Jonathan's Hope

by Hirschi, Hans M.

  Chapter 7

  JONATHAN'S MOTHER HAD come to shortly after her husband had pulled out of the forest, turning back onto the highway, city bound. She was quiet in her seat, understanding full well the consequences of what had transpired in the past hours. With Jonathan gone, there was nothing left to shield her from her husband’s wrath. With Jonathan gone, she knew that she would once again be bearing the brunt of his anger, feeling the impact of his fists, his abuse.

  She was miserable, having failed not only to protect her son, but having been an accomplice to the beatings and the abuse of him for so many years. She also knew that had she interfered earlier, had she said anything, done anything, that both she and Jonathan would not have survived the day.

  How often had she considered calling child protective services, the police, or just opening the front door and screaming for help? In the end, she never did. She just tried to make Jonathan’s suffering a little bit easier to bear. She tried to clean the wounds, dress them, make the pain go away. She knew, of course, that Jonathan didn’t understand. Her son probably loathed her for what she did, hated her even, but she was helpless.

  She was as much a victim as Jonathan, but he’d never known. She didn’t want to burden him with her story, her fate, didn’t want to make his life even more difficult by telling him about the two babies she’d miscarried before Jonathan was born. Those lost prematurely because Jonathan’s father had beaten her. How she had fallen down the stairs once, against a table the other time. How she had felt that something ruptured inside her, causing her to lose both babies. She remembered both times well. She’d hunkered down in the bathtub after he had gone to work, the excruciating pain, the blood, and then the sight of the fetuses, the afterbirth, more blood. There was so much blood. Both babies were stillborn, or maybe she just couldn’t tell. She hadn’t been that far along either time, maybe in her third or fourth month. She was barely showing. He hadn’t known yet about either of them.

  There had been a sensation of relief, as she cleaned up after herself, flushing the lost lives down the toilet, gone forever. Relieved that those babies would never have to face the wrath of her husband. Relief that even going forward, it would be her fault, it would be her body to take the physical punishment unleashed every day.

  Then one day, she felt it again, the growth of life within her. It was shortly after he had taken her, as he would every now and then, from behind, without speaking to her, without love or comfort. He’d just take her, get it over with. She felt the life grow within her and she despaired.

  This time, however, no beating, no matter how bad, would leave her hunkering down in the bathtub, losing the baby. No, this one held on for dear life. This one was going to make it, and she didn’t have the heart or the bravery to finish it herself. And so came the day, when she showed enough for her husband to notice, to notice the growth, her tummy.

  That was when he stopped hitting her, stopped cold. Maybe, she thought, maybe, just maybe, he’ll stop for good, seeing that he’ll be a father now?

  It didn’t last very long though. Jonathan was born prematurely, three weeks prior to his due date. He was healthy all right. A bit small, her husband had remarked, already displeased with his son looking like a girl, so small, so delicate.

  When they were allowed to take him back to the house, after two weeks of observation, he slapped Jonathan for the first time, after he had cried. She knew that it was because he was hungry, or because he was afraid, craving the closeness of a human body, a hug, to be held close, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t stand the crying, the whining. Jonathan learned quickly and became a very quiet baby, learning from his earliest days that any noise he made while his father was in the house would not go unanswered.

  There were good days, when Jonathan’s father was out of town for conventions or business trips, or when there were no beatings. There were days when there was laughter at Jonathan’s house, happiness even. Days when mother and son would play, talk. She tried to teach Jonathan how to best avoid the beatings, how to behave, to stay quiet. And when he failed, when he’d felt the wrath at his father’s hands or belt, she’d console him. She’d dress the wounds, kiss him on the forehead and tuck him into bed.

  Jonathan was a smart child, learning quickly how to avoid the worst outbursts from his father, but he couldn’t help his body developing the way it did. He couldn’t help his father seeing things. He couldn’t help being gay. And although his father didn’t know, he must have smelled it on Jonathan, beating him, abusing him. Always trying to foster him into the straight man he had never been able to be himself, always haunted by the unwanted imagery flashing through his mind, the dirty pictures flashing across his retina as he would look at the district attorney’s behind in court, arguing a case, the graphics he’d see when he met new male clients, the looks he’d flash at his colleagues at the golf club where he’d shower, the way he’d look at guys on TV.

  Yes, as unbelievable and unlikely as it may sound, Jonathan’s father was a faggot, a fairy, a poofter, a cocksucker. Like father, like son.

  He had grown up in a small town, in a different town. There were no gay people then, oh no. Not on TV, not on any stage, not in any book. He didn’t even hear the word gay until he was in college in the city, studying to be a lawyer. His childhood had been sheltered, his parents loving and caring. He had many friends in school, was popular, and good at sports. He never even thought about sex with boys or girls. All that came when he got to college, when sin washed all over him.

  Don’t take that the wrong way, he wasn’t a religious man. Sure, in the small town he’d grown up, everybody went to church on Sundays. He did too, along with his parents and his younger sister. They weren’t particularly religious and Jonathan’s grandparents weren’t shoving their faith down anybody’s throat.

  When he got to college, he realized that he was odd, that he was different. His roommate would be talking about girls, their boobs, their asses, the smell and taste of pussy and he knew nothing. He had never even been that close to a girl. He had never touched a bosom, didn’t know the feeling of holding a girl’s breast in his hands, the softness. He didn’t know what pussy smelled like, not to mention its taste.

  More so, Jonathan’s father didn’t understand the appeal. He didn’t think that anything was wrong with him, not until his roommate looked at him one morning, growling, “What’re you looking at, you gay or what?” He had been caught staring at his naked roommate, putting on fresh underwear after returning from the showers.

  “Gay? What’s gay?” he’d asked his roommate, a question he’d soon learned to regret forever. From that day on, he was the queer, the faggot, the gay guy. By the end of the semester, his roommate had moved out, too uncomfortable to be around him. He had been caught, he had been outed, and he still didn’t know what he was. His roommate only laughed at him. It wasn’t until he got to the library, where he secretly looked up the g-word in an encyclopedia, that he realized he had been accused of desiring another man.

  Over the coming weeks, he realized that his roommate had been right. He had indeed a different reaction, physically, mentally, as he looked at college boys, their groins, their asses, their faces even, than he would while looking at a pair of boobs, or a girl’s ass. Nothing happened, but boy would he feel his throat go dry whenever he saw a jock or caught a nice piece of college hunk ass.

  Naturally, at that time, there were no gay fraternities, no gay clubs, no gay-straight alliances, and he was left to his own devices, having to figure it all out for himself. That’s when he made a serious mistake.

  The semester had ended and he returned to his hometown, to help his father on the farm. They’d work all summer. It was hard work with no time to play. That summer was different, as his sexual lust had been awoken, and he stared at every farm hand around. He’d stare at the boys at church, guys in town, he was so horny that it nearly killed him. He’d touch himself more often than he could count but it still didn’t quench the fire burnin
g within him.

  Desperate for guidance, he sought out his church’s priest, knowing that he had been sworn to silence. Whatever he would tell the priest, it would stay between them. What Jonathan’s father didn’t know was that the priest wouldn’t react well to this particular sheep’s confession.

  And so the priest in his church warned him of sin, of abominations, of hell and eternal fires. He quoted passages from the bible, spoke of Leviticus and certain damnation. He was not unkind, no, quite the contrary. He pitied him, which hurt him badly. He didn’t want pity, but pity he got, along with the admonition never to act on his inclinations. He was to never touch himself, that was filthy no matter what. He was told to find himself the right girl, get married, and to forget about this. They would never, ever talk about this again. Finally, pushing him over the edge, he told him never to mention this perversion to anyone, because if his parents ever found out, it would most certainly drive them to an early grave...

  The rest of the summer was miserable for Jonathan’s father. He started to physically punish himself for every impure thought he held, hitting himself, taking cold showers whenever he noticed a man’s ass, admired a pair of male eyes, or let his gaze wonder down to a crotch. He started to hate humanity. He hated his parents for having given birth to him. He hated god for making him that way. He hated himself for being that way. He hated all the good looking guys for making him look at them that way.

  That alone might not have made him the monster he became had it not been for a party in his last college year. It was just months before his final exams, and there was a big party planned at one of the fraternity houses on campus. Jonathan’s father, while living on campus, had never attended any of those parties because it would normally involve a lot of alcohol, and maybe it would lead to sex, and after having been caught by his roommate, he was afraid to get anywhere close to a situation that might lead to something he wouldn’t be able to control.

  But this was a party that everybody would go to. His friends told him he’d be a loser if he didn’t go. He’d be a freak. And besides, they had said, it’s good to know people, it’s good for your future career. And since it’s a frat house, some of the alumni might be there, too. It was a great networking opportunity. That was how he made the second grave mistake of his live, for all the right reasons.

  That night, having had several beers, after relaxing and having fun, his eyes started wandering, catching the intense gaze of a freshman. He was a cute, blond kid with an ass so tight you could bounce a quarter off of it, and a smile so sweet and innocent that he sported an instant boner. He stared at the boy, not realizing that his former roommate was standing across the room, watching him. They were looking at each other, lowering their gaze, then looking again, playing this game for quite some time.

  That’s when things got out of control. He magically got up from the couch where he’d been sitting and followed the blond kid out into the hallway and up the stairs. That’s where they were discovered by his former roommate and his friends, exchanging a first innocent kiss, upstairs in the hallway. He would still feel queasy when he remembered what had transpired next. The five jocks shoved him and the blond kid into the nearest room, taking from them what wasn’t meant to be given. Raping both boys for what seemed like an eternity, but most likely had only lasted half an hour or so.

  Never in his life had he felt so helpless, so humiliated, in so much pain. They gagged both the blond kid and Jonathan’s father and used beer bottles to “open them up,” playing with their asses as if they were toys, before using real flesh to tear them apart, fucking them into submission. When they were done, spent inside the two helpless victims, they went back to bottles, playing the game of “how far can you shove a beer bottle up a fag’s ass...”

  He had passed out after the first bottle was successfully inserted in his rectum. He didn’t know what happened to the boy next to him, how the bottle they used to shove up his ass had broken, tearing up his insides, leaving him to bleed to death, unconscious, right there, next to Jonathan’s father.

  When he came to, he was in a hospital, surrounded by grave looking nurses. Nurses who wouldn’t speak to him. Nurses from whom he could sense disapproval. They believed it had been his mistake, he had this coming to him...

  After ten days at the hospital, and having had the beer bottle surgically removed from his rectum, he survived. He survived the silent treatment from nurses and doctors and learned about the blond boy’s death. And that was the moment when all hope, all love in him, had died. That’s when the human being that had strived towards being a good, productive member of society, raised by his parents to love his neighbor, died. Nothing left behind but a shell, a monster, a man in so much pain, physically and emotionally. Pain from which he would never recover.

  He never once visited the grave of the freshman who had died attending his first college party. Rick was a victim of the unfortunate circumstance of meeting the wrong guy at the worst possible time. He managed to graduate, and left the city of his college, never to return. He moved clear across the country, as far away from the memories of college, the priest, his roommate and his friends as he could get.

  Instead, he focused on work. He worked harder than everyone else, longer than necessary, more than necessary, and quickly became very successful at work. He had no life apart from work, and was okay with that. It was only when one of the partners at his firm suggested that he settle down, start a family, that no associate would ever be made partner unless he was married, too much risk, the rumors, that he realized that the innuendo was about to reach him even there. He was in a faraway city, but would never escape it. It would always haunt him. He met his future wife exactly one week later when she started an internship as a paralegal at the firm.

  She had a kind face and looked lost. He descended upon her like a vulture on a piece of dead meat. She fell immediately for his strong features, the grey eyes, his pale skin. He looked so fragile, so lost. She made it her task to rescue the man, to take care of him, nurture him, shelter him.

  They dated briefly, him being the perfect gentleman, never once going too far, never once kissing her on the lips when they parted at night. No, just a peck on her cheek. Never once did he suggest going up to her apartment, never once invite her to his. After six months, he proposed. They got engaged and were married one year later.

  The first time he hit her was on their wedding night when she tried to kiss him, daring to allow her tongue to venture to his lips. He took her after that, from behind, brutally. He kept his eyes closed, not looking at her. The only thing he could see was the fateful night all those years ago. That fateful night at the frat house.

  Three months later, she lost her first baby in the bathtub of their new house.

  Chapter 8

  DAN CRIED. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks. He couldn’t remember when it had started, but the pain of Jonathan’s story was too much, even for him. When Jonathan lifted the shirt and showed him the latest wounds, infected after two weeks without fresh dressing, and not healing due to the lack of sustenance, Dan jumped up. He moved over to the couch and hugged Jonathan.

  Then he fetched his first aid kit and forced Jonathan to take off the shirt so that he could clean the two cuts. He redressed the wounds using a special salve that he’d used ever since his own college days. He knew from experience it would heal the small cuts. For a while, he even considered bandaging Jonathan’s entire torso, but had given up on the notion. The cuts weren’t that large any more, after having healed nicely up to the day when Jonathan was abandoned in the forest.

  Jonathan was grateful, and allowed Dan to administer the treatment in silence, his heart beating slightly faster, feeling the beat all the way up in his throat, as he felt the touch from Dan’s hands on his body. Dan’s hands were slightly cool, yet the sensation pleasant. He’d never been touched like that by a man before, and although there was no sexual intention to Dan’s ministrations, Jonathan could feel his erection rising. Luckil
y, Dan didn’t notice.

  Afterwards, they just sat there. Dan held Jonathan’s hand as Jonathan continued his story, all the way to the arrival to the house the night before. When he was finished, Dan had made up his mind.

  “You are welcome to stay here for as long as you want. I will do whatever I can to help you, okay? I know you probably don’t trust anyone right now, but I promise you, I will never hurt you. I will never hit you, I swear!” Dan looked so completely earnest, so completely honest, his eyes still reddened from the tears, and his cheeks puffy, that Jonathan couldn’t bear to look at him. He simply hugged him, literally throwing his arms around him, whispering the words, “thank you,” into Dan’s shoulder, barely audible.

  After sharing that moment, enjoying the closeness, savoring the sensation of another body so close to their own, they eventually broke the embrace and Dan asked Jonathan if he was hungry. “I thought you’d never ask...” Jonathan chuckled, his second real smile since arriving at the house. “I’m starving!”

  That was all Dan needed to hear to get up and move over to the kitchen, starting dinner. Dan was not a huge eater, but he enjoyed food and loved cooking. That night, he cooked double portions of everything, making sure that there would be plenty of food for Jonathan. He even opened a bottle of wine, but had second thoughts about whether Jonathan would like wine. “I’ve never tried alcohol,” the boy replied, sending shivers down Dan’s spine. Seventeen years old and never even tasted alcohol. What kind of life had he lived?

  They ate their dinner in silence. So much had been said, so much that needed processing. Dan tried to fathom what Jonathan had been through in his life and Jonathan tried to accept that he’d found secure ground under his feet. It was hard for him to believe that he was safe. Safe from the cold. Safe from the humidity. Safe from his father, the abuse, the pain.