Two Southern Gentlemen Ch. 07

Content/trigger warning: This series contains bullying, homophobic language, and non-consensual sexual acts, but they are integral to the plot and character development so please take them in context.

Author's note: Thanks again to everyone who's gotten this far. The next chapter is where things really take a big leap forwards, so I hope you'll check it out!

JESSE

I'm back at the cove, still sitting and brooding. It's been a full week, and I'm still no closer to getting back at that asshole than before. I'm touchier than usual, more irritable with the little 'uns in particular, but day to day I've managed to keep my anger in check for the most part, keep hold of it struggling and spitting at arm's length. But I'm still on edge, still feel my need for revenge lurking restlessly underneath my every thought, my every action, and every so often it leaks out of me, sparking like a broken appliance.

I've been coming back here every every minute I can, guarding what was supposed to be my private sanctuary, in case that prick tries to come back and take over what's mine. I'm busy most of every day at the diner or minding the little 'uns, but when I can get here I check the area carefully. As far as I can tell no one's been around, which I guess is a small relief.

I still haven't come up with a plan to get back at the bastard, and damn if it ain't frustrating as all hell. Revenge is definitely easier said than done. I have to say my Bowie knife has gotten to feel pretty comfortable in my hand now, though, and I managed to clean it up pretty well. Turns out some vinegar and a scouring pad and a lot of elbow grease will do the trick. At first I was almost wishing he would show up so I could finally do some of the things I've been dreaming about. But no, he'd probably come with his giggling cheerleader girlfriend and his friends. I know I'm no match for him strength wise, but if I could surprise him I could get him spooked with my knife pretty well I expect. Maybe even draw a little blood. Carve my name in his face or his chest, or both... But I wouldn't be able to handle a group of them, that's for sure. I'm mad as heck, but I'm not an idiot.

Every day that passes just winds me up more and more. I got so riled up I even walked all the way to his house last night after my shift and sat outside in the damn bushes watching his room like a stalker. I heard some kids talking at the diner that the prick was working on some construction for his daddy, so maybe he's been too busy to find me and try to beat up on me again. Probably laughing and bragging to his girlfriend and his buddies about what he did to me. The thought of that really gets to me, sure, but his latest stunt, as over the top and humiliating as it was, is just another notch in his belt in a long line of them.

What bothers me more than that, and I hate to admit it, is how much truth there was in his sneering and his name calling. My dad is a worthless drunk. Our family is fucking trailer trash just scraping by, living on welfare food and charity. These past days looking around the trailer, catching a glimpse of my bruised face in the rusty metal of the trailer door, paint long gone, trying to figure out how to make a couple of bucks go as far as they can, I have to wonder how I ever thought any of it could change. He's an asshole, but he was right. I'm going to be stuck here forever. Somehow I'd thought smarts would get me somewhere, but how could they? Even if I somehow got a scholarship to somewhere, who would look after the little 'uns? I'm not going to abandon them the way my big brother ran off and left us behind. No, I think, as I stop and force myself for the thousandth time to stop from thinking poorly of Jimmy. He had his own demons he had to deal with, and it would've been worse for everyone if he'd stayed. Anyway, college was just a fool's dream, and the cold stark truth of that hurts more than the bloody nose and the bruises and the sore ribs, even his piss covering trailer trash me. That's what's kept me up every night all week, making me lash out, all that disappointment of all my idiotic dreams evaporating in the cold light of truth like morning dew. That's what's keeping me up, not his damn bullying. I can fucking take even the worst of that. With a sigh I think for the thousandth time that I suppose it's just as well that I'm facing it sooner than later, but damn does it still hurt, and damn if I'm not going to get back at him for it, as if he's the one to blame for my hopeless fate.

As for friends, so what if I don't have any. Why do I need friends? I don't have time for them anyway. And it's not like they would have any better ideas about what to do about getting back at that asshole. That's the damn thing that's the most frustrating, on top of everything else. How am I going to teach him a lesson. In a way I'm glad he went and took it too far. It gives me a reason to end this once and for all, one way or another.

Anyway, so last night there I am sitting in some damn bushes outside his house. Actually that asshole's house is more like a damn mansion. Used to be a state senator's house I heard from somewhere, or something like that. I'd never actually seen it up close. Big white columns on the front porch, manicured, landscaped lawn that looks perfect even in the height of a sweltering summer. What his daddy spends on lawn care in a week could feed my whole family for months I bet. It's a pretty far walk and pretty late by the time I get there, after 11, and even though there are lights around the house it's easy for me to keep to the shadows. The spot I found in the bushes in the back of the house gives me a good view of what I assume is his bedroom window, since I saw his daddy looking out the window of the other bedroom on that floor. Asshole junior's truck is there, but I don't see any sign of asshole junior himself. Maybe he's already asleep?

I've been holding my knife as I keep watch for any signs of him on the first floor or up in his room, but I still don't see him, and I continue to think up plans. For the thousandth time I wish I had a drug or something I could slip into his drink. Then I could drag him somewhere, tie him up. I'd smack him awake, then punch him hard in the face, make his nose bleed, same as he did me. Or cut up his good-looking face some. To be completely honest, I have a hard time picturing myself actually doing half of what I think up. Momma always said I was a "gentle old soul". She also always said I had me a big ol' imagination. But I expect that when he's right in front of me that the adrenaline will kick in and I'll be able to do what needs to be done. Even though I still don't know exactly what it'll be, he sure as hell won't be getting off easy. Not this time. He's gonna learn his lesson, by God, and I'm gonna get back at him for what he did. Gonna get back at him. Gonna get back at him...

A movement catches my attention and with a start I realize I've been dozing in the bushes. I sit up straight and wonder what time it is. Someone is creeping along the side of the house, and I squint my eyes trying to make out who it is. It's only when the figure steps under one of the back porch lights that I see that it's the asshole. Where's he been, at - I check my phone - 2 in the morning? Probably making out with his girlfriend or something. But why didn't he drive there?

In the midst of my guessing I start kicking myself when I realize that if I'd been awake maybe I could've caught him by surprise outside his house. Maybe threatened him with my knife and made him walk to somewhere away from his house and neighbors so I could do I-don't-know-what-I-told-you-I-haven't-figured-it-out-yet. I don't think he would have called out to his daddy. But there are a country road's worth of holes in this latest idea too. Where would I take him from here? Make him get in his truck and drive us somewhere? It's a knife, not a damn gun. If I give him too much time to react he could probably just grab it from me, turn it on me instead, and then I'd really be fucked. With a sigh I put the knife back in the holder I've made to hang on my belt out of some old leather and some duct tape. The light turns on in his bedroom and I see him strip off his shirt and his pants and lie down on his bed. But his bed is too low for me to see much of him after that. For a second I think maybe I could climb up to his room somehow and surprise him that way, but of course that's not gonna work with his daddy in the next room over, and besides how the heck am I going to climb up the side of a house?

That was last night, and I ended up just trudging the long journey home and falling into a restless sleep for a few hours before I had to get up to get breakfast together for the little 'uns, and here I am back again guarding my cove, still no closer to getting my revenge. Ms. Lucille is watching the kids again this afternoon, so I'm free to plot and stew as much as I please for a couple more hours. I stand up and stretch, kick at the ground some, put my knife back in its sheath and then take it out again, and then sit back down, the wheels in my head endlessly churning all the while, my body still charged with the electricity of my hate despite my continued lack of sleep. I've tried to arrange some things here in case he does show up again. I brought over an old metal baseball bat a few days ago that I'd found a while back with the vague idea that I can maybe hit him with it if he somehow gets hold of my knife. I've also set up a little cover of fallen down branches and such where I could hide if...

Suddenly I hear the sound of someone swimming nearby, and I duck into that cover I was just talking about. I peek through and my heart starts racing a mile a minute because fuck if that devil isn't swimming up to the shore just like he must have done last time. And then he's getting out of the water looking the same as before, same swim trunks, same short hair, same muscular build. I have to admit seeing his muscles makes my resolve waver like a candle in the damn wind, but I tighten my grip on my knife and wait for just the right moment to surprise him.

The asshole has been looking around but clearly isn't suspecting a thing, and when he sees I'm not here I half expect him to leave. I'm crouched and ready to rush him if he does start to get back in the water, but he doesn't. He looks kind of quiet, actually, not swaggering around like he owns the place like I expected, but all of that barely registers because my mind is lit up like a Christmas tree and zipping around in all directions trying to decide exactly what to do. I'm only gonna get one shot at this.

He was looking around but now he's looking out at the water, and after half of a breathless minute he sits and settles in, still facing out. Like maybe he's waiting for his pet "punchin' bag" to show up. Well, ain't he in for a surprise.

I watch him for a few minutes and it looks like he's staying put for now, but for who knows how long. Silently I slot my phone into the holder I've jerry-rigged behind my cover and position it right on him, careful not to bump it as I set it to video record.

Barefoot and silent as a ghost I creep up right behind him, forcing my breathing and my steps to be as quiet as I can make them.

One step, two, three, four, five... I count to myself. Those last few steps are torture and I'm sure he's gonna hear my heart pounding, or I'm gonna trip and fall or otherwise screw everything up. I feel sure he's gonna turn around and catch me at just the last second, grab my knife, turn the tables on me, ruin everything. But luck must be on my side and he must be daydreaming or something because he doesn't notice until it's too late and I've got the tip of my knife pressed right into the center of his smooth back, my grip on the knife surprisingly firm and steady considering how much I'm trembling all over, and I'm saying as calmly as a body could when their heart is racing at mach speed the way mine is:

"Don't you move a muscle or I swear to God I will run this knife straight through you, you fuckin' bastard."