This story is completely fictional. Any similarities to any persons or events, past or present are purely coincidental. This story will contain scenes which involve sexual situations. If this type of material is offensive to you, or it is not legal for you to be reading this type of material, then please stop reading now. This story is copyright © 2007 by Toni Philips. Please do not copy this story for distribution or post on any online server without the author's permission. Please send all your comments to: janeebest@yahoo.com. Thanks and enjoy the story.
Hey guys! This is Toni, the writer of "Paulie", and this is my second story. I'm writing just to tell you that the beginning of this has something to do with the story, but the story isn't mainly focused on it. It's hard to explain. Just...read all of it before you diss it. :D If you like it/hate it/love it/want me to continue it, email me at janeebest@yahoo.com. Oh, special thanks to Baruch for helping me SO much. Thanks!
Prologue
Detective Manson walked into the stale apartment that seemed normal, until the overwhelming smell of a dead body hit his nose, or rather smacked his face. He fingered his approval for the entrance of the rest of the crew. He soon made his way through the crime scene investigators and the police tape towards the bedroom where the foul stench was coming from.
He saw a naked man sprawled across the floor, with blood splattered on the tan carpet. Not only were claw marks visible, but also a weapon was a few feet away. Gun shot wounds were visible in his chest area. It was pretty gruesome.
Detective Manson had seen many corpses in his time, but this one caused him to turn his head. He observed the room: a bed, dresser, closet. The policeman started looking around for any additional evidence, which caused him to wander towards the closet.
Manson opened the door and saw a naked, pale boy curled in the corner. His instincts kicked in, and he immediately requested his partner, Detective Halls. Manson put two fingers against the boy's neck and felt a slight pulse. He called for Halls louder, took his jacket off, and wrapped it against the naked boy.
The second policeman came running in. "What is it, Manson?" Halls looked over and saw the pale figure. "Oh my G--! Is he alive!"
Manson nodded quickly. "Get some help! I'm not sure he'll be that way for long!"
Manson watched the boy lying in the hospital bed. His small chest rose and fell slightly with shallow breathing. Earlier his respiration had been almost nonexistent. When his health rose enough for him to talk, the boy was questioned some by Manson. However, the child would only answer by shaking his head, He refused to look the detective in the eye. Manson checked with the doctors to make sure the youth was not deaf or suffering from some mental disease. In fact, he was not. The doctors only said the boy was in shock, however from what, they did not know. Maybe he saw the man, who perhaps was his father, get shot. Then again, the lad might have done it himself. No amount of talking could get the boy to even speak his name. After an extensive search, Timothy Wells was revealed to be the lad's name and ten his age. Manson looked over the boy's small frame: pale skin, long blonde hair that wisped over the hospital pillow, and a cute little boy face. Even in his sleep, Timothy seemed in turmoil. Sometimes he would moan (the bad kind), toss, and turn. The child really was restless. Manson thought before leaving, "Poor kid. Poor, poor kid."Before his first question even rolled off of Detective Manson's tongue, Timothy was shivering with tears in his eyes. "What is your name?"
Timothy answered with a soft voice, "Timothy."
"Last name?"
"Wells, Sir."
Manson pulled up an old picture of the man found after he died. "Is this your father?" Timothy nodded, and Manson continued. "Do you know what happened before you came here?" Timothy nodded feebly again, but did not speak. "Can you tell me, Timothy?"
Timothy's eyes visibly darkened, while he swallowed and averted his gaze towards his small, pale knees. "M--My dad...! He was trying to hurt me!" Manson leaned forward in anticipation. Timothy's voice got quieter, "He was being mean. I don't know why!" He started sniffling. "When I came home from school, my daddy took off all my clothes...and...and...." Timothy burst out crying, while Manson consoled him the best way he knew how. He hugged the boy closely, and rubbed his back gently, while whispering that it would be okay.
When Timothy gained control of his tears, Manson asked him to continue.
Reluctantly, Timothy continued, "He had a gun. He made me get on the bed with no clothes on. When I started crying, he hit me with the gun! I don't know why! I wasn't bad that day! I listened to Mrs. Thomas, I really did!" Timothy was crying again, but he kept talking. "He tried to stick his^Åthingy in me, and it hurt so badly! I tried to get him off, but I couldn't! I really really tried!... I swear!"
Timothy stopped to wipe his eyes, while Manson looked on sympathetically. Manson was just about to call it a day when Timothy whispered three words.
"I shot him!"
Five years later, Timothy is still suffering from his father's death and his role in it. He now lives with a foster family and goes to Windsor High School. Even if people had not known of Timothy's past (whether they actually know is another question), he'd still be an outcast. He wears clothes that are dark and baggy on his small frame, and his hair is still thick and long. He stays away from people, hiding in dark corners when at lunch. He remains in the back in class. He hides away from the stares and rumors of his peers, and looks forward to walking to the Milton's home. Not his home, BUT the Milton's: his foster parents. He IS no longer the 'Timothy Wells' who shot his father when he was almost raped. He IS 'Timothy Milton', the outsider freak who hides his homosexuality behind thick blonde strands of hair and dark clothing.