Do Unto Others

Chapter 1

Warnings: Rape

Note: All past happenings are in italics.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Ronnie Jr. ...

Eight years old...

I pretend to be sleep. If I am asleep maybe he will leave me alone. I hold my knees to my chest and wait. I can hear his heavy footsteps as they get closer and closer to my door. He passes my bedroom and I let out the small amount of air that I had trapped inside my lungs. "Thank you," I whisper into the darkness that surrounds me. I listen as the footsteps fall away, down the hallway and into his bedroom.

I thrust deeper into the warm body beneath me, ignoring the blood and the tears. I can't let myself feel his pain. I only have room in my body for my own. "Please," I hear him beg, his voice struggling to remain clear as the blood invades his throat. I look down at his face. The blue eyes, the blond hair; he reminds me of my father.

Ten years old...

I don't hear the door open or his footsteps as they walk across the padded carpet, but I feel the cold air kiss my skin as the blankets are pulled back and I smell the alcohol as it rolls off of him. I keep my eyes closed. If they are closed... then nothings real.

I bite his shoulder as I come a third time, tasting the blood as it stings my tongue. I lick the area, tasting his pain. His body is shaking under me. His arms are tied behind his back, pressing into the hardwood floor of the studio. There is so much blood.

Red paint runs off of the easel next to us, dripping onto the floor and splattering over his face and chest. I take a finger and run it through the mixture of semen, paint and blood on his chest. I rub the mixture between my fingers, it's so warm.

His cell phone is ringing; that's the fourth time since I got here.

Four Hours Ago...

"You're Justin Taylor," I say as I come around the corner. He jumps back a little, startled. He wonders where I came from. I was hiding in the shadows, watching the golden strands of hair as they swayed slightly with each movement.

He adjusts his portfolio as it hangs around his neck.

"Yeah," he answers. I step forward with my hand extended and a smile firmly in place. He takes my hand and shakes it. He has a firm grip. I notice it immediately.

I have watched him since he leased the loft. I watched as he slowly filled it with canvases and art supplies, turning it into a studio.

My father loved to draw. He was very good at it.

"I saw some of your work at the student shows when you went to PIFA," I tell him. He smiles, letting go of some of his apprehension. "You were very good then, I can only imagine you've gotten better." I lay it on thick as I feel my dick start to grow.

"Thanks," he says as he puts the key in the lock, opening the door.

"I would sure love to see some of your pieces," I say with all sincerity. He is a damn good artist. I have never fucked an artist. He'll be my first.

I have had one teacher, three cashiers, five housewives, a DJ, three teenage girls and numerous tricks... but never an artist. He is one more notch to add to my belt, one more trophy for my collection, a collection that started when I was eighteen; a seventeen year crime spree.

He motions to the inside of the studio. "Would you like to see some paintings?" He asks. "I mean, you're already here." I laugh on the inside at his trust and acceptance.

He should know better. He does know better.

"Sure," I say. He nods his head with a smile and moves into the vast space, turning on all the lights.

I look at the cell phone, lying in a pool of blood and ringing with intensity. The smell of sex, paint, and warm blood assaults my senses and sends blood rushing to my cock, doubling my pleasure and increasing his pain.

I thrust into him again. There are no more words coming from the body beneath me. No movements, no signs of struggle.

I pound away mercilessly, the most severe of the damage already done. He put up a fight. He lost, but he tried. I respect that.

I bend over as I thrust into him and lick a trail from his collarbone to his cheek. There is blood pouring from his mouth. I let his head drop to the side and watch as the blood spills from his mouth to the floor.

I let my eyes focus on the two teeth that lay lost and forgotten on the floor under the easel. There is a third one missing. I don't see it. I think it's on the drafting table.

Again Four Hours Ago..

I saw his name on a flyer at the school, two years ago.

Justin, I love his name. It makes me think of the Justin that I used to know in second grade, but that was a long time ago. I punch him, hard, in the face. I watch his expression change from one of surprise to one of terror.

He backs away from me, stopping when his back comes in contact with his easel.

I hit him again. With every punch I feel some relief, some ease within myself. I can breathe. He doesn't know what to do, his head is spinning. "FUCK!" He screams. He pleads with me to stop, to leave. I have no patience for begging.

I am tired now. My dick is hard. No more time for charades. I need to feel.

I lunge forward and he falls backwards in his haste to get away. His head makes contact with the floor, a sickening thud resounding around the room. He moans and coughs, splattering blood into the air like a smoke cloud. I walk over to him and deliver a swift kick to his face, watching in awe as his head jerks back. "Daddy didn't like beggars," I say.

Two pearly white teeth leave his mouth as he turns his head to the side, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the floor. "Maybe now you'll learn your lesson," I tell him. Daddy didn't like it when you didn't learn your lesson.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Seven years old...

"I told you not to leave your bike in the driveway, didn't I?" I don't answer daddy. I am too afraid. Daddy is mean. He always yells. Daddy doesn't like me. "Answer me, you stupid piece of shit," he screams at me, yanking my arm and shaking my small body.

"Yes," I say softly. Daddy lets go of my arm. I see mommy in the kitchen, covering her mouth with the dishtowel, holding in the sobs and the tears. I don't want mommy to cry.

The black eye that she got two days ago is still swollen shut. It hurts mommy to cry. 'Don't cry mommy, please don't cry' I say without words.

"Yes WHAT?" Daddy screams.

I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest. "Yes, sir," I say.

"Then WHY is it OUT THERE?" He shouts, hitting me in the side of the head with every word. I feel the tears start to form behind my eyes and I try to choke them back. "Do I need to tell you again?" He asks.

I shake my head 'no.' He doesn't have to tell me again. I already know I am not supposed to do that. "OPEN YOUR MOUTH. WHAT ARE YOU SOME KINDA FAIRY BOY? ANSWER ME WHEN I ASK YOU A QUESTION."

I see my mother move from the sink, the front of her pregnant belly soaked from the dishwater. "Ronnie, please," she says as she reaches the edge of the carpet that signals the start of the living room.

My daddy turns to her. He is dressed in his uniform. Blue pants, pinstriped shirt and a name tag. Maintenance men don't need fancy clothes; they were all bought at the local thrift store. "WHAT?" He shouts, walking over to her.

She takes a step back, instinctively covering her belly. "He, he had to use the bathr...."

His fist makes contact with her face and she flies back, hitting her back against the kitchen table. I watch the scene in front of me as tears make their way down my face. "Did I fucking ask you for an explanation? Did I?" She shakes her head, bracing herself for another punch.

He lifts his hand to hit her again when the blare of a car horn stops us all in our tracks. "Come on man, we gonna be late," we hear screamed from outside. Daddy puts his fist down and spits the toothpick that was in his mouth at mommy.

Daddy always has a toothpick. A nervous habit he picked up after he quit smoking.

He grabs his hat and his jacket. He moves to the front door, stopping to look over at mommy and me. "Clean up this fucking mess," he says pointing to the blood on the kitchen floor. Mommy says nothing, she just nods slowly. He turns to me and my heart beats wildly in my chest. "That bike better be moved when I get back," he tells me.

He slams the front door closed, leaving us alone with too many tears.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Justin moans and I snap back from the past.

I walk away from him, taking the time to look around the studio and admire his paintings. "You know, you are really good," I tell him. He groans as his body squirms on the floor. I see him out of the corner of my eye. I watch as he tries to stand up straight.

Blood is pooling from the newly emptied spaces in his mouth and his lip. "Where are you going?" I ask him as he tries to get his bearings.

He moves toward the door but I grab the back of his shirt. "Stop," he whimpers instinctively. He lunges forward with all his might, trying to escape my grasp. I pull my head back and hit him as hard as he can, head butting him in the face.

I watch the third tooth as it leaves his mouth and comes to rest on the drafting table, the root still attached to it.

Present

The ringing of the phone stops just as I come again. I let my body collapse on top of him, breathing in his scent as I run a hand over his chest, down his torso and over his cock.

I let myself grow soft and fall out of Justin.

I watch the young blond, intrigued that he can look so peaceful. I reach into my pocket and pull out the knife that I have there. I kiss his cheek, inhaling sharply as I lick his blood and my semen off of my lips.

Seven years old...

"Oh yeah... you like that, huh? Yeah bitch, take it... all over your fucking face." I close my eyes and cover my ears as I lay in the bed. I can hear my babysitter moaning in ecstasy, she is fifteen.

Mommy's not here, she had a baby yesterday.

I raise the knife above me and as I see his chest rise and fall I plunge the knife into his chest, one... two... three times. There is no response from him and I smile.

There is never any response.

I'll admit that the DJ was strong. She fought back, she struggled. She survived the knife wounds, gasping for air, breathing and living... until I was forced to stab her again and again. That one got messy.

I lean over Justin, pressing my lips to his one last time before getting off of him. I pull the knife from his chest and roll him over, cutting his arms free. "You were very talented," I say as my lips brush over his forehead, blond hair sticking to the blood on my lips. He tastes like silk. I wipe my knife off on the inside of his thigh before putting it back in my pocket.

I leave out of the loft, closing the door behind me.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Brian...

"Where in the fuck are you?" I ask out loud. He was supposed to be here hours ago. I look over at the loft door. Something is wrong, I know it. I take a deep pull from my cigarette, trying to push down my nervous feeling.

"Fuck," I say, moving across the room, grabbing my cell phone and wallet. I pick up my keys and leave the loft, setting the alarm and locking the door. I walk down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the lift.

I look up and down the street as I head to the corvette. Justin is nowhere in sight. He probably got caught up in some drawing or painting. I know how passionate he gets, working intensely for as long as he has the feeling, and as long as his hand holds out.

I dial his cell phone again. "Come on Justin, you're supposed to leave the phone on ," I say. I reach his neighborhood, flinching at the surroundings.

Several Months Ago...

"Justin, this neighborhood does not look safe," I tell him. He smiles and laughs.

"Oh, is that a show of concern for my safety?" He teases. I will never tell him that I am concerned. I bite my lip and look over at him, sunshine smile lighting up his face.

"More like concern for your ass," I quip.

"Asshole," he says as we pull up to his building. "This neighborhood is just as safe as yours," he tells me as we get out of the car. I walk over and step onto the sidewalk in front of the brick building that looks so much like mine.

"Oh, that's a comfort, seeing as I was robbed."

"Years ago," he says with a scoff. "Plus, I am a real artist now and all the artists live in this area. It's perfectly safe," he tells me.

I swallow my fears and let him pull me into the building. "Fine, whatever, but you're getting an alarm installed."

I pull up in front of Justin's building, immediately noticing Justin's car. I smile, knowing he must have gotten wrapped up in his art. He has been on a creative high since selling his first piece.

I get out of the car, closing the door behind me.

I reach for the call box, stopping when I read the 'out of order' sign. "Fucking thing never works," I say to no one. I pull on the door and step into the building.

The elevator ride up to Justin's loft on the fifth floor seems to be taking forever. When the doors finally open the hair on the back of my neck stands up and my feet slow down. The door seems so far away. I finally get to his door, after what seems like hours.

I put my key in the lock and turn it. The door is not locked and I feel the bottom fall out of my stomach. "Something's wrong," I whisper. The only sound I hear is silence. Justin always draws and paints with the music blasting. I put one palm on the door and the other on the handle, getting ready to slide the door open.

"Hey." I turn my head and look into the eyes of Mrs. McHenry. She is almost eighty and she lives in the loft across from Justin's studio. Justin talks about her all the time. She is the bitch of the building; bitter, old and lingering. "Tell that friend of yours to keep the noise down. They were making so much noise I had to turn my show up. I can't bid on the prices if I can't hear properly," she tells me as she walks over. She is standing next to me.

"Yeah, I'll be sure to tell him." I turn away from her, noticing that she is still standing next to me as I slide the door open. The first thing I see is blood, Justin's blood.

The world just stopped spinning.

Return to Do Unto Others