It would be just his luck.
He’d seen his father angry before: at the footy, at the news, at the women they saw passing in the street. It wasn’t something he cared to draw toward himself. And it was impossible to predict when he’d decide to return from the pub. It was Jacob’s experience that the time varied greatly: anywhere from seven till four in the morning. Jacob wished he had his brother’s courage on that point. The fear of being caught seemed not to concern him at all.
Probably why he’s Mr. Popular and I’m just…
Jacob’s thought cut off abruptly as Michael jumped from the couch, his gangly limbs in motion as he moved towards the television. Jacob quickly whipped back and was greeted by a close up of the girl, her hair matted down by urine, as one of the boys slowly drew a razor blade down her face. Jacob’s hard-on wilted instantly at the sight. Although garbled and distorted by the poor sound quality, the girl’s screams were all too real and Jacob’s mouth dropped open as a sick churning began in the pit of his stomach.
‘Mikey?’ he stammered.
His brother wasn’t listening. His eyes locked on the screen, he stooped closer, until his face was almost touching it, blocking the view. Jacob was thankful for that at least; he only wished the volume would disappear as well. The girl’s screams were building to a crescendo, leaving Jacob in little doubt something horrible was happening to her.
‘Mikey?’ he tried again, but his voice fell away into a mumble as he heard the sound of a zipper being opened and saw Michael’s shoulder begin to jiggle. Jacob traced down his brother’s arm to where it stretched around his front, confused by his actions. Then it dawned on him what Michael was doing and Jacob just didn’t know what to think. This wasn’t like the other ones. The violence of those had been troubling for him but this was different. This time there was blood. A strange lump had formed in Jacob’s throat and it was making it difficult to breathe and even though he knew he should get up and leave, he couldn’t bring himself to move. What if Mikey saw him? He could just hear his taunts now. Chicken, bwack, bwack, bwack. He couldn’t stand the thought of his brother calling him a coward.
Michael groaned from where he sat hunched in front of the television screen and his body went suddenly still. Fucking hell, Jacob thought, he jacked off to that? Without a word, his brother rose to his feet and Jacob caught a quick glimpse of his slimy penis as he tucked it back into his pants. He ejected the DVD and turned, glancing briefly at Jacob, before stalking out of the room, DVD in hand. Jacob sat in shocked silence. In that brief moment, with his cheeks flaming and that glint in his eye, Michael had not seemed like his brother at all.
He stared after him for a moment, his heart thudding as he swallowed nervously and then slowly looked from the door back to the television. Michael’s half empty beer stood propped on top of it and the screen now only showed a blue background with the CoNIS brand affixed in its centre. It wasn’t the logo he was looking at though; it was the spatters that flecked the screen: the ropes of jizz that slowly eased their way towards the bottom.
He sat watching his brother’s sperm ooze for a moment before he stood up to fetch a cloth. After all, who knew when dad would decide to make an appearance? He couldn’t even imagine what the old man’s reaction would be to the current scene.
As he made his way toward the kitchen, Jacob told himself that he was doing this for his brother. That he didn’t want to see him get in any trouble. But underneath the thought lay another that was really too disturbing to focus on; the reason why he didn’t tell on Michael the first time he’d caught him watching one of his films. Although Jacob didn’t like the violence; he did like the girls that starred in the films. He liked seeing them naked and he liked seeing them touched too; not beaten, just touched. And for once he wished Michael would leave a DVD after he had shown him. Jacob would always hurry to his room to jack off afterwards but just once he’d like to wank while he watched one. Maybe he could now though. After all, his brother had got that particular ball rolling…
Although he doubted he’d be wanking today.
That final scene had somewhat obliterated the urge.
* * * * *
They called themselves The Filmmakers and all this started out innocently enough: filming stunts they did on their bikes and boards, filming themselves being fools and joking around, making the odd, horrible short film but primarily just filming themselves on their regular drinking expeditions down at the Claypits, the series of clearings that were left by the clay mining operation that stretched from the highway out through the Whipstick forest. Just eight friends, all male, all late teens, bored with life in the small town of Muirtly. Just fifteen minutes from the admittedly less than thriving metropolis of Bendigo, it was a quiet place: population three hundred, a pub, a general store and a fish and chips shop its entire CBD.
They were essentially carbon-copies of each other. All desperate to rebel and claim their individualism but defeating that purpose with their equally desperate adherence to the latest fashions and brand names. All attended the same school, Epsom High, a short bus trip away. All were of average to high intelligence but insisted on swamping their minds with excessive data about the latest musicians and television shows, comic books and other crap; anything to avoid facing up to the reality of the world. You know the sort. The kind that think politics are pointless despite the fact it decided the future of their country. Cloaking themselves up in the mantle of angst to avoid failing by just not trying in the first place.
I know all this because I know the Filmmakers well. I have been watching them for a long time now and I have finally run out of patience. I’ve seen them on their drunken outings, breaking things just because they could, getting into fights because they claimed they were bored. That it isn’t their fault; there’s just nothing to do in this town. Obviously the idea of opening a book has never occurred to them. Nor any of the constructive arts: paint some, draw some, build something, fucking knit if you have to – just don’t tell me you’re bored when there were so many options you haven’t pursued…
Anyway, back to the point at hand. The Filmmakers were heading towards a fall. I knew it was coming but even I – in my infinite wisdom - couldn’t have foreseen how quick they’d degenerate. It’s hard to pinpoint the exact start of their decline but as far as I can tell it all began to change when Steven killed that dog for whatever fucking reason he had. To be honest, I know for a fact he had no reason. He was just bored and wanted to see what would happen. He even muzzled the thing first – a true sign of cowardice if I’ve ever seen one; didn’t even give it a fighting chance.
He staked it down out in the fifth Claypit, right near the big dam and set to work. Michael manned the camera, while the other boys ringed the beast. I must give them this: the majority of the boys were hesitant. Well at least to start with. They didn’t hesitate long once Steven threw the first rock though. It struck the dog dead in the centre of the head and it went down with a strangled whimper. The poor mutt was dead long before the other boys started lobbing their rocks but they didn’t let that stop them. They kept hurling them until the dog was little more than a mess of pulp on the ground.
And I had to watch it all.
I can tell you I seethed with anger. But I held back. It’s a real problem of mine you see. I only really want to see the best in people.