Free hidden by Tomas Mournian Page B

The teacher showed up as a picture and said, ‘Study in contrast.’ Life, same thing. I heard someone pound on the door. ‘
Let us in! Let us in!
’
    “‘Great,’ I thought. ‘My stepmother’s going crazy.
Again.
’ She had a nervous breakdown every other week. One time, I asked her, ‘How many breakdowns do you have in you?’ She hated me after that.
    “Then, I heard something. This sound … the door? Wood … cracking? Yes, the door! It was splintering! Because an ax! Had split it in two! Two cops stood in the hallway. ‘Are you—’”
    “Not your real name,” Marci cautions.
    “‘Ben?’ I didn’t answer. I just stared at them. I guess that was all they needed. They stomped in. ‘What’d I do?’ I asked. I wasn’t a criminal. Except, some part of me knew. I was. They lifted me up off the bed and handcuffed my wrists. I didn’t resist, didn’t try to get away. But I didn’t help them. I played dead. I take that back. I didn’t play. I
was
dead.
    “They carried me out the house and down the front steps. The perfect neighbors stood on their perfect lawns and watched.I should have been humiliated, but I wasn’t. I didn’t care. I knew it was the last time I’d see this place. I wasn’t coming back. Ever.
    “Even though I knew what was happening, I couldn’t believe it. All
this
—the cops, the ax, the handcuffs—was because of
me.
Me. Three minutes ago, I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling.
    “The men led me to an unmarked sedan. Right then I realized, ‘They’re not cops. They can’t do this. I’m being kidnapped.’ Too late. One palmed my head like a basketball and shoved me into the backseat. They pulled a hoodie over my head. I was blind.
    “My mind started going. I was Gitmo bound. They were moving me out of the country. Extra rendition. Water boarding. Torture. I started—I couldn’t breathe. Panic—I had an attack. I screamed. I begged them, ‘Please! Let me go! I’m dying!’ I heard them laugh. Call me a liar. Finally, they pulled back the hoodie. They shoved a pill in my mouth; the car jerked and threw me back against the seat. The tires squealed.
Zoom!
We drove for a long time. I still couldn’t see—they’d pulled the hoodie back down. Overnight, I turned into a gay terrorist.
    “I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I told them, ‘Hey! I need to pee!’ I felt the car pull over. The door opened. The hoodie came off. One man led me to a bathroom. Inside, he unlocked my wrists and closed the door.
    “I couldn’t believe my eyes. Behind the door, there was a pay phone! You’d think it would be easy—for me to save myself. But when I picked up the receiver, I shook so bad I could barely hold it. I was terrified I’d get caught. I was scared what they’d do to me. I forced myself to dial. I talked myself through it. ‘At least
try
… if you don’t save yourself, nobody will.’
    “I called Stuart. I had memorized his work number. I couldn’t believe it—he answered and accepted the charges. Amazing, he’d help, I was saved! ‘Stuart, I’ve been kidnapped! Help me, can you—’ He said, ‘Your dad—’
    “Right then, the man stepped into the bathroom and caught me. He dragged me back to the car. I wet myself. They laughed. ‘Faggot’s wet hisself.’ I felt the air go out of me. Nobody needed to explain.
No one
could protect me. I was on my own. Myfamily doesn’t want me. Flip side was, I had nothing to lose. My parents abandoning me was bad enough. Them
knowing
these people would hurt me—some part of me, truly …”
    My voice trails off. My thoughts continue: “I knew they chose to throw me away. Toss me out, like trash.” But I don’t say this aloud. I can’t. Admit this horrible fact—not a guess, or a feeling but a
fact
—to a stranger.
    For some reason, I reach up and touch my face. It’s wet. Tears. I hate this. Feelings embarrass me. I want to keep them to myself. Private. I distrust my feelings. This time, they won’t betray