Drawn and Quartered

It was the first time in two years Mike had to walk alone to the gym after school. The walk was hard enough when Brad was with him, but now that Brad was lying unconscious in the hospital, it was close to torture.

Mike wrinkled his nose at the familiar stench of stale adolescent sweat as he sat down on the bottom bleacher. 

In the half hour between the end of school and the beginning of cross-country practice, they used to hang out in the cafeteria with the other athletes. But as soon as other students found out about them, well...

He and Brad met when Mike was a freshman and Brad was a sophomore. They became best friends. Shortly after, they became more.

           Mike pulled his sketch book and coveted set of Blick studio drawing pencils from his backpack. He saw a drawing that tugged at his heart, recalling the day he drew it. Brad lay on his stomach next to him, with his chin on his hands. Brad’s eyes were closed. Mike sketched his face and hands. He thought Brad looked like an angel.

After practice, he wanted to go straight to the hospital to visit Brad. Just a few days earlier, a school security guard found Brad unconscious and badly beaten next to the gym exit.

He had suffered a concussion, ruptured spleen, four broken ribs, severe bruising to several internal organs, and a fractured skull around his left eye socket. Mike had his suspicions but, without proof, he knew the perpetrators would remain anonymous.

The doctor said Brad would eventually wake up, but he could have brain damage from the severe beating.

           A tear fell onto the open page of his sketch book. He tried to wipe it away but only managed to smudge Brad’s right ear. He put his fingers on the drawing and felt his throat tighten at the thought of Brad’s pain.

           Mike cleaned the smudge and redrew the ear. He then pulled a pouch of colored pencils from his backpack. He liked giving his drawings color because it seemed to bring them to life. Just then, he had decided he would get a nice frame for the drawing and put it next to Brad’s hospital bed. 

           The half-hour before practice flew by. He wiped his wet eyes with the sleeve of his fleece jacket. Voices began to fill the hallways between the gym and the cafeteria, and Mike knew the bell would ring soon. He decided to put his head down as much as possible and wait for everyone to walk past before heading to the locker room. Seeing him upset seemed to fuel the torment for some reason. 

           Dozens of students filed into gym. The Moron Twins chortled as they arrived. Mike knew their laughs anywhere. They sounded like hyenas. Fred Lindsay wearing his red Mechant Lake High School football jersey with the number 51 in white, and Roger Huxton wearing the number 11. They were the Moron Twins.

           The sketch pad went flying to the gym floor, pages fluttering in the air, as one of the Moron Twins slapped it off Mike’s lap. Fred clapped Roger on the back and they both bent over laughing even harder than before.

           “Hey faggot, whatcha drawing there? Fairies, or unicorns?” Fred bellowed.

           Some girls from the opposite side of the gym heard the commotion and looked over. Other passersby kept walking, some barely avoiding Mike’s sketch pad as they looked down at it briefly and chuckled. Others purposely stepped on it. Mike’s heart sank as he glanced over and saw the sketch book was open to the drawing of Brad.

           “Hello! Fagboy! What? You ignoring me now?” Fred said.

           Roger bent over and picked up the sketch pad. He held it out by his thumb and forefinger in front of him like it was laced with poison. Dusty shoeprints covered Brad’s face. 

           “Hey yo, look at this shit!”

           Mike said, “No, just give it back!”

           Roger turned the sketch pad around so Fred could see the picture. They both froze for a second and then started laughing again.

Fred bent over trying to catch his breath. Through his laughter, he blurted out, “Oh my God! You’re so gay! You…and Brad!”

           Fred asked, “So, I guess Brad’s the pitcher and you’re the catcher, am I right?”

           Mike’s face burned. He stood up abruptly and Fred’s laughing cut off immediately. Fred  took a step toward Mike. His face mere inches from Mike’s. Mike could smell the sour cream and onion potato chips on his breath but he didn’t dare back away.

           “So, tell me faggot, is it a requirement to have a tiny pecker and to suck dong to be on the cross-country team, or did you just get lucky?” Fred crowed.

           Mike stepped back and smirked as he met Fred’s eyes. He asked, “You don’t see the irony in calling me a faggot when you’re the one checking out every guy’s dick in the locker room, do ya?”

           Fred stepped closer to Mike. He pushed his chest and Mike sat down hard on the bleachers. “Don’t you ever call me a fag! I’ve had more tail than you can imagine!”

           Roger dropped the sketchpad on the floor. Fred picked it up, ripped out the drawing of Brad, and tore into several pieces. Then he crumpled them up, dropped them on the ground, and smashed the paper ball with his foot. He then ripped out the remaining drawings and tore them in half. While fluttering his eyes in feigned flirtation, Fred tossed the torn pages in the air as he waved bye to Mike. 

           Mike put his head down, and covered his face with his arms. He waited for the boy athletes to completely vacate the locker room so he could change for practice alone. At the far end of the gym, the janitor pushed his cart through the doors. He saw the mess of papers strewn on the floor in front of Mike and shook his head.

           The janitor’s cart squeaked. Mike didn’t dare lift his head up and show yet another person how upset he was. He decided to wait until the janitor was gone before getting up. But he stopped in front of Mike. The janitor gathered the pages together and set them on his cart. He bent to pick up the balled up drawing of Brad. As he began unfolding the pieces, Mike stood up and said, “No, don’t!”

           The janitor looked over at him in surprise and handed the crumpled pages to him.

Mike saw the new janitor’s name printed in cursive over the shirt pocket. Samil.

           “Thanks.” Mike said.

           “So, what is it?” Samil asked.

           Mike furrowed his brow, “What is what?”

           Samil chuckled and said, “The drawing. What was it?”

           Mike put his face down to hide the embarrassment burning on his skin. “Nothin. Just my friend.”

           Samil sat down next to Mike. “May I see it?”

           Mike shook his head, still hiding it from him. “It’s ruined.”

           Samil stood up and retrieved the other torn pieces from his cart and sorted through them.

           “These are really good. You are talented!”

           Samil walked back to his cart. He reached inside a pouch at the back and pulled out a sketch pad.

           “You know, I do a little sketching myself. Not on par with your talents, but I like to doodle a little on my breaks. Would you like to see?” Samil asked.

           Mike nodded and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

           The sketchbook was much nicer than Mike’s. The cover was black cardboard and the pages inside were inset one quarter of an inch. Mike marveled at the ornamental filigree bordering each page. It made the drawings seem extra special. The paper was of a high quality too. 

           “Wow, that’s pretty good.” Mike said.

           Samil handed the sketch pad to Mike. “Here, I’ve got a few more in there. What do you think?”

           Mike thumbed through a handful of drawings, impressed. “You’re pretty good too.”

           Mike closed the sketch pad and handed it back to Samil.

           Samil tore out the drawings in his own sketch pad. He folded them in half and shoved them in his pocket. He then held out the sketch pad filled with clean beautifully adorned blank pages out to Mike.

           “What?” Mike asked.

           “I think this sketch book would be best used in hands more skilled than mine. I want you to have it.”

           Mike shook his head and gently pushed the pad back to Samil. “Oh no, I couldn’t take that.”

           Samil laughed and said, “Nonsense! I think you’ll find inspiration in these blank pages. You can draw someone you love—or someone you hate!”

           Sam hungrily leered at Mike.

           Mike hesitated then accepted the sketch pad.

           “You sure?” he asked.

           Samil nodded. “Of course.”

           A coldness crept into Mike’s heart. Samil smiled and walked back to his cart. Before he headed toward the cafeteria, he put his right hand up to the side of his mouth like he was telling a secret. “Be sure to add color to your drawings. It will really bring them to life!”

           “Thank you Mr.—“

           “Romero. Samil Romero, but you can call me Sam.”

           Sam pushed his cart through the doors to the cafeteria without another word.

           After practice, Mike hurried to the hospital as soon as he could. He only stopped at a Hallmark store to pick up a frame for the new drawing.

When he arrived, he saw Brad’s mother through the door window. She sat quietly next to Brad, holding his hand. The soft whooshing of the ventilator reminded Mike of the severe beating Brad took. He choked back his tears as he pushed the door open. Brad’s mother looked up, pleased to see him.  

           She smiled through her swollen eyes and said, “Hi Mike.”

           Suddenly, his legs felt numb and he was unable to speak. He sat down at the far end of the room, out of her sight.

           As he studied Brad’s face, he realized he knew who did this to him. Mike silently prayed for Brad’s mother to leave the room, even if only for a few minutes. His thoughts wandered to Fred and Roger, and anger flared in his mind.

           After ten minutes, Brad’s mother stood up. 

           “I’m sorry Mike, would you like to sit closer?”

           Sitting this close to Brad felt like he was at a wake. Brad was so still. Like a corpse. The whoosh of the ventilator and the beeps on the heart monitor argued otherwise, but Mike felt the dread of Brad’s impending demise ebbing closer.

           He sat silently for a long time. Then, with his cheeks burning, he slowly moved his hands up to the bed and held Brad’s right hand in his own. Mike heard a soft sob from behind him as Brad’s mother watched.

           When he thought he had finally worked up enough courage, Mike let go of Brad’s hand and bent down to open his backpack. He pulled out the new sketch pad and opened to the first blank page. He almost dropped it on the floor, as his hands trembled out of an absurd fear that Brad’s mother would put a stop to the obvious act of love. But she didn’t.

           For several minutes, Mike’s hands moved slowly and hesitantly. He was acutely aware of Brad’s mother behind him. He drew Brad’s face as it was now. With all the scars, stitches, bruises, and bandages. He focused on the details of Brad’s face.

When he was done, his hand ached. Mike spent the next few minutes adding skin tones to Brad’s face and giving the scars and bruises life-like purples and reds. When he felt the coloring was perfect, he carefully tore the page from the sketch pad. He grabbed the steel frame from his back pack and slid the drawing behind the glass, then placed it on the bedside table. 

           Mike felt Brad’s mother’s hand on his shoulder. He flinched out of surprise but didn’t shy away.

           She gently turned Mike around and smiled at him. “I just want you to know that Brad’s father and I have known for a long time.”

           Mike was so overcome with relief and grief, he burst into tears and hugged Brad’s mother. She cried as she held her son’s secret in her arms. She felt like a mother to Mike almost as much as she did for Brad. She felt sorrow for the torture the boys endured, but a hint of joy knowing her son was lucky enough to have someone care so deeply for him while they meandered through what was a perpetual minefield for boys like them in high school. 

           Mike hadn’t even come out to his own parents but still felt a tremendous sense of relief as finally, someone knew. 

           Brad’s mother waited until Mike’s tremors subsided and his sobs began to quiet. She put her hand through Mike’s hair and looked at him. He looked back at her and she smiled.

           “I’ll let you be alone with Brad for a few minutes, ok?”

           Mike nodded and wiped his eyes. He watched as the door closed and then sat down again next to his Brad.

           Brad’s chest rose and fell with the aid of the ventilator.

           Beep…beep…beep…whoosh.

           He felt the drawing pulling his attention back to it as he watched the real Brad. He didn’t like the reality of the scars and bruises. Something was not quite right. Mike took the frame and slid the drawing out from behind the glass.

The stitches on Brad’s cheek were too big. They reminded him of the stitches on a baseball in a cartoon. He grabbed the eraser and carefully erased the line of stitches. Mike blew away the tiny pieces of eraser and swept the page with his hand. He looked up at Brad and froze. The real Brad’s cheek was clear. No scar, no stitches.

           “What the f--?”

           Mike sat down hard. The drawing hung from his right hand as he let his arm fall to his side. He raked his left hand through his hair and pulled the drawing back up. He held it in both of his hands, moving it aside to look at the real Brad, and then back at the drawing.

           Be sure to add color to your drawings. It will really bring them to life!

           “No effin way!”

           Mike redrew the scar on Brad’s cheek and looked up. Nothing had changed. Then he remembered. He fished the maroon colored pencil out of his bag and redrew the stitches. He looked up and sure enough, the real Brad had the huge scar again. It was slightly different from the original, but there it was.

He slid the drawing back into the frame and set it on the table. His mind reeled with possibilities.

Excited now, Mike yanked the picture out of the frame again. He Googled pictures of ruptured spleens as the idea grew. With his pencil hovering over a blank page, Mike intended to draw a full-body picture of Brad, complete with the ruptured spleen and broken bones. But how could he do that? That stuff was on the inside.

Defeated, Mike realized he could not heal Brad’s internal injuries this way. A thought repeated in his mind like a mantra; You can only draw what you can see.

A coldness settled over Mike’s heart. And another idea was born. An idea that nudged him toward a darkness from which he would never be able to return.

With a calm that was foreign to him, Mike turned to a blank page in his new sketchbook and began drawing with a new black pencil. But he had to draw from memory.

The image came together quickly. Two figures. Football players. Complete with the numbers 51 and 11 stenciled on their red and white jerseys, along with their last names: Lindsay and Huxton.

Mike could almost see them now, as clearly as if they were in the room with him. Football practice was surely still going on, and Mike could even smell the grass and hear the players’ pads as they crashed into one another.

It was the most realistic drawing Mike had ever done. He had the skin tones down just right. Every detail, almost as if he had channeled it from a divine source.

And then, the coldness directed his hand to turn the pencil around. The eraser hung over the page as a grin spread across Mike’s face. He relished the anticipation, certain of the fate he was about to dole out.

A few miles away, Fred Lindsay and Roger Huxton took a break as football practice was wrapping up. They stood at the water jug, leering at the cheerleaders practicing on the open field next to them.

Roger’s eyes bulged as he watched Fred drop to the ground. As if by magic, Fred’s legs below the knees were gone. Just gone. All that was left were two bloody stumps. Then, Roger fell to the ground in sheer terror and pain.

As he reached out instinctively at what was left of his legs, Roger’s arms disappeared below the elbows. He rolled around on the grass, just a torso and head and four half-limbs, shrieking in agony. Fred’s arms disappeared below the elbows too.

The coaches and players ran over. One player fainted, another puked. As the two animals writhed on the ground in abject misery, the cheerleaders ran over to witness the commotion.

Screaming, crying, torture.

Brad’s lips twitched. Mike stared down at the page. His cramped hand trembling as he wiped away the little bits of rubber and graphite.

A shriek from somewhere far away, or maybe just in Mike’s mind.

Mike grinned in a most devilish way as he closed the sketchbook. Samil grinned with him.