I'm going to assume at least one person is reading this and that person is just shy.


"Now bring your son down here. And your husband."

"No, not my husband, he's asleep, or, I mean, he's not-"

"Will we have to go up there and get him ourselves? Because we will drag him out of-"

"No. No I'll...."And the woman walked up the stairs, with resignation and exhaustion masking a horrible fear, as she had countless times before.
"Bring that little shit down here."
"No- Gordon, no, please it's not his-"
"Go get my fucking faggot son and bring him down here!"
"Gordon you're drunk! Please he didn't do anything! What if that text you saw was just a joke or if it was to the wrong person or-”

“It wasn't a fucking joke. I've seen him with that boy! He's been in my fucking house that filthy gay scumbag! He's turning my son in to a faggot! I can see it! My son is probably getting fucked in the ass right now. Oh, God, why did I have to get such a worthless little pussy of a son?"

"Gordon, please. Please don't do this. He's just a boy he'll grow out of it, I know he will, please just don't... don't...."
A silence more terrible than the noise before. A stare like the smoldering coals of rage erupting in the wind. The earth's thin, shallow crust, cracking, revealing the magma underneath, revealing what was always there, what was implied and necessary but rarely shown. He had hit her so many times that he didn't even need to any more, he just had to look at her and show what she always knew was there.
And she walked up the stairs.

Howard looked around the room, examined the expensiveness, the modern art, the status implied by every inch of it. He looked at the immaculate couches and the unreasonably large TV and the cabinet of jade statuettes. He felt uncomfortable, which he wasn't used t o. These people had the freedom to live in whatever house they wanted and they had chosen not their own but someone else's, had chosen what they should chose, what they had to chose to compete and to be accepted and to have the neighbors over and slowly turn in to drunken beasts as the night wore on.

Fields wandered around more listlessly, with a barely controlled agitation. She felt more fear than she had expected, more hate than she was sure she could deal with. She felt like now, of all times, she had to pretend that she was ok. She had to hold together the failing sutures on her wounds and hold up the disintegrating wall she had erected in her mind long ago, the wall between the pain and her consciousness. The wall wasn't solid but permeable, and through some cruel trick of osmosis what lurked on the other side had managed to seep in to her constantly and yet to grow stronger and more bloated every day. She had thought she was better. She had thought it was gone. She pretended there had been a nice, neat, "The End" frame at the end of that movie, that chapter of her life, and that she could jettison it like a spacecraft releasing an empty fuel cannister. But she always knew that human minds can never forget and can only repress, only build walls. And she felt like something about this family was making those walls crack and bleed.

A sound of heavier footfalls came from upstairs like the rolling thunder of a tank. Fields and Howard recomposed themselves and put their masks back on, those crosses they had to bear of politeness and those tools they had to use to hold back fury.

An huge man in a sweat-stained white shirt untucked from his dress pants came down the stairs, his eyes leveled on Howard and Fields like the iron sights of an assault rifle. His conservative tie was undone and hung around his shoulders, wrinkled and weary as if it had been used up. The woman stood at the top of the stairs, hiding, hiding both behind her husband and from him.

The man waited for the intruders to speak.

"Hello, you must be Gordon Miller. We're here from the Circuit to talk about your son." said Howard.

The man didn't really hear him as the eyes of Astrid Fields had met his. She was not looking up at him, hiding from him behind her stare. She was not looking down on him either, trying to judge him. He expected the former and could have laughed at the latter. Instead she met him, met him as an equal and in an entirely different setting and context. Their eyes were as intense as laser beams, turned on eachother and merging in to a battle of their own, his stare fueled by his accumulated power and age and wealth and hers by a distillation and focused projection of all the hate and anger and fear she held in her body.

"Are you now? Well, what seems to be the problem?" said the man, not lowering his gaze from Astrid.

Howard had expected violence, and wasn't sure how to react to this faux hospitality. "Well, uh, he called us and said he was, having.... problems at home."

"Problems? Well, what kind of problems? Most boys have problems at his age, you know." said the man, now having fully stepped in to a new persona. His shoulders had dropped, his voice become fully restrained. He seemed a foot shorter and far less intimidating. And yet, it seemed like he was more in control than ever. Astrid Fields also contained her anger and stored it deeper in her body like a spring. The whole air of the room shifted and a visitor would perceive not a building confrontation but an amiable business meeting, not two intruders but two guests. Howard was lost.

"I, uh, it's not that...."

"Oh, I'm sorry, my wife and I weren't expecting guests! We haven't even been properly introduced and I look like a wreck! Please, come on up stairs."

The woman was crying softly.

They all went upstairs to a living room. The husband went to go change and the wife made tea silently. Fields and Howard didn't know what to say to eachother.

The man came back wearing a polo and khakis, appearing all the more disarming. It was as if Fields and Howard had walked in on him in some shameful act and he had immediately washed his bloody hands, had controlled the information, and had now erased it from history. His wife came out of the kitchen with a tray of a fine china teapot and four cups. There was no trace of the fear on her face except in her glistening tear ducts.

They all sat down.

"Well, hello, and welcome to our home. I'm afraid we've gotten off to a bad start. I'm Gordon Miller. Nice to meet you two."

"I'm Jacob Howard, it's, uh, a pleasure to meet you as well..."

"Astrid Fields."

"So, I'm sorry, what was the matter? Something about my son?"

Fields knew that Howard thought he could handle this. He always thinks he has the solution to everything. Thinks there's never a time for violence, for force. He just hides behind his rhetoric. His politeness. We have to respect those who infringe on someone's rights but that doesn't mean we can be tolerant. I don't like having tea with monsters.

Howard recomposed himself, regained his footing and put on a professional air. "We're from the Circuit. Your son contacted us about wanting to leave. He wanted us to pick him up today. He wanted us to pick him up from somewhere else but we told him that we always try to talk to the parents before we help anyone leave. We called you, twice, but you did not answer, so we just came here. We would like to meet with you and your son about your family and see if we can work out a solution."

The man acted bewildered, as if this were new information. "A solution? To what? Why would my son want to leave our house? We love him very much.... I'm sorry I just don't understand, why did he call you?"

"He said he was being...."

Astrid was tense. Say it. Call it what it is. Don't be polite. You know what it is.
"....mistreated." Damn it I'm going to scream.

"And.... Well, he, said he wanted to leave and, that's his choice. We at the Circuit consider it a child's choice under these circumstances."

"Circumstances?" said the man, faking visible annoyance while his real rage boiled unseen beneath the surface. "What circumstances? We would never 'mistreat' our son. I assure you that I have no idea what you're talking about."

Fields couldn't stay quiet any longer. "He means to say that your son claims that you've been abusive towards him." Letting steam out of the pressure cooker, lest it explode....

"Abusive?" The man was purposefully shocked. "What do you mean abusive?"

Howard could now field this better. "Well, he said that he is physically abused often and called insulting names, and that, um-"

"That every once in a while you smash a beer bottle over his head. Last time you did it he passed out and your wife had to take him to the hospital while you went through his room, broke everything, and pissed in his bed."

The lasers of Astrid Fields's eyes leveled with the man's once again. He stared back for a moment but quickly snapped back in to character and could only be described by words like "flustered," "disquieted," and "vexed."

"Well, I don't know where you got all of that but I assure you that nothing like that could ever happen in this household. My ancestors helped build this nation. My grandfather was a well-known banker and public figure, and my father built on his legacy and I now build on his. We have all been men of honor! I would never treat my son in such a horrid manner. Either he is lying or you have simply gone to the wrong house. I'm afraid there's nothing more we can do to help you."

"Well I'm sorry about this all, then, if we can only hear your son confirm that statement then we'll be on our way," said Howard.

"Well I'm afraid he's at school right now, but I assure you that that is not necessary. We are not brutes. We are honorable American citizens. I'm afraid that honor may not be something that's taught to you people from the Circuit but around here it's one of our true American values. I am a man of my word and there shall be no further discussion of this."

Astrid twitched at this. She knew the man was breaking Howard. She continued staring at the floor, the imported Oriental rug, its subtle patters weaving in and out, like a cage, holding something down....

"Oh, well I assure you that we don't mind waiting until he comes home."

"You're welcome to come back tomorrow, but today I think he will be staying late at school, isn't that right, Deborah?"

The deflated figure in the corner answered weakly in the affirmative, not having made eye contact with anyone since sitting down.

"Yes, tomorrow would be a much better day."

"Well, it really is imperative that we speak with him soon, but if tomorrow really is better, then...." And Astrid saw what would happen if Gordon won today.

...Dad? Dad what's... what's wrong?
Deborah. Leave.
Dad what the hell is going on?
You called them. You couldn't take it. You couldn't take what you fucking deserved so you called those fucking fascist communist bastards to get you out of here.
Dad. Dad I didn't.... Put that bottle down. I will fucking take you down, Dad, you hear me? I will fucking TAKE YOU DOWN. Don't FUCKING touch me. I HATE YOU!
Thud. Smash.
AAAAAHHAHGHHG PLEASE DAD NO STOP AAAAAUUGHHH
CRASH.
My fucking FAGGOT SON. Crawl back here and TAKE IT.
NO DAD PLEASE. PLEASE.
Do you know what this means, you little bitch? Do you know what everyone at the bank will think if they find out I have a fucking faggot son? GORDON MILLER'S SON IS A COCKSUCKER. That will be in the fucking HEADLINES! You have NO RIGHT TO DO THIS TO ME. I will fucking beat the faggot out of you if it KILLS YOU. You know what I HOPE it kills you.
Dad....
please
stop
no
please
listen
ill do anything
just dont
dont
please
oh god not again please i promise i
CRASH. AAAAAAGGGGAGGHGGGHGAAAaaaa.... ah... ah... uhh...
sobbing like the tired movements of a dead animal. its quiet struggle to get back up when it knows its inevitable fate is to die here, now, in a pool of its own blood.
Yeah, you fucking cry. Fucking CRY. LIKE YOU ALWAYS DID. Cry like your MOTHER. Like a WOMAN. You don't have the balls to face me. You talk shit and you can't even stand. COME ON. HIT ME YOU PUSSY. JUST FUCKING TRY.
A passed out boy in a puddle of tears, blood, and alcohol.
If this man wins today then this child's life will be destroyed. If we don't do something now then nothing will ever be done.

Astrid's eyes shot at the man with the violence of a gunshot, the focus of a laser, and the power of a runaway train.

"No. This is happening today. We will wait right here until your son comes home. We will speak with the three of you, tonight, and we will make a decision. If you refuse to allow this to happen then your son will come with us. You will probably never see him again. If he has changed his mind since his phone call we will decide this is a case battered person syndrome and we will take him against his will.

"Mr. and Mrs. Miller, if you are willing to make different choices and work with us then it is possible that this can be resolved peacefully and that your son can stay with you. If you are not willing to do so then, if he ultimately desires it, and I'm certain he will, you will never see your son again. You have only two options, but the choice is yours. Will you let us remain in the house until your son gets home or are we going to have to pick him up from school?"

The air in the room was frozen. Howard stared in Astrid's direction with what looked like fear. Nobody noticed the figure in the doorway, standing there paralyzed, completely unprepared for what he was seeing.

The air broke in to a thousand tiny glass shards as a pistol was raised through it by the man's right hand, gleaming in the afternoon sun. Astrid saw it move towards her forehead in slow motion, a Glock 17. Nasty gun. Nasty way to die. She could tell, somehow, that it was fully automatic, illegally modified, had its ID number ground off. A gun like this doesn't just cost money, it costs status, costs friends in high places. As the man's movements slowed down, she saw her own body move like a lightning strike. Her left hand moved to stabilize his wrist. Her right hand moved to below the muzzle of the gun and pushed against her left to redirected the line of fire. Her right knee moved forcefully in to his groin. Several shots fired from the weapon in to the ceiling just before Astrid had full control of the weapon.

In an instant the man had fallen to the ground, barely conscious. Astrid deftly put the safety on the weapon, removed the clip, and threw it across the room, not taking her eyes off the man. She dropped the impotent weapon to the ground and immediately descended on the man, tying his hands behind his back. She said robotically, "These handcuffs will remove themselves in fifteen minutes. I have imprisoned you in this manner because I felt that it was necessary to protect myself and others."

She turned, coldly, to both husband and wife. "If you feel your rights have been violated in any way during this meeting then please contact us on our website. My name is Astrid Fields and my partner's name is Jacob Howard. Should you wish to contact us directly use the number on this card." She dropped a small piece of laminated cardboard on to the man's massive, sweaty back.

She then looked over at the person standing in the doorway and moved to him. Howard had been frozen before but now got up to follow. The boy looked startled, tense, but not exactly afraid. Not afraid in the way an animal that's about to run is afraid, but in the way that a person is when they are on the edge, the precipice, the cusp of something in their life, an internal fear.

"I'm Astrid Fields. I think we should leave now."

He didn't look at her, but took one last look at his house, his home for the past fifteen years. The head of the deer his father hadn't really shot mounted above the cold, dusty fireplace. The wallpaper, the art, the cabinets of fine china and porcelain figures. The molding and the window sills and the matching floorboards, and the fine hardwood floors. His mother, sitting in her chair, drinking her tea with a dead, comatose calmness. Her body and mind had shut down, given up, when she first let the intruders in, but she had given up her life long ago. Her eyes, staring the bloated figure of his unconscious father, like a sleeping dragon protecting its pilfered horde. Except this horde was not really his. It belonged to dead men and, really, to no one. There was no value here, nothing to be stolen, to be gained. No one had won today. Today was not a day of victory but of solemn and cold change, of blood and tears, and of the death of an old life. Whether it was a victory or a defeat depended on the days to come.

"Yeah. Yeah, ok. Let's go."

They stepped through the back door in to the cool afternoon air and the blinding sun of the Spring day. The three people squinted and stood in the yard and looked around for a moment, like newly released prisoners stepping on to soil for the first time in decades. Without speaking they all walked out to the front of the house and in to the small, white, otherworldly vehicle double parked in front of the house. Howard got in the driver's seat as the boy and Fields climbed in the back. She looked at the boy.

"Are you alright? Physically?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Do you have to go to a hospital?"

"No, I'm ok."

"Alright. Wait, your leg is bleeding."

"It is? Oh, wow, it is. I didn't even notice it..."

She gripped his leg and pulled it closer to her, lifting his pant leg insensitively. "Oh my god it's a bullet wound. Jesus your dad's gun, the shots, they must have ricocheted around and hit you. You had so much adrenaline in your body and you were so focused that you didn't even notice. We should really go to a hospital."

"No it really doesn't hurt. I mean look the bullet's not in there. Can we just go to the circuit? Please?"

"Ok but I'm going to put some antiseptic on it first." She unbuckled her seatbelt and dug through the trunk for the first aid kit. "I guess this might sting," she said, as she poured the clear liquid on it and quickly wrapped the wound in gauze. It bled through more than she had hoped, but it seemed to be stopping.

A long time passed in the near-silent rumble of steady highway speed.

Astrid looked at the boy as he looked out the window aimlessly, and she was afraid of what what happening in his mind. Afraid to ask or even consider what he was thinking right now, to touch the pain that was behind him and ahead of him. She decided she had to speak.

"When I was your age, I was in the same place you are now. I was... my father was... a lot like yours. I mean... he...."

The boy looked near her but not at her with a hopeless stare. Just say it. Call it what it is. Call all things by their real name.

"Well, my father raped me. When I was young. It." She choked on her words and closed her eyes for a moment, like she was holding back vomit. "He did it... I don't know how many times. And my mother didn't... she just didn't care. She never did a fucking thing about it really except cry. There's... it's ok to cry as long as it's not all you do. And it's all she ever fucking did. Look, I just want to say that I, I think I know how you feel, and-"

"No you don't. And I don't know how you feel. I mean it's not like anyone know how anyone feels. It's all just... I don't know."

"You know how I felt on my first ride to the circuit?"

He looked back out the window and stared limply at the ground, rushing past and below them like a river of asphalt. "Good? Excited? Awesome?"

Astrid laughed. "Hell, no. I felt shitty. Totally shitty. Just like you do now and I was afraid and I felt like I was gonna puke all over the car. They might have been monsters but they were my parents. They were everything I had ever known. As terrible as it might sound that's really hard to just leave. There are people who bail out their rapists from jail because they somehow still love them. You can't just give up love, even if it's a sick and twisted love that's not really love anymore, because it makes sense. It doesn't matter how terrible it is, if that's your only home and your only reality then of course you're going to be afraid when you leave it."

"How do I know I made the right choice though? I thought I'd feel light and free after this happened but now I feel heavier than I ever did. I mean I don't even know you people and maybe my dad was right. I don't want to be gay. No, no I'm not gay. I'm not gay."

She looked out the window for a second, uncomfortably, until he spoke again.

"Shit, maybe I am just a faggot and a pussy and a loser...."

"You're not, ok? You're not. I promise. You're a human being and so is everyone else. There aren't winners and there aren't losers, there's just people, and we're all just trying to figure out what to do with our lives. You're a human. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

"No, seriously. Say this after me."

"What the fuck this is dumb."

She smiled a little. "Come on just do it. It's an affirmation I learned when I first came to the circuit. Repeat what I say, ok?"

He smiled too, the first sincere smile he'd had in a long, long time. "Yeah, sure ok."

"I am a Human Being."

"I am a Human Being."

"I am among other Human Beings."

"I am among other Human Beings."

"We are all equal. We are all united."

"We are all equal. We are all united."

"And all our voices deserve to be heard."

"And all our voices deserve to be heard."

He paused, then said "That was kinda dumb."

"Oh, come on, no it wasn't. It's good to say things like that out loud. Remember that. Remember that above all you're a human being like everyone else. And, well, we don't have to get in to all this shit right now but that's really what the Circuit is about. It's why we came here today. Because you weren't being treated like a human. And you are. I promise."

"Ok."

"And about what you said about knowing you made the right decision."

"Yeah?"

"All I can say about that is that I know I made the right decision. It was terrible at first, and lonely, and strange, and I didn't trust anyone, but I was able to rebuild my life. I can't say I'm free of it, now, it's not like your past goes away, but I honestly don't really want it to go away. I feel better. I can deal with it now. It's made me learn and made me who I am. The transition was painful but now I've been able to build my own life and be who I always needed to be. I cry sometimes and it's not like I'm happy all the time but you have no idea what that's worth. Having control over your own life, and being able to feel like a person, you'll see. It's worth it. It makes your life worth living and it lets you know that when you die you won't regret anything."

He looked unconvinced.

"You made the right choice today, ok? I'm sure of it. Tomorrow will be a better day. Well tomorrow might actually feel worse, but eventually, you know, in a metaphorical sense, tomorrow will be a better day, ok?"

"Ok. Yeah, I... I know."

She put her hand on his shoulder, touching him in a more honestly compassionate way than anyone ever had. He closed his eyes and his head sank in to his palms.

The sun was setting, its red and orange beams piercing through the cooling air. Howard rolled down the windows and it seemed like they were the only three people in the world. They were driving across the ruins of society, along a road unused for centuries, amidst the debris of some unknowable apocalypse. The last three survivors, coming back to the place they once knew that had somehow changed forever. The moment seemed to freeze in time, as the boy inhaled, he thought, what if I never breathe out. He was afraid of tomorrow and yet he couldn't wait for morning. He had so many thoughts and emotions that he didn't know what to do. But he did know that he was moving in the right direction along the right road, that he had made the right choice, and that tomorrow had to be better. And he started crying in the most strangely freeing way he ever had.

That kid sounds like a pussy.

I like it, well written.

Is this story a way to deal with problems in your past, or is this a way to say that you don't see a realistic way out of your current situation?

>>104
It's not actually about me, it's about my friend. Well he's not really my friend but I do have sympathy for him. It's basically me saying that in order to solve situations like this, you need people willing to work really hard. You can arrest the dad and throw the kid in a probably shitty foster home/orphanage or you can more than likely do jack shit, but in order to effect any real healing we need committed people and institutions. Thanks for reading gaiz.
>>100
you're just uncomfortable dealing with emotions. you pussy.