DALE DIGORI
An entry in the Crocodile Prize
PNG Government Award for Short Stories
SNAP!
The past sixteen years of his young life flashed before his eyes as he realized that the rope had actually tightened fully around his neck, crushing his throat and instantly blocking off his air supply.
This was nothing like the movies, where the unsuspecting hero jumped out in front of him to stop the leap, or an unexpected turn of events made him change his mind.
It was reality, one which was fast fading into nothingness with every second. There was no pain, just numbness. And there was peace – he felt peace.
Darkness!
What did it really mean to be a teenager? Was it freedom, or the ability to adjust and adapt to any given situation or scenery? A phase of life filled with dreams and ambitions, countless friends and endless adventures? Jason barely knew the answer to that question. That part of his short-lived life – that right, had been stripped from him.
Jason was what you would normally consider your average, ordinary, everyday ten year old when the series of unfortunate events had begun. Growing up in the typical suburbia of Port Moresby city and being an only child, he dreamt of becoming a doctor, just like his uncle Hilo.
He got good grades, hung out with the kids who were considered “cool” and was the envy of a few of the little girls in his fifth grade class. It seemed as if life was perfect for him, like nothing could ever go wrong. Everybody always said that Jason was bound for greatness. No one would have ever predicted otherwise.
However, tragedy had decided to shatter Jason’s entire world a year after that. At age eleven, his parents were involved in a terrible car accident that spared neither one of them. On their way home from work in Downtown Port Moresby one fateful evening, their vehicle had overturned along a curb on the road at 2 Mile Hill, crashing mercilessly into the band of poorly built houses over the edge.
The collision was fatal and they had lost their lives instantly. The devastating news came as quite a shock to the eleven year old. Having been sheltered his entire young life, the teenager felt helpless. He had no idea how he was supposed to go on living and so he turned to the closest and only family he had ever known; uncle Hilo.
The first few months after the death of his parents were quiet rough for him. There were sleepless nights and silent cries. Dealing with the pain of loss was unbearable, and poor Jason found it hard to cope with school.
Harder still was having to force a smile every time he met his old friends and their parents. Yet the continuous support and presence of his uncle had given Jason the courage to do what very few of us may have done at his age; he had picked up the pieces of his shattered world and was slowly moving on.
Fast forward a few years and things were actually starting to look better again on Jason’s path. He returned to school and had been selected to further his studies at Kila Kila Secondary School where he had made great progress, joining the soccer club and even making some new friends.
Life at home was even better, or so he thought, with uncle Hilo treating the youngster exactly how he perceived a father would to his son at this stage; turning up at school or at soccer matches unexpectedly, constantly calling up to know exactly what he was doing or who he was with, even buying Jason countless little gifts he never even asked for.
Jason never once questioned uncle Hilo’s motives, considering all the close attention as physical manifestations of his love for family. He never noticed the early signs, never guessed where it was all leaning towards, or how it would all end. If only he had known.
It happened one Friday afternoon when uncle Hilo came home drunk with a few of his colleagues from work. They pulled up the driveway as Jason watched from his bedroom window, and proceeded into the living room.
He had almost jumped out of his skin when he heard his uncle yell his name, and quickly ran downstairs. He reached the bottom of the stairs only to be greeted by a bottle of beer. He was barely the legal age and uncle Hilo would have known that too. But despite his protests they all coerced him to take it until finally he gave-in and started drinking.
It began with just one bottle, then two, then three. Jason should have notice instantly the way they all started to smirk, but it never once occurred to him that it could be anything more than “drinks with the boys”.
It was after the third bottle that the teenager realized he could no longer talk - hell, he could barely walk. Uncle Hilo told him he would help him up to bed and lifted the drunken boy effortlessly; his arms clung around the uncle’s neck as he was carried to his room.
No sooner had the uncle placed him on his bed that Jason realized they were not alone.
He felt a pair of big, strong arms pin him down on the bed as the rest of the shadowy figures tore at his tight-fitted clothes. It took the young man only a few seconds to realize what was actually happening.
He begged, cried, pleaded and even swore not to tell, yet their only response amid the laughter was that it would hurt like hell. They were rough and kept a hand over his mouth. Jason stared helplessly at Uncle Hilo with tearful eyes, too weak to even fight them off anymore. His uncle had an evil look that he had never seen before; his eyes were filled with lust and fire.
It was over soon, but a piece of the teenager had died.
Dawn broke early the next morning, the first rays of sunlight pierced through Jason’s window. On a branch of the mango tree just outside, a little bird sat and sang a sweet little melody. Yet none of that mattered to the abused teenager anymore; he felt a piece of his innocence had been forcefully stripped from him. They had turned Jason into a walking corpse.
How his “straight” uncle, the only person he had come to trust and thought had actually cared about him, and the only relative he knew of, could do that to him was too painful to comprehend or even consider. Jason once again felt he had nowhere to run to, no one he could report such ghastly behaviour to. Besides, who would ever have noticed the damage that one night had done to him?
He kept telling himself over and over that there was no way anyone would ever believe him. Of course, why would a group of young and successful doctors be horny enough to rape a sixteen year old boy? The only stories of such ever reported were of females. They would probably call Jason a faggot, and simply disregard his story as a lie.
He knew he was not strong enough to put on a mask and face the world. What difference would it make anyway? He felt he was all alone; a mere speck in a vast society where sexual abuse had just become another story in the papers. He chose not to fight a losing battle. He’d spare them both the mounting storm and simply let the river flow. He would choose escape; a rope from the ceiling fan.
Darkness!