Date: Mon, 27 Oct 2008 18:55:33 -0700 (PDT) From: d ap Subject: Four Friends (05) Four Friends -- Part Five: Monday September 17th By Doc dap_cl@yahoo.com Translated by David Clarke Gothmog@mail.anonymizer.com [This is my English: In this tale I use some brands names, such as Urgency Services, or Telephone Company; I DO NOT sponsor anyone, it is just for adding some realistic stuffs.] [I many thanks to Donald, Paul (I'm so sorry my English, man!!), Jon (his own story is fascinating), and Bill (very soon you'll have four friends together, Bill).] [In this chapter there are very few explicit sex, you can jump it, but later you'll need some details...] This is the continuation of the story of Marcelo and Camilo. Once again, be warned: this is a story about homosexual activities and relationships between young teens. If you're under age, go away. Likewise, if this sort of story is illegal where you live, you should stop right here. Also, as mentioned previously, there is no mention of condoms in this story. In real life, I would strongly advise you to use them, especially if you don't know your partner very well. Okay, let's get on with it: I woke up at about six in the morning. I crept quietly to the bathroom and sat on the toilet -- I was keeping quiet because I didn't want Camilo waking up and coming to watch. Just for once I wanted to have my shit without an audience... Afterwards I turned on the water heater and took a shower. The problem we had was that originally I hadn't intended for us to stay longer than Sunday, and now it was Monday morning. There was nothing to eat in the place except noodles, spaghetti, rice and some other crap in cans, and frankly I really don't like that stuff. I knew I would have to ask Don Ernesto to come and resupply us -- he'd be at his house by now. I chucked my clothes and Camilo's into the washing machine, found something else to wear and went out to get the generator going. When I got back Camilo was up and about, wandering round the house stark naked. God, he looked good... I got the washing machine going and went to find something for us to eat -- and found some powdered eggs. Yuck! Twenty minutes later we were eating breakfast, which was a nasty-looking brown mess that tasted vaguely of eggs, together with a couple of bits of bread. I called Don Ernesto, and after a bit of teasing he agreed to come and bring us some bread and vegetables, and maybe a chicken. He said he'd be with us in two or three hours' time. At nine-thirty I got the clothes out of the machine. Should we iron them, I wondered... yeah, right. Camilo was looking forward to going for a walk in the mountains with snow on the ground. Our clothes were dry -- well, maybe the trousers were still a bit damp, but we wouldn't be going far so it wouldn't kill us. Don Ernesto arrived at ten-thirty with everything I had asked for, including a good collection of fresh vegetables. He told us that if we needed him he'd be in the 'Alto', which was a small valley beside a cliff, the first of a high range of hills close to Farellones, near the place called the Dummies' Run -- a ski-run for beginners. We had a pleasant walk through the trees. We had no inhibitions with each other -- sometimes we hugged, or touched each other's butts, or occasionally exposed them to each other; and as we climbed higher we flaunted our crotches in each other's faces. And we kissed -- long, devoted kisses, our tongues caressing each other as we hugged, feeling passionate and horny... "Marcy, I love you." "I love you too, Cami," I said, looking into his beautiful eyes. "I guess we must be gay -- don't you think?" He laughed. "We're not gay," he said. "YOU'RE gay -- I'm just an ordinary queer guy." I laughed, and he went on, "I'm just a fag who loves you -- I love you, and I think you're cute -- and that's not just because your amazing ass makes me horny," and he grabbed it a little more vigorously than tenderly, "but because you're beautiful. I love your nose, your mouth, your skin, your hands... shit, I love every bit of you!" I felt I was on the point of tears in the face of this declaration. I hugged him, telling him that I loved him too. We kissed for a long time. We were like two human puppies in love with each other and discovering our sexuality, which was still not really acceptable in Chilean society -- although it is slowly becoming a little more tolerant not only to gays, male and female, but also to other so-called `urban tribes', religious and political, and others with aspirations to gain acceptance in `normal' society. We climbed a bit further until we had almost reached Curve 24, on the way to Farellones. And at that point the stupid little bastard took it into his head to go scrambling up an almost vertical cliff, until he reached a point a good four meters up. And there he froze. "What the fuck are you playing at, you asshole!" I yelled. "Marcy... Marcy, I'm scared," he cried, his voice thick with terror. "Keep calm, I'm coming," I said, and started to climb. I'd got about two meters up the cliff when there was a scream of terror and his body fell past me, like something in a horror film. It hit the ground below with a hideous noise. I jumped back down and ran to his side. "Oh, shit! Shit! Cami... oh, Cami!" I held him, seeing that his head was bleeding -- bleeding copiously, in fact. "Cami, my darling, say something! Answer me!" I touched the nasty-looking wound, and blood ran over my fingers. He was unconscious. I pressed against the wound until the blood slowed. Camilo was breathing slowly, his face as pale as wax. I pulled my shirt off, tore off a strip and used it to bandage his head. His arms and legs seemed to be intact, but that head wound... and he'd hit his back on a rock as he landed, so he could have damaged something... his kidneys, maybe...Oh, God! Fear for him flooded over me... Don Ernesto! I grabbed my cellphone, cradling Camilo's head in my bare arms. The phone rang for an interminable-seeming three rings, and then Don Ernesto answered. "Don Ernesto, please come to the Alto -- Camilo fell down the cliff and he's badly hurt. Please hurry!" I hung up and checked Camilo again, but there were no broken bones, just that nasty head wound and a couple of minor cuts to his neck and arm. I cuddled him, calling his name, and suddenly he opened his eyes and vomited on me. I didn't care about that -- I quickly wiped it away and turned his head so that he could vomit without choking on it. And then Don Ernesto was there on his horse. It was impossible for Camilo to ride in his condition. Don Ernesto asked what had happened, and I explained it to him, asking if he could carry Camilo with him on his horse. We tried, but it couldn't be done -- Camilo moaned when we tried to get him up. But Don Ernesto was a sensible, practical man, and after looking around for a moment he took an axe from his saddlebag and ran over to a barbed-wire fence about a hundred and fifty metres away. He kicked three of the posts free and ran back to us trailing barbed wire, and then cut one of the posts in half and started using the wire to make an improvised stretcher. I realised what he was doing and pulled off my parka so that we could use it as a cushion for Camilo. "No, Marcelito," he said. "Let me do it. You just keep an eye on your friend and see if he's still bleeding." He went on tightening the wire around the poles. Once he was done he pulled off his poncho , wrapped it round Camilo and fixed it to the poles. We moved him as far as the horse, hoping to be able to rig it up as a travois, but it was clear that it would take far too long. And the ground was wet and very muddy, which would make it impossible. "Let's get him up to Curve 24," I said. "It's only 800 metres away, and once we're there we can try to flag down a car, or call for an ambulance, or something..." Don Ernesto agreed, so we made sure Camilo was as comfortable as possible on the improvised stretcher, picked it up between us and started to move as quickly as we could. Camilo complained at every jolt, and it seemed to be taking for ever. He vomited again, and Don Ernesto stopped and turned his head to the side, but there was nothing left to come up except some colourless drool. A man spotted us from Curve 25 and came down to 24 to meet us. "Has there been an accident?" he asked. I was tempted to say no, we're on our way to a fancy-dress party: I had no shirt on and the hideous blood-stained bandage around Camilo's head should have spoken for itself. Instead I said, "Yes -- please can you get us to Lo Barnechea, or even just as far as San Enrique Park -- please?" "Okay, get in," he said, and I managed to help Camilo into the back seat of his truck. Don Ernesto had to stay behind because of his horse, of course. "Now, what do you want to do?" asked the driver, and then followed up with more questions to which I gave one word answers. Dad! I thought. I need to call Dad! I got the phone out.... damn! No signal! Five minutes later I got a signal and called, and five rings later I was listening to Bob Walsh's sleepy voice. "Hi, kiddo -- how are you?" he asked in English. "Dad, I'm in terrible trouble -- can we speak Spanish?" "What's up, Marc?" "Dad, I was with a friend up at the Alto. He climbed a cliff, but he fell and hit his head on a rock. He's injured, and there was a lot of blood... I managed to stop the bleeding..." I heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line, and then like the successful electronics engineer that he was, his voice hardened up and he took control, impressing me, as it did every time it happened. "Marc, I need exact and specific details -- and I mean specific, okay?" "Yes, Dad." "Where are you now?" "In a car -- a guy stopped to help us." "Your friend -- is he conscious?" "No, Dad, he's out of it." "And is it just a head wound?" No, there's also something in the small of his back -- around kidney level, I suppose." "'You suppose'? That's not precise enough. You're saying he's got a back injury too, yes?" "Yes, Sir." "Can he move his legs?" "Yes, dad, his legs seem okay." "And has he vomited?" "Yes, Sir, he did." There was a nasty silence, which to me seemed to go on for ever. "Okay, so, that's all I need for now. Stay there -- I'll call you back in about five minutes." "Yes, Sir." I hung up. Camilo shivered, and I'm sure it wasn't due to the cold. He was still trying to vomit, and now that I'd heard my father's reaction to that I knew that my boy was in a seriously bad way. Seven minutes later my father called back. "Marcelo, give the phone to the driver, please," he said, in a voice like ice. "Sir, my father would like to talk to you," I said to the driver, passing him the phone. "Your father?" He took the phone and put it to his ear, stopping the car -- I was desperate to keep moving, but with the steep slopes and dangerous bends on the road there was really no choice. "Good morning! Yes, at Curve 24.... now?... ahh... well, just by Curve 18...... I reckon about half an hour to forty-five minutes will get us to the Plaza San Enrique.... An ambulance? Okay.... A Help Ambulance, you say?" (That's a private emergency vehicle brand). "No... no, any time, Sir.... it was an emergency, I saw they were in trouble, so of course I stopped.... Ah! Okay, Sir, have a nice day." He handed me back the phone -- obviously Dad wasn't interested in having a long chat with him. "Marc," Dad said, "There'll be an ambulance waiting for you in the Plaza San Enrique -- it's coming to Farellones to meet you. Tell them who you are and they'll deal with the kid, okay?" "Yes, Sir." "Go in the ambulance with the boy. It'll take you to the Santa Maria Clinic. Dr Giordano will be waiting for you there -- he already has the information you gave me." Yes, Sir. Please, Dad, can you come back to Santiago?" "Marc, I'm not at The Beach at the moment. I'm actually at Garcia-Mendez's place at Las Tacas" (that's a posh place about 500 kilometres north of Santiago). "Go with your friend. You know Giorgio Giordano at the Clinic, of course, and he'll make sure your friend is admitted without problems. I gather you're okay yourself, right?" "Yes, Sir." "Is there anything else you need to know?" "No, Sir." The driver took the dangerous road between Farellones and Santiago as fast as he dared, and finally we came around a bend and there was a large, fully-equipped ambulance with the word 'HELP' in huge letters on the side waiting for us. The moment we stopped two paramedics ran to meet us with a special stretcher, and one of them injected something into Camilo's arm - "A sedative," he told me when I asked. They wheeled him to the back of the ambulance and loaded it aboard, and I climbed in with them. "Sorry, it's against regulations for you to come with us," the driver told me. "My dad said I had to go with him, so I'm coming, Sir," I said, in the same tone of voice that my father uses when he isn't going to take 'no' for an answer. Five minutes later the ambulance was moving at speed. One of the paramedics checked Camilo, taking a note of vital signs, I suppose, while the other one wrote it all down. One of them asked me if Camilo had vomited, and when I nodded his expression and the shake of his head as he wrote this on his form made me feel really scared. Ha wanted to know the name and address -- mine and Camilo's -- and what time the accident occurred. Somewhere around the Plaza San Enrique the siren was turned on, making the ambulance scream like a wounded animal. I couldn't see out of the vehicle, but at midday we arrived at the Santa Maria Clinic. Dr Giordano was waiting for us with another stretcher, and he said "Hi" to me as we went inside with the paramedics following us. The one who had asked me all the questions ran beside us as we went along corridors and up some stairs, barking out information like "Blood Pressure Eleven over Seven; BT Thirty-Six Point Five; Has vomited an unknown number of times; EV Ibuprofene, Doses... " and more of the same. When we reached the Emergency Room Dr Giordano took my arm and pulled me to one side. He gave instructions to a nurse (if that's what she was) in a charming, but a bit la-di-da, voice. "Danitza, find this handsome young man something to cover his chest so that he stops embarrassing us all, and then find him somewhere comfortable to wait. Give him something to drink and a Totasedan, and put it on my account, okay?" And then he disappeared into the Emergency Room. So the nurse (if that's what she was) found me a green shirt which had the legend "Clinica Santa Maria" stencilled on it front and back. She told me to wash Camilo's blood off first, and then led me to another room where there were some other nurses (if that's what they were) and she gave me a soda and a pill. Several other people asked me for details of what had happened, some looking sad and others surprised.... but slowly the pill was starting to work and I could feel myself getting sleepy... I woke up some time later to find someone shaking my shoulder roughly. "Marc! Son! Wake up! SON!!! Wake up!" It was my dad. I peered at him blearily, not knowing where I was and feeling so sleepy that I could hardly open my eyes. "Son, I know you're sleepy, but I need you to wake up. I've got to get hold of that boy's family, and you're the only one who will know where they live. Son! Wake up! NOW!!" I still couldn't wake up properly until Dad slapped my face, not too hard, but just enough to get a result. "Oh, dad!" I said, opening my arms to hug him; and he took me into his arms and hugged me -- and then suddenly everything came back to me. "Camilo!" I cried in alarm, the sleepiness disappearing. "Camilo!! Where's Camilo? How... I mean, is he... is he okay?" "Camilo is okay, Marcelo. His condition has stabilized. But we need to find his family, and we need your help, because he hasn't got anything on him to tell us who he is or where he lives." It was Dr Giordano was asked this. I looked at Dr Giordano and had to admit that I didn't have the remotest idea how to find Camilo's family. "You don't know who his family are or where they live?" asked my father, sounding a lot less friendly. I stared at him, thinking. "His cellphone!" I said. "We need to trace a call he made on Sunday -- yesterday. He called his family -- his father, I think." [Translator's note: whoops, my bad! Back in Chapter Three I gave the impression that they used the house phone to call Camilo's father, but looking back at the original Spanish I can now see that the word 'celular' was used -- so it was actually Camilo's cellphone. Looking back even further, I don't think there actually was a satellite phone in the house -- that was me mistranslating something else. Apologies to all - David] Dr Giordano asked the person with him to go and see if there was a cellphone in the possessions of the "NN patient in the ICU." 'NN'? I thought. "His name is Camilo Pino," I said. "OK, so at least we have some ID -- a name, that's a start," said the doctor. "Dad, I thought you said you were at Las Tacas?" I said. "How did you get here...?" "Garcia-Mendez has a very fast plane, son," he said, seriously. "Look, we have to find this young man's family: the Clinic doesn't want him here, we're going to have to find another hospital for him." I looked astonished. "But... why don't they want him here?" "What it is, Marc, is that your friend Camilo is going to need to be in a hospital for several days. He has a closed ECT, and I'm sure he'll be okay in a few days, but... well... it's a financial issue: this is a private clinic, and they don't know if this boy's family has the means.. you know. So they're going to find another hospital, a public one, maybe the El Salvador Hospital -- not until he's recovered, you understand, and his blood pressure is back to normal -- he lost a bit of blood, you know. But he's going to need a good week to recover fully..." A guy appeared carrying Camilo's cell phone. Dr Giordano took it, but Dad gestured and the doctor passed it to him. "Bob, you know I should do this," he said. "That's the protocol..." "I know, Giorgio, but this is my..." he stared at me meaningfully. "I mean, our problem, and I should be the one to fix it." Giordano shrugged his shoulders, and in fact he looked relieved at not having to make this call. Dad pressed some keys on the phone. "Sunday, huh?" he said. "Okay, this should be the one..." He hit the resend key and waited. "Hello! Good afternoon, Mr Pinto -- sorry, Pino," (My dad's tone of voice was professional, , but polite and friendly -he was good at achieving that sort of balance). "Yes, could you get him for me, please? .... Oh, Walsh... Robert Walsh." He made an impatient gesture and waited. "Mr Pino, My name is Robert Walsh. I'm calling from Santiago. I need to talk to you about your son. No, please listen... yes, your son..... listen, please... yes, your son, your son Camilo.... please listen... Please, LISTEN, Mr Pino! Your son Camilo is okay, but he had an accident.... No, no listen... yes, I can understand that you're worried... please, Mr Pino, calm down and listen!" The super-cool strategist was starting to get inpatient, which was usually happened when he was faced with a hysterical reaction to something. "Your son had an accident, he fell on some rocks and hit his head. He's at the Santa Maria clinic, and he's in no danger, his condition has already stabilized. At the moment he's sleeping because he's been sedated. I repeat, there's no danger, and he's okay.... Now, please, I need you to come here, to the clinic.... What? You're not in Santiago? Oh... where are you, then?.... Right.... okay, give me a moment, please...." Dad thought for a few seconds, then he nodded. "Okay," he said, "can you get to San Antonio -- yes, the port. When you get there, go to the CTI office -- yes, the Compania Telefonica Internacional... yes, Sir, that's right.... There'll be a vehicle waiting there to bring you to Santiago..... Yes, that's right. Don't worry, just tell them you're Mr Pino and they'll bring you to Santiago...... No.... no, he fell on a cliff in Farellones, or up that way somewhere.... look, don't worry, you can get the details later. Look, Mr Pino, I'm going to have to hang up now so that I can call San Antonio.... what? Why am I doing this? Because your son was with my son when the accident happened.... yes.... yes. Now, just get yourself to San Antonio, please." And without waiting for more questions he cut the connection. My dad took his own phone out of his pocket, looked up a number in a little notebook and called it. "Hello, is that the controller's office? It's Bob Walsh here. I need to get one of the company's vehicles to the San Antonio office. A man called Pino will be coming there shortly, and I need him brought straight to the Santa Maria clinic in Santiago.... Ma'am, I don't care if everyone is on holiday, that man will be there very soon. I need a vehicle for him, and I don't care whether it's a five ton truck or a little van, just so long as there's something to be put at this man's disposal -- and right away!! Call me on this cell when you have something laid on.... good afternoon. On whose responsibility? MINE, of course!!" said my dad, harshly. "Marc, I want you to go home now," he said. "We'll call a taxi, or something. We'll talk later, but for the time being you're not to leave the house, understand?" "But... I want to see Camilo. I want to stay with him," I argued. The look on my father's face as enough to stop me right there. "But... can't I just see him... just for a moment?" "I'm afraid not, Marcelo -- he's under sedation in the ICU," said Dr Giordano. Dad made a brusque gesture, still busy on the phone, making another call. "The best I can do is to let you see him through a window. Come on." He stood up and I followed him. The lift seemed to take for ever, but eventually we reached a corridor lined with thick windows. "He's over there," said the doctor, pointing at a bed in the far corner of the room. Camilo was sleeping, his head swathed in bandages, but I was relieved to see that he apparently didn't need either a catheter or an IV needle. "Marcelo? I need to know.... to know if you.... no, forget it," mumbled the doctor. "It's okay... you should leave now, though." I got back home and thanked the Clinic driver who had taken me there. I felt really tired, and barely made it to the couch in the living room before I collapsed onto it, out like a light. I woke up several hours later and found that Dad was in his office, reading. "Ah, so you finally decided to wake up, he said, sounding less than pleased. "Your friend is going to be okay, even though that was a really serious accident. It's a fair indication of how serious it was that Giorgio put him back to sleep again shortly after he woke up. His father arrived at five thirty-two..." Somehow that pernickety exact detail was extremely irritating. "You mean, they didn't move him?" I asked, eagerly. "Marc," said my father in a dry voice, "don't interrupt. I'll tell you what you need to know, but I'm going to be the one asking the questions. There are several things I need to know, and I'm sure you can fill me in, can't you?" "Yes, Sir." "Giordano said it would be better not to move him to another hospital, and he thinks three days of clinical observation should be sufficient. We had to get his father to sign a document giving the clinic permission to keep him and absolving them from all responsibility in case anything goes wrong. If everything works out okay I'll pay for the treatment, although Mr Pino doesn't know that yet, because I didn't tell him. "Giordano tells me that the boy has a closed ECT, which means that his cranium is cracked because of the fall, a bit like if a cup fell off the table..." He saw the horrified look on my face and went on, "But there's a difference: a cracked cup will never recover, but his head will be fine in a few months. He's still very young, so his bone will mend fully in about six months, but they'll have to keep an eye on him during that period. The most obvious damage is to his hair: they had to remove most of it, so he's going to be a blond skinhead for a bit. He'll be a bit like a drunk for the next two weeks, but in a month or so he'll be able to lead an almost normal existence, as long as he's careful. Is there anything else you want to know?" "His back?" "Just an ugly scratch. The skin was torn a little, and he'll have a pretty purple bruise for a couple of weeks." And that was the end of the information session -- at least, the end of him giving me the news. Now I supposed it would be my turn... and I was right. "I need some information," he said, following right up with his first question: "How did you meet that young man, and how long have you known him?" Embarrassed, I replied, "I met him the day you left, in O'Higgins Park." "In O'Higgins Park? That's way downtown. How did you get there, Marc?" For a moment I thought about lying, but then I realised that if I did it would only be sure to come out later. "On the motorbike, Dad," I said. "You're thirteen years old, and you thought it would be okay to ride the motorbike downtown?" "Yes, sir." "Ernesto called me, you know. He wanted to know if you and your friend were okay. And that means I know about you taking the horses without telling me about it. Now, you know you don't need to ask my permission, but you do have to tell me what you're doing and where you're going. So you took a picnic and headed off for the hut without telling anyone, and then you went gallivanting off into the mountains, and then you had what was nearly a fatal accident. So that's something else I need to know: how exactly did the accident happen?" "Camilo climbed up the cliff. He got about four metres up and then got scared. I went to try to help him, but he fell before I could get to him." "Marc, if you met this boy on Saturday, which is the day before yesterday, and the accident was early today... well, I want to know if you met him again today, or if you were together all the time -- which would mean that he slept here, and then again at the hut." "That's what happened, dad -- we were together all the time." "So you're saying that you brought a young man you had only just met -- that same day -- to sleep here in our house?" "Yes, Sir." My sense of dread was growing like the sand in the bottom of an hour glass. "Marcelo... Marc...." Here it came: sentence was imminent. "You've broken one of the most fundamental rules of this family. So: you're grounded for the next four weekends; you're not to use the motorcycle for the rest of this year; you'll clean out the stables -- both Pipo and Pipa have been left out in the cold, remember; and you'll get no allowance for the next two months. Your friend's medical bill comes to..." (and he took a piece of paper from his pocket) "... 352,450 pesos. And, finally, you're going to come with me to your friend's house, and there you'll give his family the apology they deserve. And, of course, there's one more thing. Come on." Suddenly I realised what he meant, and I began to cry. "No, dad, please!" He'd never beaten me before. "Come ON, boy!" I went slowly towards him and he stood up, found the best place and made me kneel down. I was sobbing now, and begged him, in English, "Dad, please don't, please... dad, dad, dad!—" I felt a ferocious slap to my butt: WHACKKK!!! It sounded horrible, and the force of it shook me. I screamed in pain. WHACKKK!!! A second one, and I screamed again, this time in humiliation as well as pain. I begged him once more, still in English, "Dad!, please, no more... please, forgive me!" I waited for the third one, but it never came. "Go to bed, now!!" shouted Dad, also in English. I stared at him, my eyes blurred with tears. "You spanked me!" I cried, still in English. "But how is that going to help? I'm really, really sorry -- but I don't deserve to be punished that way. I'm a teenager, not a little child!" "GET OUT -- NOW! YOU.... LITTLE CHILD!!!" screamed dad, pointing in the direction of my bedroom. He had never, ever, yelled at me like that before. He was furious, for the first time in his life. He had beaten me for the first time ever; this was the first time he had ever had to punish one of his children like this. I left his office and went straight to my bedroom, crying inconsolably. I collapsed onto my bed, my eyes streaming -- not just with pain, but with humiliation: my pride was injured. And then I thought about Camilo and the way he'd looked at the hospital, and that made me feel even worse. I cried and cried... ******* [Thanks David!, Thanks JJ!, Thanks Nifty!, Thanks readers!!!] If you're still enjoying this story and want more, please write to me at dap_cl@yahoo.com and let me know!