Date: Tue, 5 May 2015 00:16:45 +0000 (UTC) From: MATTHEW GOODMAN Subject: Midnight City Chapter 1 (Young Friends) As always, this story involves sexual encounters between consensual teenage boys. If this is illegal in your area of the world, or this offends you, please leave now. All names and dates have been changed, anybody you may recognize in this story is purely coincidental. I've also changed the location of where the story takes place, so forgive my lack of knowledge on the city's setting. As for the story itself, it's a dramatized auto-biography of sorts. Feel free to send me some feedback, I do enjoy me some constructive criticism. - inmeliesdivinity@yahoo.com Without further adieu... -------------------------------------- "Fine!Maybe I'll pretend right now, but I swear to God I'm gonna change theworld." -StainedGlass Eyes and Colorful Tears: Pierce the Veil. ---------------------------------- PROLOGUE: Hisfirst attempt at suicide came when we were eleven years old, threedays after our mother's funeral, two years after our older brother'sdeath. Themaid found him in our father's room, unmoving on the floor, handsclutching an orange pill bottle of prescription Xanax, severallittle, yellow school buses strewn carelessly about the marbleflooring. He wasn't breathing, his chest rested in a strangestillness. Shescreamed when she saw him, as if he were being slaughtered in frontof her face by an ax wielding masked murderer. Shequit later that week for reasons "undisclosed." Theypumped his stomach of the residual drug, filling some counteractingcompound into his arm. Myfather was nearly sewed for neglect, and it's only disappointing thathe didn't. Mysister cried, bawled her eyes out until she was just a heaping messof puffy eyes, nose drool, and black, makeup stained tears. Me?Well, I couldn't cry. My tears dried up three days prior, each onedripping down my face to forever rest on the marble floor of aCatholic Church, until the Lysol dipped mop left no trace of me everbeing there in the first place. Anger.That was the primary emotion that raged through me. Perhaps betrayal. Hewas my twin! How did he think... why!That was the only question. Why the fuck would he do something so goddamned careless?! Did he even think how it would affect the rest ofus?! But,I guess when someone commits suicide, their thoughts aren't onanything that may occur afterwards. Iremember sitting in the waiting room at Lenox Hill's psychiatric wardpreparing all the dirty, angry things I was going to say to him whenhe woke up. Butwhen he finally did two days later, he was so incredibly embarrassedthat he refused any visitors. Hedidn't want to see anybody. Itwas strange. The more I thought about it, seeing the policemen in andout of his room, constantly asking my father to go to the station,talk of a criminal investigation. It felt like a bad rerun of C.S.I.Only difference being, nobody died. Yet. Samwas there, his arms wrapped around my sister's shoulder, allowing herto cry in his chest. Dadhates Sam, and for good reason. But, he was always so nice to us.Always willing to drive us around, take us to ball games, to moviesand the arcade. Things we always expected Liam to do for us. Liamwas the oldest, died when he was fourteen. Sam was his closest,oldest, and best friend. Ironically,my mom used to call them "the twins", and us, the actualtwins"the boys." Iremember glaring at my twin through the door when it opened. He wouldpurposely avoid eye contact. Samwas nice enough to empathize with me, even to explain some thingsabout suicide to me as if anything anybody had to say would getthrough to me at that stage of my life. I really didn't want to hearit. The boy in that room was my twin. We did everything together. Hetold me everything. There hasn't been a single day we were separate.Not one fucking day. We were supposed to be the same person inessence. And we were, just in completely different ways. I felt hispain, and he felt mine. We just didn't know it. Hewas my best friend. But,I guess I had been wrong. Thus,the rift between us began. A rift that I widened carelessly, angrily. Callit childish, call it revenge... WhenI finally did see him, he didn't look me in the eye. He hardly lookedup from his lap. He gave short answers to my questions. I didn't eventell him off, I couldn't. The boy that had once been my artistic,fun-loving brother was now a brooding, suicidal mess. Ateleven years old!! Hetold me he was afraid when he finally came home. Sitting on thefloor, our backs resting against his bed at one-o'clock in themorning. He finally confessed. Hewas afraid of our father. Atthe time, I thought he was absurd. Sure, dad had been angry since hisfirst born was killed, and he drank sometimes when he shouldn't,wasn't always the loving dad we expected, but we had no reason tofear him, surely! Iwas quickly proven wrong. Dad'sdrinking doubled, tripledevenafter mom's death. His angry outbursts became less far and inbetween, his screams would vibrate my very chest and latch onto myheart, squeezing it until I felt as though he would kill me with justhis voice. Screaming, about nothing mostly. Thanksgivingwas the worst time it'd ever been. My brother, who was slowlyrecovering from his... incident, set the table for us. Him and I, mysister, Sam, dad, and our aunt. Andone more for our mother. Hethought It would help a bit if we all were thankful for the time wegot to spend with her. Daddidn't. Istill remember the look on his face. Like my brother had justcommitted the most horrid atrocity known. Heglared at my brother, asking him how stupid he was, if he even had abrain. He kept on repeating; she's dead, you fucking idiot. Hetook it like a champ, smart enough not to respond or talk back to ourfather as we all sat stunned at the man of the house's vile words. Aslew of insults came flying at my twin from the cave that was myfather's mouth. Bitch. Shit. Fucker. Faggot. The embarrassment, theblack sheep... Andhe took it all without saying a word. Andthen... our father said something that made me snap out of the dazemy fathers outburst put me in. "Stupidfucking kid." I remember him grabbing the bottle of scotchsitting next to his still empty plate and taking a long swig,slamming it down on the table and wiping his mouth. Hesat, glaring at my brother, a fire in his eyes that I'd never seenbefore. He shook his head in irritation. "Your mother would hatewhat you've become. A god damned coward!" Then,in that very moment, I understood the fire in my father's eyes, andthe hatred in his heart. I understood him down to the atom. AndI hated every fiber of his being. Iblacked out. The cops were called. My dad's lawyer was present. Samand my sister had left. My aunt was sobbing in a chair. Tillthis day, my father will swear on his life that he did not pay offthe cops. I never believed him. Hispast was spotty- at best - growing up in a mob family. A verypowerful mob family. Granddad was the head honcho, the big cheese. Heran shit in New York City for decades on end, amassing strongpolitical allies and a wealth that would make most in the Upper EastSide jealous. Mydad refused to inherit the family business, choosing instead to takea CEO position on one of the various cover industries Granddadcreated to funnel money. A chain of car dealerships used as mules toconduct... business on a large scale. My dad went straight when hemet my mom, severing ties to the mob and leaving his younger brotherto pick up the family business and inherit that wealth uponGranddad's death. Werarely got to see Uncle Gio. My father hated him. See, Uncle Gio wasthe reason our older brother died, shot to death after a bad drugdeal. Adrug deal that my uncle did not approve, nor did he know it was goingto happen. He refused to let our older brother work for him, or anyof us, for that matter. But, the dumb teenager was determined tofollow in our cool Uncle Gio's footsteps, recruiting Sam in hisendeavor, and ended up killing himself in the end. Dadand Uncle Gio didn't talk much after that. Regardless,Uncle Gio was the funnest, coolest person in the entire world. He wassophisticated, he dressed in the nicest clothes and carried a weaponwherever he went. Usually, his goons would travel with him. And,it came as no surprise when Uncle Gio showed up later that night,after the cops were payed off. His goons watched the door to mine andmy brother's room while he beat my father to a bloody pulp for whathe did to me. Istill remember everything so vividly. The muffled screams between thetwo men, and several minutes of crashes. Uncle Gio then came into ourroom, his white Alexander Price coat still in pristine condition,hanging loosely off of his shoulders, sleeves hanging limply, anapkin in his hands, wiping off my father's blood from his knuckles,and the massive, gold ring on his finger. Splatters of blood on hisshirt beneath the coat, and his white pants. UncleGio, while a mafia boss, had always been the nicest person I'd evermet. His piercing blue eyes were always warm, happy to see us. He'dsmile a toothy grin, and open his arms wide and demand a greetingfrom his "favorite nephews." Thatnight, though, he looked less happy, and more concerned when his eyescaught ours. The man had handed the napkin to one of his men, andreached up to fix his slightly messy, slicked back, pitch black hairwith a long sigh. Hedidn't need to say anything to us. We both understood him. He leanedin closer to me, his now clean hands brushing against my swollen, redcheek and bloody lip, his eyes a cloudy mix of anger, confusion, andconcern. Hekissed both of us on the cheek, and left without saying a word. Hestayed in the apartment for two days with us, calling a halt to hisbusiness while my father was in the hospital. Myfather never laid a single hand on any of us ever again. Buthis drinking got worse, and worse. Itwas around that time my brother stopped talking to me. I know whynow, as an adult, his fear of our father, particularly the rage thatI had unfortunately inherited. He thought that one day dad would killme or vice-versa, just to protect him. Atthe time, being an eleven year old boy who had seen more death thanmost grown men, a boy who cherished his loved ones and connections, Icouldn't understand. As long as we had each other, right? Oursister moved out the following year with Sam, who she was seriouslydating. She couldn't handle our dad, she was miserable. I took herroom, unwittingly driving the wedge further between my brother and I. Hebecame a loner, content with just his thoughts and his writings whileI carried on with my life taking up a few sports here and there, andchanneling my anger toward my father through fights at school. Atschool, most people would never have thought that Aidan was my twinunless we stood side by side. He had dishwater blonde hair thatseemed to always be unkempt, and his eyes were a storm of gray. I gotthe pitch black hair and icy blue eyes. Other than those two details,we were identical. Same facial structure and features, same heightand weight, same voice. Femalesflocked to both of us, but Aidan was much too shy to act on anything.He was an artist. A hopeless romantic I would later discover.Sensitive and caring. I was too smart for my own good. I was easilyprovoked into rage, opinionated and stubborn. Though,I garnered a following of friends. Uncle Gio used to tell me that Iwould be perfect for his job. I could be manipulative if I wanted to,understanding how people worked was easy for me, and twisting certainnobs and pressing certain buttons to get them to do what I wanted wasjust as easy. I was charming, seductive, and good looking. Aidanwas in his head more often than not. There would be times he'd nothear people talk to him because he was thinking too deeply aboutsomething. He disregarded girls for the most part, while I became aman-whore. Hangingout more and more with Gio, I grew up much quicker than most insettings like Strip Clubs and bars. He owned most, and saw me as aman, not the child I was. I stood up to my father, and that was allthe prestige I needed for Gio to see me as a man. I wasoverconfident, spoiled rotten, and mentally much too old.Experimenting with drugs at twelve, getting absolutely wasted atbars. Attemptingto seduce women twice my age never worked, so I used my flashy, rockstar lifestyle to intrigue girls in the high school. Iwas doing things men twice my age dreamed of. My early teens became ablur of alcohol, mostly. Aidanwas the opposite. Athome, he was always drawing something, or writing something, though,he never let anybody see or read anything. He had perhaps one or twofriends that he'd hang out with. His lunch table was what we calledthe low-roller's table. A group of kids whose parents sent them tothis school on a scholarship. The poorkids. Iwas like Uncle Gio. I showed off my clothes, my body and my charm.Any chance I got, I would lift my shirt up to show some hot girl mysix-pack. Ithought myself normal while Aidan was strange. He dressed in prettyaverage clothes, always wearing the same worn out sweater to schooleach day. He chose to ride the bus to school, for some reason,declining the limo hired by Gio to take us where we wanted to go. Itboggled my mind, and because he was so withdrawn, I didn't even askhim. I probably wouldn't get an answer anyways. Imoved passed it, and distanced myself from my own brother. Itwas what he wanted. Ididn't know how wrong I was...