28 Boys Read online

  Each step closer my body is fed by the power they give me, the pedestal they put me on makes my cock hard. I am a killer, a rapist, no longer human, but to them I am a fucking hero.

  My heart rate picks up, I huff breaths in and out like a tornado about to charge. The warden just walks, he knows what will happen next, but he would rather be a silent witness - or an accessory - than be dead.

  The noise roars and my smile grows wider, in here I am at the top.

  Soon though, soon that power will be gone, and the walls and bars will give way to freedom and fresh air. Soon I will be free as a bird. Until then I just have to keep playing the game, keep the power I have, and stay alive.

  The concrete floors and damp smell of the showers add to my high, as the men who walked with me charge from my sides and slam my waiting victim against the white tiled wall. Hard.

  Crack.

  Scream.

  Fear.

  His eyes glaze with terror as he realizes what is about to happen. Stupid new kids come in here thinking the rules don’t apply to them. He begs and cries, little boy tears fall down his cheeks as I stare at him, I usually say something first, but my body feeds off his guttural voice while he pleads for mercy.

  “Asseblief nee.” Please no.

  Choking on snot and tears he cries to my deaf ears and cold heart. Maybe if I was alone I wouldn’t have to do it, but there are others with us, so I need to be hard. My knuckles crack and pop as my fist connects with his jaw. He is now kneeling in front of me, at my mercy - I have no mercy.

  His arms are held back, spread like a man being crucified.

  “Weet jy wat’s ’n slow puncture? Weet jy vat bedoel dit? Do you know what a slow puncture is? Do you know what that means? Ek gaan jou naai seuntjie, tot dat ek weet my siekte in jou rou gat huis gebou het. Am going to fuck you boy, until I know that my disease has made a home in your raw ass. Dan gaan my vrienden hier met jou klaar maak. Then my friends here are going to finish the job. Hoe meer jy skree, hoe meer jy ruk en beweeg, hoe harder gaan ek jou fok. The more you scream, the harder you struggle and move, the harder I will fuck you.”

  The two men holding him laugh, their chuckles echo and mix with my words, reverberating off the walls. Circling behind him I stop and stand between his bent knees. His body shakes with fear and cries that will go unanswered.

  My bare foot hits hard between his shoulder blades, sending him down with a thud. His chin makes a cracking sound when it bashes the bare concrete.

  A spray of blood comes from his mouth when he exhales, and mixes with the water that drains past his head. I lower myself over his stiff body, close enough that he feels me, but not touching his skin yet.

  “Is jy reg?” Are you ready? I hiss softly in his ear, making him tremble below me again.

  He doesn’t answer me and I know he has checked out, his mind has gone somewhere else, somewhere beyond these four corners of hell.

  “Ek praat met jou.” I’m talking to you.

  I place a hand around his neck and squeeze, he can do nothing. His arms are pinned down by two men twice his size. He manages a stiff nod against my grip and closes his eyes tight, stiffening his body more, bracing against the pain that is to come.

  I feel his skin rip as I force myself into him, his tense muscles making it far more painful. He tries to scramble away beneath me, but there is no escaping this. I thrust harder, faster, deeper, ripping him apart as I go, the open flesh and blood ensuring I will infect him.

  My body responds as my mind escapes back to my Meisie in the sand as she cried after I fucked her. I force myself into him until I cum, my semen mixes with his blood, passing on the curse. His death sentence is delivered and my position of power is secured.

  He has blacked out, gone limp, what a pussy, such a weakling. I look at my friends, my allies, and smile at them. “Geniet hom, dan gooi hom uit vir die manne, hy’s 'n oulike wyfie.” Enjoy him, then throw him to the wolves, he’ll make a pretty wife.

  I don't worry about them screwing him, they've already got my disease. I wash his shit and blood off me while I stand under the cold water and scrub myself. The sound of the carnal savages behind me fucking his unconscious body bounce off the walls.

  My shame creeps slowly up my spine and I hang my head under the water. This is not me. I would rather have murdered him, slit his throat, shot him, even beat him to death.

  It’s not the guilt of what I have done, it’s the deeply seeded inner conflict; because I don’t like men. I don’t get off on the thought of them, it’s the power that excites me.

  I would never choose a man if I had a choice. The desire isn’t in me.

  The guilt of having sex with men eats at me. After I leave here I won’t touch a man like that again, not ever. Not even if my life depends on it.

  Out there these rules don’t apply.

  I cover my face with my hands so that no one can see my silent torment, my inner demons claw to escape me and show my weakness to the world. I don’t want them to see. I have to step over them to get out and dry off. Grunts and sighs as they use his body make my stomach twist in knots. I am almost done, almost out, I just have to live long enough.

  As long as I seem normal they will never know, and I can just leave. I wait to be returned to my cell. Their voices become loud and I feel the panic.

  “Fok!” Fuck! the watching warden exclaims. “You weren’t supposed to kill him.”

  Another one. If I knew he was going to die so easily I would have just killed him first, instead of this.

  I walk back to the small doorway and look inside. It’s funny how a dead body instantly looks different if you know what to look for. He has left. He has paid the price for freedom.

  I don’t say anything while the three men fret over the corpse. I just stand and wait to return to my cage.

  “I will come find you here after I am done at the clinic, Auntie,” I say to her, leaving her standing in a queue that wraps right around the building and onto the adjacent street.

  “Dankie seun.” Thank you son, she answers clutching her handbag tight in front of her.

  I cross the busy street to walk back to my car, and take the short drive to the private clinic. My eyes scan the buildings looking for numbers, or a sign telling me I am in the right place.

  The rain is still falling harder now and I worry about the Auntie standing in the cold and wet all day. The sound of the rain on the car roof, and the swiping wipers, drowns out the radio. So I turn it louder. Then the news comes on and I turn it off completely.

  After a few unnecessary turns and detours I find the building I am looking for, and park in the grungy underground parking. It smells like piss and damp mould.

  I choose the stairs over the old lift, and come out upstairs in a small foyer with a reception desk and a glass door facing the street. The furniture is faded and feels like the principal’s office of my primary school way back in the day, beige and stale.

  The large lady behind the desk glares at me, her eyes immediately see me as a gangster. The numbers and symbols branded into me make her assume she knows me.

  “I have an appointment,” I say to her now disgusted face.

  “Take a seat and fill this out,” she says, sliding a ratty clipboard across the counter to me.

  “I am a private patient, no medical aid. I’m paying up front and I am not filling in your form.”

  I don’t want to admit I can’t read all of it, that my language skills are limited and I can barely write more than my name. I pull out my wallet and hand her my bank card. She looks at me with shifty eyes, shakes her head and swipes it through the machine. I figured a doctor operating in this area would be as corrupt as fuck.

  “I need a first name at least.” She holds my card just out of my reach.

  “Francis,” I say grabbing my card, and she snickers.

  “That’s a girls name you know.”

  Oh, don’t I fucking know it. My mother, rest her soul, gave me a girls name. I turn away so
I don’t grab her thick, fucking neck, and strangle her.

  I sit on a shabby, faded chair, and page through a magazine that is more than a decade old. It’s that old that I can actually relate to the pictures and adverts which catch my eye. I have been gone a long time, I don’t understand this ‘new’ world almost. Freedom has been very confusing for me.

  “Francis.” A loud voice calls from the doorway next to the desk.

  A middle aged man in a white coat stands there. Since I am the only person in here, it must be me right? Only I know he is looking for a lady. I stand up, drop the magazine back on the chair and walk towards the doctor, and he looks at me a little confused.

  I hold out my hand to shake his. “I’m Francis.”

  He shakes it like he will catch a disease from me and pushes the door open behind him. “Follow me.” I walk behind him down the beige passage until he turns into an exam room combined with an office. “Take a seat, Francis.”

  He flops down into his chair behind the desk. He looks less than enthusiastic about his job as he runs through the list of routine questions in his yellow folder. After we get that out of the way I am examined, prodded, poked, and judged for a good hour.

  A nursing sister who is anything but gentle draws blood, gives me a sex lecture, and a handful of condoms. The lecture is wasted because not once since I came home has the opportunity for sex even arisen. I don’t think it has even occurred to me until now.

  Sex on the inside changed the way I saw human contact, the way I feel about things. It is tainted with blood and death. I shake my head and pocket the condoms, before I go to collect a prescription from the doctor.

  “You know how retrovirals work Francis, you have got to keep taking them and coming back for more.” His condescending tone makes me want to slap him, but I just nod and walk out instead.

  The day has turned dismal outside and wind lashes cold rain against my car as I pull out of the parking. I immediately think about Auntie standing outside in this. When I find a street parking near the pension office I can see her plastered against the wall, clinging to her umbrella in the pelting rain and gusting wind.

  She is sodden and her clothes are dripping wet. My heart squeezes a little as I think of this struggle every single month. I get out, pull my hoodie over my head and walk up to her. She looks embarrassed and on the verge of tears.

  I give her the car key and tell her, “Gaan sit in die kar Tannie, ek sal hier staan en as ek voor kom dan kan jy kom. Jy gaan siek word as jy hier in die reen staan.” Go sit in the car Auntie, you can come when I get to the front of the line, you’ll get sick standing out here in the rain.

  She mumbles a thank you and shuffles off to my car.

  I wait three hours in that line before I reach the door, and she comes and takes her place again. It’s another two hours before she comes out after that and we are ready to go home.

  We drive through the torrential downpour slowly. “Dankie Francis, ek waardeer dit.” Thank you Francis, I appreciate it.

  She has thanked me about ten times, as if no one has done anything for her in a long time. She doesn’t need to though, she is the only person who welcomed me home, she feeds me, she helped me lay my sister to rest. She didn’t need to thank me. Ever.

  I killed her son. I will spend my life in her debt for that.

  “Sal jy vir eete in kom?” Will you come for dinner?

  She invites me in to eat with them and I can’t say no. I can see a party brewing at my house and I am not in the mood for it.

  “Dit sal heel lekker wees Tannie, ek gaan net gaan af droog en my kleure verander.” That would be really nice Auntie, I’m just going to get dry and change my clothes first.

  I park the car and she hurries across the road, and I go to get changed. The house is in full party swing and the guys are taking advantage of not working today. I can smell braai (barbecue) and booze as I go to my room to change out of my wet jeans, that are chaffing my ballsack raw now.

  Vivian stands in the doorway as I peel the wet clothing off my body. I am used to prison so modesty isn’t something I care about.

  “Gaan jy weer uit?” Going out again? he asks, trying to avert his eyes from me. “Ons party lekker. Our party is rocking. Jy is deel van die span Francis, kom man, miskien kry ons vir jou ’n girl.” You are part of this team Francis, come join us, maybe we can even find you a girl, he says with a childish smile on his face, while I stash my medicine in the old wardrobe when grabbing a fresh pair of jeans.

  “Ek gaan by die Tannie oorkant gaan eet, later kan julle vir my ’n girl kry. I’m going to eat across the road, you can find me a girl later. Ek is nou nou terug. I won’t be long.”

  I don’t want them to think that I’m not a team player or that I don’t like girls, I don’t need the attention. I need this team and this job.

  “Wat is dit met hulle? Jy is baie daar oorkant.” What’s with them? You are over there a lot.

  He questions my connection to them which means they’ve noticed it. I don’t want anyone knowing that I care for them, that puts them in danger. “The food is better than the shit you lot cook, Viv.”

  I laugh and slap him on the back when I pass to the small bathroom. I knock once and shove the door open. It’s still my house, no matter what the boss lady says. I brush my teeth and take a piss, ignoring the sex scene playing out in my bathtub. Sharing my space with fifty strangers is almost normal for me, I just ignore it and get on with my life.

  Darting back through the drizzle I knock on Auntie’s door. I wipe the water off my bald head and straighten my shirt a little as I wait for them to let me in.

  Engela opens the door with little Dan on her hip. She is dressed this time and I don’t even get a death glare. She smiles as she opens the door wide for me to step inside.

  I brush past her and she locks the door again behind me.

  “Dankie dat jy Ma vandag gehelp het, sy’t my gesê wat het jy gedoen. Miskien is daar onder daai nommer nogsteeds ’n goeie man.” Thank you for helping Ma today. She told me what you did. Maybe under that number there’s a good man after all, she says softly, before leaving me.

  Standing here, I’m rather shocked by her pleasantness.

  10

  Engela

  sees beneath the surface

  Ma came home exhausted, as always after a day like today. When she picks up Dan he snuggles into her neck, and she smiles, holding him like she hasn’t seen him in a year.

  I make her some tea and check on the food I started earlier. She settles down on the kitchen chair with my son on her lap and talks to him in her ‘baby voice’. I grab him and swap her for a nice hot cup of tea and a rusk (Afrikaans biscotti). I know she won’t have eaten all day.

  “Francis het vir my in die ry gestaan vandag.” Francis stood in the line for me today, she says before taking a long sip of the tea.

  I can’t imagine him doing something nice, it feels wrong. He should be horrible. That’s what he is, isn’t he?

  “Dit was goed van hom.” That was good of him. I’m not sure how to answer because I can’t get my head around what she says about him. “Ek moet môre tronk toe gaan.” I have to go to the prison in the morning. I just get a disapproving glare from her. “Martin sê ek moet Ma, hy sê dinge is nie reg nie en ek moet gaan.” Martin says I must, Mom, he says things aren’t right and I must just go see him.

  I try to justify it, I try make it sound better than it is. She just plays with the baby, and ignores me as I prepare dinner and clean.

  The party across the road has become louder now. They have been going at it all day, people coming in and out, music now blaring, and I can hear the shouts and laughter floating across the road. It’s not the sort of party that would attract the cops, but they are having a good time.

  I look around the dull little kitchen and I can’t remember when last I had a good time, when I went out and did something that wasn’t work.

  Having a child changed everything for me. Before I would go t
o parties and hang out all night long. Before Danial I had a personal life, a personality. I look at my son and yes he is everything to me, but some days I would love to be normal again. I can’t just go back to my old life. I shake off my silly thoughts and go answer the door. I know it’s Francis, I can see him through the window. I shake my head at my mother who just smiles at me.

  “You’re lucky I cooked extra, Ma,” I say, as I stomp out of the room.

  When I open the door he looks different, softer somehow. I don’t see the villain, I see the man who stood in the rain for my mother for three hours today. I see him trying to be more.

  We eat quietly in the small kitchen, dinner conversation doesn’t exactly flow. It is awkward, because I want to keep hating him and yet he keeps giving me reasons not to. I watch him and Ma laughing at Dan’s antics in the chair.

  Francis smiles. It lifts his whole face and his eyes dance with a hidden joy while my son entertains them. His bald head shines where the lonely kitchen light catches on it, and his big hands seem clumsy with his cutlery. The knife and fork look hopelessly too small in his grip. The sound of baby giggles and forks scrape on plates as the warm meal is enjoyed, only, I don’t enjoy it. I want him to go.

  I don’t want him near my family. I hate that he is doing good things when in my head he was so much more of a monster. The conflicting memories and the man in the kitchen churn my stomach, and make me feel ill. My food turns to ash and loses its taste as I see him worming into my mother’s broken heart.

  My son doesn’t need another man to learn bad things from, his father is more than enough. I was naive to think Nathaniel would stay in prison forever. What I have learned in my short life, boys without fathers become gangsters and killers. Maybe having his father home would make it better - for him. It would never be better for me. This is about as good as it will ever get, sharing dinner with my brother’s killer.

  Wiping the empty plates into the rubbish bin while Ma goes to put the little one to bed, Francis stands next to me rinsing them off as I finish each one, then places them into the soapy water.