Secrets 8

Both Kevin and I waited for Patrick to begin. Kevin’s dick wasn’t so hard anymore. His fingers were still grazing against Patrick’s leg.

“This gun was my dad’s,” Patrick said, grabbing the gun again. “He kept it in the house for ‘emergencies’ whatever the fuck that meant. He told me once, when I was like seven, that he actually killed somebody with this gun. I don’t know why the fuck somebody would tell their kid some shit like that when they’re seven, but you know my dad was a real fucked up guy, and he used to say a lot of shit that he shouldn’t have. And he used to do a lot of shit that he shouldn’t have.”

“Your dad was nice…” I whispered.

“Oh, yeah,” Patrick said, “to you he was. He fuckin’ loved you, Sean. He always used to ask me when you were coming over so he could see you. Fuckin’ asshole liked havin’ you around more than he liked havin’ me around, and I was his fuckin’ son.” Patrick laughed, and then that laugh melted into a frown as he was visualizing his father’s face in his mind. “It’s not like I really cared all that much though. He was just a fuckin’ drunk that used to beat the shit out of my mom and me. I never told you about it, Sean, but he did. I fuckin’ hated his guts. But whenever you were around, he was nice; he actually talked to me like he liked me. Whenever you were around, he always used to act like he were some big fuckin’ happy family when we weren’t. And I had to sit there and pretend that everything was alright when it wasn’t…”

Patrick stopped for a moment. I could tell that telling me this was really making him angry, even though he was trying his hardest to remain casual. He looked at me, with no humor in his face, deadly serious, and asked, “Do you remember how many times my father fucked you, Sean?”

I felt like my stomach had exploded when I heard that. I remembered being in the other room and seeing the family portrait on the desk, and remembering how I had walked into the bathroom and seen Patrick’s father naked. I remembered him smiling. I remembered him telling me to come inside and lock the door. But I didn’t remember anything else other than that. I certainly didn’t remember ever having sex with Patrick’s father. I couldn’t see how that could ever happen. “No…” I said finally.

“You fucked his dad?” Kevin asked, chuckling. “Some friend you are.”

“Yeah, both of them thought I didn’t know about it,” Patrick said. “They thought they were getting away with it, without anybody knowing. But I knew.” Patrick gripped the gun tighter. That gun was definitely loaded. I knew it. “Good thing my mother never found out. But I knew.”

“I don’t remember any of that,” I told Patrick. “I didn’t…”

“I know you don’t remember of any of it, Sean. But it happened. Believe me when I say it happened.”

The pain at the back of my head started to move toward the center of my head, spreading rapidly to the front. 
“Do you remember how my father died?” Patrick asked me.

“No…” I said softly.

“You should,” Patrick said, smiling again. “You were there when it happened. I was there when it happened. You helped me kill him.”

I jumped up from the seat, hitting the desk behind me. “I didn’t kill anybody! Don’t fuckin’ say that, Patrick! I didn’t kill your dad, Patrick.”

Kevin looked at me almost as if he thought I was crazy. Patrick just looked at me casually. “Calm down, Sean,” Patrick said. “Just sit down.”

“No. I don’t know what the fuck you’re trying to do to me, why the fuck you’re telling me all this shit. But none of it’s true. I didn’t fuck your dad, and I sure as hell didn’t kill him.”

“We used this gun,” Patrick told me simply. “I shot him in the head. Don’t you remember all that blood all over the kitchen floor?”

When he mentioned the blood all over the kitchen floor, I was immediately reminded of Danny, of how he shot himself in the head, and how his blood was all over the bathroom floor. “No, Patrick. That never happened.”

“Come on, Sean. You have to remember. It happened three years ago. Tenth grade. I was at basketball practice. My mom was outta town. I came home and found you and my dad fuckin’ in the guest room down the hall. And I came in and saw the two of you. I fuckin’ lost it, and me and my dad got into this big fight, right there in that room down the hall. He pinned me down to the ground, and he was naked, and his dick was still hard, and he just started kickin’ the shit outta me. And you were just standing there, naked, like you are right now. I kept tellin’ you to help me. 

"I kept telling you don’t just stand there, do something. But you didn’t. I didn’t know if you didn’t help me because you were just too scared, or if it was because you wanted to see my dad beat my ass. My dad kept telling you to get outta the room, but you just kept standing there. He was tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me, and all you were doing was just standing there and watching. 

“And then I remembered the gun in his desk. I told you to get it. I told you to get the gun. But you didn’t move. My dad kept telling you to get outta the room. He was choking me and I couldn’t breathe. And you finally moved. I thought you were gonna leave me alone with him, but you didn’t. You went over to the desk and pulled the gun out. Then my dad got off of me and he said…”

I remembered. Everything Patrick was saying came rushing back to me, and I remembered everything that had happened, two years ago. “I remember,” I said. “He said, ‘Sean, put the gun down.’ And he started to come toward me, and I didn’t know what to do, because I never touched a gun before, and I didn’t know how to use one. I was scared and didn’t know what to do. He kept coming toward me, and I kept trying to back away. I was pointing the gun at him and he kept saying, ‘Just put the gun down, Sean’. I kept thinking that none of this was real, that none of this was really happening…and then he rushed at me and took the gun away from me…”

“Then he pointed it at me,” Patrick said, almost laughing. “And I was thinking, “isn’t this the most fucked up shit. My own fuckin’ dad is pointing a gun at his own son in front of his best friend. I mean, it would’ve made sense if he was drunk when he did it, but he wasn’t. He really wanted to kill me. So what did I do? I ran the fuck outta the room. I went into the bathroom and shut the door. And my dad just came right in. My stupid ass didn’t even remember to lock the goddamn thing, but he probably would’ve found a way to get inside anyway. He was coming toward me, with that gun pointed right at me. He was looking at me like he fuckin’ hated me. And I knew that he did hate me. And I don’t know why he hated me, but he just did…”

“I came in the bathroom,” I said. “I told your dad to stop, but he wasn’t listening to me. I tried to run up behind him and take the gun, but he turned around and hit me in the face with it. I fell down to the floor.”

“When he turned back around, I punched him,” Patrick said, “and the gun fell out of his hand. He was sprawled out on the floor. I picked up the gun. I pointed it at him…I pulled the trigger…I didn’t even think about it. Right into his head…I didn’t even think about it…”

After he said that, there was a thick silence in the room. It seemed ten degrees colder than when he first started the story. All those awful memories came back to me in a rush, and I wondered how I could ever forget something like that. It was impossible to forget something like that, but somehow I had forgotten all of that. I had known that Patrick’s father had died, but I couldn’t remember how he died, or really even when. I remembered all the blood on the bathroom floor when Patrick’s father had died. I remembered all the blood on the bathroom floor when Danny had died…it was the same blood…

“You forgot all about it,” Patrick said. “We didn’t get into any trouble because it was self-defense. But we had to take all these bullshit therapy sessions. I forgot what the fuckin’ dude’s name was. It was weird, you had to take therapy longer than I did, and I was the one that killed the asshole. They said you had some post-traumatic bullshit I don’t know, where you couldn’t remember anything that happened before that night. And so the doctor guy said the best way for you to get over that was to write in a journal. He said if you write about your thoughts and your feelings and stuff, that it might help you remember what happened, that if you…”

My head felt like it was about to crack open. “Shut-up!” I yelled. “Shut-up! I don’t want to hear anymore of it. Just shut up.”

“But it didn’t help,” Patrick continued. “Because when you wrote about things, you would make up things that weren’t real. You would make up situations and people who really didn’t exist. But you believed they were real.” 

“What are you fuckin’ sayin’, Patrick? That I’m delusional? That I’m a fuckin’ psycho.”

“I didn’t say you were ever crazy, Sean. I’m saying you’re confused.”

“Confused about what?”

“Who’s Danny?” Patrick asked.

My body stiffened up. I remembered Danny lying dead on my bathroom floor. I remembered… “I told you who he was,” I said. “He was a friend of me…he shot himself. You already know all of this, Patrick…why are you…”

“Are you sure?” Patrick questioned.

“What do you mean am I sure? I was there when he shot himself in the head—I saw him shoot himself…I saw…” And then I stopped talking. “Patrick what did you do with his body? You did something to it, I know you did.” I stood up from the chair and I made a dash for my clothes on the side of the bed near Patrick. He didn’t even bother to try and stop me or tell me to sit down, or even move from where he was sitting. I grabbed my jeans and pulled them on quickly, doing the same thing with my shirt. I wondered why Patrick wasn’t trying to stop me. I wondered why he was letting me do this and not trying to stop me. 

“You thought I wanted to kill you, didn’t you?” Patrick asked, not looking at me, but staring ahead at the black computer screen. Kevin turned around and looked at me. His eyes were dark and cold looking. “You thought I came in here to shoot you.”