care of David," he snapped as he reached the stairwell and
ran down it, the stab he got with each step only intensifying his rage.

	Ian's door was closed.  Brady kicked it in.  Ian was seated at his
desk, looking at him calmly, despite his obvious broken nose.  "Got a
problem, Conover?"

	Brady wanted to kill him.  He rushed into the room, heedless.

	From behind the door, someone tripped him.  The fall made him cry
out from the pain in his side.  He heard the room door close, and then
something wound once around his body.  Stud Douggie swatted him once on his
right side, sending another wave of pain through him and leaving him
momentarily helpless.  That gave Douggie time to tighten the belt around
Brady's side, and cinch it in tightly against his ribs.  "This is too
easy," he smirked.  The belt, pulled tightly around Brady's torso, pinned
his arms to his side, and forced his right elbow to dig into the area of
his cracked ribs.  It caused incredible pain.  Stud Douggie hovered over
him, one knee in the middle of his back, and pulled the belt taut.  "I got
your attention now, Jethro?"

	Brady tried not to make a sound, to deny them the satisfaction of
hearing how bad he hurt.  "Please don't hurt me," he managed to wheeze out
through gritted teeth.

	Ian was kneeling in front of him now, and yanked his head up by a
handful of his hair.  "It's payback time, Jethro, for you and your pussy
roommate.  You think this hurts?"  His hand nudged Brady hard in the ribs,
and Brady writhed horribly.  "This is nothing."  Stud Douggie was pulling
Brady's pants and underwear to his knees, keeping the belt around him taut
all the while.  "You need a lesson, asshole.  You never cross me, or my
brother."

	Stud Douggie must have had an endless supply of belts.  He now
wielded another, folded over, against Brady's ass with a loud cracking
sound.  Brady started to cry out, only to have something shoved into his
mouth.  The blows came fast and without letup for several seconds.  He had
never even imagined being flayed with a belt like this before, and the
reality was sickening.  He fought the tears coming to his eyes, the rage
and the hopelessness and the pain.  They had the pictures.  They had him.
They had David.  They had everything.  Breathing was becoming
difficult. He'd walked right into it, like Caesar into the Senate.  Ian was
laughing now.  "Give it to him hard, Douggie.  Show him."

	After several more seconds, there was a sudden pause.  "Why'd you
stop?"  Ian said to his brother.  "Come on, man, give it to him."

	"I got other ideas," Stud Douggie said quietly, grabbing Brady by
the insides of his knees and forcing his legs apart.

	"Douggie, no, that's too much, man, don't do that."  Ian's voice
was suddenly thin and frightened.

	"Fuck you, I did his roommate, I'm doin' him."  The sound of a
zipper came to Brady through the fog of his pain.

	Ian stood.  "Asshole, you weren't supposed to do that do Tanner
either!  You can't go that far with this -"

	"I go as far as I fuckin' want," Stud Douggie snarled.  Now shut up
or I'll give you your share later!  Stop being a pussy boy!  Christ, Pop is
right about you."

	"Fuck you, I'm not a pussy boy, I just - this isn't safe, it's
going too far -" Ian shoved Stud Douggie back, and they two began wrestling
and swearing at each other.

	The pressure on Brady's ribs had eased.  Hr collapsed onto the
floor and tried to recover his breath.  Pushing his arms out from his sides
eased the immediate pain in his ribs.  He managed to open his eyes, and saw
a belt on the floor in front of his face, folded over, with flecks of blood
on the leather.  He blinked hazily.  Is that mine or David's, he wondered.
Stud Douggie had Ian in a corner now, and was beating him badly.

	There was a sudden pounding knock on the door.  "Oh shit, Frazier's
coming," Ian said in horror.  He could hear Cureton in the hallway outside,
saying something in the same falsely loud voice he'd used when he'd arrived
back at the dorm. Stud Douggie, zipping his pants, was scrambling for the
window.  Ian grabbed him.  "We can't get caught, Douggie!"

	Brady managed to pull his pants up, in a sudden burst of modesty.

	The door was kicked open again.  "McShane!!!" Mr. Frazier bellowed,
freezing Stud Douggie in the middle of climbing out the window.  "Both of
you!!!  What the bloody hell are you guys doing?!"

	"Sir, I think Conover might have provoked -"

	"Mr. Cureton, when I want your opinion you'll know it.  You!"
Mr. Farzier snapped at Stud Douggie.  "Stay exactly where you are until I
tell you different!  You too, Ian.  Not a move, you understand?"  He knelt
beside Brady.  "Are you all right, son?"

	"Yes, sir," gasped Brady, scrambling to his feet and pulling a sock
from his mouth.  Ian was back in his desk chair, a frozen look on his face.
Stud Douggie hung disconsolately on the windowsill, one leg inside, the
other out.  Cureton stared at Brady, his cheeks flushed brightly.  Brady
stared at him.  "Do you realize what you did?" he managed to croak out.

	Mr. Billips appeared behind Cureton.  "Conover, what's going on?
Are you OK?  What did they do to Tanner?"

	Stud Douggie started to object.  "Sir, how do you know he didn't -"

	"No way, McShane, not this time.  This is way beyond the pale, OK?"
Mr. Billips helped Brady to his feet and slowly led him into the hall.
Boys were crowded around, trying to see what was happening.  Frazier's Hall
Prefects were desperately urging kids back into their rooms.

	The stairwell door opened and Doug flew out, his eyes wide with
fear.  "Bray!"  he shouted.  He ran up and took Brady by the shoulder.
"What's happened?  Are you OK?"

	"Not now, Garrettson," Mr. Billips snapped.  "Back to your rooms
until study hall is over.  All of you, back to your rooms!"

	Doug looked anxiously at Brady for a moment, until Brady nodded
silently: I'm OK.  Doug turned slowly and walked back to the south stairs,
glancing back a Brady several times.  "Help David," Brady mouthed silently
to him.  Doug nodded and strode back up the stairs.

	Billips started leading Brady toward the staircase at the other end
of the hall.  Brady could feel the eyes of everyone on the hall upon him
each step of the way. It made him feel suddenly ashamed for some reason.
God, what do they think happened?  He fought back tears again, taking great
deep breaths that made his entire right side burn with pain.  He realized
he was walking crookedly, hunched over toward that side, and tried to stand
straight.  He groped with his left hand to see if his pants were up all the
way.  Get a little dignity, dammit, he thought.  Even now, even after this.
Especially after this.

	"It's OK now, Conover.  It's all over," Mr. Billips was saying in
his best soothing tones.

	But Brady had a sinking feeling that it was just beginning.