《VILE》 PROLOGUE Jacob Wolmin shimmies in his seat, hands clasped in his lap, it¡¯s been three days. His eyes fall to the ground, black hair slick with sweat and grease. Across the metallic table are two members of the Montreal Police Department, a blonde tapping his pen against the desk, the other, a stockier man leaning back in his seat. ¡°Now, I¡¯m going to ask you again.¡± The bulkier one begins, his face illuminated by a gritty overhead lamp, giving them all a mild headache. ¡°When did you notice something was wrong?¡± ¡°When I saw the police cars outside,¡± Jacob replies, legs shaking, listening to the rhythmic clinking of his ankle restraints. ¡°It¡¯s convenient you have an alibi.¡± The blonde chimes in, crossing his arms on the table. He tilts his head, letting Jacob breathe in the silence, all except his clanking. ¡°Allegedly minutes before she goes missing.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t do anything. I promise I¡¯ve kept my story straight this entire time!¡± Jacob pleads, wrists fighting their cuffs, smashing into his lap, but he misses the chair by a few centimeters. ¡°Please, I¡¯ve been compliant, I told you all I know. I¡¯m not a part of this!¡± Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.¡°But you defend the suspect?¡± Both officers glance at each other, smirking as if they enjoy seeing him frantic. ¡°You refused the plea deal.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not saying anything I don¡¯t know for sure.¡± Jacob sneers, hands trembling in his lap. ¡°I never said I defended him.¡± Both officers stand in unison, the blonde slipping his pen back into his pocket. ¡°We¡¯ll try again tomorrow when you have something new to say.¡± ¡°No, no, please! I need to speak to my Eomma! Please, don¡¯t leave yet!¡± Jacob tries to stand, but the chair is bolted to the floor. ¡°I need to go home!¡± The rusted metal door slams shut, thudding as the heavy deadbolt locks. Officer Beck removes his glasses and wipes them on his shirt. ¡°You think they¡¯ll trust a schizophrenic in court?¡± Officer Shoemaker snickers, but there¡¯s only disappointed silence. ¡°I¡¯m afraid he¡¯s all we have.¡± CHAPTER 1 September 13th, 1973, Dr. Hendricks stands with his back to his client, dressed in a cleanly, neat-pressed pin-stripe coat. He returns to his cushion, a small shot of vodka in hand, setting it down on the counter. ¡°So, what¡¯s on your mind today, Jacob?¡± He stares at the drink, then up to Dr. Hendricks, a bit confused. ¡°Not much.¡± He replies, swallowing his nerves down into his stomach for them to fester like phlegm, making him more nauseated. ¡°But when is there much going on?¡± He chuckles, fake, but polite. ¡°Often, I¡¯d say.¡± Dr. Hendricks claps his hands together, letting his pale hands bask in the light filtering through the lines in drawn shades. A soundtrack of gentle trickling water plays through the office. Jacob Wolmin lies on his back, facing the popcorn ceiling, yet eyeing the shot on the table. ¡°Well, we can start with your mother¡¯s most concern.¡± Jacob sighs, rolling his head towards the back of the couch like a teenager. Yet he¡¯s nearly twenty-five, and he doesn¡¯t feel like he¡¯s matured at all. ¡°I haven¡¯t talked to Brady in almost a year, if not more.¡± ¡°True, but you still speak of him as if he¡¯s around.¡± Hendricks splashes his notebook with furiously scribbled words, in such chicken-scratch that Jacob doesn¡¯t even try to peek. ¡°It¡¯s unhealthy, your obsessions with people, the past. When¡¯s the last time you thought about your future?¡± He sits with the thought, humbled by how long it takes him to reply. ¡°Maybe a week?¡± ¡°My point.¡± The doctor shakes his head during the elongated silence. ¡°Have you been keeping up with your homework?¡± Jacob leans over and pushes the shot across the table back towards its real owner. ¡°Yes, " he says flatly, folding back onto his side, now facing the therapist, though his gaze is cold. ¡°Like I do every week.¡± Dr. Hendricks pushes, ¡°But you¡¯re not putting in the emotional effort.¡± He lies his pen flat and flicks it into the clip at the top of his clipboard. ¡°You do the action, but do you stop to think about why you¡¯re doing it?¡± ¡°I know I want to throw up every time I piss.¡± It¡¯s unlike him, to be this blunt, but he can¡¯t help it anymore. ¡°It¡¯s miserable, and girls avoid me like I¡¯m contagious. I try, you know I do, but I feel like being castrated would just be easiest for me.¡± ¡°No.¡± Dr. Hendricks lifts his hand gently to cut him off. ¡°Let¡¯s analyze that. You picked castration as opposed to celibacy, why is that?¡± Suddenly, he¡¯s eyeing that drink again. ¡°It¡¯s harder to ignore it than wipe it out altogether.¡± The air chills as the light dims outside, warm breaths of sunset coming in. ¡°You¡¯d rather give up entirely than keep trying?¡± Jacob knew that would find its way back to his mother, so he waved his hand in denial. ¡°No, I want to keep trying. A girl will come around eventually, just¡­discouraged is all.¡± The answer keeps him from tearing up, but Hendricks isn¡¯t placated with a digestible answer, so he pries again. Dr. Hendricks shifts one leg over the other. ¡°Have you actually been seeking out women, as opposed to trying to let them come to you? You tend to take the submissive role in a relationship, does that apply to women, too?¡± Jacob can¡¯t keep eye contact with him, so he doesn¡¯t. He sits up from the couch, head pounding from the sudden pressure change. ¡°It feels wrong to harass women for my own sake. It doesn¡¯t feel like I¡¯m being a leader, it feels like I¡¯m forcing them. I asked out Jessica and Cheryl and both denied me. I tried asking Cheryl a second time later in the week and that made her cut me off entirely.¡± ¡°Do you feel like you¡¯re not ready? Perhaps you¡¯re trying too hard and coming off as desperate. Tell me, did you actually like either of these women or was it to placate your mother?¡± You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. Jacob stares at the floor, snatches the shot off the table, and downs it in one swing. His whole body goes limp when the flavour doesn¡¯t burn at all. ¡°Water.¡± He smacks the shot glass back onto the counter and rolls over, no longer facing his therapist, like a petulant child. ¡°Listen, Jacob,¡± Dr Hendricks leans his elbows on his knees, his voice incredibly stern. Part of him felt his shrink had spoken to his dad before and tried emulating the disappointed father''s voice. ¡°Your mother specifically came to me because I work with Dialectical Behavioral therapy, but if you aren''t going to comply, I¡¯m afraid a different form of therapy might suit your situation better.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± Jacob turns over his shoulder, before finally sitting up. ¡°I mean, shock therapy, behavioral camps, surgery. We¡¯ve already tried light aversion therapy, we¡¯ve been practicing psychoanalysis for a while. Maybe we move from drug-aligned to shock therapy-¡± ¡°I¡¯ll have a girlfriend by the end of the month.¡± He protests, ¡°I promise you, just please don¡¯t send me off to a camp. I¡¯ll have someone by the beginning of October, okay?¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I thought.¡± Dr. Hendricks sits back, though he wouldn¡¯t show it, he is pleased with himself. He¡¯d done this twice before, during the initial talk period, he threatened him with pills twice before putting him on them. If he didn¡¯t comply and comply soon, he¡¯d be out of luck. ¡°I at least want you to try, if you don¡¯t have someone to show me, that¡¯s alright, but I want to see a phone number, a photo, some sort of evidence that you did try.¡± ¡°I will.¡± He said, feeling the sweat pool down the small of his back. He bites his lips until the peel comes down inside of his mouth. ¡°I will.¡± Jacob clutches his book bag handle as he slips down the stairs, passing hallway posters of smiling people comforting their spouses, their children, and the elderly. Tickets underneath papers that ask you ¡°Do you want to hurt yourself or others?¡± He ignores every single one and heads straight down to the lobby. Rounding the corner, the sight is adorable, as his young goddaughter sits alongside the receptionist of the therapy office. Her little fat hands grip multiple pens at a time and try to scribble out a drawing. The receptionist peeks her head up, a short smirk before she returns to Maddy. ¡°But it¡¯s not a rainbow if it doesn¡¯t have all the colours.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t have all the colours!¡± Maddy squeaks, pushing her bangs out of her face. ¡°So it¡¯s my rainbow.¡± Jacob approaches, leaning one arm against the receptionist¡¯s desk. He tries to find something he likes about her, something to fawn over. He first looks at her eyes, brown, deep, and warm in the lighting. Her eyelashes are short and her nose is upturned, her hair reaching her middle back, completely straight. He tries to imagine what it would be like to kiss her, to hold her, but in his mind her face is morphing. Her skin gets darker and her hair shrinks up short, his hands press against the nape of her neck and feel up her buzzcut. Her chest is flat as his hands run down, and their fly unzips between his fingers. Jacob lurches forward, covering his mouth, holding in an ounce of water and boon-hong sandwiches he made for his and Maddy¡¯s lunch. His stomach settles when he thinks of the car, getting home and he¡¯s able to swallow his nauseated breath. ¡°Are you okay?¡± The receptionist asks, leaning past her desk to touch his back, but he quickly shutters away from her touch. ¡°Fine, I just need to get home. You ready to go, Maddy?¡± He swallows once more to get it all the way down. ¡°Pack up your stuff, c¡¯mon.¡± While he waits, he takes a small foam cup from the counter and fills it up at the water station just beside the receptionist¡¯s desk. ¡°Almost done!¡± Madelyn trills back in response, slapping her pens down on the counter and lifting her drawing. She attempts to neatly fold it up. ¡°Thank you, Shelly!¡± She bows slightly, as her godfather often did, and comes around the desk to Jacob chucking out his cup. They take each other¡¯s hand when Jacob hears fumbling behind him. ¡°Hey, ACDC!¡± The receptionist calls out, reaching across the table with a sheet of paper. ¡°You¡¯re missing something.¡± Deducing she means him, considering they¡¯re the only ones in the room, Jacob pads over and takes it from her. The second he sees it¡¯s a phone number, his heart halts to a stop. He can ignore the homophobic nickname, he¡¯ll gladly take the evidence. ¡°Thanks, I¡¯ll call you later?¡± ¡°Oh, no, that¡¯s for my church. They do singles nights on Fridays.¡± She smiles, and he wants to throw up again out of sheer embarrassment and self revoltion. ¡°Thank you.¡± He manages to say anyway. ¡°I¡¯ll consider it.¡± CHAPTER 2 Jacob peels away the sheets of her twin-sized bed, running his fingers down the edge of the bed frame. His finger lathers in dust, and images prance in his mind of articles about how dust can lead to medical issues in young kids, but he can¡¯t help that. The entire complex has little to no ventilation, and the windows are almost boarded shut. A few months ago, he saw a man prowling around the first floor of their apartment building, looking through the windows. Ever since, he¡¯s kept the blinds closed. He swallows his guilt that her room isn¡¯t beautiful and lively like the girls on TV. There are no posters on the walls, only pock-marks from the last owner. Her toys are all out on display because there are no funds for proper decor. Her nightstand only has a lamp that his mother bought them and some kid''s books tucked inside its cabinet. Her bedsheets are the most joyful thing in the room, pastel pink argyle, and fluffy underneath. Her mattress is badly stained from growing pains, so while the washing machine in the kitchen rattles to clean her sheets and toys, Jacob is on his knees scrubbing stains from the mattress. He ties his hair back, slick from the sweat of house cleaning. When he bends down to grab the cloth from the carpet, he notices something shining underneath the bed frame. Jacob grits his teeth as he sticks his arm under, sweeping out random toy horses and candy wrappers swarmed with ants. He can see the shiny thing twinkle under his hands when he manages to pick it up, a small paring knife from the kitchen. Instantly his mind goes to the worst place. If she¡¯s hurting herself, if that guy is back again prowling around and she needs protection, if she¡¯s harming animals, the early signs of psychopathy. If she¡¯s cutting holes into the walls, stuffing money into cuts in her mattress, whatever insane solution to having this thing, he knew she¡¯d do more harm than good. The worst comes to mind. She wants to kill him. He¡¯s such a terrible father that she¡¯s planning to kill him in his sleep. Swiftly he stands and rushes to the living room, where Maddy lies with her legs propped up, swinging back and forth. She¡¯s set up in her scooby-doo pajamas, playing with an inflatable ball, and watching cartoons. There¡¯s no way in Hell she did this on purpose, he doubts she even knows what death is. ¡°Maddy,¡± he begins, raising the knife just slightly for her to see. She doesn¡¯t turn her head though, and his shaky voice grows louder. ¡°Maddy!¡± ¡°What?!¡± She snaps back, rolling forward on her ball, she turns down the audio low. ¡°What?¡± She says again, quieter this time. ¡°What is this?¡± He holds the knife out to her, letting it glint against the buzzing lamps as he twists it side to side. ¡°I found it under your bed, what is this?¡± In her best attempt at being a teenager, she slumps off her ball and turns towards him dramatically, flopping onto her side. When she finally looks, her face couldn¡¯t be more nonchalant. ¡°A knife?¡± Her eyebrows press together as if he¡¯s the dumb one here. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. Don¡¯t you play dumb with me! His mind spoke over him as if a voice was booming from inside. He wouldn¡¯t dare yell. ¡°Under your bed, why?¡± She was gonna kill you! ¡°For protection,¡± Maddy replies, matter of fact, she¡¯s now trying to curl back onto her inflatable ball as if it¡¯s the only thing giving her comfort. The thoughts won¡¯t stop. Little bitch. Jacob blinks himself back to reality, crouching down beside her, his hands begin to tremble. Stab her. He sets the knife down on the table beside the couch. ¡°Can you get off the ball for me, please?¡± His shoulders sink, counting to four on his breath, in, hold, out, hold. She doesn¡¯t comply, so he switches in front of her, holding the ball still, which she despises. ¡°Let go of it!¡± She slaps the ball with her little hands, and for a second, just a second, he wonders what it would sound like to slam her head into it. ¡°Maddy, I need to talk to you. This isn¡¯t safe for you to have. Nobody is going to get in the house, and if they do, I¡¯ll protect you.¡± Her eyes glance up at his, and his thoughts are starting to melt. However, they were quickly replaced with new ones. Like you could protect her. His chin began to cramp under his paranoia. She¡¯s only with you because she has to be. She can¡¯t kill you, she¡¯s stuck with you. ¡°Mama lets me keep on under my bed at her house!¡± She retorts though that situation is completely different. ¡°Lauren, she¡­Lauren lets strangers into her home all the time, it¡¯s not the same.¡± He sits down in front of her, crisscrossed, and clicks off the TV. ¡°It¡¯s¡­Lauren is a grown-up. She¡¯s really smart but she¡¯s too nice. She¡¯s too friendly and has a lot of friends over all the time, right?¡± Maddy nods, if not a little lethargic. ¡°And having a lot of people over means one of those people could be a bad person. But¡­¡± He draws out the last word, cupping his face in his hands, before shaking it off and lifting his head. ¡°You only live with me, nobody is coming in who''s going to harm you.¡± ¡°What about the guy on the street?¡± His blood ran cold, he didn¡¯t think she knew, when had she noticed? Can¡¯t even protect her from a creep outside. ¡°He won¡¯t get in, he¡¯s gone, he-¡± His nose crinkles with disgust just thinking about him. ¡°The point is, this house is safer than your mom¡¯s. You don¡¯t need this and it¡¯s dangerous for you to have that.¡± Maddy stares down at the ground, lightly rolling back and forth, her soft eyelashes pointed to the floor. ¡°We don¡¯t do this. We don¡¯t take knives from the kitchen and put them under our beds.¡± Maddy doesn¡¯t reply, she merely points to his pocket. Jacob shifts to look, sticking his hand down his right side pocket and lifting it out. ¡°This is a pocket knife. This is for when we go outside. Maddy, I-¡± She¡¯d had enough, Maddy lifted herself off the ball and headed for her room, patting down her dress, though she didn¡¯t grab the knife back from the table. She slammed her door shut, jumping to reach the high handle, leaving him alone with his thoughts, which were swarming now. Stab yourself, fucker. CHAPTER 3 He tilts down the rearview mirror to see Maddy in the back seat, her hands neatly tucked in her lap, looking out the window. It was in moments like this that she seemed much more mature than she normally was. ¡°Almost there.¡± He leans his head over the headrest, eyes on the road, slick and icy this early in the year. His windshield wipers flash across the glass, while he glances past the long patches of frozen grass along the roadways. Parking is a nightmare, but then again it always is in Montreal. Along the street, Jacob picks up Maddy from her seat and locks the car three times to make sure it¡¯s safe. Hoisting her over his shoulders, he carries her up to the door, where he has to bend down so she does not hit the doorframe. The lobby is empty, except for the low hum of the lights and a few awards on the wall. It smells of cigarette smoke and an unhealthy amount of cologne. ¡°Can you let Royce know I¡¯m here?¡± Jacob sets Maddy down on the couch with a groan. ¡°I¡¯ll be back in thirty minutes, promise.¡± He kisses Maddy on the top of the head, which she makes a short chirp about. The young man behind the desk nods, maybe twenty if Jacob had to guess. The two of them looked awfully similar, so much they could be related. Royce¡¯s office is tiny, cramped, and full of junk. Awards, posters, books, vintage printers, and typewriters. Everything is the same sickly shade of beige. Jacob wiggles his way into the seat across from Mr. Marcus Royce, coughing slightly to ease the tension. ¡°Good morning.¡± His nervous laughter only serves to make things worse. ¡°Morning. Look, I called you in on emergency because I think I have the best offer you are going to get in a while.¡± Royce pulls his blonde coils away from his face, pressing his chin against his wrist with a blank expression. ¡°I needed to speak to you in person.¡± ¡°Oh! That¡¯s perfect! Is it for my novel?¡± His eyes light up with excitement, his heart flutters, and he lurches forward, unable to contain himself. ¡°Ha, no.¡± He takes a drag of his cigarette, the smoke pooling around his chest as he blows out. ¡°It¡¯s a bio gig.¡± His lips pull back in a curt smile, settling back into his seat. Jacob looks across the wall to a large printout, framed in bronze. Inside is a half-face illustration portrait of his best friend, Christopher Niles. The blocky colours pull out his most defining features, his 422cj frames, his straight blonde hair spiked up in crew cut with extra steps. ¡°About one Doctor Elliot DeMile, he¡¯s a big power player in the medical game. Won a Gairdner award this year, and he¡¯s looking to have a bio written about him. I called you immediately because I knew you¡¯d be the best worker for the job.¡± Jacob pinches his nose up for a second before letting everything drop. ¡°My bio on Chris was only successful because I knew him beforehand. I don¡¯t think I could make a proper bio of a stranger.¡± This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. ¡°That¡¯s why you¡¯ll interview him daily for a couple of months, writing as you go along. Eventually, you¡¯ll know him well enough to write him.¡± Royce takes another puff, Jacob¡¯s fists are clenched so tight they feel as if they¡¯d pop like a blister. ¡°Royce, I don¡¯t think you¡¯re hearing me. I-¡± ¡°No, you¡¯re not hearing me. He paid, upfront, five hundred dollars for you to live on so you could dedicate yourself to his project.¡± Royce tosses an envelope across the table, which Jacob doesn¡¯t even attempt to catch. He¡¯s starstruck, staring at the table, his breath stopping momentarily. ¡°He said this was for the first month, he¡¯ll be signing checks for the first five months, as long as you¡¯re writing.¡± ¡°No, no, he¡¯s crazy! I can¡¯t take a stranger¡¯s check!¡± Jacob hesitantly takes the envelope in his hands, flipping up the unsealed flap and pulling it out to see if it is real. He tosses it back as soon as he sees the number as if it was going to burn him. ¡°Royce, I don¡¯t want to do another bio, I want to write what I want to write. Not some¡­ Look, I don¡¯t want a sugar daddy, I want to create. You understand that, right?¡± ¡°No, I don¡¯t.¡± Royce stands up, his rolling chair spinning back as he places his hands on the table, flat, his nails ash-covered and ugly. ¡°You have that little girl out there to take care of. Take the fucking deal, boy.¡± His voice was low and crackling, their faces now centimeters apart, he could smell his breath stained with bourbon. ¡°I already accepted on your behalf. You¡¯re taking the deal or it¡¯ll be given to someone else. I¡¯m offering you first, don¡¯t play high-and-mighty on me.¡± Jacob¡¯s hands twitch, before lying down between his knees. ¡°Can I at least have a day to think?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll give it to someone else by the end of the day,¡± Royce repeats, rolling his eyes. Sellout. He thinks. You¡¯re a damn sellout. Do you realize how much money you¡¯d waste if you threw this out? Do you realize you can¡¯t take care of Maddy with some stranger? What¡¯s she going to do, stay with her mom? Oh! And not to mention, you¡¯re putting her around some fucking stranger, who could be anyone, anyone at all! Public figures are creeps, always. But, you could use the money. Look at you, so fucking poor you need to take shady-ass deals to make ends meet. ¡°I¡¯ll take it,¡± Jacob says after a few moments pause, his eyes clenched tight. ¡°I¡¯ll take the five hundred and I¡¯ll take the deal, okay?¡± ¡°Smart.¡± Royce finally smiles for the first time today. He pulls out a large set of documents with tags all along the sides. ¡°You¡¯ve got two weeks to show me something. I¡¯m expecting to have at least a hundred pages in the next three months.¡± He simpers with pain, taking a pen from the holder and beginning to sign away his name. Royce passes over a small business card with Doctor DeMile¡¯s information, and he knows he¡¯s fucked, it¡¯s all in calligraphy. Hand done. ¡°You¡¯ll meet him tomorrow, he said he had a day off. Call him tonight to set up a time.¡± Royce¡¯s voice is bitter but smooths out as he puffs off his nicotine stick. ¡°Don¡¯t fuck this up, for all of us. You, me, and that little girl.¡± ¡°Won¡¯t fuck it up. I promise.¡± Jacob smiles, pushing back the set of papers, and stuffing the check into his jacket pocket. That was the most money he¡¯s had on him at a single time in years. CHAPTER 4 Elliot DeMile requested their first meeting be over drink, for no particular reason, and Jacob didn¡¯t feel he had the right to say no. The two found a pinpoint address in between both of their houses and though it was a shitty dive bar on the low end of town, it was the closest thing they could find. Maddy could have stayed the night by herself, but Jacob demanded she stay with one of her parents at least, cheaper than a regular babysitter. Lauren only complied when he said it was mandatory business and that he would be sending some funds to feed Maddy while she was over. Even though Lauren could pay plenty for herself, he sent twenty dollars to buy her dinner and would return her tomorrow morning. Maddy¡¯s hands were tight around his neck when he placed her in the back of her mom¡¯s Corvette, buckled her in, and kissed her forehead. ¡°I¡¯ll see you tomorrow for breakfast, okay?¡± ¡°Good luck at your meeting.¡± Lauren looked through the rearview mirror, smiling for the first time in months. ¡°You¡¯re gonna need it.¡± Jacob stands on the corner, taking up shelter against an old bookstore he used to work at. The canopy only half covers him from the bounding rain, the rest pattering against his umbrella. His heart flutters against his thin chest wall, as his fingers run down the umbrella¡¯s stem. He waited fifteen minutes total, checking his watch about seventeen times in the process. He grips his pocket every couple of minutes when he hears footsteps pass by, feeling the small switchblade he¡¯s hiding. There¡¯s no way in hell he¡¯ll stand out in the open without a weapon, not at night, not during the day. His mind often wanders to the house, what he locked, what he didn¡¯t, and how quickly someone could raid him if he wasn¡¯t there. How much of Maddy¡¯s items would they take, what¡¯s more valuable, what would be inevitably stolen? He settled only when he rationalized with himself, he checked the house four times before leaving, a fifth was not necessary to worry about. Two silent feet step into view from under the umbrella, looking down at his watch. When Jacob initially flinches and looks up, he¡¯s met with a kind face. A middle-aged native man, dressed in a standard workmen¡¯s getup, countering Jacob¡¯s umbrella with a larger, flatter one. ¡°Jacob Wolmin?¡± His low, silky voice addresses, formal and polite. His smile is comely and warm, and his hair is perfectly trimmed and pools to one side. ¡°Yes, you¡¯re Dr. Elliot DeMile, I take it?¡± Jacob replied, his stomach churning in knots, feeling like he was only seconds away from getting mugged, or worse. He still holds out his hand, which DeMile takes with vigor and shakes like he means it, a true businessman. Jacob feels like his arm will slop off when he lets go, accidentally keeping his hands there for much too long. His hands are sweet and barely wrinkled with time, and his nail beds are perfectly trimmed and well-manicured. He smells of Polo Green, his eyes are a stark light blue, and he carries a cross necklace that reaches the center of his chest. ¡°Please, Elliot is fine.¡± His hands pull away, and the two stand in silence for a few moments, when Elliot raises his head to the street light. ¡°Should we get headed off now?¡± The two pad silently down east, passing cars and radios playing a cacophony of music. The streets are admittedly more peaceful with another body beside him. ¡°Where are we going again?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a small underground bar near where I used to frequent in my uni days,¡± Elliot responds, checking his wrist, he suddenly curves left and Jacob trips a little trying to follow. ¡°The locals know me, so I get in for free.¡± Now the location made sense, something cheap for them to sus each other out. Jacob nodded, though admittedly, he felt a ping of embarrassment that he didn¡¯t tell him about his situation. He wanted to ask if there were women at this bar if he had a chance of getting evidence, if maybe he could try and rig this situation to benefit him even more, but he felt horrible knowing he was that selfish. ¡°Something wrong?¡± Elliot asks, and Jacob takes mental notes. Caring, cheap, perceptive, analytical. ¡°Hm? No, just thinking¡­You said you visited here in your uni days? Where did you study?¡± Pulling out his notepad, Jacob squishes his umbrella under his armpit, cocking it too far forward and spilling water all along the back of his patchy cotton overcoat. Elliot swiftly takes the umbrella by the neck and holds it up, as Jacob fumbles for his notepad. ¡°Sorry, you don¡¯t have to!¡± ¡°I know.¡± The doctor replies smoothly. He¡¯s nearly a foot taller than Jacob, towering over him as he tries to desperately scrabble down his notes. ¡°I went to Universit¨¦ de Montr¨¦al when I was eighteen, graduated in 1965.¡± He tries to write as fast as possible, tucking it back into his pocket and taking his umbrella once more, his face a little darker for it. ¡°How was uni? I¡¯ve never been, so I might need some context.¡± ¡°Well, I lived off-campus in my father¡¯s townhome up north. Back then I¡¯d wake up at four or five in the morning to make it to class.¡± His laugh is raspy and worn from smoke, a light whistle to his cough. ¡°I still own the property I grew up in, and rent it out to this young family. I technically own three homes now.¡± ¡°Three?¡± Jacob¡¯s head throws back when he hears it, blinking rapidly, it feels like the rain has completely stopped at this point, his attention sucked in from the start. ¡°My childhood home, my current home, and the one next door. My best friend from church, this single mom, needed somewhere to stay, so I¡¯m merging the lands to eventually exchange the property line so she can homestead out of her backyard. She currently has a few chickens and a whole garden. I let her use my backyard. You might know her if you attend St. Albert or the Saturday market.¡± He doesn¡¯t pause as he hooks another left into a thin alleyway, descending a set of stairs that¡¯s covered in water and algae. His well-manicured hands never touch the railing as he steps down, knocking politely on the large metal door of the establishment. Jacob manages to write out another note, using his forearm to press his umbrella up to his chest. Heritage? Languages? Interview neighbor. St. Albert interview? When he glances up, the hefty door swings open with a creak, and Elliot exchanges some French with the doorman. The two close their umbrellas and whip them against the doorframe, kicking their shoes on the bristled mat. The floor is sticky, the music is much too loud, played by a cover band doing a rendition of I Get Around by the Beach Boys. Elliot lets out a short chuckle as soon as he hears it. The crowd signs and claps along in a drunken haze, the tables are full of men and women chatting and swaying. Jacob feels his chest sink, but he has to follow close behind. He toddles as fast as he can, squishing past standing patrons to follow the silhouette of his target. Elliot takes a seat at the bar, and among his better judgment, he sits down beside him. He feels the seat peel against his slacks and he wants to pretend it¡¯s alcohol and not anything else. ¡°Loud place for an interview.¡± Jacob has to shout over the music, the sweet stench of mixers makes his stomach whirl. ¡°Well, you wanted history, didn¡¯t you?¡± Elliot calls back, flagging down the bartender. ¡°Two old fashioned.¡± ¡°Oh, you can just get one,¡± Jacob says too quietly, the bartender has already passed on, grabbing oranges from the little fridge underneath. The first time he¡¯s able to get Elliot¡¯s attention, which was mostly taken up by the stage, their drinks are already served. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I don¡¯t drink, I¡¯ll pay my end of the tab still.¡± ¡°Why didn¡¯t you say something?¡± Elliot pulls back, offended, his thick eyebrows curl in the center. The band has switched to Wouldn¡¯t It Be Nice, it seems Beach Boys is the theme of the night. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to interrupt.¡± ¡°Interrupt what? It¡¯s just the two of us.¡± He scoffs. Jacob had no answer. Apologizing was easy, coming up with a valid reason that didn¡¯t make him look stupid was another. ¡°Why can¡¯t you drink? Are you Buddhist or something?¡± His question is innocent, but his face shows scrutiny. Jacob bites the inside of his lip, knowing if he lied, he¡¯d only be making things worse. ¡°N-no, I¡¯m an atheist, but, my¡­uh¡­ My therapist doesn¡¯t want me to drink.¡± ¡°Ohhh you¡¯re an alcoholic. I see, I see.¡± Elliot nods, lifting his drink. Jacob would gladly let him believe he was an alcoholic before a petrified homosexual with a track record of kissing strangers on a single shot. ¡°Let¡¯s find a table to give it to then.¡± Leaning on his wrist, he orders two more drinks from the bartender and elbows Jacob in the ribs. He nods over to a small table of women, and Jacob quickly realizes why they were picked. Two out of three are Asian. ¡°I¡¯ll stay here,¡± Jacob says, leaning over the bar, his eyes beginning to blur and vibrate with fear. This was a horrible idea to begin with. ¡°One guy is a flirt, two is a threat.¡± He laughs it off, but Elliot is grabbing his hand and pulling him out of his seat. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. His hands are just as smooth and pristine as they looked, soft and delicate. Jacob can feel their scents lingering together where they touch. He didn¡¯t realize how attention-starved he truly was until now, and desperately clung onto his hand as if letting go would kill him. Each man carries two drinks and Elliot is the first to address the ladies. ¡°Hey, Carmen,¡± He begins, leaning on the only white woman¡¯s shoulder. The woman looks up at him with a familiar kind of smirk. ¡°DeMile.¡± She¡¯s in her mid-thirties, brunette in a bob cut and dressed in a high-collared blouse. Jacob awkwardly stands to the side, wishing he could wipe his palms on his pants, but he¡¯s holding drinks like a loser. ¡°Those for us?¡± ¡°Sure bet,¡± Elliot replies coolly, his teeth are so straight they must be artificial. ¡°My friend here thought you all could use a drink.¡± Now the attention is on him, and he couldn¡¯t hate it more. He softly sets the drinks down in front of Carmen and a lady he believes is Taiwanese. He says nothing, and Elliot sighs with mild disdain. ¡°He¡¯s shy.¡± He chuckles, placing the last drink, and sipping his own. ¡°So, Carmen, introduce me to your friends.¡± Jacob tunes them out, which is easy over the music. He gathers the other two are named El and Abby, past that, he couldn¡¯t care less. Elliot waves his drink about, tapping his feet to the music now that they¡¯ve switched to a more punkish kind of style. Jacob doesn¡¯t catch the song''s name, so instead, he nods and tries to pretend like he¡¯s up for this. ¡°Jacob!¡± Elliot calls, and he¡¯s suddenly forced back up straight, trying to focus. Elliot swings his hand around his waist, threatening to creep up his shirt, his side pressed against Jacob¡¯s arm. He could feel his ribs through his thin shirt, wanted to touch them, and could feel his heartbeat if he focused hard enough on it. ¡°I never did ask you what your type was. Are any of these dolls speaking to you?¡± For the first time in his life, he had an accurately timed erection, for the wrong reasons. He glances between the girls, before hesitantly pointing to the first one he makes eye contact with, El. ¡°Aww, too in love to speak?¡± Elliot chimes in, and as soon as they touch, he is gone, pulling away with ease. ¡°Why don¡¯t you take her to the dancefloor, buddy?¡± His entire body was sweating bullets, running hot then cold then hot again, the music so fast and chaotic that he couldn¡¯t hear anymore. White hot lights burn in his eyes, scanning everywhere for something to clutch onto, feeling seconds from passing out. Without reason, Jacob pushes past Elliot towards the bathrooms, slamming the heavy metal door behind him, deafening the sound. He looks under the stalls to see no feet and rushes to the sink to splash water on his face. He shakes his head as hard as possible, heaving forward with each breath. A high-pitched cackle screams in his ear, causing him to clutch it, backing away, before he realizes it¡¯s just the opening to a song outside. Jacob¡¯s eyebrows press together in frustration when he sees the door begin to creak open. Act Normal Dumbass! ¡°Wolmin?¡± Elliot¡¯s smooth voice follows his head peeking out behind the door, slipping in, and closing it behind himself. ¡°You alright?¡± ¡°Yeah! Fine, just, not one for talking to girls.¡± That¡¯s a lie, ACDC. ¡°I just needed a break.¡± ¡°Why¡¯d you let me drag you to a bar then?¡± Elliot approaches closer, towering over Jacob, the fluorescent lights behind him casting him in shadow. ¡°You can¡¯t drink, you don¡¯t talk to girls, you clearly don¡¯t want to dance. Why didn¡¯t you say no when we were at the door?¡± Jacob had no answer, and now the guilt set in. Waste of money, waste of space, waste of time. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, I didn¡¯t realize where it was until we got here, and I just¡­ I didn¡¯t want to waste your time.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not a waste of time to turn around and go to dinner or something. What¡¯s more of a waste is me forcing you to do something you don¡¯t want to do.¡± Elliot¡¯s voice is soft and coherent, against the music, it is fresh to hear. ¡°C¡¯mon, why don¡¯t we go to the Brit & Chips across the road.¡± ¡°That¡­ That sounds a lot more like my speed.¡± Jacob admitted, face flushed. You just want to watch him eat something, don¡¯t you? ¡°C¡¯mon.¡± Elliot grabs his hand again, and Jacob¡¯s thoughts are completely uncontrollable now. God, he¡¯s hot. He¡¯s probably straight, though he likes Asian girls, doesn¡¯t he? At least tolerates them, maybe he¡¯ll like you? I want him in me, on me, to stay in this bathroom forever. Then, the vomit wells in his throat. Jacob has to rip away from Elliot¡¯s hand as he clutches a nearby sink and takes out his entire guts into it. His forehead begins to feverish, but Elliot is quick to come behind him and try to pull his hair back. When he looks up in the mirror, seeing Elliot behind him makes his stomach hurl again. He kicks Elliot¡¯s legs for him to move back, which he only does with a snarl of confusion on his face. His mind is swirling with images from the therapy office. Videos of men, in all sorts of positions and scenarios, all of which he¡¯d have to take that stupid pill, choke it down his throat, with a bucket beside him. He¡¯d learned to be quiet, and what to eat to make it easy on his stomach, but homework was the worst. This was his homework, and it was working. Elliot doesn¡¯t touch him when they leave, though he has to stop by the girl¡¯s table to tell them they¡¯re heading home early. Jacob had wiped his mouth, drank some water from the tap, and left his vomit in the sink. Elliot had collected their umbrellas from their original seats. Ascending the stairs they came from, Elliot doesn¡¯t say anything, but his head is held high. Jacob can¡¯t do anything but look at his feet and hold his umbrella like a sick Victorian child. The thick metal door closes behind them. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry.¡± Jacob sighs, his breath still stinks of peanut butter and jam, Maddy¡¯s choice of meal. Water patters against their umbrellas, but Elliot doesn¡¯t seem to mind this or anything at all. ¡°It¡¯s okay, it happens to the best of us. Do you think you can eat?¡± He asks with a smile. ¡°Yeah, I-¡± ¡°Hey faggots!¡± A disembodied voice comes from the left as the two reach the top of the stairs. Jacob¡¯s hands are on his knees to catch his breath as two boys approach, young teenagers, with greasy spiked hair, dressed in leather and patches, trying to be their own generation¡¯s greasers. Elliot seems completely unfazed. ¡°Let¡¯s just go,¡± Elliot demanded, but the boys were coming closer, one of them swinging a small chain on his side. They¡¯re halfway down the block already, and Jacob is trembling like a small dog in the weather. ¡°I didn¡¯t say you could leave!¡± One of the white boys shouts, Elliot backing up into Jacob, waving his hand for him to run, but his feet won¡¯t move. This is where I die. Jacob takes a few steps, but when he notices Elliot isn¡¯t moving, he can¡¯t bear to leave him to get whipped, or worse. ¡°Back off, okay?!¡± Jacob calls out behind him, Elliot whipping his head around to see if he truly heard what he said. ¡°We aren¡¯t gay, we¡¯re business partners. Leave us alone.¡± The boy on the left snickers, raising his chain as he slashes down, barely missing the two men. ¡°Listen here, Queers! You think we want you here?!¡± His upstroke slices Elliot¡¯s arm, ripping through his jacket, luckily only one layer deep. It¡¯s only when looking closer that Jacob realizes it¡¯s covered in small barbed wire. ¡°Get on the floor!¡± The second boy screams. ¡°Jacob, get to your car,¡± Elliot says shakily, looking down at Jacob. ¡°I got this.¡± ¡°No, you don¡¯t!¡± Jacob snaps back when the first boy tackles him, concrete slamming against the back of his head, his tailbone cramping from the sudden weight. Jacob lifts his arm to block the boy by the neck, who raises his whip in a glowing blur of barbs and glimmering light. Before he knows it, his hand rips out of his pocket, switching the blade out and stabbing up into the boy¡¯s stomach. A warm red pool begins to spread against his white The Stooges t-shirt, the boy gasping for air as he stops in his tracks. The second boy pulls him off, compressing the wound with his hands. ¡°H-he stabbed me!¡± The first one says, looking up at his friend. It¡¯s only now Jacob realizes they must be in high school, fifteen or so. ¡°He stabbed me!¡± Jacob scrambles to his feet, blind in confusion and heart-pounding fear. He can¡¯t stop staring at the wound, knowing it¡¯s all his fault, not knowing how deep he cut, not knowing how many layers he inadvertently pushed through. Elliot grips Jacob by his collar, who dropped his umbrella in the haze, and books it down the street. Though Jacob keeps looking back, watching the rainwater soak the blood throughout his shirt, his friend frantically looks for a phone box. ¡°Get back to your car!¡± Elliot stammers, Jacob now following close behind, no need to carry him like a cat by the scruff. ¡°I don¡¯t have one! I walked here!¡± The upright boy runs the opposite way, flagging down a shop owner about to close. Elliot reals his head back and groans, squinting against the rain. He fumbles for his keys, stopping just short of a black ¡®65 Ford Mustang. ¡°Get in!¡± Jacob obeys, buckles, and clutches his head with his hands as he leans forward. ¡°God, I¡¯m so stupid! I stabbed a child, he was a kid!¡± ¡°He threatened you first. Nobody has to know it was us.¡± Elliot¡¯s voice is calmer than he expected. The engine sputters to life, and Elliot rips the wheel, pulling out onto the street. ¡°For all intents and purposes, I wasn¡¯t here, you weren¡¯t here, and we met up at your place and spent our time there.¡± ¡°I stabbed a kid, I stabbed a kid¡­¡± Jacob repeats, rocking back and forth. ¡°This isn¡¯t right, we have to go back!¡± ¡°No! No! We¡¯re not going back, you¡¯ll get lynched, do you understand me?!¡± Elliot slams his fist on the dash. ¡°You don¡¯t tell anyone about this, and I won¡¯t tell them you stabbed someone. Do you hear me?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Jacob whispers, tears swelling his face, before blowing into a full sob. ¡°I''m so scared, Man!¡± ¡°I know, I know.¡± Elliot¡¯s voice is panicky, but he still manages to drive undetected. ¡°C¡¯mon, I need you to give me directions to your place. Calm down, just breathe and let me take you home.¡±