A J Thompson | Andrew Thompson, Rockhampton Australia

Abstract Normalcy, a short story by Andrew Thompson

CONTENT WARNING: This short story is definitely not suitable for minors. It is loosely autobiographical but written in the third person for the sake of labeling it fiction. Its content will disturb some readers.

Abstract Normalcy is an excerpt from my novel, "Symbiosis".

©2006 Andrew Thompson

"A party!" Nancy shrieked excitedly.

Josh plonked down on the couch, not remotely aware of what his mother was talking about.

"An old mate's moved to town," Karl explained, "I thought we might have a bit of a do."

ParadiseNancy pranced over to the turntable like a giddy schoolgirl and slipped a record from its jacket. Dean Martin's voice crackled to life. Karl took her offered hand and they started to dance.

Nancy loved Dean Martin. She called him the perfect model of manhood. It hadn't escaped Josh's attention that Karl bore an uncanny resemblance to the singer. Even their voices were alike, if not their natures.

Josh went onto the veranda and sat on the rail, leaving his mother and Karl to their festivities.
Across the bay, the lights of Great Keppel Island still glowed and he wished that he was there. Anywhere but here.

Soon he would be 13. He wondered if the world would seem different. He took a final puff on a stolen cigarette then flicked it out onto the driveway, watching as the glowing ember arced through the darkness.

The familiar metallic sound of someone unscrewing a sherry bottle carried outside. He sighed. His mother's drinking was getting worse.

"We'll dress Mediterranean!" Nancy chimed from inside.
Out on the veranda, Josh roused himself, unsure where his thoughts had taken him. Long minutes passed until finally, predictably, Nancy appeared at his side. She kissed his cheek and said goodnight.

The house now silent, Josh went inside and turned on the staircase light. Downstairs in his room he tossed his clothes in the corner so the faded rust-coloured blood stain was out of sight, then took a jar of Brylcream from under his bed.

He lit the ornate Wedgwood candle and placed it in the doorway. The staircase light went out.
"Five minutes," he noted tonelessly.
Taking a dollop of Brylcream, he smeared the oily liquid between his buttocks and inside his hole, then lay face down on a towel. He grimaced as the creamy lotion stung his enflamed skin, but he had learned quickly that any form of lubrication was better than being fucked dry.

For a few minutes, he watched the dancing shadows that the lone candle cast on the walls, then suddenly a single breath extinguished it.

He buried his face into the pillow so his mother wouldn't hear him scream.

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