Read Online Don't Leave Me by James Scott Bell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Scott Bell
Ads: Link
only because he is the son of Svetozar Zivkcovic, now Steven Kovak. A father who has killed more men and women than he ever will, because there is no honor in America, there is no ethnic cleansing. So he, The Dog, is the weak one, who drinks too much and is protected by his father’s money. But it cannot buy honor or respect.
He hates the tears that sting his eyes and blur his vision, but he guns his Escalade through the canyon. Winding toward the ocean, windows down to smell the air, the scent of coastal sage and scrub oak, red shank and buckwheat, and his beloved Manzanita. It is a plant that is hard and twisted and sharp when dry, as he is hard and twisted, as he has made himself to be. But it is not enough and his tears shame him because his father knows that he is not as hard inside as he should be, but soft like the sand on the beaches of Malibu. There is nothing he can do to change his father’s mind except to become like him and learn to kill without a thought, and that is why he carries the Manzanita branch in his car, it will teach him.
And so he drives. Down to Pacific Coast Highway, turning left, tears flowing faster, almost turning his SUV into headlights coming the other way, that would be a nice quick way to go, maybe a good heroic way to go, choosing his own destiny. He can see––no, it’s more a sense––people laughing and eating and drinking in places that line the neon night. They are chasing dreams as he is running from nightmares and he hates them all. He can hate well.
Soon he pulls off the road and onto the shoulder, at a place where the beach is darkest. He has a place he comes to in the night to cleanse himself. With him he brings his twisted Manzanita branch, and with it he climbs over the rocks down to the sand and the branch stays with him as his companion as he whips it through the air, slashing the air as one would a fencing foil, hearing the sound.
When he reaches the spot where he will be alone he takes his clothes off carefully, ritually, this is his communion. His running shoes and white socks, his jeans and belt, his shirt, he is forming a pile. He slips off his underwear last and is naked in the cool breeze.
There is a moon out, a large mountain moon, and he looks up at it like a coyote and he is The Dog, but he does not howl. He weeps. And to stop the weeping he takes his branch of Manzanita and whips his own legs and feet, and then his genitals. Then his back, over and over, the sound of the branch and crash of the waves making hymns.
When he is done and bleeding, he walks slowly to the water and into the brine, his whipped feet stinging, his legs feeling all the salt and cleansing of the Pacific, finally his back, and it burns in the cold of the water. For one brief moment he considers swimming out into the darkness, swimming until he cannot hold himself up, and then sinking to the bottom or maybe his blood will bring sharks and he will fight them before they kill him and that will be a heroic death.
He goes under the water fully, baptizing himself, and then he knows he will not die here, he is not ready to die. He comes back to shore, exhausted, still holding the branch.
He is sweeping the sand as he walks with the stick when he sees a form by his clothes, bent over the clothes, butt toward him. In the moonlight he sees the form stand up and turn around, and it looks like a skinny teenager who almost jumps when he sees The Dog. The kid freezes, looking at the naked man who is looking right back at him. The kid has something in his hand. The Dog cannot see what it is but it very clearly came out of his pocket and as the kid begins to run. The Dog knows already what the outcome will be.
The kid is fast but he is no match for Dragoslav Zivkcovic, who was graced with strong legs like his mother, his mother who was gunned down by Albanian soldiers when he was ten. He catches the teen by the back of the shirt and with one pull yanks him down on the sand. The boy cries out and
He hates the tears that sting his eyes and blur his vision, but he guns his Escalade through the canyon. Winding toward the ocean, windows down to smell the air, the scent of coastal sage and scrub oak, red shank and buckwheat, and his beloved Manzanita. It is a plant that is hard and twisted and sharp when dry, as he is hard and twisted, as he has made himself to be. But it is not enough and his tears shame him because his father knows that he is not as hard inside as he should be, but soft like the sand on the beaches of Malibu. There is nothing he can do to change his father’s mind except to become like him and learn to kill without a thought, and that is why he carries the Manzanita branch in his car, it will teach him.
And so he drives. Down to Pacific Coast Highway, turning left, tears flowing faster, almost turning his SUV into headlights coming the other way, that would be a nice quick way to go, maybe a good heroic way to go, choosing his own destiny. He can see––no, it’s more a sense––people laughing and eating and drinking in places that line the neon night. They are chasing dreams as he is running from nightmares and he hates them all. He can hate well.
Soon he pulls off the road and onto the shoulder, at a place where the beach is darkest. He has a place he comes to in the night to cleanse himself. With him he brings his twisted Manzanita branch, and with it he climbs over the rocks down to the sand and the branch stays with him as his companion as he whips it through the air, slashing the air as one would a fencing foil, hearing the sound.
When he reaches the spot where he will be alone he takes his clothes off carefully, ritually, this is his communion. His running shoes and white socks, his jeans and belt, his shirt, he is forming a pile. He slips off his underwear last and is naked in the cool breeze.
There is a moon out, a large mountain moon, and he looks up at it like a coyote and he is The Dog, but he does not howl. He weeps. And to stop the weeping he takes his branch of Manzanita and whips his own legs and feet, and then his genitals. Then his back, over and over, the sound of the branch and crash of the waves making hymns.
When he is done and bleeding, he walks slowly to the water and into the brine, his whipped feet stinging, his legs feeling all the salt and cleansing of the Pacific, finally his back, and it burns in the cold of the water. For one brief moment he considers swimming out into the darkness, swimming until he cannot hold himself up, and then sinking to the bottom or maybe his blood will bring sharks and he will fight them before they kill him and that will be a heroic death.
He goes under the water fully, baptizing himself, and then he knows he will not die here, he is not ready to die. He comes back to shore, exhausted, still holding the branch.
He is sweeping the sand as he walks with the stick when he sees a form by his clothes, bent over the clothes, butt toward him. In the moonlight he sees the form stand up and turn around, and it looks like a skinny teenager who almost jumps when he sees The Dog. The kid freezes, looking at the naked man who is looking right back at him. The kid has something in his hand. The Dog cannot see what it is but it very clearly came out of his pocket and as the kid begins to run. The Dog knows already what the outcome will be.
The kid is fast but he is no match for Dragoslav Zivkcovic, who was graced with strong legs like his mother, his mother who was gunned down by Albanian soldiers when he was ten. He catches the teen by the back of the shirt and with one pull yanks him down on the sand. The boy cries out and
Similar Books
