“I told you before, I left early that day,” Orwell said, “Ray was still at his desk when I last saw him.”
The detective nodded. “Yes, you did say that. But I went back and asked for a few more interviews, Orwell. I have two students who say they saw both of you, together, heading for the gyms–apparently holding hands.”
Orwell felt his face turn red, but he didn’t say anything.
Oh dear, always a few loose ends. Well, you always have one more, Orwell. Just think about. Think about him, we could have such fun with him, don’t you think?
He shook his head, and Hurlbane coked his head slightly. Orwell seemed…a bit off today. Granted, the teacher had always seemed a bit strange–stranger every time he’d encountered him, but today, in particular…there was something almost wrong about him, but he didn’t know what. A thought occurred to him, then, and he realized what he’d noticed, but hadn’t been able to put a finger on–he was weak. He was weak, and tired, and he wanted so desperately to give up–all he needed was a push, and a little voice in Hurlbane’s head was assuring him that he was just the sort of person who could give Orwell the push he so desperately needed.
“Still wanting to smoke, Orwell? Think a cigar might help you remember? I know I always think better with one,” Hurlbane said, reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a sizable cigar. Had…had that been in there? He wasn’t a smoker, was he? But he needed to do this–he could feel it. This was going to help Orwell break, it was going to drive him nuts. Of course…he really shouldn’t be smoking in the station, or in one of these rooms–they weren’t very well ventilated. He looked over to the mirror, but couldn’t see any hint of…displeasure, and then at the door. They’d stop him if he went too far, right?
“Don’t…I know he’s telling you that you should, but don’t. Don’t smoke it, don’t listen to it, just run.”
Orwell was looking at him now, trying to project confidence, but what could a puny, chubby, sad little faggot like that hope to accomplish? He wasn’t in charge here–no. Hurlbane knew who was calling the shots here. He locked eyes with Orwell, took out his butane lighter, bit off the cap, and lit up, seeing the desire–the need–flood across Orwell’s face as he drew the smoke in. It hurt his lungs a bit, and it seemed…hot. Too hot, but he could handle it.
“There’s no one here but us, Orwell. Who are you talking about?”
“It’s…please, just leave.”
“I don’t think so Orwell, I think we still have more to discuss. Now, we were discussing Ray, weren’t we? Mr. Diamond? Like I said, two students I’ve interviewed in the last month put the two of you together after school, the day he disappeared. What were the two of you doing–especially holding hands?”
“I… I don’t remember that at all.”
“Convenient.”
“I’m…I’m sorry, I don’t know anything more than what I told you the first time.”
Hurlbane sat down across from him at the table, took a long drag off the cigar, and blew the smoke into Orwell’s face. He flinched, shuddered, and his head dropped towards his chest for a moment, his breathing deep..
“Smells good, doesn’t it?”
“Yes…”
“Yes…what?”
Orwell’s head snapped back up, he looked to the exit–should he run for it? No–if he ran…they’d lock him up in here, with him. He was already locked up in here with him. What could he do? Should…should he tell him? There was no way he’d believe him, and if he did tell him, his demon would just…just take him over anyway. No–the only way he could maybe save the detective was with silence.
“Come on Orwell, I know you want to tell me something. I’ve been doing this a very long time, and it’s all over your face. It’s heavy, isn’t it? The guilt?”
It was heavy, but it wasn’t his fault.
Now Orwell, we know the truth, don’t we? We know what a worm you are, what a pathetic little pig you turn into when you’re alone with a real man, when you’re alone with me. Why don’t you take your shirt and pants off for him? Show the nice officer what you really are, under those dirty rags of yours?
Orwell tugged down on the cuff of his shirt, sweating a bit.
If you show him, I might let him go. We can find someone nice in prison, don’t you think? Because that’s where you’re going, Orwell. That’s the only path I see, other than…you know…
“We can come back to Mr. Diamond, I suppose,” Hurlbane said, sitting back in the chair, cigar clamped in his jaw, chuffing smoke. “Let’s talk about Stewart. After all, we already know you were the last one to see him–you admitted that to us. He came to your class for detention, and then left–but his car was found in the parking lot–it hadn’t moved. So somehow, from leaving the classroom with you–and no one can confirm he even left the classroom, mind you–to his car, he simply vanished. How about that? Do you have any more you’d like to tell me about that?”
Orwell sat, silent.
Go on Orwell, take off that shirt. Show the officer what Stewart did to you. Show him what you deserve.
“S-Shut up…”
We know what you deserve, don’t we Orwell? You deserve to be punished.
Bracken's Corner 