Driven To Tears (The Darby Trilogy Book 1)

by Jason Jauron

  He faced Jed wearing only underwear.

  The old man was angry. He was shaking his right fist at Jed.

  “You’re just jealous because you got sloppy fucking seconds,” McGuire said matter-of-factly. “I had her before you...I had her before you...ha ha ha.”

  He then flipped Jed off using both hands.

  “You twisted, sick, son-of-a-bitch!” screamed Jed.

  Jed tried to roll off the side of the bed, tackle Patty’s father.

  But he couldn’t move.

  “What’s the matter, pus-boy, ain’t you got a pair?”

  McGuire then exposed himself - scratching his hairy balls.

  “I sure as fuck do,” he boasted, laughing hysterically.

  Jed again tried to get off the bed; he was angry, ready to fight.

  But it was useless.

  He could not move.

  Not his legs.

  Not his arms.

  Not anything.

  He was stuck.

  Just sitting there on the bed, staring in disbelief.

  “I was her god-damn father!” shrieked McGuire, now pacing at the foot of the bed.

  “Do you know what that means Jed? It means I deserved a little love to be shown to me by my kids.”

  McGuire walked around the bed and stopped when he was facing Jed’s left shoulder.

  Inches separated the two men.

  Jed looked over, puked on himself.

  The old man reeked.

  But that’s not why Jed hurled.

  It was the erection.

  The head of the curved penis was poking out from under the waistband.

  “Oh, fuck you,” muttered Jed in disgust.

  “And sometimes, my dear boy, I felt my daughter wasn’t showing me the kind of love I felt I deserved. Felt I needed.”

  Jed again tried to move as McGuire turned, went back to pacing at the foot of the bed.

  But his efforts were futile.

  “So I god-damn did something about it,” the old man continued. “I made her spend some quality time with me. Not a long time Jed. But I made sure we were close in a special way. A way I needed.”

  The old man then took his underwear off.

  He turned toward Jed, started to jerk off.

  He sighed as his right hand beat his four-inch meat.

  “But sometimes she resisted, the little bitch,” he rambled on, still stroking his salami. “I was just trying to make her feel good too. But the little cunt wouldn’t relax. So daddy made it so she kept quiet and took it like a woman Jed. Your fucking dead girlfriend learned from her daddy! Learned how to take it like a woman!”

  McGuire was panting now. His cock was as hard as it was going to get. Under a thick forest of long, black, pubic-like hair, his chest was moist from the workout.

  Jed just stared, dumbfounded.

  “And now Jed,” he coughed, hacking up a lung cookie on the shag carpet. “I’m going to teach you how to take it like a woman.”

  The old man hobbled around the bed toward Jed.

  As McGuire’s right hand did the yanking, his left was playing with his anus.

  Jed could see the discolored, engorged head of the stiff penis. He could also see the veins. He also noted that the old bastard never spent too much time grooming himself down in that area. The old fuck just let the thicket grow.

  “No please don’t,” pleaded Jed, still trying in vain to turn away.

  “That’s what she always said,” giggled daddy dearest. “Way to role-play you acne-scarred motherfucker.”

  Jed felt the warm, sticky pre-cum from McGuire’s penis as he rubbed it across his left arm.

  “Stop doing this you dirty fucker!” shouted Jed.

  “Now remember Jed,” McGuire said in a soft voice. “If you love me, you’ll swallow it all. I don’t want no fucking mess to clean up. You know what I mean little sweetie.”

  McGuire then hopped onto the bed.

  He was now standing directly in front of Jed.

  The old man put his hands behind Jed’s head, grabbed some hair.

  His spewing penis was inches from Jed’s face.

  Inches from Jed’s mouth.

  McGuire thrust his penis into Jed’s face.

  Jed grimaced, closed his eyes.

  The old man’s penis hit Jed between the eyes and slid up his forehead.

  The old man’s hairy sack rested on Jed’s nose.

  Again and again McGuire would thrust his penis into Jed’s face.

  But Jed kept his mouth closed.

  “Open your mouth you little slut!” yelled the old man.

  Warm cum was all over Jed’s forehead.

  “Be a good little girl and love daddy,” he pleaded. “You want daddy to be happy don’t you sweetie? Just put daddy’s popsicle in your mouth.”

  Warm ejaculate squirted into Jed’s nose.

  “Come on sweetie. Open up and make your daddy smile.”

  Jed felt the man’s cock pushing against his eyeballs.

  The head of McGuire’s dick kept firing off mortar rounds of sticky sperm.

  7.

  November 6th, 6:45pm

  Jed woke up screaming. His heart was racing, panic coursed through his veins.

  Fucking bastard thinks he’s gonna get away with it. But what goes around comes around motherfucker.

  Yes, that’s right.

  The mythical karma boomerang.

  That would be Jed’s weapon of choice in the slaying of James McGuire.

  Jed went in the bathroom, pissed. He was still so wound up his urine stream landed everywhere but the toilet.

  As he washed his hands, he took a look at himself.

  His left cheek. Both sides of his chin. Most of his forehead. His nose. Around both ears.

  This isn’t who we are anymore.

  He reached over, grabbed a towel. It’s the same towel found in all cheap hotels – white, 10 percent cotton. He gently dried his hands.

  And we agreed this fixation isn’t healthy. It isn’t productive. Leave your face alone.

  He stepped back, sat down on the edge of the tub.

  Just those few moments in front of the mirror had triggered a mild anxiety attack. As he calmed himself, he realized how destructive, dangerous his first few years of college had been.

  Jed had been victimized.

  By the plague to end all plagues.

  Not the locusts.

  Not the frogs.

  Not the lice.

  Not the blood.

  Not the livestock death.

  It was the plague of boils that came to punish young Darby shortly after arriving at college.

  The curse would blanket his face one night…

  His appearance changed, a hideous sight…

  The boy fought back, searched for a remedy…

  But his spirit would erode, a victim of his vulgarity.

  Cystic acne would seemingly arrive overnight; it would lay siege to Jed’s face for the next several years.

  The experience nearly destroyed him. The myriad of scars and discolorations are merely part of the mask he is fated to wear for the rest of his life.

  The question that won’t go away is whether there wasn’t some other way for me to become who I am now.

  Cause a lot of shit happened in a short time.

  Jed got to his feet, left the bathroom, and sat back down onto the bed.

  I probably popped more than ten thousand white heads during my first two years of college. I spent so much time in front of the mirror – so much time hating myself, hurting myself. Just how many fucking hours did I log piercing my face?

  Jed rubbed his eyes.

  I let the fucking acne get in the way of too many things.

  I let the acne consume me.

  He felt the tears.

  Not the tears that cleanse the soul or mourn a loved one. These were the tears of regret.

  The fucking acne kept me trapped in my dorm room. I never did anything. I woke up in the morni
ng and spent 30 minutes popping zits. I showered and shaved...

  He blew his nose.

  Have you ever the fuck tried to shave cysts and boils with a razor? Fucking skin that’s irritated and swelling? So I skipped my classes and watched movies or took a nap. And when I woke up, I popped more zits. Ate lunch, popped more zits. Hung out alone in my room. Popped zits. Ate dinner - or not - alone. Popped zits. Put a pound of zit cream on my face. Went to bed. And woke up, repeated the same shit.

  He took some deep breaths, tried to relax.

  Depression became my constant companion.

  That and The Mister.

  The Mister was the name Jed gave to a two-inch sewing needle. The same type that his mom used to sew his Cub Scout badges to his uniform when he was younger.

  The Mister did more than just help Jed pop zits.

  It never laughed.

  It never mocked.

  It never judged.

  It listened.

  It even talked to Jed.

  The Mister was Jed’s friend.

  ***

  Growing up, Jed was no Narcissus.

  Geography made sure of that.

  It’s hard to be a vain teenager when you live in rural Iowa. Sure, in high school, he had what the girls’ called an “off-beat” cuteness, something not easily confused with the dreaded “beat-off” cuteness sported by other boys.

  Each year of high school resulted in the need for more face time – time spent in front of the mirror. But this did not bother Jed, for he had formed a paradigm - attractive people got what they wanted in life. He was convinced that attractive individuals got the best jobs, married the hottest spouses, owned the most expensive cars, and enjoyed entire days engaged in tantric sex.

  But more importantly for the high school Jed, physical beauty meant a crowded locker, a loud lunch table, peer respect, and his hands down the pants of the entire varsity football cheerleading squad.

  The latter accomplished in less than a month.

  And part of his routine was the serious look-over he gave his face, his complexion, every morning. Jed was fighting, and winning, his War on Zits.

  Heck, there were no real shots fired.

  No Normandy.

  No Inchon.

  No Ranch Hand.

  No Rolling Thunder.

  No Hail Mary Maneuver.

  No Shock and Awe.

  Just Smoke and Mirrors.

  Despite the medicine cabinet full of Stridex pads and expired zit creams, his complexion was not complex. While his friends often struggled with their face and their changes, Jed changed by not changing at all. He stayed the skinny kid with the smooth skin.

  It was after Jed graduated from high school (yea social promotion!) and left for a state college that he would come to understand how quick fortunes can change.

  How quick the shoe can be on the other foot.

  How quick what he feared the most would meet him halfway.

  But college life had started well enough.

  He knew his way around campus. His cognitive map highlighted the really important landmarks - the library, the main sorority houses, and the places the dorm chicks went to sunbathe - so life was good. He was meeting new people, simply enjoying his autonomy. He was getting along with everyone on his dorm floor, even his roommate Dave Taylor - whom Jed initially profiled as a “choir geek on steroids” who overdoses too frequently on Styx.

  Jed was shocked at how just a single hour of “Come Sail Away” and “Mr. Roboto” could disorient a human being.

  Then it happened.

  8.

  IT.

  Jed had zero chance of preventing it.

  And despite his age, he had the emotional maturity of a 4th grader. So he sure as hell was not going to be able to deal with it.

  It was severe acne - aka - Acne Vulgaris.

  Jed had no idea he was being stalked the moment he set foot on campus. And his behavior certainly didn’t foreshadow events to come.

  He was happy.

  His first month at the popular state college was everything he imagined it would be - video game tournaments, card games, loud music, and a seemingly endless supply of horny teen girls who were ALL on the pill. Most days he felt like James Bond as he walked to class surrounded by all these “Pussy Galores” who were more than willing to make sure that he had a “Goodnight.”

  It was with him the whole time.

  The invisible evil woke up with him. It walked around campus with him. It did shots of tequila with him.

  It was coursing through his veins - waiting - for just the right moment to introduce itself. Jed had no idea it had been there since his conception; it was part of his DNA.

  But it had been awakened. It was now excited.

  It had a plan.

  It was going to steal from Jed - his energy, dignity, and will to live.

  It was going to try to kill Jed.

  9.

  “Nothing can ease the brain of its pain…

  “Like a main vein full of cocaine.”

  The other message on his dorm door.

  Severe cystic acne was the perpetrator who visited, vandalized Jed’s face beginning week five of his freshmen year at college. It would attack Jed night after night until every inch of his face was defaced.

  The realization of his situation came quick.

  And it was definitive.

  Just about every single pore on Jed’s face was clogged.

  And he had no fucking clue, no fucking experience, with the unclogging.

  There was no simple, easy-to-use, over-the-counter product that would power flush his pores of the sac-like structures that were filled with diseased fucking matter.

  And he would face the truth quite literally – fighting cystic acne would result in a shitload of collateral damage – and the fight with cystic acne was NOT a winnable war.

  In just a matter of weeks Jed’s face was totally unrecognizable.

  And to his dismay, Jed would come to realize that cystic acne was a dedicated, diverse, and determined enemy.

  So, without further ado, let’s profile the participants.

   The whitehead was the most numerous and widely dispersed weaponry that Jed dealt with on a daily basis. These foot soldiers were simpletons. They were only capable of doing one menial task – like those “run-blocking” Nebraska Cornhusker offensive lineman in the 1980s – build a whitehead. They made no attempt to disguise their whereabouts, and defeating them was easier than knocking out Glass Joe of Punch-Out. The whitehead did not hurt much, did not scar, but they multiplied like rabbits and their high visibility made Jed feel like he was wearing the Scarlet Letter sweater every single fucking day.

   The next weapon used by cystic acne was the blackhead. No, not the fucking Black Hand that wanted to create a greater Serbia and its members assassinated Franz Ferdinand propelling Europe into the Great War. No, the blackhead is just a type of acne. But they are black. No, they don’t produce a visible “head” like their Cro-Magnon cousins. These foot soldiers were not as numerous, nor as easy to spot, as the whiteheads were. And beating these guys was like trying to TKO Soda Popinski of Punch-Out. In other words, skill was needed in the eradication of these motherfuckers. And the end result? A fucking plug. Looked like a grain of rice. A 30-minute search and destroy for these bad boys made Jed’s face feel as if it had been aerated. And make no mistake, extracting those plugs could fucking hurt. But, on the bright side, destroying blackheads took less time, involved less swelling, and offered Jed no long-term exposure to depleted uranium.

   The cysts were the heavy artillery. The big fucking guns. These were sadistic chemical weapons that not even Sadam fucking Hussein would have used against the Kurds. And Jed had seven of them on his face; the majority of which took up residence on the west (left) side - his cheek, chin. The size of the cysts ranged from a quarter to a half-dollar, and they protruded from his skin, forming a “dome” of sorts. The cysts were colored a dark maroon, and they
were solid, firm to the touch. They also fucking hurt Jed - anytime he laughed or cringed or somehow stretched or flexed his face. They also hurt when he touched them. The cysts appeared to be “growing.” And defeating this enemy by himself was not going to be possible – like trying to beat Contra without the “30 lives code.” Ain’t gonna fucking happen. The cysts frustrated Jed because he had not seen anything like this before. Nobody else on campus had anything on their face that came remotely close to looking like a cyst. The cysts also had a psychological component. Jed would come to find out that his fellow students found the cysts quite repulsive. Most students couldn’t help but visibly cringe when they first noticed them on his face. Honestly though, the biggest bitch when it came to the cysts was the fact they could not be “popped” in any manner.

  So by the end of October of his first semester, Jed had developed daily rituals.

  Many of them.

  All of them centered on his acne.

  He would spend a quiet 15 or so minutes each morning around 6am draining his face of pus. Just the whiteheads. He forced himself to be quiet during these sessions because he did not want to wake Dave; he also found the experience humiliating. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror in just his old Fruit of the Looms silently, carefully piercing and squeezing each individual whitehead. A fog of anxiety hovered over Jed during this time. He wanted the morning sessions to go quickly. But sometimes the whiteheads would not cooperate. Dealing with problem whiteheads only threw off his schedule. And again, he sure as hell did not want his roommate waking up while he was trying to get whitehead number 22 to explode.

  When Jed finally finished, there was no time for celebration or reflection.

  He had to shower.

  The sprint to the floor bathrooms would momentarily revive, energize him. But his paranoia over his peers seeing him – his discolored, swollen, oozing face – meant Jed was not going to waste time tiptoeing through the tulips.

  He became the master of the quickie shower. He literally only washed his armpits, chest, groin, and hair.