Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Although it takes a true
story from a newspaper as its starting point (see the note at the
end), it uses fictional characters and events in the development of
the narrative, and all characters appearing in the story are the
writer's invention. Where the names of real people appear in the
narrative the characters that represent them are entirely fictional,
and no disrespect is intended toward the real people in the use of
their names or reputations. The events have been substantially
altered for dramatic effect and places and names changed to respect
the rights of the people involved. The institution called James
Brand is fictional, although there are many like it across the country.

Thanks: I want to say thanks to Hiromi and Akiko and Bill for all
the help with 70's culture, and Bob for the education about 70's
music -- here I was thinking it was mostly 'Hotel California' and
Kiss! I still dislike almost everything the Rolling Stones did after
1972, but I learned to like a lot of stuff I'd never have dreamed
of. I don't think I could have even attempted to write this without
their help.

I must also give special thanks to Geoff for his invaluable
assistance as editor. He provided focus at times it was desperately
needed, and he understands grammar. :)

Becky

Chapter One.

Maybe times have changed enough that my story couldn't happen today.
I read in the newspaper a few weeks ago that the officials at one of
the state juvenile facilities are under investigation for abuse
right now. That would never have happened when I was a kid. They
just got away with murder then. Okay, maybe not quite murder, but
they sure got away with screwing with people's lives. Perhaps the
way I acted made things worse, but I was young and confused and I
think they took advantage of that.

That makes me sound like I'm some kind of victim. I'm no victim.
I've never been totally happy about what happened to me all those
years ago, but I'm not dragging the memories of it around like some
ball and chain. Life was not as bleak as that first paragraph suggests.

Let me begin the conventional way, with childhood:

When I was twelve there were only two things to be in Cabrini Green
if you were a white kid. You could be a Blue or you could be a Thin.
Once you hit puberty -- if you wanted to be sociable -- you had to
be a member of a group, either the Blues or the Thins. If you were a
boy you were one or the other. If you were a girl you hung out with
one or the other. The Blues were so named because they wore blue
sweaters or t-shirts under their jackets. The boys had skinhead
haircuts, wore big, thick boots and lots of leather. The girls had
long hair, and wore anything short and revealing. The Thins wore the
same kind of clothes as the Blues, but both the boys and the girls
had androgynous David Bowie-style haircuts, short all over except
for at the back. Thin girls almost always bleached their hair, and
wore tight knitted tops and miniskirts with thick platform shoes.
The Blues liked to hang out on trains and at stations, for some
reason I never figured out. The Thins hung out in cafes, pool joints
and bowling alleys.

I don't know where the name "Thin" came from, but there were
inevitably jokes about a few overweight members.

Even in the seventies the rest of the Lincoln Park area was better
than Cabrini, and so school was a kind of jumble of races and
classes. Of course there were kids who weren't Blues or Thins, who
dressed like 'The Brady Bunch' and did their homework and answered
all the teacher's questions and are probably stockbrokers today, but
the kids from the projects knew that these kids were really robots,
not kids at all. Okay, so we were a minority, but we knew we were
the only people who really understood the world.

Being a Thin or a Blue wasn't just a matter of joining a gang. It
was a style thing, sure, and there were gangs, but most kids dressed
a certain way first and then gradually drifted into one of the
informal social groups. From there you could become a gang member,
or not. The group my older brother Danny was in was the Division
Thins, named for the location of the cafe they mostly hung out at on
Division Street.

I thought Danny was pretty cool. He was four years older than I was,
and he was a tough kid. All the older boys I knew were -- it was
just one of those things that went with where we lived -- but I
think Danny got that way just from standing up to our old man. He
and Dad would have big arguments about anything, even when Dad was
sober. When Dad was drunk the arguments got violent, and he'd hit
out at Danny. Danny just took it -- he didn't fight back. After a
year of that Dad changed his target. He would come home stinking
drunk nine times out of ten, and beat the crap out of Mom before
striking out at anyone else who was around. Mom would pick herself
up and whatever remained of dinner, and try to pretend he hadn't
done anything.

Most of the time when this happened Danny and I would try to get out
of the apartment. We'd sit on the front step of the building and
wait for the noise to stop. After a while Danny wouldn't even hang
around to listen to Dad hit her, he lit out for the Division Cafe
and hung out with some of the older kids. He started to dress like
they did, which made Dad angry. "Damned faggot kid," he'd say, even
though there was nothing about Danny you could think of as
faggot-like. Dad just didn't like the long hair at the back that ran
over Danny's collar. It was hard to figure out why, this was the
1970's and most guys were wearing their hair long. Danny's was short
everywhere else except the back. I don't know, my father was a
strange man.

I liked to be at home when Dad wasn't around. Mom was great. Even
Dad thought she was great at those rare times he was sober. That was
what made it so awful when he hit her. When he wasn't around she was
smart and funny and caring, and she was someone I could really talk
to. I couldn't talk to Dad; no-one could. As I got older I noticed
she smiled less and less, and after a while she never smiled when
Dad was around. I couldn't say I blamed her. I liked to try to make
her smile, by bringing her home things I found in the street and
making up stories about how they'd got there. They were silly
stories, about stuff like bottle tops and the people who'd thrown
them on the ground as they were on their way to a ball game where
the guy whose girlfriend threw away the bottle top caught the ball
on the home run that decided the game, or the one legged man who had
lost the sock I found outside the supermarket and then won the
lottery. Mom seemed to like to hear my stories, I guess because they
were always optimistic, and after a while, when things got worse
with Dad, she would always ask me to tell her something about my day
whenever I got home. I was too young to know it at the time, but I
think she felt almost imprisoned in the house, increasingly isolated
from the world around her. I've read that victims of domestic
violence get like that.

Although she was frequently bruised from Dad's beatings, Mom was a
very beautiful woman. She had creamy smooth skin, and perfect,
delicate features, which made the bruising even more obvious.
Although she had no money to buy clothes she always managed to dress
in a way that was more stylish than the other women in the
neighborhood, and I was very proud of her for that. It wasn't so
much the clothes she wore as the way she wore them.

Mom liked music, too. She never liked television very much, but she
and I used to listen to the radio a lot when I was young. She
especially liked English pop music, and on the rare occasions when
something had made her especially happy she would do her housework
while she sang Dusty Springfield songs. When I was a little kid I'd
follow her around the house singing along with her. I was probably
totally off-key, but she never complained. I loved the sound of her
voice, which was rich and throaty and sweet at the same time. When I
was really lucky she'd sing me little songs she made up herself.
Although I know she loved Danny I think I was her favorite.

When he hit his teen years Danny got right in with the other Thins.
They spent most nights hanging out together, just walking around the
neighborhood or hanging out playing video games, which had only just
been invented. Sometimes they'd see a Blue gang, and a fight would
ensue. Danny hated the Blues. "Fuckin' Nazis," he'd say. A couple of
times he came home with bruises, black eyes or minor wounds from
fights he'd been in. Once he got a broken arm. He had it in a cast
for months, because he kept using it as a weapon in fights and the
arm wouldn't heal properly.

Danny got into occasional trouble with the police, too. It was never
anything really serious, but they were convinced that all the Thins
were troublemakers. It usually sent Dad into a frenzy whenever the
cops bought Danny home, or called for Dad to go down to the precinct
to get him. Usually Dad would hit him worse than the cops. I don't
know why, really. Everyone in our neighborhood had some kind of
police record by the time they were eighteen. Heck, even I had one,
from an fight I was in with Danny and from another time I stole the
washing off Mrs. Bronowski's line on a dare. The washing incident
had been embarrassing, because the police report detailed everything
that had been taken, "brassieres, other lingerie, two dresses, one
pair of shorts," and the cop had read it out really loudly when my
Dad came to get me. Anyway, Danny's scrapes with the cops seemed
pretty run-of-the-mill to me. But the more he hung out with the
Thins the more the cops picked on him, and the worse our old man got
as a result.

The first item on my record occurred when I got arrested with Danny
one night when I was twelve. We were on our way home from the cafe,
and two Blues jumped us. Danny beat up both of them with only a
little help from me. I wasn't much of a fighter, since I was very
small for my age, and anyway I really didn't like all that
aggressive macho crap anyway. But I provided enough distraction to
one kid so that Danny could take out the other one. Danny was still
pounding on my opponent while I held the limp form of the first one
when a cruiser went by. We tried to run through some people's yards
to get away but the cops got us in the next street.

Dad was really pissed when he came down to get us out, but I think
he was secretly pleased that Danny beat the shit out of the other guys.

We got charged with assault because the father of one of the kids
Danny beat up wanted to push the issue, but all we got was stern
lectures from the judge and a caution on our records. No time in
juve or anything like that.

When I was thirteen Danny got a girlfriend, Maria, a chunky dark
Italian girl with a great smile. He never brought her home but I saw
them on the street together a lot. He wasn't allowed to see her for
about two months after she cut her hair into a Thins'-style look
that made her father freak, but they figured out ways to sneak
around together anyway. I thought she was dynamite. Big breasts, big
dark eyes -- she could have shaved her head entirely and it would
have been okay with me.

Danny kept a couple of pairs of Maria's panties in the table between
our two single beds in the room we shared. He used to take them out
some nights and tell me stories about sex, and what girls were like.
I hadn't gone through puberty yet, so I didn't understand a lot of
what he said, but it excited me all the same. A couple of times when
he wasn't around I snuck a look at the panties myself. They were
kind of cute, not like the big, sexless cotton things Mom wore.
Touching them got me kind of excited, in a new way I didn't understand.

Even though Danny told me all this stuff about sex, I figured he was
still a virgin. He had Maria's panties, but I don't think she had
put out for him yet. She was a Catholic girl, even if she was kind
of rebellious, and Danny complained a couple of times about how "the
fucking Pope" had made all these girls "think they were gonna
fucking die if they opened their legs." All the stuff he told me
about girls had a kind of abstract quality. I never questioned his
authority on the matter, but I wondered how far Maria let him go.
Maybe he'd felt her up, I thought.

He had quite a few porno magazines, which he hid in a space in the
wall in back of our closet. Most of them were just Playboys, but
some others I thought were kind of disturbing, even though I didn't
understand everything that was in them. There were a couple which
had pictures of women being whipped and chained, which I didn't like
much. One that disturbed me a lot had photos with a chick who had a
johnson. I couldn't figure that out. She was kind of pretty, but
there was this enormous schlong between her legs. Danny used to
laugh at me when he showed me that one, because he said it turned me
on. I knew it didn't. But it did make me confused. That seemed to
provoke Danny into bringing home more of that kind of thing to taunt
me with. He developed a big collection of really weird stuff. "That
gets you off, huh Mickey?" he'd say, just to get me riled.

All the hanging out each evening with Maria and the Thins meant
Danny never did any homework, so he started failing at school, and
he quit school before he graduated and took a job pumping gas over
in the next suburb. Imagine that -- this was before self serve,
even. It was a shitty job, but he had a little money and that made
him an important member of the group.

I saw him, and Maria, quite a lot after school. They used to hang
out at the Cafe together, early, before all the others would get
there. I liked Maria. She was the only one of Danny's friends who
didn't tease me about my height, or the fact that my voice hadn't
broken yet. And she made me laugh. She was really good at doing
imitations of Danny when he wasn't looking, and that cracked me up.
"You and I both know Danny better than he does," she used to say to
me conspiratorially. She'd wink at me and smile whenever Danny was
big-noting himself to his friends. I think I was almost in love with
her. Danny told me a couple of times to "watch it," and said if I
was older he'd have to take me out the back and whup me for the way
he caught me looking at her, but I think he misunderstood. I thought
Maria was wonderful, but I wasn't into sex properly yet and I wasn't
really thinking of her that way.

She fascinated me in a new way. Sometimes I caught myself staring at
her, or she caught me. I was amazed by everything about her, the way
she moved, the way different parts of her body moved when she
walked, the way she smiled, the soft, lilting quality of her voice
even when she was coming down hard on Danny. I watched her, almost
obsessively, every chance I got. I thought she was a goddess.

Danny dropping out of school made my old man even worse. He blamed
Mom instead of Danny, and he started drinking more, something I
would never have thought possible. Because Danny wasn't home much
Dad would lay into me if I was around. He used to get mad at me
because Mom liked me so much. "Momma's boy," he'd say as he lit into
me. Like Danny, I just took it. He was a lot bigger than I was, and
the one time I raised my hand to hit him back he just laughed at me,
which was worse than being hit.

I wasn't very good at making friends, so I never joined the Division
Thins even though I hung out at the cafe some nights. Danny had let
me know he wasn't too keen on having his little brother around
anyway. I cut my hair the same way, short at the front and long at
the back, but mostly I just kept to myself, sitting outside on the
front steps of our house to do my homework, or walking around
Harrison Park on my own. I didn't like a few of the other Thins
anyway. Danny's best friend in the group was this thuggish Italian
guy called Tony. He and I instantly disliked one another. He kept
calling me "Pussy," even in front of Danny, and I was annoyed that
Danny didn't stick up for me. I spat in Tony's food a couple of
times when he wasn't looking, and made faces at him a few times, but
I soon got bored with that. The funny thing was I didn't think Tony
thought much of Danny either, and he was always staring at Maria in
a really creepy way. I stared at Maria all the time, but this was
different. Couldn't Danny see that?

I think my dislike of Tony was the first time I had a visceral
response to someone's personality. If Tony had a soul it would have
been bitter, dark, oily. He gave me the chills in a part of me I
hadn't noticed before.

I didn't make many other friends, either. I was small and kind of
wimpy back then, and so I didn't get to hang with the jocks at
school, and I didn't pay enough attention to schoolwork to be with
the brains. Even though I got a Thins haircut, because I'm a redhead
with wavy hair and really pale skin I never looked at all tough. I
was part of that great amorphous mass that makes up the majority of
the school population, the ones that aren't real smart or cool or
good looking. The ones that just are.

The truth was, I guess I really didn't fit in well with anybody,
even the other 'average' kids. I always felt like there was some
barrier between me and everyone else in the world, like nobody could
see the real me. Maybe part of it was that people expected me to be
more like Danny, but I think another part of it was that I didn't
feel very comfortable with trusting people. Our house wasn't a good
environment for that sort of thing. It's kind of hard to explain,
but I think that it was because I could sense little things about
people that seemed to make me self-conscious around them, or made me
distrust them. About the only person I trusted was my Mom.

I didn't make many friends, but I didn't make too many enemies
except for Tony.

After my father hit my Mom badly enough to put her in hospital,
Danny stopped coming home. He wouldn't tell me where he was staying,
but he said he wouldn't be in the same house with Dad, because Danny
thought he might kill Dad next time he hit Mom.

With Danny and Mom away I took to staying out of the house almost
entirely myself. I spent most of the time just walking around, and I
took some blankets a couple of times and slept on a bench in the
park a couple of nights. I don't know if Dad knew, or if he did know
whether he even cared. He was usually drunk anyway.

After Danny had been gone a week or so I went to look for him at
work one afternoon, just to talk. His boss told me he'd been fired a
few days earlier, for stealing from the register.

I was devastated. Not Danny, I thought, Danny would never steal. He
did lots of other things that were questionable, but he wasn't a
thief. I knew that in my soul, but I could tell that his Boss
honestly believed Danny had taken the money. I went down to the
Division Cafe, but none of the Thins were there both times I called
in except Tony and an idiot guy called Pete who hung around with him
all the time. I asked Tony if he'd seen Danny, or Maria. Tony just
told me to fuck off.

It was a week later, while I was out in the park late one night,
that I came upon something terrible. I was taking a short cut back
home, through the bushes on the West side of the park, when I heard
the sounds of the bushes rustling and saw a figure sprint away
toward the road.

As I saw the person running, I knew that there was bad shit going
down. That's probably not really profound, in retrospect, but I
knew, I could feel before I looked, that there was something inside
the bushes that was unspeakable. Try as I might, I couldn't help
myself from walking over to them.

Inside the bushes I could hear a strange sound, kind of like a
person gargling mouthwash or something. I parted the branches, and
in a small clearing between the bushes there was a girl laying on
her back, moving slightly, something dark and fluid on her chest and
arms. I pushed through, and saw her skirt had been ripped off, and
was caught on a nearby branch, and her panties were lying on the
ground a few feet away. I looked at her crotch, first, and was
amazed to see the hair there. Then she gurgled again, and I dragged
my eyes away and realized, slowly, like it was some kind of movie I
didn't understand too well... Her throat had been cut. The dark
stuff all over her was blood, and it was still spurting from the
side of her neck. On the ground beside her neck was a knife, also
covered in what I assumed was blood. Without thinking I picked it
up, then, repulsed, threw it into the bushes.

Then I froze. There is no way to describe how I felt. It was Maria.
Even today, twenty-five years later, I remember that awful feeling
as I looked into those deep dark eyes and the bottom fell out of my
stomach.

I collapsed to my knees, grasped her head, and tried to lift it up
to support her. Blood continued to gush, all over me, into my lap. I
tried to staunch it with my hands, but it seemed to come right out
of her no matter what I did. Despite my first impressions, this
wasn't like seeing people die on TV. It was awful. Paralyzing. I was
shocked and desperate. I didn't think to call out for help or
anything -- no-one else would be in the park this time of night
anyway and besides I was preoccupied with trying to stop the blood
from coming out. I tried to plug the wound with my handkerchief, and
it stopped the spurting but the blood still seemed to be coming out
from somewhere.

After a few moments, I really don't know how long it was, her
twitches became less frequent and eventually she stopped moving. I
held her head in my lap for a while longer, then, sickened, I stood
up and forced my way back out of the bushes. I staggered away a few
steps and then started to run.

I ran, and ran. I didn't run toward home. I just ran away from
Maria, away from the park, away from everything. It didn't make any
sense, but nothing that night made any sense.

I figured afterward that I ran about eighteen blocks that night
without stopping. A car almost hit me once when I crossed the
street. I was still running blindly through the shopping strip when
someone grabbed my shoulders and threw me to the concrete sidewalk.
I was dazed for a few seconds, then tried to stand before a boot
came down on my back and held me there. "Whoa, kid. Hold it right
there."

He dragged me to my feet, and threw me up against the side of a car.
"Okay, kid, what's up?" he said, as he began to pat me down.
"Jeeesus," he said softly as he saw the full extent of the blood all
over me. "Are you all right?"

I wanted to say something but my mouth didn't want to work, and I
was still winded from when he had stood on my back. I could only
shake my head, which he thought meant I was hurt, and I still
couldn't talk. I tried to turn around to look at him, but he slapped
my head straight ahead, so I stared into the flick-pulse of the red
strobe stuck on the roof of the car.

He pushed my back again, then leant in the window next to me and
reached for something. I could hear him talking on the radio, but I
can't remember what he said. The events of that night are still kind
of hazy for me.

Eventually I found myself in a small green-painted room with a table
and two chairs. I was there on my own for a while. Then a couple of
guys came in and asked me questions. I answered them as well as I
could, but I can't remember what I said. Later on I found out that I
didn't say anything they could make any sense of.

After they left a long time passed. I'm not sure how long. Then a
woman came in and asked me some more questions. After she left I
couldn't keep my eyes open any more, and I lay down on the linoleum
floor and fell asleep.

I woke up in a strange bed. The room was gray, and there was nothing
in it except the bed I was laying on. There were bars on the window.
A quick inventory showed I was sleeping in my jockeys and t-shirt.

Eventually I got up. My other clothes were not in the room, and I
discovered the door was locked from the outside. So I went and sat
on the edge of the bed and waited. After a while, I don't know how
long, a large woman came in, gave me some gray pants to wear and a
gray shirt, and waited while I put them on. She didn't say anything
when I asked her where I was, or who she was, so I dressed and she
led me down a long, bare corridor, past lots of closed doors, to a
little room like the one I had been in the night before, except this
one was gray instead of green. I sat on the chair she indicated, and
then waited.

About a dozen people came and talked to me that day. I didn't
understand a lot of what they said because they used pretty big
words a lot. These days I'm okay at understanding most things, in
fact for a while people used to joke about me and call me "the
brain," I guess because after that day I discovered that if you
don't know what's going on people can screw you. But back then when
I was fourteen I wasn't real good at understanding older people.

The first person to see me was a fat old guy. I didn't know how old,
except he was older than my Dad which meant very old. He reminded me
of that Ed guy on Johnny Carson, only he wasn't funny. He told me he
was my lawyer. He asked me a couple of questions about Maria, and
about what had happened. I told him as clearly as I could remember,
but it was hard. I had to try to stop shaking when I thought of
having her head in my lap like that, when she went still.

After a few minutes the old guy got up and went into the corridor,
then came back with a woman who said she was a social worker. I
liked her; she seemed reassuring. She mostly just sat there while
the lawyer talked, and she held my hand when I started shaking again.

After we'd been talking for a while a couple of other guys came in.
They said they were cops, which figured after what had happened to
Maria. I found them really hard to understand, because they were
very formal and cold, but the guy who said he was my lawyer said it
was okay to talk to them so I told them most of what had happened.

Then they dropped a bombshell on me. Danny was dead, too. They'd
found his body in the river last night. He had died around the same
time as Maria, maybe a little before, drowned, and with a blow to
the head. I stopped listening to everything else they said, and
after a while the cops gave up and left.

I was stunned. Danny dead. I couldn't imagine it. I knew Maria was
dead, I had held her in my arms as she died, but I couldn't believe
Danny was dead.

Finally the lawyer left, and they took me back to the room with the
bed in it. I lay there for hours, crying softly. I knew tough guys
didn't cry, but Danny had been the tough guy, not me.

Late in the afternoon the social worker came in and asked me if I
wanted to see my Dad and I said yes.

About an hour later I was taken back to the interview room (I knew
what it was called now) and a few minutes later Dad came in. He
walked in with the social worker and a guy in some kind of gray
uniform. I stood up. I could see straight away that Dad was pissed
with me, even though he seemed sober. Probably, I thought at the
time, it was because he'd been called away from work. He walked
straight up to me and hit me in the face. Blam! Right in the nose.
"Fucking pervert!" he screamed at me. Then he hit me again, in the
side of the head and the chest, and after I fell to the floor he
started kicking me until the guy in the uniform dragged him away.

The social worker gave me some tissues to stem the blood from my nose.

I never saw my father again.

Over the next couple of days I spent most of the time in the room I
had woken up in, except for when people wanted to talk to me, when
they led me back down to the interview room. A doctor came and
examined me on the second day, then on the fifth day a woman who
said she was a psychologist came to see me and asked me a lot of
questions about my childhood.

The social worker asked a lot of questions, too, but seemed
friendlier than the others. I think that maybe she was the only one
who believed my story. She told me that the police thought I had
murdered Maria. I was dumbfounded. She said it was because I had
handled the knife, and I had Maria's blood all over me, and because
people thought I was jealous of Danny.

My Dad believed the cops. Now that Danny was dead, my Dad had had
some kind of change of heart, and it was like Danny was the perfect
son -- and I was the faggot creep who was jealous. I don't know, I
still can't figure my Dad out, even now.

They couldn't pin Danny's murder on me because they didn't have any
evidence, but they wanted to get me for Maria. The police had found
Danny's stash of porno magazines in the back of the closet, and were
convinced that since Danny no longer lived there they had to be
mine. I think that's what my Dad told them.

The whole thing sickened me. I couldn't believe it. How could they
believe I could have killed anyone? I was fourteen years old for
chrissakes!

Years afterward, while I was reviewing my case history, I discovered
there were several odd things about the two deaths. For one thing,
Maria had not been sexually assaulted, though her dress and panties
were ripped off her. Whoever had done it had probably lost control
of themselves, or she had struggled too much, and they had killed
her before getting what they wanted from her. I often wondered
whether that figure I saw running away was Danny. I've always
figured it was more likely Tony. I figure Tony for killing Danny,
too, though one of my lawyer friends once said he thought it was
more likely suicide.

I didn't believe Danny would ever kill himself. I still don't.

In really dark moments I wonder if it wasn't my Dad who did it all.
The figure running from the bushes didn't look like him, but... I
try not to think those kinds of thoughts.

The next couple of days are still a blur. I was taken to juvenile
court, where my lawyer said I was pleading not guilty, and I was
taken back to the place they'd been holding me to wait a few weeks
until the hearing. My Mom came to visit me, still bruised on her
face from where Dad had beaten her. She cried a lot, and spoke with
my lawyer and the social worker, but she was too emotional to talk
to me much. Mostly she just tried to hug me, and cried.

My social worker, who I discovered was called Angela, brought me
some stuff to read, and though at first I didn't feel like it the
boredom of being locked in the small featureless room soon got the
better of me and I read everything she brought me avidly. The books
all featured middle-class kids complaining about how tough they had
it. One was about this kid called Holden who wanted to be some kind
of wheat field hero, saving his kid sister from going over a cliff.
I kind of liked it even though I didn't understand all of it. Angela
also brought me some magazines about car racing, which depressed me.
Danny had always liked fast cars. He liked to help Tyrone, a guy who
lived down the block, polish his Camaro every Sunday. On the cover
of one of the magazines was a car just like Tyrone's, only more
tricked-up. I kept thinking Danny would have enjoyed the magazine
more than I did.

Eventually it was time for my next appearance in juvenile court. My
lawyer didn't want me to say anything. The police went on endlessly,
and I could sense that they were making me out to be some kind of
weirdo even though I didn't understand all the stuff the lawyers and
cops said. A lot of it was about the blood on me and my fingerprints
on the knife. But they also mentioned the time I had been arrested
with Danny, and the time I was caught stealing the laundry. They
made it sound like I was violent, and like I had a fetish for
women's underwear or something. They kept mentioning Maria's
underwear in my room and all the porno magazines there.

Angela, my social worker, made a brief speech to the judge, saying
that I had a difficult home life and appeared to be traumatized by
the events, and that she thought that if I got probation she could
put me in a foster home. As she sat down again I looked at the
judge. I didn't think she had made a very big impression after all
the stuff the cops had said.

Finally the sentence was handed down. I wasn't going to jail,
exactly. It was a juvenile correctional facility. Same thing,
really, except they dress it up with fancy words to make it sound
like it's not so bad. Let me tell you, I've seen the insides of
prisons, and they don't get a lot worse than 'The James Brand
Juvenile Correctional Facility'.

***

Chapter Two.

The first few days at Brand were pretty bad. I knew lots of tough
kids from the neighborhood back home, but there were some kids
inside that made them look tame. Part of my problem was that, having
only just turned 14, I was one of the youngest kids inside. Most of
them were 16 or older. I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible,
but Brand was small enough that people came looking for me, the new
kid, anyway. The first day I was there a slick looking kid, sleazy
way beyond his 16 years, stopped me after lunch to tell me Nick
Pangianis wanted to see me. I didn't know what that meant, but I was
soon to find out.

After I was inducted into the center they did the usual things;
cutting my hair ultra-short and checking me for lice and diseases
and so on. Then I got read a lecture about the rules and
regulations, most of which just passed in one ear and out the other.
They gave me some clothes to wear, the same standard issue everyone
else got: a couple of white t-shirts, some pale blue cotton shirts
and some dark blue pants along with socks and underwear. They all
had 'Illinois Department of Corrections' printed on them. I'd seen
movies about guys being inducted into the army, and it seemed a lot
like that.

Then they led me inside.

I was put in a two-bed room with a guy about five years older than
me, Steve Hammond. He was pretty tall, well over six feet, and he
was really solid. He looked like he worked out a lot. Despite his
imposing size he didn't seem so bad, really, at least not compared
with the other guys there. He was civilized enough to explain how he
thought things would work, the rules of the cell as it were, but it
was clear he wasn't going to accept any argument from me.

After a brusque opening to our relationship, I decided I like him.
He came from Mississippi, and had a broad accent and a careful way
with his words that relaxed me immediately. I'd only ever heard
someone talk that way on TV before, never in real life, and I kind
of liked it.

The room was nothing special, at least not for a place that I was
going to be spending so much time in. Two of the walls were almost
completely covered with posters, mostly of either the Rolling Stones
or of topless girls. Steve was evidently a Stones fan. The pictures
of the girls were about as risqué as you could get while they were
still wearing panties. Totally nude pictures were forbidden.

Steve motioned to the bottom bunk and I put the blanket the center
had given me on it.

The rooms at Brand weren't totally like a prison cell. They had the
same concrete-block walls, but there were no bars to the corridor,
only solid steel doors that could be locked from the outside. The
windows had bars and mesh on them, and were too high for me to see
much out of. Not that there was much to see around the facility,
just institutional buildings and a flat landscape stretching off
into the distance. There weren't any trees. Inside, the walls were
painted in a pale gray, and there were no decorations other than
those the inmates put up themselves. Inmates were allowed to have a
few personal possessions. Most opted for a radio as the main thing,
and I noticed Steve was lucky enough to have a guitar and a cassette
recorder. Apart from that the place was pretty spartan.

The regime was pretty prison-like, though. We were subject to random
inspections, including in the middle of the night, and we were
confined to our rooms except for showers, meals, exercise time and
classes or workshop. Every so often Grieves and the teachers would
dream up some activities that were supposed to keep our morale up,
which everybody took part in just to get out of their rooms. Meals
were taken in the mess (they used a lot of military terms at Brand)
and there was a strict pecking order that governed where you got to
sit. Nobody knew me those first couple of days and so I sat on my
own, at a table at the front of the room. Otherwise we saw a lot of
the same concrete block walls.

I asked Steve what it meant that Nick Pangianis was looking for me
and Steve told me somewhat cryptically to watch out for myself in
the showers, that all new boys got an initiation. I figured Nick
must be a fag. That's strange, I thought -- at school nobody was
afraid of fags. They were the ones who got beaten up.

I was never really comfortable showering with anyone back then,
mostly because of my size. I was kind of short, still around 5'4",
and pretty thin and weedy. The truth is, I hadn't hit puberty yet,
really. Oh, I got a boner every now and again like every guy, but I
was still mostly hairless, and when I did jerk off nothing came out
yet. I still pretty much looked like a kid, too. Most of the others
at school, and all the guys at Brand, were men, or at least well on
the way to being men. At school I had always tried to be last one in
the showers after gym, just so the other guys wouldn't notice me so
much.

That was my general strategy in life -- just kind of fade into the
background and try not to be noticed. It worked most of my life up
until then. Especially since people were always expecting me to be
like Danny, loud and brash and confident. If they knew Danny they
always got a big surprise when they met me.

None of the guys at Brand knew Danny, of course, so they didn't have
any preconceptions of me. I had decided when I was going in that I
would just play things cool, at least until I found out how the
place worked. But that second day, in the showers, I was new, and I
suppose I was an object of curiosity. There was no possibility of a
later shower -- I was in there with others like it or not. So I
tried to act cool, like I wasn't afraid. Mostly I just tried not to
make eye contact. I turned to the wall, and raised my face to the
stream from the shower. That was probably a mistake, but then again
they'd probably have grabbed me whether I was looking or not. I had
a very bad feeling about what was going through the heads of a
couple of the boys in there, and I didn't need to look at them to
confirm my suspicions.

Two guys wrapped my arms behind my back and marched me to the far
side of the shower area, near the benches were a half-dozen guys
were dressing. They stood me behind a guy who was toweling his
near-shaved head briskly, his back to us. This was Nick Pangianis,
although I didn't know it right away. He turned around and smiled at
me, as though he wanted to put me at ease. The two goons holding my
arms didn't ease up on their grip, though. "Hey, Red," Nick said, in
a deep voice that gave me shivers.

Nick was a big guy, maybe bigger than Steve was, and he looked much
too old to be in a juvenile facility. He sure didn't look like a
fag, I thought to myself. He was a mean-looking son of a bitch, and
his thin smile couldn't hide that. That first day, I could see him
look me over thoroughly as I stood there naked, and he smirked, as
though finding me wanting. Then the goons thrust me to my knees, and
Nick advanced upon me as he began to unwrap the towel around his waist.

I was young, but I wasn't all that naive, and I knew what was
coming. I struggled, breaking my right arm free momentarily and
striking out blindly as Nick dropped his towel and I saw his cock
rising toward me. That was evidently something he hadn't expected,
and he doubled over in pain. Immediately I was hit from behind, and
my face was ground into the concrete floor. I felt a foot strike me
in the side, and then another, and another, and finally another blow
to the back of my head before I lost consciousness.

I woke up in the infirmary. Nobody asked me what had happened, how
it was that I'd suddenly had my nose all banged up or my ribs so
badly bruised. I decided not to volunteer anything. That had always
been the code in our neighborhood. Never Say Anything.

The doctor was a creep, I decided after he had seen me. Not just
ugly and grumpy, but kind of sleazy, too. I didn't like the way he
looked at me, or touched me, when he examined the bruises, and
despite my trepidation about going back out with the rest of the
guys I was relieved when they sent me back to my room after a few days.

"You said no, huh?" Steve said to me when I showed up at the door to
our room. I tried to smile, but it hurt. I told him I didn't want to
talk about it, so we lay on our respective bunks for an hour or so
in silence. It was Sunday evening, and there were no set activities
or chores. After a while, out of curiosity, I started asking Steve
about himself, and he answered most of them, out of boredom I guess.

The question everyone asks inside when he first meets you is "what
did you do?" Kind of like the way people on the outside ask what
kind of job you have soon after they meet you, to get a feel for the
kind of person you are. It's taken for granted most times that
everyone inside is innocent, even though almost nobody is. It's
almost a joke. "I'm in here for murdering my parents, but I didn't
do it," a mousy high-voiced Polish kid told me while we were in the
queue for dinner. Steve was a little different. He was inside
because he had stolen a car one night, and been involved in a
high-speed chase with the cops in which another kid had been killed,
and he'd been convicted of second degree murder as a result. He
freely admitted that he'd done it, and that he was sorry he'd done it.

I told him my story, and that I was innocent, but I suppose he
received this information with the same grain of salt everyone
inside gives 'innocence'.

I was pleased Steve was prepared to talk with me. It was unusual for
an older guy like him to waste time with a kid like me, and I
appreciated the gesture of friendship. "You're okay, Mike," he said.
He didn't need to add "for a kid" -- I knew that was part of it, but
I liked the company anyway. We talked for most of the evening, and I
came to like him more and more. Something in him, maybe the way he
paused to make a point or the twist to his mouth when he was going
to say something funny, reminded me of Danny. I was going to tell
him that before I went to sleep that night, but I thought it would
probably sound kind of sappy, so I shut up.

Next day the incident in the showers was repeated. Nick's goons
grabbed me, and dragged me to him. Once again, he tried to get me to
suck his cock. I refused again, and so I ate concrete a second time.
"You got guts, kid" I heard him say as feet went into my back and
ribs. "You're fuckin' stupid, but you got guts."

After they let me out of the infirmary that time I went back to my
room. I didn't say anything, just went to my bunk and lay down.
After a few minutes I heard Steve sigh and fold the magazine he was
reading, then saw him swing down to take a look at me. "Turn over,"
he said. I stayed put, until I felt his hand at my shoulder,
beginning to turn me anyway. I rolled over to face him. He whistled.
"I don't know if your face can take too much more of this."

"We'll see," I said, with as much conviction as I could muster.

"He only does it once," Steve said.

"Huh?"

"He does it to everyone, once. Then he mostly leaves you alone. It's
not a sex thing really. He has some kid, Cary, takes care of him that
way. It's just his way of letting you know he owns this place."

"He doesn't own me," I said, and rolled over again.

"Suit yourself," Steve said, climbing back onto his bunk. "But he's
gonna keep trying until you let him do it, or until you can beat him
and his goons in a fight. You're an okay looking kid, Mike, you
don't want to screw that up for life."

I lay awake for hours after lights out that night, thinking about
what Steve had said. Perhaps if I did it, just the once ... but
visions of Danny taunted me. I knew what he would have said. It
would be better to be dead than to suck some guy's cock. 'Is that
true, Danny?' I wondered. I thought of Steve. Had he sucked Nick's
cock, just for peace? I was going to ask him, but something made me
hold back. He had been nice to me, before, and that was the first
time anyone at Brand had been nice to me. And I had a good feeling
about Steve. I didn't know whether to trust my feelings, but there
was something about him that was -- good. We had talked for hours
again that evening, and I had felt a real bond with him. It was
almost the same bond I had felt with Danny. No matter what terrible
things either Steve or Danny had done, they both felt like guys I
could trust.

Next morning I was going to skip showers, but Gonzales, the guard,
came looking for me and told me in no uncertain terms to get my butt
in there. As I walked down the corridor I was growing increasingly
nervous, but to my surprise Gonzales followed me in to the showers.

In the showers nothing untoward happened. There was only the sound
of the running water. I could see Nick's goons on the other side of
the room, though there was no sign of Pangianis. They eyed me the
whole time I was in the shower, and when one of them thought
Gonzales wasn't looking he made a motion with his finger across his
larynx, like he was going to cut my throat. I finished my shower in
peace, dressed, and went back to my cell escorted by Gonzales.

"Thanks," I said to him as we walked back, but he just grunted, as
though he could have cared less what happened to me. At the door to
my room he spoke for the first time since the shower. "Downstairs in
five minutes for breakfast."

Steve walked with me downstairs, but separated from me as soon as we
hit the mess hall. "No offence, but I have a regular place," he
said. I knew what he meant from my experience during the first
couple of days at Brand. All the guys were crowded around nineteen
of the tables, with no seats spare. The one table at the front of
the room I had eaten at last time was vacant except for a fat kid
who kept his eyes on his food.

I got in the food line, picked up a tray and was served what passed
for breakfast, and began to make my way back to the table with the
fat kid. I knew I would have to earn a place with anyone else, and I
hadn't had a chance to do that, yet.

I sat and ate breakfast, deliberately avoiding eye contact with
anyone else. I had a really bad feeling in the pit of my stomach,
but I wasn't sure if it was just the unfamiliarity of the place or
any real threat, so I just focused on the tray in front of me. So
rigorously was I focusing on my food that I didn't notice that half
the hall had emptied out, and I was startled when I noticed two guys
had sat down beside me. Looking up and to my left I could see one of
them was Pangianis. On the other side was Sonny, a stoned-looking
thug of his. The fat kid hurriedly stood up and nervously took his
tray over to the clean-up area. I flicked my eyes toward the serving
area but noticed there was no-one there, and the guard who had been
at the door was occupied talking to three guys about something, his
back to me. Pangianis observed me scoping the room, and smiled. I
did not like his smile.

"Wanna do it here?" he said quietly.

Just by reflex, because the idea was so ridiculous, I said "huh?"

"You heard me, fuck. Get under the table."

"Fuck you," I said.

I waited for the thump, but none came. Instead, he and his goon
grabbed my arms. I was going to cry out, to attract the guard, but
the goon grabbed my mouth as well, and it came out muffled. Then I
felt a strange sensation on my left wrist, a sharp pain that burned,
and then felt it again. Wrestling myself around to the right, I
tried to bite the goon's arm. I felt the same sensation on my right
wrist. What was going on? Were they trying to tie me up? It didn't
make any sense. Eventually I got one of the goon's fingers inside my
mouth, and I bit hard. Really hard. He let go of my arm in surprise,
and took his hand from my mouth. Immediately I lashed out at him
with my right hand. It was hard to get at him, since he was on my
right, but I hit him a glancing blow across the face and he
overturned his chair. I was aware as I hit him that something was
wrong with my arm, and that Pangianis had let go of me as well, but
it didn't stop me. I lashed out with my leg, kicking, then spun
round to hit out at my main oppressor. Pangianis was gone. He was at
least a table length away. Then I saw the guard coming for me, and I
ran toward Pangianis, wanting to hurt him before the guard could
break us apart. Something was wrong with me, I thought dimly as I
started to move. I felt weak, and my arms were wet. Especially the
left one. I have a dim memory of looking down, seeing my left hand
covered in blood, before I passed out within a few feet of Nick
Pangianis.

I woke up in a room that wasn't part of the Brand facility. I knew
that right away. For a start, it was cleaner, and also better
finished. All the walls at Brand were roughly rendered brick, and
these looked like plaster, or at least good quality concrete. There
was a more obvious guide to where I was: the IV dripping into my
left arm.

I lay in bed for a while before I remembered the events that had led
up to where I was. I extracted my left arm from under the quilt and
saw that my wrist was wrapped in a bandage, and further up the arm
from the bandage was a leather cuff and a chain to the side of the
bed. My right arm was bandaged and restrained in the same way. My
face felt kind of numb, but I discovered that I couldn't bring my
hands up far enough to touch it, since the straps restrained my
arms. Running my tongue over my lips I felt a bandage above my upper
lip.

I was still exploring my circumstances when a nurse came in to the
room. "Oh, you're awake," she said.

"Uh huh," I nodded, trying to sit up. It was impossible because I
couldn't move my arms far enough back in the bed. "Can you help me
sit up?"

"You have to stay in the bed until the doctor says you can move,"
she said, but she helped tilt the bed up so I was more or less
sitting. I tried to engage her in conversation about where I was,
and what had happened, but she said, in a friendly way, that I'd
have to wait until the doctor talked to me. "And Mr. Grieves," she said.

I found out who Mr. Grieves was immediately after she left. A tall,
graying and conservatively dressed man walked in to the room. He
looked like he was about to come to the side of the bed, but then he
seemed to change his mind and stood at the foot instead. I was glad
I was sitting up so I could see him properly.

"Good afternoon, Michael. I was hoping to meet you in somewhat
different circumstances." His voice was polished and resonant, like
Charlton Heston's.

I nodded hello, unsure about what he was talking about, but not
getting a good feeling from him.

"I'm John Grieves, Michael. I run James Brand," he said, sensing my
confusion. "Ordinarily I would have met with you on your second day
with us, but you have had a rather, ah, unorthodox few days with us
so far, wouldn't you say?"

"I wouldn't know," I said.

"I like my boys to say 'Sir'," Mr. Grieves said firmly.

I thought about bucking this, but in the circumstances -- what with
hospital and feeling strange and all -- I decided against it. "Yes sir"

"That's good, Michael. Am I going to have a problem with you?"

"Pardon?"

"I am, it seems."

"Pardon, sir," I corrected myself.

"I was just wondering whether I was going to have a problem with
you." His eyes flicked over me as though he was appraising livestock.

"No, sir"

"Well, you're off to a bad start so far," he said. "We don't often
get boys for sex offences, let alone boys your age, and --"

"-- I didn't --"

"-- I don't like people interrupting me" he continued, his mood
souring. "We've never had a boy involved in as many fights as you in
such a short time. You've spent more time in the infirmary than you
have out of it so far."

I said nothing. There didn't seem any point in explaining that I had
nothing to do with Maria's death. Nor that I had never had any
sexual experience at all. Mr. Grieves had made his mind up about me
from reading my file.

Mr. Grieves seemed to weigh my silence and find it wanting. "I can't
allow this behavior at James Brand," he said gravely. "You must
realize that. It disrupts the discipline of the other boys." He
raised his hand as though to forestall another interruption from me.
"Now, I don't care what the reasons for your fighting were, or
whether you were actually trying to kill yourself ... "

What? It took me a moment to realize he was talking about the cuts
Pangianis had made to my wrists. Shit. How could anyone be stupid
enough to think I had been trying to kill myself? I was flabbergasted!

"... But I take a very dim view of sharpened knives and such like,"
he went on. "Your possession of such an implement is, on its own,
sufficient for me to keep you away from the other boys, and keep you
out of the mess hall. You'll eat alone, with plastic implements."

"Sir?" I said timidly.

"What?" he said impatiently.

"I didn't have a knife, sir. I didn't cut myself, someone else cut me."

"We found a knife beneath the table you had been sitting at. Quite
expertly sharpened, I must admit. Who do you think cut you?"

Once again I couldn't say. The code of the neighborhood. Never tell.
Not even on Pangianis. "What about the others?"

"Taylor saw you attack two other boys before you went down, he
didn't know why," Grieves said. "They said they were trying to stop
you hurting yourself"

"It was my first time in the mess hall, sir. Where would I have
gotten the knife?"

He considered this for a few seconds. "You could have had it in the
infirmary. It would probably be easier to have obtained it there. In
any case, it doesn't excuse your behavior in the preceding days."
His mood was even uglier, now that I had questioned his version of
events.

I was screwed. I saw that. He had made up his mind about me, and
changing it was going to take action from me, not words. If I could
ever change it. I looked down at my hands, glumly.

"You weren't feeling remorseful about what you did to that girl?"
Grieves continued.

"I didn't do anything to her." I knew this was the wrong thing to
say but there was no way I was ever going to admit to something as
hideous as that.

"You are clearly a very, very disturbed boy, Michael. On the basis
of your offence alone I would have referred you to the counselor,
but since this attempted suicide and your consistent fighting and
aggressive behavior I'm afraid I'll also be referring you to Dr.
Blaha for regular therapy. You will see him every week, starting
tomorrow."

Almost as an aside, Grieves changed his tone and said lightly "Quite
apart from anything else, it reflects badly upon us to have you look
like this. Imagine if you had a visitor, what they would think to
see you look this way! Of course, I've forbidden you any visitors
for the next three months, as punishment for this."

And then he was gone. I lay back in the bed and thought about where
my life had gone to in the past three months. To shit, I thought. My
life was shit.

The next day I met Dr Blaha for the first time. He swept into the
room soon after breakfast, accompanied by a nurse. "Untie him
immediately," he said brusquely to her, and my spirits improved. At
last, someone who thought I was a human being. But then he turned to
me, and flipped the file he had in his hand briskly through the air,
as though he was about to toss it away.

"You have given a lot of people cause to dislike you," he said to me
severely as the nurse undid the chain on my right arm. He had a
peculiar accent I couldn't put a name to. It wasn't difficult to
understand, but I figured it was something European. "This ..." He
motioned to the file. "This is shocking, I must say. At your age. I
have had some troublesome adolescents referred to me before, but
never one as young as you with such a record, Michael."

The nurse released my other arm and I rubbed my face lightly. I had
a bandage across my nose and on my forehead. It seemed to cover most
of my face. Dr. Blaha seemed distracted by my actions. "No need to
worry about that, I'm sure Dr. Singh did a good job on it." He
turned to the nurse then and lowered his voice. "Would you give us
some privacy, please?"

The nurse left and he continued in a lower voice. "You don't need to
worry about the bandage, the surgeon just fixed your nose and
stitched up the cut above your eye. I'm assured you won't notice
anything after a few weeks." He lowered the bed slightly and pulled
over a chair so we were more or less level as he continued. "I am
Dr. Blaha, I believe Mr. Grieves has spoken to you about me?" I
nodded, and he went on. "I am a psychiatrist, Michael, and I have
been asked by Mr. Grieves to talk with you to see what is at the
heart of your problems."

I didn't say anything, just waited for him to continue. He talked
for a while about his expectations for me, and then warned me
against any uncooperative behavior. "You must understand, Michael,
that although you are only in a juvenile facility, I have the legal
authority to do anything I feel is necessary to rehabilitate you.
Anything. Are you clear on that?"

Again, I didn't say anything, just nodded. I had pretty much made up
my mind that he was going to be no help at all. Untying my hands had
just been a gesture to try to win my confidence -- this guy was a
part of the system that had put me here.

He went on for a long time after that, asking me lots of questions
about my life, about how I felt about girls, lots of other stuff
about how I felt about life in general and about my feelings toward
suicide. I tried to explain that I had not been suicidal, and I
almost told him about Pangianis, but there was something about him
that I didn't trust and I held back.

After Dr. Blaha left I went back to total boredom in the hospital
room. The next day they transferred me back to the infirmary at
Brand, and then a few days after that removed the bandages. They
gave me a mirror, and I could see that although my nose and eyes
were still very swollen they looked like they would heal up without
any scars.

I was given my own room at Brand, and -- as Mr. Grieves had said --
kept entirely separate from everyone else. There were three rooms in
the isolation section but I never saw anyone else in the corridors
in the time I was there, or heard anyone but the guards. I showered
alone in a single stall shower in the block, and had my meals
brought to me in my room. There was a small outside space -- hardly
a courtyard, more like the bottom of an air shaft -- at the end of
the corridor of the isolation section where I was allowed to spend
an hour a day in the open air, although sunshine never seemed to hit
the ground there.

Even though I had only been at Brand a few days, I kind of missed
Steve. He had helped me fit in with a lot of things there and I
missed having someone to talk with to fill in the long days. Grieves
came to see me my first day out of the infirmary and explained that
I would be excluded from the general activities the other boys were
involved in, but that he would expect me to do some reading so I
could keep up with studies when I went back into the general
population at Brand.

The days were very long and boring, so I started reading some of the
books, just out of desperation. I had been neither a good or bad
student when at school -- good because I was reasonably smart I
guess, but bad because I didn't much care about it. Studying was
what the Brady Bunch crowd did. But I got through the books Grieves
left pretty easily. They were just novels and a couple of history
books. There were some textbooks but I didn't pay any attention to
those.

I saw Dr. Blaha a few times in a small room off the infirmary, and
he got me to tell him a lot of details about my past and my family.
He was a strange man. There was something about him that made me
uneasy, although he was always polite with me. At the end of the
second session I had with him I felt somehow dirty, almost like
there was something about him that was rubbing off on me. Perhaps it
was the way he looked at me. I felt like he was looking past me to
someone who wasn't there, even when he looked me straight in the eyes.

Each visit with Dr. Blaha lasted about an hour; one or two ran
longer. Otherwise I only got to see the guards when they woke me,
escorted me to the small shower block in the isolation wing, or
brought me my meals. Each week they sprung a random inspection on
me, looking through my room for drugs or something I guess. I also
saw the guards when I got an hour in the yard by myself every day,
but otherwise it was just me, in that room, by myself.

A few weeks after I was released from hospital one of the guards
came to fetch me to see Grieves. Maybe he had relented, I thought,
and I was going to be allowed to rejoin the rest of the guys. The
idea gave me mixed emotions. I was lonely, but I still hadn't worked
out a way to deal with Pangianis.

It was Dr. Blaha who opened the door to the office. Grieves was
sitting at his desk, but he stood as soon as the guard and I came
in. The atmosphere in the office was bad, gloomy, and I knew
immediately that Grieves hadn't summoned me there to tell me
everything was going to be okay.

"I have bad news," Grieves began.

I don't remember too much past that point. Dr. Blaha said later that
it was because of stress or something. Grieves went on to tell me
that my mother was dead, that my father had finally hit her one too
many times and she had died in the ambulance on the way to hospital.
Dr. Blaha said later that my father's rages had become worse after
Danny had died and I was locked up.

Whatever the truth was, I did not take it well. Though I don't
remember it, I've been told I didn't say anything, just stood there
with my head hung for about two minutes, and then I went berserk,
rampaging across Grieves' office, heading straight for him and
destroying everything on his desk until the guard was able to
restrain me. I had dim memories of it later, when I lay in my room,
but I think that was mostly because I felt sore from the bruises
from where the guard had hit me. As I rubbed my aching arm I thought
again of Mom, and of the way she used to be, when she was happy,
singing along to Dusty Springfield. I knew tough guys didn't cry,
but I couldn't help it then, and I blubbered for at least an hour
while I thought of how life should have been for her.

Dr. Blaha came to my room an hour or two later, and wanted to talk
to me, but I was still in turmoil from what had happened. I was over
my tears, but I wanted to find my Dad, and hurt him, badly. I hadn't
felt this way since Maria had been killed, and now there was the
same small dark hard thing at the bottom of my soul that wanted to
explode outward in retribution for this injustice. My mom had
deserved a better life. I refused to say a word, and eventually,
after a small, ill-tempered lecture from Blaha about needing to
cooperate, he left.

I was called out on the following Monday to see Dr. Blaha again. We
got off to a bad start with the session. I had decided I would start
talking to him, but instead of talking about Mom now he wanted to
ask me questions about Maria and what had happened that night, and
wouldn't believe me when I said I was innocent. Instead, he got off
into a rage about how we could never have a relationship of trust so
long as I could not be truthful, and that it was just my screwed-up
relationship with sex and women that was impeding my therapy.

I couldn't help myself after that. Although I had mostly always been
respectful to adults, I said the same thing I would have said to
anyone who insulted me that way in the old neighborhood -- I told
him to go fuck himself.

Immediately he stopped ranting, and his face took on a calmer but
more calculating look. "If that's the way you want this to be," he
said, and he called for the guard to take me back to my room.

The following day I was led by a guard to the infirmary, where the
nurse took some blood samples. The day after that I went back there
again, only this time Dr. Blaha was there to greet me. "It gives me
no pleasure to do this, Michael, but since you have shown no
willingness to cooperate, and since you are still extremely
aggressive and show some disturbing attitudes so far as sexual
development goes, I have no alternative."

I had no idea what he was talking about, but he went on.

"Drop your pants, please."

Huh? I didn't say anything, but I didn't move, either. This guy was
a shrink, why did he want to look at my butt? When I didn't move the
guard came over and grabbed my wrists behind my back while the nurse
undid my pants. Then the guard forced me over the examination table.
A few moments later I felt a sharp prick as Dr. Blaha jabbed me in
the butt with a needle.

"This is the only alternative I have left to me, Michael. You may
find it slightly extreme, but I am sure it will make the difference
we need to move on."

***

Chapter Three.

The next week was as uneventful as most of my time while I was kept
in isolation. I read, exercised and ate alone. About the only
difference in my life was that I seemed to need a lot more sleep
than usual. I slept most afternoons. I just didn't seem to have any
energy.

At our next meeting Dr. Blaha asked how I was, and was almost
apologetic about having to have me restrained the week before, but I
was still angry with him and wouldn't give him more than yes or no
answers. I still wanted to ask him what it was he'd injected me
with, but I figured -- with the state of our relationship as it was
-- he wouldn't tell me anyway. The way he looked at me gave me the
creeps, and I had a really bad feeling about what was going through
his mind. Trust was not on the cards.

Life proceeded in this manner for some time. Dr. Blaha and I had
standoffish encounters at every meeting, and I was bored most of the
time on my own. I was gradually making my way through the library,
and I was exercising to try to keep myself in shape, but I was still
very tired and finding a lot of things harder going. I figured the
shot he gave me was a tranquilizer, but I was surprised it lasted so
long.

In the third week after Dr. Blaha gave me the shot I noticed my
chest was kind of painful, at least around my nipples. They felt
very painful in the cold air at night and in the morning. At our
next meeting I asked him about my tiredness, but I didn't feel
comfortable about mentioning my chest. "Yes, I would expect you to
feel more tired, it's a side effect of these drugs, and will help to
calm you down," Dr. Blaha said. "I want to make you less aggressive,
and this will help." I got another shot at the end of the session.
This time I just gave in, and didn't need to be restrained. He
seemed mildly pleased.

My tiredness didn't decrease, and nor did the uncomfortable feelings
in my nipples. By about three weeks after that I was beginning to
think there was something wrong with me. There was a definite small
growth under each nipple, and they were puffy and very sensitive to
every touch. The rough texture of my shirts rubbing against them
made any kind of exercise feel very painful.

Gradually Dr. Blaha seemed to thaw, and I suppose I did too. Every
two weeks he gave me another shot at the end of the therapy session,
and I gradually came to accept it. After a few months I had even
come to look forward to the sessions, if only because they got me
out of my room and just being able to walk the corridors to the
session seemed like a pleasure. Dr. Blaha and I had a session
together on my fifteenth birthday, and he was friendly and wished me
well and gave me a small box of chocolates, which he said he had
cleared with Grieves. In return I agreed to tell him a little bit
about my childhood, and he was smiling by the end of the session.

Grieves came to see me later on my birthday, too, and told me that
Dr. Blaha had told him I was "coming along well" and might soon be
allowed to rejoin the rest of the guys at Brand "depending, of
course, on your continued progress." He gave me a small parcel. "I
realize that now that the weather has gotten colder you might need
something more to wear than the shirts you have, I hope these are
alright."

I mumbled a kind of thank you and he left. After he had gone I
opened the parcel. Inside were a couple of soft cotton vests, for
wearing underneath my shirts. They looked kind of thin, which made
me wonder about their value as far as keeping me warm, but I was
glad to have something to keep my nipples from scratching.

After about my eighth or ninth shot I realized with some horror what
was happening to my chest. I was growing breasts. As soon as I made
the connection in my mind it was obvious. At first I was at a loss
to figure out why. Looking at me, it was obvious that the small
swellings on my frame were just like the ones I had been so
intrigued about on Mary Wozecky two years or so ago when she stopped
playing with the boys in the neighborhood. I was mortified. Breasts!

Frankly, 'mortified' doesn't even begin to describe how I felt. My
first thought was -- well, it was more an absence of thought. I was
stunned. My second thought was to try to deny it. But there they
were. It was unmistakable. I thought of the comments I had heard
guys make about breasts, the comments I had heard Danny make. He was
a real tit man. I sank into depression as I wondered about my
manhood, and about what he'd think of me if he could see me now. It
didn't bear thinking about.

Next time I got to request some books I asked for a bunch of medical
reference texts. The library only had about four books like that.
They were all mostly pretty basic biology, but one was a kind of
encyclopedia of medicine, and although it had a lousy index I
skimmed through a lot of it from the beginning, looking for anything
to do with breasts or puberty, until I found a reference to
gyneacomastia. It said this was a condition that a lot of guys got,
especially around puberty, which resulted in them growing breasts.
Most times, it said, the development passed after the initial
hormonal burst that marked puberty, and the guys grew up perfectly
normally. This relaxed me a little bit. I read the entry so many
times for reassurance that I knew it by heart by the time I returned
it to the library.

As my breasts continued to grow I started to be glad I was on my
own. What would the other guys say if they saw me in the showers
now? My breasts were not especially noticeable under my clothing,
but I was very conscious of them, and I knew that they were
unmistakably female. The encyclopedia had said that the condition
was quite common, but I'd never seen anything like this happen to
other guys.

I was also worried about other parts of my body. I seemed to be
putting on some weight, but only on my butt. The tiny mirror stuck
to the wall in my room didn't let me get a decent look at my body,
since I couldn't stand back far enough from it to take in much of
me. All I had to go on was what I could see by looking down at
myself. From that perspective my breasts looked enormous, but I
couldn't really get a good idea about my butt.

The way my body looked was only part of it; the way I felt was more
disturbing. My nipples were ultra-sensitive, way beyond anything I
could have imagined. Sometimes at night I ran my hands over them and
around my budding breasts, and found the sensations excruciating and
yet wonderful. As time went on some of the excruciating element
receded, and all I was left with was a feeling of intense pleasure.
Part of me loved it, but another, maybe dominant, part of me knew
that boys weren't supposed to experience these feelings, and that
probably what I was doing when I handled my breasts was wrong.

My hair also bothered me. It had not been cut since it had been
shorn when I first arrived at Brand, and was now a mid-length shag
beginning to hang in my eyes, and coming in very wavy and even
curly. The red seemed to be deeper in color than it had been when I
was younger, although I might have been imagining that since I had
never had as much of it as this before. Lots of the guys at Brand
had longer hair -- it was a kind of badge of resistance after
everyone's hair was cut so short on arrival -- but I had never had
hair past my ears before. I kept trying to brush it back with my
hands, or comb it into place when it was wet, but whenever I did
that I thought from what little I could see in the little mirror
that it made me look kind of girlish. Not that it mattered much
while I was in isolation, and there wasn't much I could do about it
while I was there anyway.

In the midst of all these other changes there was one compensation.
I had started to develop a small amount of hair around my cock and
balls, and a little in my armpits. It was only fine, and kind of
sparse, but I felt encouraged that my masculinity hadn't completely
gone on hold.

Gonzales got assigned to the isolation wing three days a week about
ten weeks after I was put in. Not that I cared much about the
guards, but at least his was a face I'd seen before I was separated
from everyone else. It turned out he liked to talk, and pretty soon
I knew all about his wife and kids and his mother who lived with
them and his younger brother who was no good and mixed up in a shady
importing business. Hearing about this big Hispanic soap opera
helped to pass the time.

The other two days a week Gonzales worked back in the general area
at Brand, where I'd first met him that time he took me to the
showers, and one day he told me he had a message for me, from Steve.
It wasn't very specific, or if it was Gonzales had forgotten the
exact words, but he passed it on as a sort of general encouragement.

Steve had asked after me, at least. That was nice. It seemed
pathetic to think of a guy I'd only spent a few days with as a good
friend, but really Steve was my only friend in the world, and I
guess you latch onto whatever you find when you're down.

Since Gonzales couldn't remember much more than two or three
sentences at a time the message I sent back to Steve was a short
one, just saying I was okay and would be glad to get out of isolation.

Gradually Gonzales took more and more messages between us, I think
because he liked me. Maybe I was the only person in the world who
would listen to him bitch about his family troubles all the time.
Now it seems kind of hard to believe that someone would confide all
to a fifteen year old boy, but at the time I just went with it.

Whatever it was, Steve and Gonzales and I struck up this weird
slow-motion conversation. "I could get in trouble for doing this"
Gonzales said to me a couple of weeks after the first message. That
was true, because he wasn't supposed to talk to us much. What the
hell, it must have been a really shitty, boring job; he had to talk
to someone. I reassured him, pointing out that I valued the
communication and wasn't likely to complain to anyone.

Out of the blue one day, after I had been listening to him talking
about how his son wasn't doing well at school for about an hour and
just saying uh huh and nodding every now and again, Gonzales said
"You know, Mike, I don't care what you did, you are a better kid
than most of the kids in here -- better than some of the ones
outside, too." Then he seemed to regret saying it immediately, like
he had overstepped he mark, which I guess he had. I changed the
subject for him quickly, since I was embarrassed as all hell anyway.
It was such a strange outburst from a guard at a place like Brand.

The visits to Dr. Blaha continued, and so did the shots. I began to
worry about all the weight I was putting on in my butt. Although I
couldn't see that part of me properly, it was getting more and more
difficult to get my pants on even though my waist hadn't grown much.
My jockey shorts stretched out pretty tight around my butt. Plus the
shots were still making me really tired and I was sleeping way too much.

Dr. Blaha kept telling me he thought we were making good progress,
and that soon I would be able to rejoin the rest of the Brand
community. I didn't get much out of the sessions at all except for a
growing feeling of unease at the way Blaha looked at me as my body
developed. He really gave the creeps, especially at those moments
when I had to drop my pants so he could give me a shot. A couple of
times his hand lingered on my butt, and I was pretty sure he had a
boner whenever he did that. I tried not to let my unease show when
we talked, because I didn't want him to think he was getting to me.
Mostly in our sessions we talked about me, about what it was like
growing up. A couple of times he asked me to talk about Danny, and
that was pretty hard because I cried, and I hated crying in front of
him.

For some reason, I seemed to cry very easily ever since I'd been
seeing Dr. Blaha. I put it down to the shots.

In a couple of sessions Dr. Blaha recorded what I was saying. Once
or twice he played some of our earlier conversations back to me, to
illustrate how he thought I was becoming less aggressive and
hostile. I didn't notice any change in the way I spoke, because I
was always fixated on the way I sounded whenever I heard myself on
tape. I wanted my voice to break so badly.

That didn't seem like it was going to happen anytime soon, though.
My problems with my breasts got worse. They were definitely
noticeable now. They *seemed* huge. I tore up one of the cotton
vests Grieves had given me and used the fabric from it to bind
myself up. Even though there wasn't really anyone except Gonzales
and the other guards to see me, I wasn't comfortable with what had
happened to my body. I especially hated the way they had begun to
jiggle when I moved suddenly. Binding them up at least stopped that.

Bob, an older guard who was rostered on weekends, started giving me
the strangest looks, and even made some creepy comments about me. He
called me 'pussy' from the first day he was assigned to isolation,
and I wasn't sure whether that was just a general term of abuse from
him or something specific to the way I looked that he might have
noticed. I tried to make sure the binding was on extra tight when he
was around.

Mostly it was other guards, but sometimes it would be Gonzales who
would escort me to see Dr. Blaha. Once as we were walking there
Gonzales tried to cheer me up by attempting to imitate the way Blaha
talked. It worked -- there was no way Gonzales's Hispanic speech
patterns could come close to Blaha's strange middle-European accent.

Twelve months after I had been sent to Brand I was still in the
isolation wing. I mentioned this gloomily to Gonzales one afternoon
as we were making the pilgrimage to see Dr. Blaha.

"It's been a long time," he admitted. "Almost as long as Hammond
spent here."

"I didn't know Steve was in isolation," I said to him.

"Oh, yes, twice. They let him out after three months the first time
and he got into trouble again. He went back in for another six
months," said Gonzales. "And then another six months." I was about
to ask what Steve had been sent to isolation for when we arrived at
the door to Blaha's office. Gonzales opened the door for me and I
went in on my own, as I usually did. "He and Pangianis were always
fighting," Gonzales said quietly, in answer to the question I hadn't
asked. "Pangianis spent a year in the wing as well, before that."

Inside the session proceeded badly from the start. Dr. Blaha gave me
the shot at the start of the session instead of the end like he
usually did, which put me in a bad mood. Then right off after that
he started asking me to talk about how I felt about Maria, and
whether I felt any remorse.

Naturally I clammed up. There was no way to respond to those
questions. In the past I would have gone into a rage about it, but
now I just got kind of sad and stayed silent. I wasn't angry any
more -- Blaha's questions seemed more pointless than maddening.

The doctor changed his approach to the discussion. There was one big
barrier that was preventing him from telling Grieves I was coming
around, Blaha ventured. "You still don't trust me," he said.

That was true. I didn't really trust anyone. Blaha thought I didn't
trust him because I wouldn't talk to him about Maria, and that was
true, too. But the reason I wouldn't talk to him about it was that
he didn't believe me when I said I didn't kill her.

"You don't trust me, either," I said.

He weighed this up for a moment. I guess he realized it was true.
"It's not about me trusting you, Michael. It's about working out how
you can survive here without being a danger to others and to
yourself. A big part of that is reconciling you to take
responsibility for what you've done to get yourself sent here."

He paused, and sighed, and looked at me very directly. "Okay,
Michael. Let's try doing this step by step. How are you feeling
these days?"

"I'm okay, I guess"

"You're not as angry as you were?" he continued.

I had just been thinking about that a minute or so earlier, and I
shook my head.

"Good. Well, that's progress. You don't feel these violent rages any
more?"

"I didn't --," I began, but he immediately cut me off.

"-- I don't want to hear excuses today, Michael. Are you feeling
anger now?"

"Uh, no," I admitted. "I mean, I've never --"

"-- Let us stick to me asking questions and you answering. Good. No
rages. That means the therapy is working." He even smiled a little.
"What about your feelings toward girls? Have you been thinking about
girls a lot?"

"Uh, no ... " I realized I hadn't been thinking about them much at
all. Not that I've ever been weirdly obsessed or anything. But it
occurred to me that I hadn't thought about sex lately. I hadn't even
had a boner these last few months. Before I had come to Brand I got
a few, and I thought a lot about Mary Wozecky and even Maria
sometimes when I jerked off at home. Recently I had jerked off a
little bit, but it was while I was playing with my own breasts, not
thinking of Mary's, and most of the time I stayed soft while I was
doing it anyway. What did that mean?

Dr. Blaha was saying something but I hadn't been listening. All of a
sudden I was aware of how my attitudes toward sex had changed in the
time I'd been at Brand. I mean, I still hadn't really reached
puberty according to Danny's measure of it ("once you start
spurting, man, that's it," he had once told me) but I had thought
about sex much more before I was sentenced than I had since. Maybe
it was just that there were no girls around. Yeah, I thought, that
was it.

Dr. Blaha finished saying whatever it was I had ignored and then
looked to me for a response. When I didn't give one he looked at me
kind of strangely. "Take off your clothes," he said.

I hesitated. Dr. Blaha was such a creepy guy, and the look he was
giving me was one of his creepiest. I sat there until he grew
impatient. I could see it was not negotiable, but I was resistant. I
hadn't been naked in front of anyone else since he had begun giving
me the shots. As I sat there, motionless, he started to approach me,
so I quickly stood up and, waving him away, began to undress.

I turned my back to him and undid my shirt. Underneath I had on a
t-shirt as well as a vest, and underneath that was the vest I had
torn up to bind my breasts. Before I took the t-shirt off I undid my
pants and dropped them to the floor. I looked back over my shoulder
to see him watching me intently, and he waved his hand at me to
continue. I pulled the t-shirt over my head, then turned back around
to face him.

"The vest and underwear too, Michael."

I dropped my jockey shorts first, feeling more embarrassed than I
usually did when he gave me the shots. Then, hesitantly, I lifted
the vest over my head and closed my eyes. I was waiting for a
comment about the binding across my chest, but all I heard was a low
"And that as well, thank you" from Blaha. I reached between my
breasts to undo the knot in the material and then I was standing,
naked, in front of him. I folded my arms in front of me, to try to
hide my chest, and then slowly opened my eyes.

Dr. Blaha had moved forward to get a closer look at me, and was
beginning to circle around me. "Mmmm," he said. He said that a lot
when he was pleased. "I must say that the effects are somewhat more
pronounced than I had expected. We might have a problem soon... Take
your arms down please."

Reluctantly I did so, feeling more naked than I ever had before in
front of anyone. I shivered, even though it was not cold in the
room, and I felt my nipples get hard and pointy. I blushed, and
briefly wondered about his comment about having a problem *soon*.

"So, Michael, perhaps you can see that it is sometimes easier just
to -- how do you say it -- go with the flow instead of getting angry."

I had no idea what he was talking about. He picked up a camera and
began to take photographs of me. With a shock I realized that the
small tent in his pants meant that he was turned on by what he saw.
I felt a wave of nausea build.

"Face the door, please," Dr. Blaha continued after he had finished
inspecting me. I turned, and for the first time I saw myself naked
in the full-length mirror attached to the back of the door.

My mind reeled. I looked like a girl. Apart from my cock, I mean. I
looked like a girl maybe a year or so younger than me. I had
breasts, and hips, and a little indentation to my waist, and my arms
and legs were softer and more rounded than they used to be. My nose
looked kind of petite, my lips were fuller than they used to be. My
shaggy hair gave my face a kind of elfin quality, almost... pretty.
A little shock went through me. I looked like, well, like the kind
of girl I used to get knotted up about when I was at school. But I
didn't just look like them in the face; I looked like them almost
all over.

Even the hair around my cock and balls wasn't particularly
masculine; I could see that now. When Danny had reached puberty, he
had developed a lot of hair, and it ran up his belly. Mine looked
more like the patch of darkness that I had seen on the girls in
porno magazines, a little neat dark red triangle, in this case
broken by a small, pathetic looking penis that somehow looked
smaller than it ever had. I thought of those magazines, and of
Danny, and remembered the photograph of the 'chick with a dick' that
Danny had teased me about so much.

Was that what I was, now? Was that why Danny was always laughing at
me in my dreams?

"This was not my main purpose," Dr. Blaha continued, as he began
measuring me around the hips, waist and ... er ... bust. I flinched
when I felt his hands contact my skin. "But it's not entirely
unexpected. As I explained to you when you first began taking them,
it's a side effect of the drugs I gave you. Anti-androgens,
estrogens. We give them to sex offenders these days, to free their
minds from the urges they have. It also has the effect of calming
any other violent urges they have. Usually the side effects of
feminization are not as dramatic as they have been in your case, but
I suppose since you are young... "

I had stopped listening. I hadn't imagined I had looked quite like
this until now. I knew odd things had been happening to my body, and
they had been happening for a long time, but I hadn't realized what
the overall effect would be. Then I realized I was crying.

The way I responded in to the image of myself in the mirror probably
sounds like I'm really stupid or something. I had known that my body
had been changing -- how could I not have known? My breasts were so
obvious. What I hadn't seen before was how completely it had
changed. Naked before the mirror, I finally assembled all those
things I had noticed in the months before into a coherent image of
myself. It wasn't the image I had been expecting, no matter how
often I had worried about the growth of my breasts and butt.

Dr. Blaha wrapped my shirt around me and put his arm around me
gently to lead me back to my seat in front of his desk. I didn't
even flinch when I felt his hand drop from my back to my butt as he
steered me toward the chair, I was so dazed from what I had seen.
Then he returned to his own chair on the other side.

"I'm sorry it's such a shock, Michael... you may remember I said
that you might find the treatment extreme. It has been necessary so
that we could move forward. You can see now that I am prepared to do
whatever it takes to get your cooperation with me. Now that your
violent urges seem to have subsided we can think about returning you
to the main part of the center."

Despite my shock the last part of the sentence penetrated my
sobbing. "Return me to the center?" I could imagine what Pangianis
would think of me now. "I can't..."

Dr. Blaha nodded. "I can see there could be some complications,
Michael, but we will do our best to ensure you are safe. You will
shower separately, and I will get you something to hide your, ah,
breasts, ah, better. Now that you are not as prone to violence
yourself perhaps you will be less inclined to get into trouble."

I shook my head. "He'll kill me," I said desperately.

"Who will, Michael?"

I thought of the code of silence, and then I thought of what lay
ahead for me. I felt lost. No matter what I chose, my life back with
the other guys in Brand was going to be misery. I swallowed, and
said nothing as I went to gather up my clothing.

Blaha let my statement ride but then added to my fears. "Of course,
we will need to continue the treatment for a while," he said. "I
know the side effects are distressing, but you have made excellent
progress, and I don't want to lose that."

"Distressing!" I was astonished that he would consider sending me
back to the rest of Brand, but I was speechless that he wanted me to
continue getting the shots. Was he really so clueless that he didn't
know what would happen to me, or did he still harbor some ill will
towards me?

I briefly thought of fighting with him, but it seemed pointless. He
had Grieves, the guards, the entire institution and even drugs on
his side, and I was at his mercy no matter what I did. Plus he
seemed to have a real bee in his bonnet about me being a
troublemaker already. I slowly dressed, and waited for him to
dismiss me. He was gazing out the window as I was dressing, and then
he turned and smiled.

"You know, Michael, you shouldn't feel so bad about this. The
changes do seem to... well... suit you, and while I'm sure you find
them inconvenient we will make sure you are taken care of." He went
to a cabinet at the side of the room and retrieved a small pack of
tablets, then approached me with one in his upturned palm. "Take
this. I'll see to it you get two every day. It will help."

I looked at him with alarm. What was the pill for? I was already in
enough trouble with the drugs he'd been giving me. What did he mean
by "the changes seem to suit"?

Blaha saw my reluctance and sighed. "It will make you feel better,
Michael. There are no side effects like the shots you've had,
alright?" Reluctantly, I took the pill and swallowed it. "Thank
you," he said. He even smiled. "I'll see you weekly from now on," he
continued. "I think we can make some very good progress from here."

As I stepped into the corridor Gonzales looked at me very strangely,
but I was still confused by the things Blaha had said to me and
didn't pay any attention to the odd expression on his face. Blaha
had known all along that my body would change this way, and yet now
he was going to send me back out with the other guys, who were
certain to kill me. My mind went around and around this in fear,
without seeing any way I could save myself. Such was my distraction
that I didn't notice Gonzales speaking to me, either, until he said
my name more loudly.

"Mike!"

"Uh... huh?"

"You are alright?" Gonzales asked, looking at me solicitously.

I nodded. "Yeah, I guess so. Sorry, I guess I was distracted"

"You are not having the best of times" Gonzales continued. It was
then that I became aware that he was looking at my chest. When
getting dressed in Blaha's office I had forgotten -- for the first
time ever -- to bind myself up. Gonzales noticed that I had caught
him looking at me and glanced away, as I turned bright red.

"No, I am definitely not having the best of times," I said softly.

Neither of us said anything more as he returned me to my room in
isolation. A few hours later he came by with a small parcel from
Doctor Blaha, and we both looked embarrassed when we made eye
contact. I don't know which of us was more embarrassed, really. I
shrugged and Gonzales smiled at me. "It will be alright," he said to
me gently. "I will see to that."

(continued)
 

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