Page 64 of Tinsel & Chrome

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.