Flashback
A sequel to "Confrontation"
 

"Enlevez vos vêtements."

The boy does as he is told, carefully folding his shirt and jeans and
placing them on the seat of a chair. He is reluctant to remove his
underwear, but overcomes his unwillingness before the man can say
anything. He has been in this place before, and knows better than to
hesitate.

He reaches for the cross he wears on a rawhide thong around his neck.

"Non. Laissez cela dessus," the man says, waving a dismissive hand.
The boy drops his hand and stands, resolute, waiting for instructions.

They come, as usual, with an angry growl and a rough shove. He is
pushed toward a chaise lounge in the middle of the room.

"Se couchent, l'idiot."

The boy lays back stiffly on the uncomfortable vinyl-bound chair.
There are tears in the fabric and the puckered edges bite into his
unprotected skin. The man begins the rough task of arranging his
body until he is satisfied with the look. One leg slightly bent at
the knee, chin resting on loosely-curled fingers, free hand resting
on raised knee, eyes slightly raised.

"Le séjour a mis, enfant de démon," he says, and the boy knows what
will happen if he does not remain perfectly still. It is hard for
him, for he is a hyperactive child, but he masters the urge to
wriggle with self-discipline far beyond his years.

The man begins to play with the lighting in the room, shining hot
lamps on the boy from all different angles until he gets the light he
wants, and something strange happens. The boy feels himself
disconnecting from his beaten and malnourished body and floating away
toward the ceiling, where he hovers, watching the goings-on with
detached interest.

His body has not moved, but the stiff pose has grown infinitely more
natural as the tension lines in his muscles have relaxed. For hours
he sits, consciousness hovering above, and he does not once move,
does not even blink.

The man paints with feverish abandon, capturing what he knows will be
the greatest work of his career. Never has he been able to create so
perfect a depiction, because children will always shift position and
ruin the pose. As it is, he is not unnerved by the boy's unnatural
stillness, but rather elated by it. Although he knows this red-eyed
monster to be the spawn of Satan, today the boy has become an angel,
and to stand so near to divine Grace has given him a raging hard-on.
It is hardly poetic, but he is a painter, a mediocre one at best, and
not a poet.

He finishes at last and throws down his brush. Stripping off his
smock he moves in to take the child, pushing him back hard into the
chaise lounge and weighing him down with his pot-bellied old man's
body. His breath is hard and wet and ragged as he slobbers kisses on
the boy's neck.

He pulls away a little, preparing to fuck, but the boy's calm, red-
over-black gaze stops him. The child has never dared to keep his
eyes on him before, and the man is unnerved by the total lack of
emotion on his face.

"Tournez votre regard fixe, créature détestable!" he cries out,
slapping the boy hard across the mouth. The child does not even
flinch. And he does not look away.

He loses it completely, beating the child about the head and
shoulders and screaming curses in French. The boy remains serene
through it all, as though catatonic, or dead. Really realizing for
the first time what it is to be alone in a room with a devil child,
the man decides to rid the world of this creature once and for all.
But he is not a strong man, and his studio contains no acceptable
weapons, not even a decent palette knife. But it is four stories up.

He picks the child up in his arms. This is not difficult because, in
spite of his unusual height for his age, the boy is nearly starved to
death and weighs very little. He carries him to the window, open to
let the summer breezes in, and dumps him out of it.

With a catlike twist of his spine, the boy lands on his feet. He
remains where he stands for a few moments, letting his soaring
consciousness perceive the shock and superstitious dread on the old
man's face, seeing the way he clutches for his chest and gasps for
air as the heart attack he has been courting for years finally
overtakes him. And then, as the man falls, the boy walks away,
paying no mind to the people who stare at his naked and beaten body
as he passes.
 

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Translations:

* Enlevez vos vêtements. – Take off your clothes.

* Non. Laissez cela dessus. – No. Leave that on.

* Se couchent, l'idiot. – Lay down, idiot.

* Le séjour a mis, enfant de démon. – Stay put, demon child.

* Tournez votre regard fixe, créature détestable! – Turn your gaze,
hateful creature!
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Mac O'Roni

"After all dis time--an' I still manage to impress myself."

-Gambit, Uncanny X-Men #334
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