The Book Store The otherside of the story part 2
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The Other Side Of MeChapter 12: Part One free porn video
A little boy with newly cropped dark hair and wide, attentive hazel eyes looked across the table at the other six-year-old, who happened to be his mirror image. Only, the hair was a little messier, the eyes somewhat absent, and the biggest difference noticed by the little boy--the bowl of strawberry ice cream his doppleganger was eagerly lapping down. He felt particularly jealous over that last thing, but still, when the messy-haired boy suddenly looked up and smiled at him, he was inclined to return it.
"It's real good, David," the boy said. It wasn't a taunt. David, even at his young age, understood this about his brother. But the words certainly did nothing to dull the jealousy.
With knots forming in his small stomach, David looked to his right, where his mother stirred her tea. Sensing him, she paused without looking up and a frown creased her brow.
"Mama?" David said, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. He was pretty sure that everything he did or said annoyed her. So he tried. He tried not to be a bother.
His mom shifted her gaze towards him, but only for the briefest second. Sometimes, it was as if she was afraid to look at him. And more often than not, when she addressed him, her words were shorter than her glances. "Just, don't."
David opened his mouth again. "Mom..."
She dropped her head into her hand, obviously irritated with him, but it was the sound of a fist hitting the wooden table that made him silent as he looked across the table, where his father was sitting next to Oliver. "Will you just answer him, Mary?" he asked gruffly. "I'd like some peace around here."
"Fine," Mary snapped. "What is it?"
David lowered his eyes, no longer wanting to ask his question. But he could feel his father watching him, and something told him it would be worse if he didn't. "Can I have ice cream?"
"No," his dad answered, despite his demand that his mother do it.
"But I did my chores today," David insisted. "And I've been good, too... it's not fair. Oliver..."
"You know why Oliver gets ice cream and you don't," Mary cut him off, actually seeming proud of her cruel tone. "Oliver's been a good boy, but he needs our special attention. Ain't that right, Brian."
"Of course it is," David's dad responded, looking in his direction stonily. "And we all know whose fault that is, too--don't we, David? You know, why don't you go ahead and explain it to us, boy. I think you could use the reminder."
David twisted his hands together beneath the table as his gaze moved over it, this time at his brother. Oliver was looking around, seeming confused by the exchange as he licked the strawberry mustache from his top lip. When Oliver looked at him, David felt something heavy welling in his chest drop as he said what was expected of him. "It's my fault."
Frank covered the bottom portion of his face with his hand, in part to keep his fingers from shaking at his side, and in part to smother the stench. He could hear the crickets somewhere above, making him feel small within the darkness of the hole.
"David?" he whispered. He stepped back towards the ladder, looked up to the sky and took a deep breath. Fresh air. Clean air. He couldn't quite decide what exactly it was about this place that made him feel so... filthy.
But he'd shower later, he swore. Later.
"David?" he called again, louder this time. He could hear an edge of panic in his own voice, and realized that it was one he truly felt, but still he moved forward again, faster this time, a hand out in front of him as he headed towards the dim light coming from the ceiling. "David, please answer me. I know you're here." Frank didn't realize that he really believed that until he'd said it out loud, and immediately it made him wonder just how much of David he was going to find. "David, please, just ans--"
Frank's breath hitched as his fingers unexpectedly came up against the back wall, moisture touching his fingers with rough cement. But, any thought he might have had of cockroaches crawling along that same wall seemed to fade away as he grew more disturbed over what he felt at his feet. He knelt slowly, reaching down, and paused when his hands came against a shoe that wasn't his. Swallowing hard, Frank slowly slid one hand upward, over a wet sock covering what was undoubtedly someone's ankle.
Someone who wasn't moving.
Someone who felt cold.
"David? David."
9 days earlier...
The stars always seemed brighter sometime in the middle of the night. Perhaps it was the cool air, the silence--except for the sound of rustling leaves and crickets adding to a peaceful atmosphere; or maybe for David Martin, it was just that during those few hours when no one else was awake, he was actually able to take notice of the things capable of creating childish dreams and fantasies. Just like the stars. He was at peace beneath them, just like he'd been this night before returning home. But as he looked up past the shadows to the glowing night above, he knew that something had gone horribly wrong.
Nothing was working right. His movements felt sluggish, his body like dead weight that somehow managed to move. There was a familiar voice in his head, screaming at him to move, a dull force pushing him forward...
Where was he? It was dark, the world spinning. It took him too long to realize that he was at his home, behind the garage. His mother. She was there. She was the voice. It came to mind that he didn't like her or her screaming, and in a desperate attempt to make the nightmare go away he raised up his arms and shoved... catching only air before she grabbed his wrists, spun him around, and forced him forward again.
Why was he so slow? David wished that someone would tell him as his body gave out and he collapsed to his knees in front of a dark shadow. She didn't yell at him for that. Good. He needed a rest, a moment or two to collect his thoughts. "What's happening?" he asked. The words made sense to him, but something was wrong with his tongue. The words weren't right, nothing more than a strange slur.
Blinking rapidly, he stared straight ahead. His mother was up to something. He could see her moving around the shadow, looking frantic... uncovering it. The car. Yes, the car. He understood a little better now. The old Volvo she used to get to work on the days she couldn't do it from home. Ran like crap. So mostly it just remained covered behind the garage. Maybe given the chance, David would have wondered why she was playing with it this late at night, but in the next moments, he was resisting her attempts to get him in the back seat of the car. It shouldn't have been so hard, he thought numbly. He was bigger than her, end of subject. All he had to do was lie down and let her wear herself out trying to lift him up. And he did. But she didn't play fair.
Grunting at the sharp kick to his ribs, David rolled over in a hopeless attempt to shield himself. What was wrong with him?
More screaming. He hated the screaming. He wanted it to stop so he could close his eyes. Peace. He wanted peace. But instead, someone found it fitting to give him more pain. More? Yes, more. Something wasn't quite right, besides the way he felt like lead. There was pain, too. It was suspicious that he hadn't noticed it before. He noticed it now, right along with the new pain. Horrible pain. His ear. She was doing something to his ear. Tearing it off? No. Not even she would be that vicious. Would she? Not liking the answer he came up with, David opted not to think about it as he turned what little attention he had to defending himself, lifting an arm, using every bit of his meager strength to lash out until he was certain that he'd hit at least some part of her with a painful amount of force. That was better, he decided when he was certain that she'd stopped. But, in the few seconds it took for the pain to fade away. David had reached to touch his abused ear, finding it wet and sticky. Frowning, he brought his fingers just in front of his eyes and squinted at the blurry image of them, shadowed by night.
Blood. David was certain of it. Well, shit on him! Maybe the bitch had torn off his ear... but there was more. Twisting his arm, he tried to recall when he'd managed to injure himself with the long scrapes that became more visible the longer he looked, or how he'd managed the rip in the knee of his jeans, which weren't all that old. He didn't have as much time as he would have liked to figure it out. The sharp pain in his ribs following his mother's meager--but effective--blows to his ribs with what had to be her foot, brought his attention right back to her demanding voice, which was becoming clearer now--and not fortunately, as far as David was concerned.
"Up!" she shouted. "Up! Get up now!"
He knew what she was saying, but he didn't understand. Why the fuck would he get up? It hurt to sit. Standing was out of the question. But then she was pointing at the open car door, yelling some more... and then his ear! What the hell did she think she was doing to his ear? If David had been able to reach her throat, there was no doubting that he'd have his hands wrapped around it as he strangled the life from her. And maybe that's what he actually thought to do when he did force himself up, but somewhere in the middle of all of it, attempting to reach for her, he'd forgotten. It seemed ridiculous a moment later when he remembered what his intentions had been--but he'd actually forgotten, and by then, he was in the back seat of the Volvo and she was closing the door, and he...
David took in a deep breath as his head fell back against the seat. He winced. That hurt. What was wrong with him? He would have wondered what was wrong with his mother, too, as she moved into the driver's seat and the engine grunted to life, but he figured that the list would be too long to figure it all out in one night. So, he tried to focus on the last question that seemed important at the moment. Why on earth did she want him in the car? And where would she actually have the gall to take him in the middle of the night.
It was the middle of the night, wasn't it?
Where would they be going? His mom never did leave the house in the middle of the night. Maybe... he thought about an infinite amount of maybes. Counting the injuries he knew he had, and the ones he suspected that he had, it was possible that he'd gotten into a more violent than usual confrontation with his father. Maybe his mom had finally taken pity, and she was taking him into town to see a doctor. No. She'd do that for Oliver--maybe. If he were dying. But not for David... unless she'd somehow mistaken him for Oliver--not likely, despite his frightening ability to produce a convincing imitation of his brother. But maybe.
No. That was stupid. Think. Think. Think! Ouch! David's head fell back against the seat again, and again it hurt. He was fairly certain that that injury had come first. He had no idea why, just a gut feeling, and the dull, bruising pain of it bursting through his skull, but he was certain...
Frank. Not Frank, but the little Subaru that he'd gone to town in with Frank not so long ago... it was sitting in front of his house, the door ajar. His head turned as his mother drove right past it, and suddenly, he found clarity. It was horrible. He wondered if this was how Oliver felt when he woke up from his spells, but lacked the sympathy for it at the moment, or even a second thought.
Frank. That was it! Frank, Frank, Frank! He remembered calling Frank. That hadn't been an easy decision to make, or rather, it had been a little harder to bring himself to dial the number than he'd thought it would be. He'd been considering calling all day. Ever since Frank had shown up all riled about the pictures he'd been taking. He'd said just enough to get to David... to push him towards the slow decision he'd been coming to about which family secrets shouldn't remain a secret anymore.
But he hadn't called. Not right away, at least. What he had done, was go for a very long walk to think about things. He'd known from the start that he'd catch hell from his parents if he didn't make his outing brief, but he really hadn't cared. They'd gone out with Oliver to a favorite fishing spot, and as usual, he hadn't been invited. He didn't much care about that, either. It was something he was used to. What bothered him about it, was that he knew that his parents did it to bother him. To hurt him. To punish him. What was worse, was that they knew that they were bothering him, and it ate at David that he'd never really gotten past that because he wasn't supposed to crave their attention, or love for that matter. Not anymore. That was their only power over him and everyone knew it. The way they denied him... everything. But, somehow, somewhere, everything had changed. David wasn't sure exactly when it happened, or how he'd even changed enough to do it from the weak, obedient boy he'd once been, but somewhere over the last years he'd made a decision. He'd done his best to make his parents as miserable as they wanted to make him. And it was wonderful. The scolding, the beatings, the punishments... all of it. Even his father's twisted mind games no longer mattered because David was numb--he'd won. Maybe they'd crushed who he'd once been, but they were no match for who he'd become. Who they'd created, he thought ironically. But then, they had to bring his brother into it... and that was part of the reason why he'd finally called Frank. Well, that and what had been waiting for him once he'd finally gotten home, somewhere past two in the morning.
He remembered now. It shouldn't have turned as ugly as it had gotten. His father was gone, likely out with one of the sluts who saw... well, David wasn't sure what they saw in the man. It was all very disgusting to him, but beside the point. Brian Martin hadn't been there, and therefore, he wouldn't have to put up with the interrogation over where he'd been until morning. Or so he'd thought.
He hadn't bothered being too quiet sneaking in through the window of the bedroom he shared with Oliver. On the nights that David was gone for one reason or another, his brother always made sure that it was unlocked before he went to sleep, and with his father out of the house, he expected no resistance. But then again, he hadn't expected Mary Martin.
David knew that his mother often checked on Oliver, even after she'd gone to bed. He remembered lying awake in bed at night when he was young, watching her pull the covers up over Oliver's sleeping body so he wouldn't catch a chill, and the way she'd kiss his forehead at the same time she'd ruffle his hair. And then David would wait. He'd wait for her to turn around, and come to his bed. He'd wait for her to make certain that he hadn't slipped off somewhere in the night, because he'd been pretty sure that that's what mothers were supposed to do. But she never did, and as he grew older, David made a point to slip away into the night as often as possible. Most of the time--when his father wasn't waiting to torment him--he never had any trouble slipping back in, either. He'd certainly never found any trouble when it came to his mother. Even if she'd caught him, and she had a few times, she'd leave it be if her husband wasn't there to take care of any disciplinary action. Never had she been stupid enough to attempt tangling with David on her own. Until tonight.
It had happened fast. In fact, it was so fast that it was all a blur to David, and not just because of his current state. The only way he'd be able to explain it would be that his mother had quite obviously lost her mind. Not even halfway through the window, and she was all over him: her nails, her hands, her voice chirping in his ear about how he was disturbing Oliver. How everything was his fault. How he made her miserable. But none of it really bothered him. Only made him think some more as he shook her off. Made him think about calling Frank. How miserable she'd be then, if...
And then she'd slapped him. It was openhanded, right across his face. He'd hardly noticed the sting it had been so brief, but it was enough because suddenly he'd reached a boiling point of sorts, and while it wasn't the first time, and hardly worth mentioning if someone had asked him, David Martin snapped. In the instant it had taken him to blink he'd drawn back his fist, and then he'd hit her, knocked her clear to the floor crying out in agony. And he smiled. Only because this was the part where his father usually intervened and made him pay for his violence. It wasn't often that he got to watch, and for a moment it was... nice. Yes, nice to see her on the ground in obvious agony. He wanted to do more. Make her hurt more. He'd taken a step forward, ready to do his worst, ready to lash out in every single way he felt she'd provoked him to. And if Oliver hadn't been awakened by the disturbance they'd created, he would have. David found it unfortunate that his brother's interruption had managed to draw his anger in an unlikely direction instead. He'd never done physical harm to his brother before. Not intentionally. But then again, Oliver had never attacked him before.
"David! Stop that! Stop it, David!" Oliver screeched, jumping on his brother's back in a way that reminded David that they were equally matched when it came down to sheer size. "Don't hurt her!"
"Damn it, Oliver!" David snapped. He was quite simply, outraged. He knew that his brother had difficulty when it came to going against their parents, but Oliver sure as hell wasn't supposed to go against him. And if he was going to go against him...
"What the fuck is the matter with you?" David demanded, rounding on his brother to grip the neck of his nightshirt, the fear crossing Oliver's face not registering in his fury. "Idiot!" David shouted, and before he could think about it, or even think to stop himself, the back of his hand had made contact with Oliver's face, the force snapping through the room before he shoved Oliver away hard enough to cause him to trip backwards. And David watched. He watched his brother's arms flail as he tried and failed to catch his balance, and he watched his head snap forward as the back of it hit the windowsill before Oliver ultimately ended up on the ground, looking no less than shocked as he clutched his injuries. It had only taken moments for it all to happen, and even less time for David to regret it. Because that was one thing he didn't do. He did not hurt Oliver. Not like that. Not when he'd spent a lifetime learning that hurting his brother was the very reason his existence had become something akin to torture. "Oliver, I'm..."
David barely had a foot forward before his mother was grabbing his arm, forcing him around. "You stay away from him!" she screamed. "Stay away! I won't let you..."
"Shut up!" David shouted, effectively reminding her that she was in no position to control him, because she immediately removed her hand. But he found that it wasn't enough. Not even close. He began to advance, forcing her out of their bedroom. "You stay away! Stay away from both of us! Why do you do it? Why do you act like I'm the one who hurts him when... when you know! You know it's you!"
"David, your father could be home at any minute!" Mary Martin said urgently, still backpedaling down the hall. "Please, David, please; we don't want to cause trouble now, do we?"
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