" . . . In need of an angel . . ."
The closer Brandon gets to there, the more fear builds up within him.
He has no idea what time it is, all he knows is that even though the sun is not quite up yet, it is getting lighter. He has to hurry: he is already past being late: curfew was at dust - yeah right!
As each block passes, he thinks about the van: may be he could have used it and driven himself there. Omar may not have minded: Omar would have wanted him to get there, well maybe, maybe not. Omar would . . . yeah, Omar would . . . Brandon's heart leaps at the sheer thought of him. How just one night, no, mere hours has changed his life forever. His heart burns with each cascading thought of him. It is on fire: from his kisses, from his caresses, from just the thought of what they had just done, from O writing his name there, from the love that Brandon knows he has for him and shares with him, and from the separation he now is feeling with each step toward . . .
Brandon abruptly stops and rages at what little darkness remains of the night, "Shit. No! I don't wantta go there! ! ! I wantta go back . . . back to Omar!" But, his feet start again and keep moving in 'that' direction. Brandon's mind didn't care what his heart desires. It knows that unless he returns within the next hour, unseen, there will be great hell to pay, if 'he' is there. He knows that the consequences for not going back to 'him' are far worse than if he simply returns. So, the mind orders the body to move on. Keep moving . . . keep moving, and hurry. Hurry! ! ! As fear continues to grip him and his 'internal clock' ticking, Brandon stops one of the only 'late-night runners' that he sees speeding pass.
"HEY ! ! ! Mutta'fucka! What the hell y'think ya doin! ! ? SHE'IT! !"
In this 'hood, at this time of night, Brandon has to literally jump in front of a cab in order to make it stop. The cabbie is pissed, and in more ways than one. The stench of cheap Mad Dog waffles from the taxi as Brandon gets in. Still hurling vulgar obscenities, the driver floors the cab back into 'on-going' without the courtesy of the passenger's side door being completely closed. Brandon doesn't care; he has a ride now.
"5893 Blake! ! !" There was no need to say 'and hurry'. The cab lunges forward with the driver still yelling, " . . .Ya stupid shit . . . stupid fuck! I almost fuck'd you over! She'it! ! ! I oughtta still do it; run 'ya ass over good! What da' hell's wrong wit choo boy? ! ! ! !"
Weary, Brandon answers, ". . . Just 5893 Blake . . . just 5893 Blake . . . 'kay!" He throws two crumpled twenties onto the driver's front right.
Without any further complaints from the driver, they speed off into the night.
Arriving minutes later to the given address, Brandon gets out and watches as the cab careens out of sight. He struggles to suppress a giggle. "Damn! ! ! That cab reeks! I almost gotta contact high just by being in it. In a word . . . 'She'it!'" Brandon smiles. However, within seconds, the smile fades. Brandon starts to back-track, just in case 'he' is lurking there at home, waiting to see him arrive. Brandon had intentionally given the driver a wrong address. He was three blocks ahead of where he should be. Even though the 'ride' helped a little, time-wise, Brandon knew that he still has to hurry to get there. He runs the rest of the way.
As he leaps over the backyard fence, his spirits brighten a bit. Brandon notices that the old boarded house is dark. Very dark. Always a good sign! He's either knocked-out or not-in. Brandon hopes for the latter. Yet, he still favors caution and quickly climbs the weather worn trellises to the second floor, hitches open a large boarded panel that covers one of the windows to his room, and slithers in. The brownstone was 'something', in its day. Now, it was just like the rest of the houses in this neighborhood: worn and tired. Brandon hastily crawls in. He quietly enters and suppresses a yelp: he has snagged his right thigh on a large nail that protruded out of the bottom pane. As he falls to the bedroom floor, the pain is excruciating. He grabs his leg and rocks back and forth on the floor to null the pain, biting down hard on his lower lip. From the snag, Brandon could feel something warm and wet running slowly down his leg. With eyelids pinched tightly closed, he continues to rock back and forth, willing the pain away. Welcome home . . .
Without turning any lights on, Brandon jets up, quietly opens the door to his bedroom, stands there, and listens. Nothing. To be sure, Brandon timidly leaves his room and ventures out into the hall stairwell. He listens: nothing again. Great! ! ! He isn't here. Thank God! ! If he were, loud 'goat' snoring would be bellowing from downstairs, echoing from every room. Brandon did not want to be bothered, not by him, not to night, especially, not after what had just happened, not after Omar. Oh God, Omar . . . Omar, Omar . . .
Brandon turns and walks to the opposite end of the hallway.
In the bathroom, he undresses. And just before he steps into the shower, he catches a glimpse of himself through the dull, fading full-length mirror. Shit, he looks rough! Brandon looks as if he has gone through a war and some. He's breathing so heavily that his ribcage heaves and protrudes out of his skin; he's thin, too thin. His hair is matted and disheveled, his eyes are wild excitable, wide and almost as red as his hair is; he has salty grit and grime all over him, from his temples to his knees. Shit, how did that happen? He had to laugh at the image he saw. Who is this skinny, lanky dude in the mirror? What could Omar possibly see in that, i sn him? Just as the questions form in his mind, both are answered by a series of "Mmmmmm" that he remembered emanating from Omar as they made love. The thought of what had happened flows over Brandon like a huge tidal wave. He grips the face bowl to brace himself as the memory and trimmers pass. Weak from rushing and still shaking slightly from relief knowing that he isn't here, yet; Brandon steps into the shower. The water from the jet spray pounds on him. Reluctantly, Brandon washes. Sure the salt and grime would be gone but 'the smell, the feel, and touch' of Omar would be too. Gone, gone down the drain. And for some crazy reason, the thought of this saddens him more. "Cryin' in DA shower, what the fuck's wrong with me! ? ! ?" Brandon gurgles under the water. But, the tears still come as more memories and deep feelings are aroused.
"You shit, you shit! ! !" he Achilles himself, "Why . . . Why didn't you stay! ? ! ?" A torrent of tears mix with soapy water. Angry, Brandon scrubs himself raw, allowing the hot water to continue to rage upon his beleaguered body. The question just asked echoes from all four corners of the shower. Brandon has no answers; except one. And, that one exception brings him back into his thoughts. With that intrusion, Brandon shuts off the water and hurriedly exits the shower. Disgusted, Brandon roughly dries himself as he thinks of this disdainful intruder. Damn, he always messes things up! Always doing something to fuck up plans, ideas, and dreams. He always is the chit everything. Damn! ! !
"Ouchhhh! ! ! What the fuck? ! ?" Brandon yelps. He has dragged open the thin scab that was trying to form on his thigh. The wound was larger than he had initially thought. The skin around the gash had turned an angry blackish blue and was raised, runny, and swollen. Brandon touches it softly, apologetically. He re-examines it though the mirror, hoping not to see anything else new, in terms of damage. However, as he turns to leave, Brandon does spot the old. There are old bruises all over his back that curve to both of his sides, on his butt, and on his upper thighs.
Shit, surprising what a good cleaning will reveal once a little dirty perspiration is removed. Brandon tentatively touches each fading bruise, remembering the pain that initially put them there. He slowly shakes his head remembering and questioning. "How could he and how could they?" stung his mind. These thoughts, questions, and mixed emotions are too much to deal with right now; so Brandon walks back to his room. Rummaging through his dresser drawer, he pulls out and puts on clean boxers and an oversized white T. Just this small act of dressing brought back to mind more memories of tonight. The feel of Omar's T-shirt as he pulls it over his head, the texture of it, its smell, the sight of his chest and abdominal muscles once the shirt was removed, his 'outtie'; little things flooded his mind.
" . . . Omar . . . Omar, you changed me . . . changed me not just for anyone . . . changed me for you . . . changed me forever! ! !" Brandon rants. After arranging protective obstacles from the door to the bed: placing things just right, Brandon slides down onto his rumpled bed. His alarm is set; he may be able to get some rest after all. However, the cool night air softly bellows across his body; and, the memories of tonight start again. They have the same effect on him as if each scene is happening all over and over again. He moans. In his mind, the night breeze is a caress, Omar's soft touches. Brandon groans, wishing and wanting this all to be true again. Right here in his room, on his bed. Brandon rows over and rubs his stiffening cock into the mattress. Yearning for his embrace, Brandon thinks out loud, "I need you, Omar. I need you!" He pulls his shirt off and starts to touch every place on his skin that he remembered Omar being. Throbbing with excitement, he rolls over onto his back and allows the imagined caresses to continue. Brandon's fully erect cock tents his boxers, straining to get out. And with a final caress from the night breeze, he explodes. Brandon quickly reaches for a pillow, shoves it in between his legs, and cums. "Omar . . . Omar!" He buries his face into the worn mattress, stifling more intense moans.
Shaking, Brandon suddenly realizes, "What if he saw . . . what if Omar saw those bruises? What would he think of me . . . 'tweaked tweenkie'? Would he still want me? What if . . . what if the other 'he' finds out? What if he finds out about tonight . . . about Omar? God, what will happen? !?" Depressed and thinking all sorts of negative imaginings, Brandon tosses and turns. Too pent-up to sleep now, he glares at the clock on his stereo. The time '2:45' blares back at him.
"Fuck, I need to sleep." Brandon reminds himself. To get into a calm, relaxed alpha state, Brandon slips on a tape. It is one of his favorites. He would say, "How can a fuckin' naΤve, shit-face, little boy like you know anythang 'bout 'Old School' music?" But, oh Brandon did know plenty. He loves it! ! ! ! From 'New Birth' to the Shiners, to the Stylistics and everything in between and beyond, Brandon enjoys them all: to him it is all good! The more the artist croons and swoons, the more Brandon idolizes the song. He remembers that his mother use to kid him about his taste in music; yelling at him to turn that 'begging' music down! ! ! She swore that he must have been born out of sync, born out of time. "Yeah, that was Moms. Always tryin' to keep things in order, keepin' things correct, and finding good in everything, everyone including him." Drifting off, Brandon thinks how much he misses her . . . misses him . . . didn't miss him . . . misses her . . . him . . . her . . . him and then, he hears this on the stereo: "Angel" by Angela Winbush.
"Angel . . .
Angel Ooooo Angel uummmm Angel Ooooo Angel yeah
Oooh ba DA DA BA DA DA Ooooh
I found a certain paradise
Within my life with you
Heaven opened up its gates
And peace of mind came shinning through
You smiled at me when the world was unkind
I'm finally able to unwind
I found an Angel Angel
I founddddd an Angel Oh, You're an Angel in my eyes
Angel
I found an Aaaaaaaaaaangel
Angel
You're an Angel in my eyes
The sun can rise and set with no regrets
I can forget all about my blues
My life can take direction now
And my mind a clearer point of view
You lift me up when I'm torn down
You brought me out of this lost and found
I found an Angel an Angel
I foooooound my my my my my Angel - Angel
You're an Angel in my eyes Angel
I found myyyy Angel Angel
You're an Angel in my eyes yeah
Angel Ooh Angel don't you know you're an
Angel Oooh Angel yeah yeah
Whooooooo ooooooh
Angel - Angel - Angel - Angel
I found an Angel
Yeah, you're all I want all I need
You gave me back my dignity
You're an Angel in my eyes Angel Angel
Angel
My Angel My Angel Angel, yeah
Yeah, you're all I want all I need; You gave me back my dignity
Angel Oh My life can take direction now
My mind a clearer point of view
It's all because my baby
All because of you now darling
Angel Angeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel . . . yeah
My my my my my my my my Angel
Oooooooooh Angel"
That was it! This song brings EVERYTHING to mind: his smile, his touch, his tongue, his teeth, his deep wet kisses, the taste of him, his moans and groans, him inside of me, him writing on my heart, all of it brought vividly back to memory, and ends the evening. Brandon is lulled to sleep. And in it, Omar beckons to him, beckons to him in his dreams with that smile. However, sleep does not last for very long . . .
"Hey, whatzz all dis fuckin' shiz . . . what DA fuckin' hell izz thiz . . . shiz? ? ! ?"
It was not the clatter of the traps that woke him; it was that voice. His voice.
"Damn it Brandon!" More loud clatter. "Fuck . . . fuck thiz shiz! Damn Bran, damn! !"
Brandon cringes and sits straight up in bed. Hearing that pet-name always means that trouble is not far in coming. "What'zz diz? Why DA fuckin' doe' closed? . . . Let me in dhere 'yo!" Silent, Brandon cringes again and gnaws on his lower lip. "Boy, boy you betta answer 'ya Deddy and open dhiz damn doe', befoe I'd . . . Bran . . . Bran . . . BRANDON! ! !"
Adjusting from the pitch of sleep to the darkness of his bedroom, Brandon tries to focus and think. As close and loud and boisterous as it seemed that that voice is, he still has not gotten into his room. The interior alarms were still on. He must have gotten caught and entangled on the ones in the hallway. Brandon thought that if he had been an ounce sober, he could have just stepped right over all of that shit in the hall and walked right on in. But by being drunk as hell, he couldn't find his way through daylight.
"Hey, I juz wantta see if 'ya 'aight." More clatter, clamoring, and cursing. Still being cautious, Brandon remains quiet. He glances at the clock: 3:12 a.m. ". . . ta see if 'ya 'aight, 'ya here." Yeah, sure . . . this is a fine time for 'him' to be playing 'Father'. Brandon's mind races: the 'shoulds' creep in. Should look to see if he's okay. Should check on that old bastard. Should make sure he hasn't fallen for sure and can't get up or something. Brandon fights off the 'shoulds' and waits. Silence . . . dead silence . . . nothing but nothing but quiet! Strange, especially since all that racket was just billowing from the hall seconds ago. Brandon slowly gets out of bed. Removing all pathway obstacles as he heads toward his bedroom door, Brandon strains to listen. Still quiet. Now what? ! ! ! "Fuck it! ! !" Brandon, against his inner-voice's advice, slowly opens the door. Still quiet. Still, there is no response from him. And, it's pitch dark in the house, dark - purple black in here, he couldn't see. Brandon eases his hand along the wall in an attempt to find and turn on the hall's light switch. And just as clear, without a hint of drunken stammers or stutters . . .
"Unnnh unnnh unnh, 'Bran' no light in the world is gonna help you 'na. In fact, ConEd turned all of dhose off earlier dhis evenin' . . . So get right back in dhere, ya' mutta fucka, shit!" Brandon has been baited and hooked. Almost tearing his arm from its socket, he shoves Brandon back into his room and slams the door behind them. "'Ya stupid piece of fuck! 'Ya so naΤve and gullible, 'ya fall for the silliest shit! I'm not fallin' down drunk, that I'm not; and, I'm not hurt. But, I'm up on poppers, Bran."
Brandon tries to reason with him, "I thought that you needed hel. . ." before he could finish the rest, he hits him hard across the face. What little vision Brandon has in the dark blurs. He didn't see the next blows come either . . .
Reeling in and out of consciousness, Brandon hears him, " . . . Yeah I 'need' aight, but not in the sense dhat 'ya thinkin . . . Do 'ya think dhat I would be stopped by this measly shit dhat you have all over the place . . . Damn boy, why do 'ya keep thinking that 'ya can keep this from me! ? !" He grabs Brandon's ass and rips off his boxers. He picks Brandon up and tosses him on the bed as easily as a child does their rag doll. He stretches out on top of Brandon and continues to beat on him, full force. In Brandon's ear, he whispers and warns, "Remember 'Bran', ya' mine until ya' legal. Thank 'ya Mama for seeing to dhat!" Slapping Brandon, more than enough to bring him back into consciousness, 'he' sneers and adds, " . . . And, don't even try to runaway again or call fuckin' DCFS neither! I know all dhem damn fucks! All of dhem owe me. They'll make sure 'ya come right the fuck back here, here to me! !" Brandon groans as his beating tirades continue. He hurts all over; even the inside of his mouth is in pain. "God, will this ever stop? ! ! ?" he silently prays.
It seemed like hours before he is finished. Pale sunlight has started entering through the open-window and every slit in the remaining three boarded ones.
Getting-up out of bed, he snarls, "Now get the fuck up and dressed befoe I'm so moved to do you again!" He hits at him once again before leaving the room. Brandon does not try to defend off these final blows of his. He has tried earlier and that was a major mistake. The consequences for trying to defend off this man have left him like this: bereft and hurting. He was in too much pain; his old and new bruises have bruises now. Brandon knew that he was physically no match for him; but he tried anyway. Tried . . . After all, in comparison, he is taller, way heavier, and far more robust than Brandon could ever hope to be. He is also an ex-Marine, ex-boxer, ex-body builder, ex-bouncer, and ex-law enforcement officer. By being all of these 'exs' and a drugged-out drunk to boot makes him mean and bitter and more determined to get whatever he wants. And tonight he was definitely . . . determined. Brandon carefully tries to roll onto his left side. The effort is too great, the pain too intense. He becomes nauseous and lays back flat on his back and tries to muster more energy to get up and out of here.
He peeps back in, "Didn't I say to get the fuck up! 'Ya know DA house rule: ya can't be here while I'm here, especially in the day. So, get up and get out! ! ! I've got some bidness to take care of; and, I don't need 'ya here whinin' and messin' thangs up. So . . . go now! Ya don't have TA go TA work, school, or where ever the hell it is 'ya go, but 'ya can't stay here! ! ! Don't let me have TA come in here and tell ya' this shit again, Brandon." He slams the door so hard it bounces back open.
Brandon wills himself up out of bed and gingerly walks down the hall to the bathroom. He has to take a shower and get him off of him. Besides, the warm water may soothe his ravaged, aching body. But, first he has to pee, real, real bad. Bracing himself, Brandon exhales and releases the flood gates. "Oooh, that feels good," he glances down . . .
"Shit, not again!" There is blood in the commode. After enduring all of his hellish antics early this morning, this seems to be the ultimate offense. The damage that has been done to him cannot be simply shoo-shoo'd aside, any longer. Seeing blood meant that either one or both kidneys were severely bruised again from his abuse. And, by the different way his right side ached when he inhaled and exhaled, a rib maybe cracked too. Weak, shaky, in pain, and angry . . . angry with himself for all of this, Brandon showers and as quickly as his body will allow, he walks back to his room to dress. The glimpses that he gets of himself from the mirror now are far worse than the initial one from last night. And in his bedroom, Brandon, layering clothes upon clothes upon clothes, quickly dresses and reminds himself that a birthday is coming. Within months, his time here in 'this boarded cage' will be soon over. And, 'his' smug reign will come to an end too. Brandon prays as he struggles to lace his 'Tims', "Sweet Jesus, help me to hold-out till then!"
Out of the house and into the bright, sun-drenched, cool air, Brandon uses the backside of his hands to wipe any dried tears from his eyes. Now he was correct, nothing showed. He can go down to the Greeks and play pinball; and, no one no one will have any idea what he has been through. To go there was his routine. Under a thick, black down-jacket, a chinos jacket, and vest, Brandon smoothes out five 'Ts' that he has on, hitches up his pants, and slowly, carefully heads in that direction. Yeah, playing pinball always lightens any plummeting mood. Because of what happened earlier this morning, Brandon knows that he will need to play more than several games to lift his foul disposition.
This 'going to the Greeks' was an attempt to regain sanity. Yet, the guilts were definitely kicking today, kicking hard. His early morning rough antics start to vividly replay in Brandon's mind. Internally, mocking dialogue begin. Brandon berates himself for not trying harder to stop him; he trashes himself and thinks that he should have done something, something more. Deep, ugly guilt always hovers as a distasteful part, the low side, in his routine. He keeps thinking to himself, " How could you let him do that! ! ! Every time, all the time, again and again!" Tears gather and roll down his cheeks; no matter how hard Brandon tries wiping them away. People passing him on the street begin to stare and then, nonchalantly look away. Brandon, deep in thought, cares little what anyone at this moment thinks. He walks on, with the internal chatter growing louder and louder.
"How could you? ! ! ? You worthless piece of shit! ! You promised that you wouldn't let him touch you EVER again! ! ! How could you? You should've fought harder! Picked up something and tried to knock the taste out of his mouth! Done something! ! ! Made more of a greater effort not to get fucked! You stupid shit! Damn! Brandon, you promised me, especially after being with . . . being with Omar earlier . . . How could YOU'VE done this! ! !" These last words cut deep into Brandon's soul and he verbally grunted out loud. Seeing the expression on each passer-by, Brandon imagines what he must look like to them: some crazed schizoid-maniac, who can't utter intelligible words. As salty tears blur his vision, Brandon starts to run in what he believes is the direction that he initially has in mind. Despite the sharp physical and emotional pain that he is in, he hurriedly picks up his pace. Brandon hopes that the act of running will drown out all unwanted jumbled thoughts and bad memories of this morning. But it doesn't, he can't; and with every step 'they' come roaring back to taunt him. Guilt, guilt, guilt! ! !
". . . After being with Omar, you let that dumb ass do that! ! ! I can't believe it! ! ! I can't believe YOU! ! ! . . . After being with Omar! Oh man, man Omar . . .Omar . . . God, help me! ! !" As familiar thoughts of Omar flood his mind, tears helplessly flow down his face; Brandon runs on.
"What the f. . .!" An excited voice says. Brandon has plowed into someone. Alarmed and struggling to get up, he is dragged back to his feet.
"Ohh! Hell, I'm sorry . . . I'm soooo sorry 'yo! ! ! Sorry for runnin' into 'ya", Brandon apologetically pleads as he tries to adjust his still blurred gaze. Rubbing his eyes, he waits for any response . . .
". . .I'm not. 'Yo, I've been lookin' for you ALL night, Baby Boy!"
And, as Brandon focuses to see 'the voice', he hears very soft lyrics blasting in his ears: " . . . Angel, Angel . . . I found an Aaaaaaaaaaangel ! ! ! . . . Don't you know you're an . . . Angeeeeeel . . . my my my my my Angel . . ."
With Brandon's eyes now adjusted, he sees the most brilliant 'chopper' smile . . .
return to Kisses That Lead to..(part 1).