Status: tentatively rated r.

The Forever Year

a-a-are you ready for the big day, darling?

If you give a boy a gun, he’ll wonder what your brains look like spattered across the wall and if you let him keep the gun, eventually he’ll do it and he’ll laugh at your blood and the way your eyes popped out of your head and the way your body twitched with the death of nerves. Andrew Orson had been the unlucky fellow to have put firearms and ammunition into the hands of Callum and James Brooks; they shared the high-power hunting rifles with Marcus Allen as they prepared for what Callum would deem their greatest accomplishment. Today, Drew sat at home, a joint at his lips and lighter in hand. It wasn’t even eleven and he’s doping up, smoking away the day’s sobriety beside his piss-drunk passed-out uncle, interrupted only by a sharp rap at the door.

Callum Brooks had been in his Physics class during Drew’s sophomore year—the kid was smart, too smart, and seemed to understand more than their teacher did. Over the years, Andrew had grown to consider Callum a good friend of his and still does, which is why a grin spreads over his tobacco-yellowed teeth when he sees that it’s Callum behind the door, knocking at it impatiently. With him are James and Marcus, the two-years-younger-than-Drew tagalongs that he really doesn’t mind so much and sometimes shares his booze or weed with.

“Shouldn’t you kids be in school?” he teases when he opens the door, ushering them inside.

“I have a proposition for you, Drew,” Callum says as he walks inside, the leader of the trio as per usual. Without waiting for any sign of Drew’s curiosity, he continues: “You still have those hunting rifles, yes? Mimi is finished with them, isn’t she? I thought she came back from her hunting trip with Damien the other day, has she returned them to you?”

“Woah there, cowboy, hold your horses. Yeah, I’ve got the rifles back,” Drew answered with a slight nod and a shrug of his shoulders. “Mimi’s been back since the weekend, actually. Dropped ‘em off this morning. Why are you asking? Planning on going to the shooting range this afternoon?”

“We—”

“Shut up, Marc. I said that I would do the talking.” Callum snaps at the blond, shooting him a glare. “As I was saying. Yes, we are thinking of heading to the shooting range after school. I was hoping to work on my aim—Father is considering taking James and I on a trip to the border and I’d like to ensure that I am in good practice.”

Marcus shrinks back, hiding away from Callum and Drew behind James’ shoulder, obviously stepped on by Callum’s harsh tone but not breathing another word. It isn’t atypical for Callum to snap or shout; he’s always had quite the temper and, as their friendship grew, Drew came to accept it as part of the other boy’s personality. However, he doesn’t completely buy Callum’s story.

With a quirked brow, he replies: “I don’t think your aim needs workin’ on, Cal. You’re a perfect shot. Better than me, even, and I’ve been going out there with my uncle for years.”

“That does not mean that I cannot and should not continue to perfect my practice, no?” Callum’s response is quick and rather sharp, his displeasure with not automatically getting his way showing through as if he is a small child on the brink of tantrum. Drew waves a dismissive hand, pushing away the distaste in Callum’s voice and assuring the other boy that he’ll get the guns that he wants and muttering that he needs to lighten up and learn how to take a joke or two.

If Callum had been a cartoon character, steam would have shot out of his ears as his face burned bright red and a growl sounded in his throat. Lacking the fantasy and animation, Callum simply stands with his jaw clenched as Drew goes to the basement to collect the guns and ammunition for the boys. James and Marcus keep their distance, quiet as church mice and awkward as gangly freshmen.

“Are you ready for the big day, boys?” Callum inquires without looking back at them.

“Of course,” James replies, the grin that spreads across his lips evident in his voice. Callum’s lips twitch upward into a smile of his own, amused by his brother’s enthusiasm. Quickly, the smirk fades when no response sounds from Marcus. Small, quiet, shy little Marcus whose own temper rivals even Callum’s, but is constantly reigned in and bottled up by cowardice and a timid demeanor.

Scowling, Callum repeats himself: “Are you ready, Marc?”

“I… I think I am,” the younger boy says cautiously, glancing helplessly toward James. His fleeting glance is ignored and his stammer mocked with a sharp laugh from the pit of Callum’s stomach.

“You think you are…” Callum laughs again, chuckling as if it’s hysterical, as if it’s the most absurd and amusing fathom to meet his attention. “Did you hear that, Jamie? He thinks that he is ready… all these months and he is still not sure!”

Again, Marcus shrinks away from Callum’s harsh words. His lips tremble and he can feel the very basis of his will deteriorating into a lit flame of rage and the shower of lowering esteem and a growing, depressive mood. The rage inside him is just what Callum wants; the rage to fuel a fire of hatred, of wanting to hurt and to maim and to kill. Manipulative and cunning, Callum stokes and feeds the fire he knows is inside of Marcus, just as he knows that there is a fire within himself. He is driven by his temper and the flares of anger that rise up sporadically and he forces Marcus to follow suit. James, however, is different from them both. Callum has crafted him to be a follower, blindly accepting the ideals that best suit Callum’s morals and motives rather than his own. James doesn’t seem to notice, and if he does, he doesn’t care.

Neither James nor Marcus has opportunity to react to Callum’s words before Drew has returned with the firearms. They are great guns, large and powerful; it is visible even beneath the bags that they are stored in. The grin returns to Callum’s lips as Drew hands over the bags and slips an extra box of ammunition into James’ sweatshirt’s pocket.

“Now remember, guys, be careful. Don’t shoot each other’s eyes out with those things, or your parents’ll have my head.” Drew is serious, but Callum laughs to himself as if the elder male is joking. “I’m serious, Cal. Your dad’ll skin me alive if you or your brother got hurt with those things.”

“Oh, do not fret. We’ll be just fine…” Callum’s voice takes on a sort of sinister tone, but it’s masked enough that it’s detectable only to James and Marc, who also seem vaguely amused by Drew’s concern. Tomorrow is the big day, after all, and they both know just what these weapons will be doing—and who they’ll be harming.
♠ ♠ ♠
upgraded to be my nanowrimo.

[hopefully] will be updated more regularly.

feedback would be greatly appreciated.