Page 39 of Tinsel & Chrome

Frosty

Fifteen years ago...

It’s late at night; the loud assholes are yelling and drinking.

I live at the bad neighborhood, and it’s the time of night that the fuckers are out.

I call them the fucking Zombies since they’re brainless drug addicts.

I walk across the street to avoid walking near the fuckers.

I take long strides, digging my tennis shoes into the messed-up walkway.

My muscles hurt, and I’m exhausted.

I just got off work.

I’ve been working under the table at Joe’s diner since I’m only fourteen, and the owner is willing to give me a job.

I wash the dishes, mop the bathrooms, and basically clean the place after it closes down - yeah, I'm a janitor.

However, I’m grateful because I’m earning a substantial amount of money, the same amount that the diner would pay an adult, but in cash.

I want to save enough to run.

I walk down the street, keeping to myself.

I walk to my foster home.

It’s fucking hell living there.

That’s another reason that I’m glad that I work at the diner, I get to eat.

I get the food at school, and I eat at the diner.

I walk up the driveway, and I stare at the garage.

The garage sliding door is open, and I can’t resist walking over to look inside.

Big T never has the garage door open.

He forbids any of us to go inside the garage, and this is a temptation I can’t resist.

I’m naturally curious, but I try to stay within the rules and avoid crossing any lines.

I don’t want Big T's anger.

I stop a few inches away from the baby blue car, a Mustang.

This must be what’s so fucking important to Big T, but what the hell does the man think we will do to it.

He’s not right in the head.

I can’t stand him.

I walk slowly around the car, looking at every detail. I don’t know much about cars, especially old Mustangs, but this car appears to be a classic. The chrome and paint job shines, and the interior looks clean.

It’s surreal.

How did Big T get this car?

I stare at it, it’s beautiful.

Then all of a sudden, I hear the heavy steps on the driveway. I know that sound, it’s Big T walking, pounding into the concrete. He’s breathing deeply, and he snarls. He sounds like an animal, and he’s pissed. Those sounds are deeply ingrained in my memory; my body tenses, and my heart wants to explode as my blood rises.

“What the fuck are you doing boy,”

Big T yells.

Big T grabs me by my faded grey t-shirt, yelling, and his nostrils flare. He snarls, spittle sprays all over me.

“Stop! I didn’t touch it! I was looking at it,” I yell.

My heart pounds fast in my constricted chest, and I gasp, inhaling deeply to fill my lungs.

Breathe.

I need to breathe.

I know that my face is red. I feel so damn hopeless against his brute strength.

I hate it!

I’m eager to grow taller and stronger. Especially, I can’t wait to get the fuck out of the foster care. I’ve been thinking of running away, but I know that I’m not ready.

“Boy, I told you to stay out of the garage! There’s nothing in there for you! You touched my baby Mustang,”

Big T yells, shaking me around.

Big T is the meanest foster dad yet! I hate him, and he scares me.

Big T is a big man, and I can’t fight him, not yet. I’m tall, but I don’t have muscle bulk or strength. But some day I’m going to kill him.

He drags me further into the garage and grabs a rope. he wraps the rope around my wrists, binding them tight. There is no way I can get loose, and I know that he’s going to beat me. He’s done it before. I don’t know why I’m still here; there was an investigation.

I’m just another kid in the system; no one seems to care what we go through.

“You little shit, start counting,”

Big T growls.

I can’t count; I can’t breathe. My chest is tight, and it hurts. I try to swing from the rope, maybe I’ll get lucky, and kick him. But no such luck. I keep trying to avoid the whip.

“Shit face, stop moving or I’ll be hitting you wherever it lands,”

Big T shouts.

The whip strikes my back, arms, and neck since I’m swinging.

“Stop,” I yell.

I can’t cry.

I can’t cry.

I grind my molars, closing my eyes tightly. The pain is excruciating. I feel the burn, the whips cutting into my skin. Blood runs down my back and arms. The blood splashes all around since I’m still swinging from the garage roof.

I want to swing hard, so I can raise my legs and kick the bastard. But I don’t think it will work, I can’t get away. I’m tied up and latched on the hook.

There is no way I can get out of this.

*****

“Dude, let me look at your back,”

Sam says in a low tone.

He’s my foster brother, and we have each other's backs. We have a small first aid kit that we use for our injuries.

“Fuck! The big fuck kept on hitting me until I fainted,”

I say, blinking.

I can’t cry.

I can’t cry.

“Stupid fuck dragged you into the room, and dropped you on the carpet. Your back is fucked up! What did you do,”

Sam says, in a low tone staring at me.

We always talk in a low tone because we don’t want Big T to come into the room. We avoid the fucker.

“I was walking up when I saw the garage door open, so I went to look. The bastard has a classic Mustang. I was just looking, and I swear I didn’t touch it, but he showed up and grabbed me. He tied me up, hung up, and whipped me,”

I say, pushing up from the carpet.

“I didn’t want to move you since you were on your stomach,”

Sam says, helping me sit up.

“Fuck! Help me get this t-shirt off,” I groan.

“I got this. I’ll clean your wounds,”

Sam, tearing off the t-shirt.

“Fuck, the lacerations are bruising.”

“Hurry up,” I hiss.

“We need to hurry up and save the money to get gone. I want to get the hell away from this shit hole,”

Sam says, cleaning the wounds.

“Yeah, I hear you.”

“Don’t forget that as soon as we turn sixteen, the Satan’s Warrior MC Prez will allow us to Prospect, but we won’t be able to patch in if we make the cut until we turn eighteen. I can’t wait, but I’m scared that we won’t make it out,”

Sam says, in a low tone, wide-eyed.

“We will make it out. We need to work more hours at the Diner. I think that Ben will give us more work,”

I say, groaning.

It fucking hurts.

I grind my molars to keep from crying, and I focus on the moon, staring at it through the damaged mini blinds.

I’m grateful that I met Sam in the system. We have so much in common. We’re a few weeks apart in age, and we were both abandoned by our mothers. I was left next to the garbage can at the hospital's entrance. Sam was left in the store. We were a few weeks old.

So yeah, I’m just garbage.

*****

The next day.

After school, I walk to the diner for my shift. The lacerations on my body hurt every time I move, and the wounds reopen. I’m glad that I’m wearing a long-sleeved black t-shirt that hides the blood.

I take a few Tylenols to help with the pain. I work as hard as ever because I don’t want Ben to even think of letting me go. I’m fortunate to have a job as it is.

The last customer walks out, and I’m relieved. I start sweeping the place so I can mop up.

Then the Prez walks in with his Brothers flanking him. The Satan Warriors MC owns the Diner.

“Hey, get us some fries,”

Prez says, leaning against the bar counter.

“On it,”

I say, releasing the broom.

I walk to the back, to the kitchen, to get the fries from the cook, Pete.

“Pete, Prez, and his Brothers want fries,”

I say, helping him clean up the area.

“Right,”

Pete says, nodding.

I finish helping Pete. I walk out to the front of the diner to continue with the cleaning.

“Where is Ben,”

Prez asks, crossing his arms.

“In the office,”

I say, holding the broom.

“Don’t forget, I’m waiting for you and your buddy to Prospect,”

Prez says, pushing off the bar counter.

“Yes, we’re getting ready,”

I say, nodding.

“You got my number?”

Prez asks, looking at me.

“Yes, I do,”

I say, nodding.

“Fuckintastic,”

Prez says, walking down the hall towards the back office.

I run back to get the plates of fries from the cook and place them on the bar counter.

I’m excited that the Prez is serious because Sam and I are counting on Prospecting. The MC will be the family that we never had.