teeth.
The one still hidden inside a blanket spoke. “Pierre,” he said in a voice that sounded like sandpaper on rough wood. “This one is yours. Take him.”
Sly had kept his promise.
Hail to the king, motherfucker
.
Bryan rushed in. He took the bully from behind, teeth sinking into the prey’s shoulder. Bryan’s mouth filled with the vibrations of crunching bone, the nylon taste of the crimson jacket and the sweet heat of squirting blood.
Bryan opened his eyes. His heart mule-kicked in his chest.
Adrenaline pumped cactus-prickle through his veins and muscles and skin. His pulse blasted away, undeniable in one place more than any other. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring off into the dark room, his rock-hard erection pitching a tent in his underwear.
The dream had gone farther than the last. Bryan hadn’t just stalked, he’d
attacked
. He had tasted blood. He could
still
taste it. So why was he vibrating with excitement when he should be vomiting in disgust? Why did he have a boner so hard a cat couldn’t scratch it?
And why did he feel like
he
was being watched by someone who wanted to kill him?
“What the fuck is wrong with me?”
No one answered, because there was no one else in the room. There was never anyone else. He was alone in his silent apartment, as he had been every day since he’d moved out of Robin’s place.
He reached over to his nightstand to grab the pen and the notebook he’d left there. He drew. A few scraggly lines. He didn’t even know what it was, only that it wasn’t quite right. Still, that feeling, that
being watched
feeling, it faded away.
Bryan let out a long, deep breath, then set the pad and pen back on the nightstand.
He stared at it for a moment, then picked it up again and wrote down two words.
Meacham Place
.
He set the pad down a second time, then snuck a peek in his underwear — boner diffused. He felt better, but there was no point in trying to go back to sleep: he could still taste that kid’s hot blood in his mouth.
And it tasted good.
He pulled the bed’s comforter tight around his shoulders and stumbled to the living room, feeling a sudden urge to watch Creature Features on cable.
Pleasant Dreams
R ex woke suddenly, sat straight up in bed. His chest heaved, his face dripped with sweat that cooled in the night air.
In the dream, Rex hadn’t feared Oscar.
Oscar
had feared
Rex
.
Then the grabbing, the biting, and that taste …
The taste of blood.
Rex pushed back the damp covers. The air cooled his sweaty skin. It also cooled a spot
down there
.
He looked to his bedroom door. It was closed. He looked at the clock — 3:14 A.M . Roberta would be asleep.
He pushed the covers down past his legs. In the alarm clock’s faint red light, he saw a darker spot on his underwear.
Rex reached down and touched.
Wet
.
He looked at the door again. In his sleep, he had done the bad thing, the
naughty
thing. Would she find out? If she did, she would beat him.
Rex started to shake. He slid the underwear off, then stuffed them in the bottom of his book bag. He grabbed three sheets of Kleenex and cleaned himself up. Eyes constantly flicking to the door, he put on a fresh pair of underwear.
So weird that he’d dreamed about Oscar.
Rex quietly walked to his desk. A streetlight outside his window cast a dim glow on his most recent drawing — a pencil sketch of Rex using a sledgehammer to crush the skull of Oscar Woody.
How he wished
that
was reality, that he could strike back at them, make them pay. But drawings and dreams weren’t real life. Rex felt tears welling up in his eyes. He grabbed the paper, crumpled it into a ball and threw it in the trash.
He then crawled back into bed, his sheets still wet with his own sweat.
Rex threw his head down on the pillow and pulled the covers up tight. His eyes squeezed shut. Shaking and alone, he cried.
Bryan Clauser: Morning Person
T he brown Buick cut across three lanes of traffic. Bryan covered his
The one still hidden inside a blanket spoke. “Pierre,” he said in a voice that sounded like sandpaper on rough wood. “This one is yours. Take him.”
Sly had kept his promise.
Hail to the king, motherfucker
.
Bryan rushed in. He took the bully from behind, teeth sinking into the prey’s shoulder. Bryan’s mouth filled with the vibrations of crunching bone, the nylon taste of the crimson jacket and the sweet heat of squirting blood.
Bryan opened his eyes. His heart mule-kicked in his chest.
Adrenaline pumped cactus-prickle through his veins and muscles and skin. His pulse blasted away, undeniable in one place more than any other. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring off into the dark room, his rock-hard erection pitching a tent in his underwear.
The dream had gone farther than the last. Bryan hadn’t just stalked, he’d
attacked
. He had tasted blood. He could
still
taste it. So why was he vibrating with excitement when he should be vomiting in disgust? Why did he have a boner so hard a cat couldn’t scratch it?
And why did he feel like
he
was being watched by someone who wanted to kill him?
“What the fuck is wrong with me?”
No one answered, because there was no one else in the room. There was never anyone else. He was alone in his silent apartment, as he had been every day since he’d moved out of Robin’s place.
He reached over to his nightstand to grab the pen and the notebook he’d left there. He drew. A few scraggly lines. He didn’t even know what it was, only that it wasn’t quite right. Still, that feeling, that
being watched
feeling, it faded away.
Bryan let out a long, deep breath, then set the pad and pen back on the nightstand.
He stared at it for a moment, then picked it up again and wrote down two words.
Meacham Place
.
He set the pad down a second time, then snuck a peek in his underwear — boner diffused. He felt better, but there was no point in trying to go back to sleep: he could still taste that kid’s hot blood in his mouth.
And it tasted good.
He pulled the bed’s comforter tight around his shoulders and stumbled to the living room, feeling a sudden urge to watch Creature Features on cable.
Pleasant Dreams
R ex woke suddenly, sat straight up in bed. His chest heaved, his face dripped with sweat that cooled in the night air.
In the dream, Rex hadn’t feared Oscar.
Oscar
had feared
Rex
.
Then the grabbing, the biting, and that taste …
The taste of blood.
Rex pushed back the damp covers. The air cooled his sweaty skin. It also cooled a spot
down there
.
He looked to his bedroom door. It was closed. He looked at the clock — 3:14 A.M . Roberta would be asleep.
He pushed the covers down past his legs. In the alarm clock’s faint red light, he saw a darker spot on his underwear.
Rex reached down and touched.
Wet
.
He looked at the door again. In his sleep, he had done the bad thing, the
naughty
thing. Would she find out? If she did, she would beat him.
Rex started to shake. He slid the underwear off, then stuffed them in the bottom of his book bag. He grabbed three sheets of Kleenex and cleaned himself up. Eyes constantly flicking to the door, he put on a fresh pair of underwear.
So weird that he’d dreamed about Oscar.
Rex quietly walked to his desk. A streetlight outside his window cast a dim glow on his most recent drawing — a pencil sketch of Rex using a sledgehammer to crush the skull of Oscar Woody.
How he wished
that
was reality, that he could strike back at them, make them pay. But drawings and dreams weren’t real life. Rex felt tears welling up in his eyes. He grabbed the paper, crumpled it into a ball and threw it in the trash.
He then crawled back into bed, his sheets still wet with his own sweat.
Rex threw his head down on the pillow and pulled the covers up tight. His eyes squeezed shut. Shaking and alone, he cried.
Bryan Clauser: Morning Person
T he brown Buick cut across three lanes of traffic. Bryan covered his
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