Chapter 5 Brielle #2
“One morning, I slept in. I didn’t get ta hide like I usually do and Mr. Everett found me.
He gave me a job as a stable hand, then had me working.
I slowly started doing more chores and gained respect.
I ain’t nevah had respect ‘efore. Mr. Everett even offered me a room in the farmhouse, but I didn’t want it.
I wanted my bed with my family, the horses.
Then one night I was puttin’ tha horses to bed, and a group of guys came.
They was gonna hurt tha horses, to hurt the Aftons’ winnings at the races, but I fought ’em off!
I got my arse beat, but I kept fighting them off and made sure they didn’t hurt the horses.
Right before I was about to be knocked out, Mr. Everett and Bobby came.
They shot the bastard who was kickin’ me while I was on the ground half dead.
After that, Mr. Everett gave me the offer of a lifetime and I made my pledge, then got my family emblem.
” He gently places his forearm in front of me to show his proud scar. It makes the burn on my back itch.
I find it absurd and graphic—these poor boys wanting a place, a home, then being manipulated into this barbaric ritual.
As I finish up stitching the young boy, I assist Biscuit and notice he has the same burn mark on his forearm as well. It makes me shudder, as my own branding itches beneath my clothes.
I hold my tongue and continue my work.
*
Soon I become familiar with the sight of the OEC motorcycle as it continues to randomly pull up outside my apartment or work establishments.
I’ve assisted them five times now with medical emergencies.
All preventable.
All painful to assist with.
“You got your bag, baby?” he exclaims, revving the engine, eager to rush off on the motorcycle.
“I bring it everywhere I go now! Got to be ready when you pop up like a gopher.” My bag has become bigger and contains nearly a full trauma kit.
Some items I stole from the hospital; others were things we learned to work with during the war, like fishing wire, make-shift surgical kit and a Thomas splint.
During these beginning weeks as the Aftons’ personal nurse, I patched up four boys who were in a bar fight.
They had lacerations to their faces and contusions to their torsos.
I also looked at an adder bite, because the poor boy had been assigned to feed the snakes, and lastly a bullet wound from a neighboring gang that had come to town for a troublesome visit. Luckily there was an exit wound.
But these boys are mostly fifteen to eighteen years of age. I have seen a couple branded with that bloody snake emblem on their chest or forearm. Each time I see it, anger rages inside me. It pisses me off that they allow boys to do their business in addition to branding them like cattle!
When I tried asking Bobby about it, he said it was none of his business, and that therefore it was none of my business either.
The motorcycle engine revs as we ascend a minor hill. Reaching the far side of town, we come to the town house district.
Bobby quickly shuts off the motorcycle, rushing us inside.
I hear a young man wailing in pain, bringing back memories of the cries from the battlefield. Shaking my head lightly, I fight the ghosts that haunt me and focus on my mission.
We walk up the steps into a three-story brick town house.
On my left are wooden steps leading to the second story, then a small hallway leading to a kitchen as an opening on the right turns into a vast living room with gaudy curtains, golden lamps, large paintings and a stone fireplace centered within the room.
On a green velvet couch sits a young boy who looks vaguely familiar.
Bobby, noticing my questioned look, leans over to state, “It’s our boy Clint, wash boy from the Den.”
I raise my eyebrows as I stalk toward him, placing my large bag on the matching velvet chair. The poor boy tries to muffle his scream as his tear-streaked face gazes upon me. He’s holding a mangled hand in the air. His fingers are splayed in every which way.
My heart aches as I set my bag down and immediately pull out some medications.
A woman appears from the hallway.
She’s older, disgruntled, with wrinkles and heavy makeup, and smoking a cigarette with her arms crossed. She wears a light blue button-up long-sleeved shirt with an accompanying long skirt. She has no sense of care on her face, only judgment seeps from her pores.
Bobby walks over to her and politely says, “Hi, Mum,” then kisses the cheek of the thin cigarette-puffing lady as he asks, “What happened? ”
She makes an annoyed sound as she glares between Clint and I. “He was a fucking idiot and got caught, so he got what he deserved.”
Wow, appears she has no sense of motherly care or affection toward a poor boy who clearly needs help at the moment.
The boy bites down on his bottom lip, the action causing the flesh to split. He muffles another loud cry as his nostrils flare. Bobby replies to his mother’s cold statement, “Mum, that’s not helpin’.”
She rolls her eyes at his comment as I explain each action I perform for Clint’s aid.
I administer a shot of pain medication in his upper arm, then begin assessing the hand closer, carefully angling my body to get a better look at its state rather than moving him around and causing more pain before the medication hits him.
Bloody hell, I have to reset his fingers—and splint them too.
The top of his hand is split, nearly three to four inches across. Luckily no tendons are poking through, but it needs stitching as well.
Bobby comes over and crouches next to me.
I slowly discuss my findings with them, and Clint swallows hard as Bobby shakes his head.
“Are you all right with me doing all of that, sweetheart?” I ask tenderly to Clint.
He bravely nods his head.
“I’ll wait till the pain medications kick in, okay? I really do think you should see a proper physician though. I’ve only done this a handful of times in the war,” I remark, then begin digging out the supplies I need.
“No other docs,” the boy mutters between his clenched teeth. “All the men say you’re the best.”
Bobby’s mom loudly says, “Just do it now and get out of mah house. He deserves the pain. The dumb bloke was on a small mission to see where the Italians were starting to post up, but instead got caught. Can’t trust anyone to do their goddamn job!
” She takes a long drag of her cigarette as I study the young boy.
He has to be…maybe sixteen? A symbol peeks out from below his tattered shirt—the snake emblem burnt into his flesh.
I swallow my disdain for that mark. Each time I see it, my reservoir of resentment grows and grows.
I think today is the day I give someone a piece of my mind regarding th at godforsaken emblem, as well as utilizing boys as child soldiers to do their bidding.
I shake my head in disapproval.
“What’s that for?” Bobby’s mom points at me with her middle finger. “Why you shakin’ your head?”
I swallow and simply state, “He’s just so young.” She doesn’t need to know my complete thoughts on the matter. It would probably ruffle her feathers to hear my opinions anyway, no matter what the subject was. She seems like a miserable swot.
The woman storms further into the room and spits back at me, “Mind ya fucking business and do your bloody job, whore.”
“LOUISA!” Bobby’s head snaps to her as he stands, then yells at his mother. “You don’t talk to the massage girls in that manner and you definitely won’t talk to our nurse like that!”
His state exudes fiery frustration as she eyes him up and down then scoffs in his face. Without a word, she removes herself from the room as I finish up taking care of Clint.
Bobby is angrier at her words than I am, probably because I was prepared for her to make a derogatory statement, considering her spiteful demeanor.
The pain medications have quickly set in, so I take the initiative and set his poor phalanges back into place. He will need an X-ray and physicians to follow up to make sure they are aligned correctly.
Bobby comes to kneel next to me. “I’m sorry about that, baby, my mom is—” He pauses then lets out a large breath. “My mother is a cunt.”
I continue wrapping Clint’s hand after stitching the top and setting and splinting the fingers.
“I’ve heard worse,” I murmur.
“It still isn’t right. Hell, even her own mother finds her to be awful.” The words make me chuckle to myself. Then Bobby turns toward the boy. “What happened, Clint?”
Clint stares at me as I work on his hand, carefully wrapping the last gauze.
He pants as he states, “I thought I was quiet, sir. I thought I was good, but someone knew I was coming. It was like they were waiting for me, boss.” He lets out a small cry as he pants in between a few more words .
“They captured me and started punching, kicking me, then they took a rubber mallet and…and…and started pounding mah hand.” The boy starts to sob.
It breaks my fucking heart.
Bobby outstretches his arms, then wraps them carefully around Clint as he shushes him in comfort.
Bobby whispers, “We will find these bastards and make them pay.” Not a simple statement, but a promise.
He sits next to Clint with a pad and pen, writing down their descriptions and any other details Clint can feed him.
Each tear that rolls down Clint’s face feeds the anger that is sizzling under my skin.
For this boy wouldn’t need any revenge and wouldn’t be in the position if it wasn’t for the Adders’ doing.
As my irritation boils, I shove my belongings into my bag as Bobby wraps up his questioning.
After I wipe my hands on a cloth, he realizes I’m about to storm out the door.
I hear his voice behind me. “What’s wrong, baby?”