Tom liked to throttle his victims whilst he raped them. The first few times it was play throttling, enough to instill fear and deprive the body of oxygen. But then he’d squeeze harder, bringing them to the edge of consciousness before reviving them.
The night had passed too quickly, and the sun had crept up on him. He’d only noticed when the light blazed through a chink in the curtain and a strip illuminated Hayden’s face, swollen and bruised. The whites of his eyes were crisscrossed with burst blood vessels.
Tom was shaking from the exertion, the sweat dripping off his chin, slick down his back. Hayden’s body was starting to shake and tremble in concert. Tom leaned forward, pushing down with all his weight. The bed creaked, and he gripped and squeezed, feeling the pain of the exertion in his fingers and wrists.
The moment was close.
Hayden’s eyes were wide and bulging, bloodshot. His pupils dilated. He gave a rattling moan, a passive sound at odds with his fear and the violence. Tom leaned close. Their faces were inches apart, and the tip of his nose touched Hayden’s. The sunlight seemed to dance in his eyes, reflecting a final burst of defiance, of life force, and then came the realization that death was here. All the tautness and resistance in Hayden’s body fell away. The light faded, and the darkness fell into his eyes, and the sunlight bounced off them, reflecting emptiness.
The house had been silent since he brought Hayden home. He hadn’t switched on any music or the TV, but as he sat back on his haunches and looked at the dead body, the silence was thick, like it had suddenly descended on the room.
Tom flexed his fingers to work away the stiffness in his joints. He was out of breath, but the air was fetid with death, and as he gulped it into his lungs, he felt his stomach turn and had to run to the bathroom, where he threw up.
He was shaking uncontrollably as he knelt on the cold tiles in front of the toilet. He always went into shock afterward, after the darkness fell in their eyes. The fear and elation and the release of tension made him sick. He stayed crouched on the floor for a few minutes, retching and coughing, and when he felt his stomach was empty, he got up and splashed his face with water in the sink. Avoiding the mirror, Tom went back into the bedroom.
Hayden was still. The color had drained from his creamy, soft skin; his muscles looked deflated; and his skin had a yellow hue. Tom moved to the window and threw it open. He had to let Hayden’s spirit free from the confines of the room.
Tom stood by the window for a few minutes, looking out into the bright sunshine, feeling the cool breeze on his naked body.
He went back to the bathroom, put the plug in the bath, and turned on the taps, adjusting the mix of water so that it was very hot. The steam rose, fogging up the air, and condensation began to form on the white tiles. A memory came back to him, still fresh and painful after so many years.
He’s thirteen, at school, lining up naked by the communal showers with all the other boys after a football match. There’s triumph and the camaraderie of sportsmen in the air, but he’s been on the losing team. He kept to the edge of the football pitch during the game, dodging the ball, hoping that the team he was on would win. It was easier being on the winning team. He could be invisible on the winning team, but today he was on the losing side, and his teammates need someone to blame.
The cheers and shouts echo off the grimy tiled walls of the shower, and he can feel the anger rising in his teammates behind him. The losers need to blame the ultimate loser.
Tom stands shivering among the naked bodies. Among the smells of feet and sweat, flesh and mud. He wills Mr. Pike, the PE teacher, to hurry and switch the water on so he can run through the shower and then envelop himself in a towel. He tries to shield his own nakedness with his arms. His underdeveloped body feels vulnerable next to the athletic boys who are almost men . . .
Amid all this, he feels shameful lust at the sight of their toned bodies. He hates himself for desiring them as much as he fears them. He wants the cold tiled floor to open and swallow him.
Mr. Pike appears at the end of the long corridor through the showers, and he turns a huge metal dial on the wall. There’s a hiss and a spatter, and a moment later, the water runs and the steam rises.
“Go on, wash! Get in there,” Mr. Pike shouts. The steam cuts through the cold air. Tom is behind Edwin Johnson. Captain of the losing team. He has a broad, muscular back and firm buttocks. The jeers grow louder through the steam. Tom feels himself jostled from behind, hears a murmur, a loud mocking laugh, and a cold hand plants itself in the center of his back, and he’s shoved forward. His inadequate body makes contact with Edwin’s firm, meaty rump. Skin to skin . . . and he leaps back. Edwin turns with his face flushed with anger.