The loop

 

…Twelve years old…

 

A boot slammed into his face. He woke up to blood and pain, a surprised cough sputtering out of his mouth as he blinked up at his father’s face.

“Fucking animal,” his father cursed as he grabbed the collar of Remy’s shirt by his fist and shoved him out of bed. He landed hard on the hardwood floor, no time to collect his thoughts as his father landed another punch across his face and then dragged him out of the room.

“What’s going on?” His mother’s shrill voice sounded out. “Oh, God, Antonio, leave him alone! Put him down –”

She was silenced by a slap across the face.

“Don’t you fucking start with me, Maria!” Antonio roared at her, dragging Remy further down the hall until they were in the kitchen. He forced him to his feet and brought his face to the stove top. Remy’s eyes widened, and he tried to jerk from his father’s grip, but he couldn’t move. He felt the heat of the element as his old man forced him closer, so close his skin burned. Like being cooked alive. A worm over a fire pit.

“You see the crumbs in there, boy?” his father shouted. “What have I said about cleaning up after yourself, you little shit?”

Remy clenched his teeth, choosing not to respond. Angry, Antonio forced his face closer. His cheek burned from the heat, but he didn’t beg. Remy never begged anymore. He’d been through enough pain to know begging never did shit.

“Stop it!” his mother pleaded from behind him. “Stop it!”

“Are you an animal, you filthy little rat?”

Remy shut his eyes, swallowing the groan of pain climbing up his throat. He tried to think about good things, happy things, only it had been so long since he’d even known what happiness was, and the burn…Dear god, the burn was something fierce, and it was pulling him back into the present, to his cheek on the verge of melting straight off.

“Let him go!” Maria shouted hysterically.

Antonio let go abruptly and redirected his attention to her. Remy fell to the ground, his head spinning, his face aching from the heat that felt like it’d been branded on him. All energy drained from him as he lay there in a heap of sweat and groans. He looked up just as his father grabbed Maria by the neck and shoved her against the counter of the kitchen.

“You want to involve yourself?” he screamed. “Is that it? You want to be part of this?”

She sobbed, clawing at his arm as he choked her. Remy tried to move. Everything ached from yesterday’s beating. He crawled, his palms slipping against the drops of blood falling from his nose. He barely made it when his father turned around and kicked him in the face again. This time he blacked out for a few seconds, falling to the ground, his body shaking from the agony. Somewhere in the background Rita’s cries erupted, high pitched and terrified. She was nearby, but he couldn’t even lift his head to know where it was coming from. He couldn’t move to help her. He couldn’t move to help his mom. He couldn’t move for shit.

He was twelve, weak, and fucking useless. He couldn’t save them from his father’s hands. It was all Remy’s fault. When they got hurt, it was always his fault.

Antonio slapped her around and then stormed out of the house after that. They knew where he was headed. Back to the liquor store for more of his holy grail. Whiskey was the name, and Remy hoped his old man would drown in it one day.

Maria rushed to him, dropping to the floor and gathering him in her arms.

“I’m so sorry, Remy,” she cried, shakily rubbing the blood off his face. “I’m so sorry. We’re gonna leave. You hear me? We’re gonna leave. You, me and Rita, we’re going to get out of here. We’re going to go far, far away, and he’ll never find us. He’ll never touch us again.”

He stared vacantly at the floor, knowing her promises were bullshit. How many times would he hear them before doing something about it?

He pulled away from her and stood up, rushing to Rita’s cries. She managed to climb out of her crib and was standing by the doorway of their bedroom, holding onto the doorframe, her brown eyes searching for him.

“Rebee?” she called out, lifting her fat arms out to him. Remy quickly picked her up and held her to him and she instantly quieted down.

“I’ve got her,” Maria said, rushing to his side. “Here, give her to me.”

Warily, he stepped away from her, clutching Rita to his chest. “You been drinking again?”

She shook her head feverishly. “No.”

“Look at me.”

She looked at him and he stared into her eyes and then down her body, inspecting every inch of her night gown, searching for fresh stains of any kind. When he was satisfied she was sober, he handed Rita over.

“Can’t do this anymore, Ma,” he told her, wincing at the pain. “I don’t wanna be like Brett, don’t wanna run away from you like he did, but…I can’t keep doing this.”

She nodded profusely. “Like I said, I’m gonna make it up to you. We’re gonna leave. Just give me time. A bit more time, okay? I promise.”

Her pleading eyes softened him. His mother was his soft spot. She needed him. Rita needed him too. There was no escape, no way he could escape this bullshit without feeling like he was going to leave them both behind. And if keeping them out of harm’s way meant he was the one getting beaten, he’d take it.

What other choice did he have?

He gulped down a mouthful of blood and walked back to his room. He closed the door and collapsed to the floor, his entire body a ball of pain and nerves. He shut his eyes and tried to breathe, but his lungs ached, and his heart fucking hurt something awful.

It hurt and hurt.

 

 

“Oy, Rem, you look like shit, bro,” Kieran said when Remy stepped out and found him waiting by the driveway of his mobile home.

After this early morning’s beating, he didn’t stop to look at himself in the mirror. It was always a fucked-up sight. He couldn’t remember a time his face wasn’t covered in bruises, or healing bruises, or even faded bruises. Nah, they were always fresh. The pain was a visitor that came knocking daily, and he’d gotten too used to its company.

“You should really do something about it,” Kieran continued, shuddering as he studied his face on their way to school.

“Like what?”

“Like call child services or something. I’m sure there’s child-thirsty adults beggin’ to rescue a sad looking soul like yourself.”

“I’m not a pussy,” Remy retorted.

“Not saying you are, but if it’s not you, it’ll be the teachers.”

“The teachers don’t give a fuck about me. They look at us like sewage rats, especially when we swear at them. How many detentions have we gotten for it?”

Kieran smirked. “A dozen, and it’s only been a month since we started.”

“Have we sworn less either?”

“No.”

“Exactly, and how many times have you heard them ask me about my bruises?”

“Not once.”

“See? They don’t give a fuck. They give more fucks when I say fuck, but no fucks when I’m bleeding.”

Not that Remy was expecting them to. He stopped having hope when his father threw him down a stairwell and he broke his middle finger. He was in the first grade, and he showed up crying that he couldn’t hold his pencil. It healed the wrong way (bent to an angle even to this day) and he couldn’t hold his pencil the entire semester because it ached like a motherfucker.

What did Mrs Cutler do about it? She failed him in English, put a giant “F” on his report card and wrote, “Remy’s skills in tracing are very poor – needs practice ASAP!!!!” And that was under the line, “Remy falls asleep during class! Has engaged in fights with other students and refuses to accept responsibility!!” The cunt.

You’d think falling asleep during class and being covered in bruises were giant fucking signs that something was up at home. But no, not to Mrs Cutler. If she’d spent a day actually paying attention, she’d discover he only defended himself against the other kids when they picked on him. But the cunt absolutely blamed him and what did he get when he got home and his father opened that envelope where his report card sat? Why, he beat him of course. And this was coming from a guy that never gave two shits about his report card in the first place.

“Stupid fucking retard!” he’d shrieked, cracking yet another rib with a slam of his boot, like he had an unlimited amount of those fuckers in his body. Life was grand.

He owed that beating to Cutler. He decided he’d write a note to her one day, telling her all about his misfortune caused by her fucking ignorance.

 

Hi Mrs Cutler, you probably don’t remember me. I’m the kid with the broken finger you didn’t give a fuck about. You failed me in English because I couldn’t write with it. It’s because of you I got a beating so bad I couldn’t sit upright properly for six whole months. Thanks, you bedraggled old bitch, I appreciate it immensely.

- Sincerely, the beaten boy with nine working fingers.

 

But what did he expect from an underfunded school in a bum-fuck town in the middle of nowhere? They were all just hood rats, the young and the old, merged together, tolerating one another because the town of Gosnells was a tomb you didn’t just escape from overnight. Or ever. It was depressing knowing you were going to grow old and die in a shit-hole. For Remy, it was also freeing, because the worst you could do when you beat someone’s skull in was go to jail and have your three-square meals a day and a pillow to sleep on at night. They would later often joke as they grew, asking themselves what place was better: this place, or prison. It was always a tie.

“I found another magazine,” Kieran said, smirking mischievously.

Remy’s lips twitched. “Where’d you find it this time?”

“In the glovebox of my dad’s truck. He sure goes on the road happy.” Kieran’s father was a truck driver and hardly at home. He was a pretty nasty guy to Kieran, but still father of the year worthy to Remy compared to the old man he had at home, who was probably drunk already. Which was good. Drunk old man didn’t give him bruises. The sober fuck with a temper did.

“You don’t think he’ll know it’s gone?”

“He had a dozen others. I just picked the one with the hottest girl on the front.”

“What does she look like?”

“Big tits.”

“No, I mean, what does she look like?”

Kieran gave him a strange look. “Dark hair.”

“Eyes?”

“Dark, like her hair.”

“Skin?”

“I don’t fucking know, dark too?”

Remy cracked his first smile, which caused his lips to split open again. He licked the blood off his bottom lip and jerked his chin at him. “Where is it?”

He grabbed the strap of his backpack. “In here.”

“In your bag? Are you an idiot?”

“I only found it this morning! And Mum combs through my bedroom every single day ever since she found the other titty rag under my mattress. Came at me with a spatula and I had a sore ass for weeks.”

“What if Ms Grear finds it?”

He shrugged, grinning widely. “What’s another detention?”

Remy laughed with him. “Fuckin’ A, man.”

“You wanna have a look?”

They were late to class, mainly because he needed to have a flick through the magazine. It was a decent rag, with the girl on the front being the only worthwhile face to look at. She was a nice-looking girl, tanned skin, dark eyes and fluffy black hair. She looked like she came off a beach in Brazil. Even then, at twelve years old, it was never about the body that got Remy interested, it was always the face. She could have the tightest body in all of mankind, if her face didn’t capture him, he wasn’t interested.

Ms Grear looked pissed when they walked into class with their outside shoes still on.

“You want to walk around in your socks, Martinez?” Ms Grear growled at Remy.

He hung up his backpack on the hook in the back of the class. “If I have to.”

“Are you not giving those papers I send you home with to your parents of what you’re expected to have in class, which includes headphones and an inside pair of shoes?”

He glanced at her passively. “I am.”

“And?”

“And nothing, Ms Grear.”

He took a seat at his desk, feeling everyone’s eyes on him. Now that he looked back at that time, he wondered why he was being targeted when Kieran was already at his seat, outside shoes still on. Figures she didn’t like him. Maybe it was the sweats he was wearing for the third day in a row, or that his hair was longer than normal. It couldn’t be his smell. Growing up in filth, he had to smell good no matter what. Even if it meant stealing bars of soap at the store, though he usually just took them from Kieran’s house.

“Are you aware we have a field trip today?”

Silence.

“Martinez!”

He tore his eyes from Kieran and looked up at Grear’s red face. She looked like a fucking cherry. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” she corrected icily.

“Yeah?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you have your field trip form?”

“No.”

“Did you bother giving it to your parents?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes.”

“Yeah.”

She took a deep breath, casting him a final contemptuous look before turning her attention to Kieran. “And how about you, Mr Henley?”

He shook his head. “If I had it, I would have given it to you.”

“Are you being curt with me?”

“What does curt mean?”

“It means are you being stroppy with me?”

“Stroppy?”

“Yes, stroppy.”

“What does that mean?”

Everyone laughed, except Grear. She was full-on pissed now, an eye twitching sporadically.

“Honestly, you can’t be upset with me for not knowing my vocabulary, Ms Grear,” Kieran continued, a devilish smirk on his face. “That’s your job. If I’m failing at it, then so are you.”

The class went silent, all eyes on Grear. Remy’s lips spread into a smile. Fucking Kieran being a cheeky little cunt again.

“Find it funny, do you, Mr Martinez?” Grear snapped, staring right at him.

Targeted again. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Not at all.”

“Keep smiling, Martinez, but every consequence in life has a funny way of catching up to you. Water always finds its level.”

He smirked at her, thinking of his father. “I hope so, Ms Grear. I really do.”

 

 

The house was quiet when he returned home that evening. He was sweating profusely after his sprint from Kieran’s house to his. They had spent hours after school playing Donkey Kong on his Super Nintendo. It was one of the countless times Remy treasured his friendship with Kieran. The kid was his best friend, and you needed a friend in a world like Remy’s.

His old man was sitting on the porch when he rocked up, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his forehead. Remy used his collar to wipe the sheet of sweat off, pretending he wasn’t inspecting his father. Truth be told, he was gauging how drunk the man was.

Antonio took a puff of his cigarette, smiling his yellowed teeth at Remy. “You been out all day, boy. Where you been?”

Remy stopped in front of him, looking between him and the front door. “At Kieran’s.”

“You should be getting a job. No food in the house.”

Remy nodded once, wary. “I’ll look for one.”

Never mind that it was the old man’s responsibility to look after his fucking kids. Also, never mind he had a job too, but he spent every coin on liquor.

Antonio grabbed the almost empty bottle of whiskey sitting beside him and took a big gulp, draining it. His throat must have been made of leather. “Maria’s at work,” he slurred, sniffing.

Remy glanced back at the door. “And Rita?”

“She cried a couple hours ago, but she’s been quiet since.”

Remy’s chest went tight at the thought of Rita making do on her own in a house filled with trash and glass fragments from all the glasses his old man had smashed over the last few weeks. He tried not to look panicked, so he nodded coolly. Honestly, he was just content his father was calm. There were rare moments his father’s gentle nature shone through, and whenever they did, it always left Remy confused and…hopeful. It was fucked up, he knew that. He should hate his father – and he did – but he craved having a male figure around to love him. Another messed up thing to wish for, and yet another thing to feel broken over when it went to shit and reality hit him in the face with the same force as his father’s fist.

“I’m headed to Minty’s,” Antonio then said, forcing himself up. He wobbled a bit before straightening. Then he walked past Remy and gave his head a playful shake. “Take care of Rita, eh, boy? I’ll see you when I see you.” Remy nodded and watched his father walk down the sidewalk in the direction of the dive bar a few streets over.

Rita was sitting on the floor in the kitchen when he entered moments later, searching for her. She was sucking on a popsicle stick, licking away whatever flavour was left on it.

“Rebee,” she exclaimed, lifting her arms out for him.

Remy smiled softly at her and sat down on the ground next to her. “This is nasty, Rita,” he said, trying to grab the stick from her. She refused to let it go, and he chuckled, letting her have it. “You know how long that’s been on the floor? You’re gross.”

“Goss,” she repeated, smiling her two-tooth smile.

“Gross.”

“Goss.”

“Disgusting.”

“Gutting.”

He dropped his head to her and pulled a face. “Stinky bum.”

She laughed hysterically at the face. “Tinky.”

“Stinky.”

“Tinky.”

He laughed and picked her up. “I gotta find you something to eat, fathead.”

With her in his arms, he opened the cabinet and pulled out the last of the bread. He opened the fridge and used the last of the ham slices there. Rita played with his face, stretching his lips and cheeks, giggling at every face he made as he made her the sandwich. Then they sat on the crappy couch and ate.

 

“Oy, bro, she’s a dream, yeah?” Kieran whispered, staring at the girl Grear had called Tam. She was still seated at her desk, only now she was reading a book quietly. The entire class was gone on some pussy excursion to an apple farm or some shit, except for them three. It was Tam’s first day at school, and she was spending it with those two rejects. Lucky girl.

They weren’t supposed to roam the class. Grear would have turned purple if she walked in and found Remy seated next to Kieran on the opposite side of the room. There was a supervisor at the front of the class, sitting behind Grear’s desk paying absolutely no mind to them. She looked like she was next in line to see the Reaper, her skin hanging off her bones, her eyes looking through coke bottle glasses. She was knitting some kind of sad looking scarf. Winter wasn’t even close, and it was still fucking hot outside, so there was absolutely zero logic for it.

“Are you listening to me?” Kieran pressed, nudging his shoulder against his. “She’s hot, Rem. I think I should go introduce myself. Act all manly, like James Bond. I’ll be like, ‘Oy, baby, I’m Henley. Kieran Henley at your service.’”

“Bond never said ‘at your service,’” Remy replied.

“He did.”

“I don’t think he did.”

“Well, I’m adding that bit in for myself then because I gotta be unique too, you know?”

“Go do it then.”

“I need a sidekick.”

He glared at him. “I’m not your fucking sidekick.”

“You can pull through for me just this once.”

“I’m not doing shit for you.”

“I want you beside me.”

“Are you stupid and deaf? What’d I just say?”

“Shut it, you ass, she’s looking at me now.”

Remy glimpsed in her direction and, sure enough, she was looking their way, but she wasn’t staring at Kieran. She was staring at him. He gritted his teeth and looked back at the old hag knitting the fucking winter scarf in September.

“Come with me. I’ll have a better chance with a sad looking pup with a bruised face.”

“Kill yourself, Kieran.”

“You look like you need to be nursed. It’ll be a great topic of conversation. I’ll tell her you fell down a mountain cliff and I rescued you all heroically.”

“There are no mountains here.”

“Yeah, then I’ll say it wasn’t here, you muppet. We were vacationing somewhere, maybe the alps.”

“You couldn’t even point out the alps if I put the map of the world in front of you.”

“Shit, she’s looking again, lower your voice.”

Again, she was looking at Remy, not Kieran, and he stared daggers at her before looking away. He was baffled. Why was this tissue-armed dark-eyed girl looking at him? Was it the bruises? How many times did someone have to look at another person’s bruises? He rested his elbow on – he glimpsed at the name tag – Shelby’s desk and covered his face with his hand. He didn’t want to acknowledge it then but he knew he was doing it because he felt embarrassed by the swollen parts of his face. They spoke of his weakness and his inability to protect himself. He didn’t want some ugly girl looking at them and thinking he was weak.

Not that he cared. He didn’t.

He looked at her again through the cracks between his fingers. She wasn’t looking this time. She was closing her book and settling it on the corner of the desk, making sure it aligned perfectly. Yeah, she was an ugly girl, and he was the world’s biggest fucking liar.

“Fine, you knobber,” Kieran growled suddenly. “I’ll do this myself and she’ll be my girlfriend by the end of the week. You wait.” He stood up and moved to her and Remy hesitated, a part of him surprised Kieran was doing it, and another angered that he was going to have her all to himself.

He grabbed Remy’s chair behind his desk and situated it beside hers. Then he sat down, leaned close and started talking to her. She didn’t look back at Remy anymore, her interest now reserved solely for Kieran. It felt weird how much it bothered Remy when it shouldn’t have. What did it matter? She probably thought he was a freak, and he was.

He redirected his gaze back to the old hag at the front and watched her knit her scarf.