Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Happy Birthday

I am Dimitri Verbakohf.
Today I am sixteen.
Today my father says I will become man.
The only thing… I am not sure I want to be.
No fanfare, no party, no presents, no mother, and no siblings.
No week goes by when I don’t say we go back to Sydney. That is where all of our friends are. We are all immigrants. We stick together. But he does not like that idea, he loves the life here, it is made for a washed up fatty, with money. The women on the Gold Coast really are loose and easy when you have money.
It is dark in here. I shiver. I feel like I am in refrigerator, he always has air-conditioner running. He likes cold, sometimes I think he wish he was still in Russia.
Outside it is hot and sunny. I see steam from the road.
Is light like this on purpose? Casting many shadows, has he set up some sort of symbol? He’s waiting for this sixteen years, salivating, anticipating, all my life he says to me, ‘you don’t know what it is to be a man. Your sixteenth birthday, you will be a man.’
He always tell me of how good it felt the day he became man, he tells me how scared he was. How much he hated his Pappy. But after it was over, he knew what it was to be man. Not scared of anything or anyone. He likes to tell me how grateful he is for what his Pappy did. How he can’t wait to do it for me. Then he would ruffle my hair he always did that.


His tongue is dancing around his lips.
I turn on the camcorder, getting the frame perfect.
I press record.
‘Ready?’ I ask.
‘No.’ He shakes his head, ‘I don’t even know what I have to do.’
‘Okay. Eyes closed, put your hands out in front of you, palms up.’
‘What? What for?’
‘Don’t argue, just do it.’
‘No, not unless you tell…’
‘Just do it! Today you’re a man, and you are not going to fuck this up!’


I have seen him this angry twice before; the night Ma-ma left, and the day he lost his career.
Both times he hit things. Both times bruises.
My heart beats full throttle, I hear blood surging through my ears. I close my eyes and take deep breath.
‘Hurry up.’
The sound of his voice forces my arms out, palms up. Self-preservation can make you do anything.
I feel something cold stick to my hand, my instinct is to take back, I try, but he grabs my wrist and pulls towards him.
It rests, stuck to my palm, whatever it is, isn’t cold anymore.
‘Close your hand. Feel it Dimitri. Feel it.’
I refuse.
I don’t want to move.
Why is he filming?
‘Close it!’ He grab my hand in his and forces it to close.
I know exactly what it is; I open my eyes, his snub-nose .38 sits in my hand. My heart tries to break from cage, my blood so loud it hurts my eardrums, I want to drop the gun, but he wont let me.
‘Pappy! Please!’ My voice quivers, like girl. All I think of is Ma-ma and how safe she feels, I picture her smiling, comforting face.


‘This gun holds six bullets, Dimitri. This means three goes each. You open cylinder, spin it, close it, pass it over. Got it?’
The colour has drained from his face. He looks just like I did.
‘You got it, or what?’
He nods.
‘Can I go first?’ I ask.


The room is cold, metallic, like morgue. Blood and adrenaline floods my face.
I pull out cylinder and see the bullet; it mocks me with its size. I spin cylinder, let it run as I count three and snap it shut. I slide across the table.


It hits my palm; I have it in my mouth and pull the trigger.
The hammer clicks…
Empty chamber.
I open cylinder, spin and snap shut, ‘you’ve just got to do it. Don’t think about it.’
The adrenalin feels like it’s pumping straight into my cock. I slide gun back to Dimitri.


The gun makes way towards me in slow time; I want to slow it more. Finally it hits the palm of my hand; I clench the piece, pick it up and stop. I stare at the .38.
‘What stops me shooting you?’
I never thought to kill him. Not seriously, just thoughts of revenge, after his outbursts. Violence breeds violence.
I open cylinder, line the bullet up with the chamber and snap it shut. I point the gun at Pappy.


The prick is going to shoot me! I see his eyes. I never look like that when I did.
‘Or should you live with it?’ Dimitri says as he shoves the gun up under his chin.
Or was that the look in his eye?

‘But you haven’t spun cylinder Dimitri.’

‘No shit Pappy, what is more manly than that?’

Rigid

He used to touch me constantly.
He made me feel like I was here for a purpose, the way he would caress me, with such care, such love, every breath he took was wet with admiration and desire. We’d sing together in harmony; warmth would spread through my body, across every fibre, firing every receptor, travelling out into the world.
Our energy was so strong the room would literally get warmer, he would start to sweat within minutes, it would take me a little longer to warm up but I don’t think he minded, or even noticed, he was lost in his own pleasure, the same way I would get lost in mine.
When we first started, the way he held me, made my existence worthwhile. I was at peace, I felt loved, needed. I never knew I could be the source of so much happiness.


Sometimes you have to do what it takes to make peace, make living more pleasant.
When she first suggested I go to see someone, I felt trapped, got hot, felt like that old witch that Gretel kicks into the oven, roasting alive. I was basting in my own anger, choking on a lump in my throat. I snapped and released the energy into a wall, and a small smear of blood from my middle knuckle.
I feel violated after my first session, all those personal questions. I wanted to lie, but I guess I was curious to know why I feel the way I did, the way I do, or the way…
Whatever, I feel fucking trapped and lost.
And the bitch didn’t help, ‘How often do you think about it?’
‘How often do you do it?’
‘Do you put it before your family, your job?’ I answered as truthfully as my tongue allowed. She was a nosy bitch who asked too many questions.


Now I sit cold and alone.
When he does touch me it is brief and without love, lust or lingering desire. His touch makes me colder still, his passion, eroded.
Before there was a ‘them’ it was just he, and he was so much happier. We would go out, spend the day together by the beach, out in the world, where everyone could see how happy we were, we would make them jealous, envious of our bond.
I now spend my time dreaming of the day that he lets me go. Let’s me find someone new, someone who can make me feel that way once again, someone who can make the room grow warmer as we harmonize together and use each other mutually to fulfil our needs, to indulge in unbridled passion.


Sitting in the study ignoring both of them. She yells at me for cancelling the sessions.
‘I don’t need them anymore!’ I yell at her.
But she doesn’t buy it, she never does. I am not sure she ever will, maybe she can’t embrace who I am.
She says it has gotten worse and worse over the years. I feel I have compromised more and more, all to appease her and it has done nothing; only hurt my one true love.
My passion, my desire has taken a back seat to what the counsellor deems, ‘Social Convention’ and apparently I cannot deal with my desires appropriately.
I see nothing wrong, but instead of feeling elated, excited, alive! I feel guilty and ashamed; I cannot move on, fighting who I am, for a woman I thought I loved. How can you possibly love another, who is not willing to understand?
I though, am beginning to understand.
What started as lust, and desire for something new, soon turned to love, passion, a craving, an obsession a need to indulge…
Then the pleasure subsided, compulsion moved in and took its place. But when something consumes you, consumes your life and you allow it, you want it, is there really a problem?
Or is it those around you who don’t understand that level of devotion, commitment, that they are not the ones with the problem?




She is gone; I haven’t seen her for a long time.
Which is good, but I feel guilty, although I know it’s not my fault, you cant help how you feel.
He occasionally sees me more and more and I am no longer left alone in a cold room for days or even weeks on end. I am usually at arms reach and I like that, he shows he loves me more and more everyday.
After she left, our time together was brief and awkward, but it soon began to feel comfortable and secure, if somewhat mechanical.
But the underlying passion remains; it is permeable between our souls.
Our love is stronger than I could of dared to ponder when cold and alone, in a weird way I guess I have to thank her for denying us for so long.
His hand reaches across my body.
I resonate to his touch.

Breakfast

Ron walks through the door. Pining for the days when the sweet aroma of burnt tobacco mingled with the cheap coffee – they made a fine pair. He wishes Ducky would just pay the fines but what small coffee house could afford a six-thousand-dollar fine per infringement?
Damn nanny state he thought.
Ron isn’t much of a reader. With all of his liberties slowly being taken from him, one by one, he had heard of a book from his mate Tony, an avid reader, whom was sick of hearing rant about the subject, so he suggested he read 1984, George Orwell. A bit of a leap from reading about his hero Les Norton. He’d enjoyed the book though, but it had too much of an affect on him, now he looked for signs of the book becoming a reality in everything, everywhere.
Ron likes a good conspiracy.
He glances at his favourite booth. Empty. He struts over and takes a seat. He looks at his watch. Digital, he doesn’t care for analog.


‘I don’t have the money!’  The liar pleads.
Ron despises him, a man that has gone back on his word. He thinks about killing him, he really wants to. Or should he just dislocate his shoulder? All he has to do is twist down to the left away from his body.
‘Please!’ The guy coughs up some dirt.
‘Shut up! You filthy pig.’ Ron could easily just break his neck, his foot already in place, just lean down and pop it. Where would he hide the body?
‘Just two weeks, please! You’ll get it. You’ll get your money.’
‘Oh, I know I will,’ Ron twists, feels the pop, ‘Get,’ he wrenches back to the right, an agonizing scream bounces from wall to wall, ‘My,’ he feigns another twist as the liar shudders on the floor, expecting another hot flash through his arm, up his shoulder and to spike his brain, ‘Money!’ Ron rips his arm to the left as hard as he can; the guy lets out a high-pitched shrill of agony as the spike finally hits, his whole arm now limp. Ron takes his foot of the back of his neck, and smirks as the liar rolls into the fetal position, rocking back and forth.
Ron leans down towards him and grabs his arm, takes his watch and puts it on his wrist. He takes the liar’s chin in his calloused hand, ‘You have two weeks,’ he says.


‘Can I help you?’ she asks. Still stroking his watch, Ron orders a latte and a stack of pancakes with syrup. He still doesn’t really know why he took the watch, now it had become a sort of trademark, he took a trophy from his jobs. The heavy reputation pleased him, he had gotten plenty of work, through perception alone. ‘People are so easily influenced by what they see and hear’, Ron thinks, ‘People are idiots.’
The waitress arrives at his table and puts his coffee down. He takes another glance at his watch.
‘You expecting someone hon?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, his late … I dislike tardiness.’
She scoffs and lets out a brief snort that she quickly tries to block with her hand, ‘You sound like my father.’ She moves towards the next booth.
‘Is that good or bad?’ He calls after her.
‘Bad.’ She calls over her shoulder heading to the kitchen.


Jimmy is finishing his fourth cigarette, staring across the busy road and into the café, his eyes fixed on Ron.
Smug bastard.
He’d arrived early; he wanted to make sure that Ron hadn’t set him up; he had a reputation, not just for violence, but unpredictability. Jimmy also knows that Ron isn’t totally on his game when he’s irritated. He checks the time on his dashboard, only two minutes late; he takes a smoke from his pocket and rolls it between his fingers. The prick can wait.


Ron is just about to start his last pancake, as Jimmy slides into the booth and sits directly opposite. He immediately loses his appetite.
‘Hey Ron.’
He wipes the corners of his mouth, ‘You’re late.’
‘Sorry about that mate.’ Jimmy says.
Who was he kidding? He wasn’t Ron’s mate. ‘Why?
‘Why what?
‘Excuse me? What the fuck do you mean why what?’ He is incredulous.
‘I mean why, am I sorry or why am I …’
‘Late, you fuckwit, late. Why are you late?’ He can’t wait to kill this idiot.
Jimmy starts, ‘Traffic mate, I also had to drop Marco off at the track to go see big …’ Ron shakes his head and signals him to stop, he’s heard enough from this weasel. Jimmy obeys, sits with his mouth open, eyes wide taking short, sharp breaths.
‘First of all, Jimmy, I ‘ain’t your mate. Secondly, I don’t have the time to listen to your bullshit. You’re a liar and a sheep. You follow.’
Jimmy isn’t sure what to do.
Ron continues, ‘You wouldn’t even know when to take a shit if Marco wasn’t their watching over you and waiting to wipe your arse.’
‘What? Where’s all this… What’s the problem, Ron?’
‘You. You’re the fucking problem. You lying cunt.’
‘Liar? I, I, I’m not a liar-’ Jimmy has a terrified look plastered across his ugly face, he’s a shade lighter too, his body reacting to the adrenalin.
‘Shut up your stammering,’ Ron inhales and gains some composure, ‘you’re a liar. I hate liar’s Jimmy, you know this and yet you have no idea why I would call you a liar. How would you react if I told you I fucked you’re wife?’

Jimmy’s gone pale, ugly and confused.

‘Good, before you looked like a man that had his dick in his zipper. I want these folks here to think we’re having a nice friendly chat.’ He glances around the shop and is reminded that he is being watched.
In every corner of the room he is being watched.
He takes his gun from the small of his back and jams the nozzle into the inside of Jimmy’s thigh. Jimmy doesn’t understand the implications of his actions.
‘Lies, dishonesty, idiocy, I hate it. I despise people who propagate, what I hate.’ Damn that sounded cool. ‘One, you lied to me about when I would get my cut,’ Jimmy tries to speak; Ron cocks the hammer on the gun. Jimmy keeps quiet, ‘Two, you lied to me about why you were late. Why give me some bullshit story about Marco and the track when all you had to do is tell me that you were sitting in your car smoking, waiting, to give me the shits? Which by the way has been very successful. A first for you no doubt Jimmy, now, where is my fucking cut? It has been two weeks past.’

Jimmy starts to explain what’s happened to Ron’s cut and why he hasn’t received it. Ron isn’t paying attention, although he gives Jimmy signs of interest with his timely nods and grunts, Jimmy just keeps doing what Jimmy does best, running his mouth, no wonder his breath stinks, the amount of shit that comes from his lips, is repugnant.
Ron keeps staring at Jimmy’s nice gold chain. It isn’t chunky or ‘bling’ as it is known, calling attention to itself like a rap star. It’s refined, delicate, has a touch of class to it.
‘I can give you half right now Ron…’
‘And the necklace.’
‘What? No way! My mother gave this to me on her …’
‘The necklace or I will put a bullet in your nut-sac.’ He grabs Jimmy’s knee, yanks him forward, his left leg snakes Jimmy’s as it curls into a lock, and he jams the nozzle up into Jimmy’s boys.
Jimmy rips off the necklace and slams it down in front of him squirming, trying to push away into the back of the booth. Ron picks up the necklace and puts it in his pocket.
He moves the gun back to the thigh of Jimmy and pulls the trigger. It makes no sound; the modified Berretta shooting a tiny needle full of deadly poison into Jimmy’s leg.
‘Argh! What the fuck?’ Jimmy grabs at his leg, ‘what the hell was that?’

Ron leans over the table and grabs Jimmy by the collar, pulls his ear to his lips, ‘You’re dead. Fuckwit.’ He reaches into Jimmy’s pocket and grabs his keys, and gives him a shove into the corner of the booth.
Ron leaves his money on the table and walks towards the door, he knows the watchers will have seen him, but they won’t be able to prove anything, potassium chloride. Jimmy tries to go after him but he cannot stand up, his body has no strength. Jimmy has just had a heart attack, poor Jimmy. He gives two of the watches a taunting look.

Ron puts on his new trophy as he gets into Jimmy’s ride, he is off to see Marco, he wants the rest of his cut.