The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice Chapter 3
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The 185 was halfway up Vauxhall Bridge at the time. He was listening to Track 05 – Ordinary Vanity, sipping a skinny latte fresh from Costa, and just starting off with The Witchcraft of Ulua (so needless to say he was already in a passably good mood) when Leo Cutter and Ahmed Mehdi came up the stairs with rucksacks slung over their shoulders. Chelsea noticed them but they didn't notice him (so no slaps to the head or `bum boy' jokes) as they jumped on two seats closest to the stairs. Two seats away. At the time the bus was half-full so Chelsea just kept his head down, thinking to avoid them, that was until they started talking.
"Bruv, I texted him on What's App last night but he didn't text me back," said Ahmed. "Mr. Jones try yell at me and say "Oh, why ain't Jonno here for practice?" blah, blah, blah. I said "I'm not the boy's keeper, mate, I don't know why he ain't here, innit?" Man try chat to me like he's my dad, bruv!"
Leo took a fist to his mouth to keep from laughing. "Fam, you ain't seen Riya's Snapchat?"
"Nah mate, why?"
"Last night I was BUSSIN', blood! Literally yeah, she was all like "fuck guys who don't support you, fuck guys that take you for granted, fuck guys that don't text back" and I'm dying! Bruv, I had tears in my eyes! Then I text Jonno and I say to him like "why is Riya fucking blowing up her Snapchat with this fucking feminist shit?" and he's like "fuck her, I don't give a shit no more, I couldn't catch brain for week, she's a cunt" reh, reh, reh!" Leo broke into hysterical, ashy laughter. "They broke up, bruv!"
"Swear down?"
"Swear DOWN, fam!"
Jonno and Riya were broken up.
If anything was wider than Chelsea's eyes at that news, it was his smile. It wasn't as if they hadn't argued before (they sure as hell had and it was always the talk of the school when it happened) but not once had they ever broken up. Their fights only usually lasted about half a day! But he knew Leo wasn't lying. When the two of them got dunked the first thing Jonno did was argue with the people laughing at him – not see to his crying girl. He was such a fucking meathead he probably didn't even think her crying was that a big of a deal. Chelsea almost pictured his indifferent coldness – "why are you upset with me, I didn't drop the fucking paint on you," and Riya was a lot of things but more than anything else she was haughty. She wouldn't stand for it. Lots of boys liked Riya, she knew she had options. And Jonno wouldn't have realized what he had done until it was too late.
Grinning, Chelsea felt like a hungry wolf just thrown a pork chop. Sweeter news couldn't have graced his morning like that did.
Or so he thought.
When the bus crossed the bridge Chelsea (distantly) followed Leo and Ahmed down its stairs and off it onto the streets. The first bell rang as soon as they walked into the College and as usual Chelsea attended his tutor group for the register. As usual for a Tuesday he had Maths first, then first break, then IT, then Geography with Mrs. O'Neil. That was the one lesson he dreaded and he walked into the classroom with a knot in his stomach (wondering what cruel and unusual excuse she would find to humiliate him in front of the class again) but Mrs. O'Neil wasn't there. In her place was a cover teacher called Mr. Smeat; a gangly bald man with a sprinkle of ginger fuzz around his lips and humble attitude. He was nice. Chelsea remembered him from when he took over Miss Kaczka's History class during her maternity leave.
Someone else asked him why Mrs. O'Neil wasn't teaching the class.
"Well Mrs. O'Neil is very unwell right now," explained Mr. Smeat. "She had an allergic reaction to something she ate yesterday so I'm here to cover for her. Now! Everyone take a seat! Let's turn to page 228 and resume where you left off yesterday with... plate tectonics."
If ever a day was a slice of cake.
And the cherry on top?
Jonno and Riya.
The rugby captain had his usual spot (one desk away from Chelsea's) but Riya chose to sit at the front with her friend Sarah Fitzpatrick. Jonno's glare could've burned a hole in the back of Riya's head but the girl didn't look back. They shared no texts nor giggles and at the lesson's end they left as separately as they came. Jonno didn't try to catch up with her and Riya didn't bother looking back. It was official. They were well and truly done.
Payback's a fucking bitch, concluded a grinning Chelsea.
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`Hi Dad. Will be stopping at the library for a few hours after-school. Please tell Mum to save me a plate. Thanks.'
That was the text Chelsea sent to Tom after leaving college. The final lesson was Spanish (a subject he had always done well at) but when the last bell went he packed his things away and ducked out as soon as possible. Part of it was some slim hope of bumping into Jonno, sans Riya, on his way out. But as he left the languages department and strode down the main hall and through the courtyard and out via the Damilola Taylor Gate, the Pimlico Manor College rugby captain was nowhere to be found. He saw Riya though. Her father (Dr. Malhotra) waited for her in his silver Mercedes. She said goodbye to her friends then climbed in with a dispassionate face. Then they drove off.
But then Chelsea's thoughts were elsewhere. Maybe he's gone to rugby practice. If what Ahmed said this morning was true, then he missed it yesterday. Truth be told Chelsea was sort of tempted to go and see him – but he had no idea what he really wanted to say. It wouldn't be "Ha, ha! She dumped you!" because that would likely result in a beating. It wouldn't be sympathetic either. Chelsea had no interest in coddling or consoling Jonno. But he did want to be around him right now -- just to see if anything, anything, had changed (even though deep down he knew nothing would).
But temptation didn't breed reaction and Chelsea left instead. But he left to do something he decided to do earlier that morning.
He took the 436 instead of the 185 and rode it through the bridgework and pubs of Vauxhall, past the Oval and the rowdy student populace of Archbishop Tenison's, down through the run down chicken shops and kebab joints of Camberwell then past the Nigerian shanty town that was Peckham. When he got off at New Cross Gate station he descended to Platform 2 and got a train straight to Purley. On his way there he took the burnt book out of his satchel and stared at it.
If someone sent him a package like this four years ago he would have thought Nancy was behind it. He would have imagined her lost somewhere and sending him clues to come and find her. But now? Now he was clever enough not to believe in trails of breadcrumbs. He was beyond wishful thinking. Wherever she was she would never do this. This was someone messing with him. But why? And why now? Chelsea knew it wasn't Jonno (he was the kind of arsehole who liked to see his torments in real time, which was a crazy sort of relief in its own way) but it still bothered him. It bothered him enough to drag himself off at Purley station and make his way up the high street to its CEX.
It was much like any other CEX; tablets and phones in the windows; games, Blu-Rays and DVDs inside; an atmosphere soaked in BO with some dumb Year 7 lads bickering over who of them was better at FIFA and a mum bickering with a shaggy-looking staff member about why her son's PS3 games were worth so little in trade. That unfortunate guy had a co-worker behind the counter dealing with everyone else while he calmed her down. Chelsea went into her queue with the burned book in his hand – but once he was next she didn't seem to notice it. "Hi, can I help?" She said.
"Uh," Who sent me this book? He thought. Was it you? I don't know you, any of you, why would you play games with me? "Do you have... any PS Vita memory cards?"
When she turned around to check the stock suspended from the wall Chelsea began to realize that he had no plan here. He didn't even know what he expected? For his prankster to leap out and yell "surprise! It was me!" and then job done?
"Which size were you looking for?" Said the woman.
Chelsea's felt his wrist tremble. He snatched it with the other to calm it down but that trembled too. Then he realized it was his whole body – shaking. Someone here was fucking with him. Playing games with his mind and (whether they realized it or not) Nancy's memory. How was that fair? And why couldn't he just ask these people what the hell one of them was playing at?
"64 GB?" He said.
Why am I such a coward? He thought.
She shook her head. "I'm sorry but we don't have any of those in stock at the moment. The bigger ones tend to sell out more quickly, I'm afraid. Try online."
"That's fine. Thank you."
The burnt book was still in hand. Chelsea slipped it into his satchel and walked outside where he threw his face in his hands. What was wrong with him? What was the point of coming all this way if he wasn't even going to do anything?
"Mate, hold up a second."
Chelsea turned.
There was a guy behind him. He was middling-to-tall with heavy-lidded eyes and a feint tan, his thin black hair fell below his ears to where an unshorn black beard ate his sleepy expression alive. He wore Adidas shoes, shorn black denims and a slim fit `classic Iron Man' t-shirt. And he loved his ink – the guy had tattoos of Celtic crosses all over his body (two small ones up either of his wrists, two larger ones up both of his forearms, and the point of a large one poking out above his neckline).
"Hey, did you say you were looking for a PS Vita memory card?"
As an excuse not to say what I really wanted to say, "Y-yeah."
"I'm going to be the worst employee ever and tell you not to buy them from here because we screw you on them. But I can get you a good deal. I've got an online shop through EBay. Give me your number and I'll text you the URL."
Chelsea blinked. "Um..."
"Maybe I should've led with my name," he stuck his hand out for a shake. "I'm Parker. Parker Fryer. And maybe I do it this way," he fished his IPhone out of his pocket, "Take mine and if you fancy a good deal on the memory card sometime, text me. How about that?"
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Berumbaal_._
The fables did not do it justice.
The boy-exile beheld it from a ridge off of the Dragon's Point. From that great height he could see the city in its entirety, from north to south and east to west. Fortresses guarded its compass points and each one stood interlocked by towering limestone walls encircling the city's expanse. The city itself was a stone sprawl of cobbled streets and two-tier tenements, open air markets, watchtowers, rigged wells. Amongst its populace were the Guardsmen. They were Berumbaal's protectors, patrolling the streets from dawn to dawn, famed throughout the world for their magically-forged spears and distinctive black-gold tabards. And the temples! There were hundreds of them across the city, noticeable by their unusual flame-shaped rooves and the reverent statues of Agaroth (some in marble, some in stone, some in wood) that accompanied them. In Berumbaal Agaroth was less a man than he was a god, worshipped by the people and loved as their leader. Once upon a time the sorcerer pledged fealty to his father... but the boy-exile knew that Berumbaal followed no one but its ruler. Hence its neutrality during the King's Fall.
And in the centre of it all was Agaroth's palace – The Throne of Heaven.
The Throne pre-existed Berumbaal by thousands of years. It was once the seat of a more ancient line of the God King Emperors (before they spread their influence south and east, and before the War of the Ancients cut their ties to the north). It was said that inside the Throne's golden halls the spirits of the dead gods yet lived, whispering their wisdom and madness into the ears of anyone worthy enough to hear them. It was sacred ground. Only Agaroth had the courage (or the temerity) to make such holy ground his seat of power.
The boy-exile sighed.
Agaroth was close.
He could have spent the night staring out over the city of his future husband but he had preparations to make. He returned to camp. Skewered snapper fish turned black over a cooking pit whilst his guards held the perimeter and tended to the oxen (and his uncle servant the horses) whilst a special guest sat with them in chains – Lord Gharlin. Former Lord Gharlin.
The boy-exile tilted the fat man's jowly head up with a fingertip. "Awake?"
"Y-yes..." Blood slopped out of Gharlin's mouth as he spoke. His wounds were not fatal (merely broken bones and bruises) though if it had been up to his uncle servant Gharlin's fate would have been far worse. As it happened the boy-exile still had a use for him.
"The Bog of Tur is miles behind us – and your men with it. If you follow my instructions I will allow you to return to them and fight out your petty bandit wars for as long as you care to. I'll even send you on your way with a horse and a purse full of gold. Does that sound fair?"
Gharlin nodded yes.
"Will you help me then?"
Gharlin nodded yes.
"Good," said the boy-exile. "You're going to get me inside the Throne of Heaven."
Chelsea saved the update.
He spent the morning thinking up how to spare the boy-exile the fate of Gharlin's cock and settled for his `bandit attack' idea. He pictured them as pale-skinned, crazy, tattooed and dreadlocked climbing over the bulwark from the south side with falchions and battle axes. Gharlin would get up and call his man-at-arms to sound the bell, meanwhile the boy-exile convinced the toll keeper to let his caravan inside ("I beg of you, Lord Gharlin, when this is over take anything you want, even my maidenhead, it's yours! But spare my uncle and guards!"). During the confusion of the battle he re-joined his party and escaped with them through an unguarded (and un-attacked) gate further down the wall. He was bit unsure if that was a satisfying way to end that chapter but at least it provided a bit of action.
Happy with that, Chelsea leaned back in his desk chair and yawned. He wasn't tired but it was late (almost midnight) and he had one last day of school left before the end of the week. The boy shut off his computer, took a quick hot shower, dried himself off then slipped on some PJs and climbed into bed.
This weekend's going to be great, thought Chelsea as he nuzzled his cheek against the pillow.
Tom and Margaret left for Nottingham barely an hour after he came home from college and they wouldn't be back until Monday. Truth be told he was excited to be alone. He rarely had the house to himself and if he ever did it was only for a few hours. This was probably the first time he had ever had the whole house to himself (for three days!) and already he loved it. It was so nice. No Margaret yelling at Phil Mitchell from her sofa, no Tom practicing guitar out in the garden. Just peace and quiet. The whole house was so full of silence all the little sounds were magnified; the tick and tock of his mother's grandfather clock, the hum of his PC, the odd passing car down the road. Chelsea found it so soothing he fell asleep.
Then he heard a knock.
The silence made a gunshot of it. A shot so loud Chelsea almost jumped out of his bed. His eyes wandered to his alarm clock (12:03) and then to the door. Silence. Did someone knock the front door? he wondered. But it was too loud for that. And who would be knocking at this time of night? Chelsea stared at the door. There was no light at the threshold. No one was out there. He was on his own in the house. Completely alone.
And yet, for some stupid reason, Chelsea felt the need to make sure. The boy pulled up his covers and set his naked feet down. Because the light fixture was next to the door frame he padded across his room in darkness. He had nothing to see by except the blinking glare of a street lamp near his window. Chelsea approached the door but when his hand found the door knob he stopped. A chill struck the room. Even though its windows were shut.
Chelsea shivered.
What am I afraid of? He thought. I'm on my own.
Chelsea opened the door.
There was no one outside it.
The boy sighed. What is wrong with me? He thought. It occurred to him then that maybe he was scared to be alone without knowing it. That `knock' was probably just a trick his mind played on itself. It could have even been one of the water pipes – the boiler was rickety enough. What was he really expecting? Leatherface? Freddy Krueger? Jason? Shao Khan?
Chelsea giggled at himself.
All of a sudden he felt stupid. Better to just get some sleep and wake up nice and early tomorrow to enjoy his freedom. Before that though he just needed to go for a quick pee. Chelsea opened his bathroom door and flicked the light on. The mirror above his sink was still foggy from his shower. And there he saw it.
DON'T I DESERVE A REWARD?
The question was carved into the condensation in jagged letters like the misshapen work of a palsied fingertip. Chelsea stared at the question. Dumbfounded, stupefied. And then he ran. Like a boy possessed he ran out of his bathroom and towards his bedroom door – right before it slammed itself shut with teeth-rattling impact. And as if to stamp an exclamation mark on the fact, the bathroom door slammed itself shut too. Chelsea jumped at both sounds and then ran for the door again. His hands caught the knob but no matter how he twisted it, left or right, the door would not open. How could it be locked from the outside?
And then it grabbed him.
To Chelsea it didn't feel like a snatch so much as it did a push – one that catapulted him off his bare feet and sent him backwards across his bedroom until his ankles caught the foot bar with a fleshy thud and threw him back first onto his bed.
Chelsea tried to bring up his head and see what was going on but it pressed his head down into the bedding. He struggled hard to pull up the rest of his body, first his arms then his back then his legs, but they wouldn't move. Or... rather he could move his limbs but it bore down on his whole body – and refused to let him up. A frightened Chelsea then became horrified as it pulled open his pyjama tops one button at a time. Then it ripped them open. Bone white buttons went flying into the air as either side of his shirt fell to his sides. His nipples went stiff with cold and his sparse muscles glinted with sweat as he squirmed under the blinking street light. From where he was held the boy watched his own chest rise and fall to a pounding heartbeat.
Then it took his top by its sleeves. As a result, Chelsea's arms were suddenly pulled with them, left and right from his body like he was being crucified on his own bed. It began to pull at the sleeves. Chelsea felt the tension in the fabric beneath his back until it ripped in half – then both pieces were pulled off of his arms and hurled into the blackness.
With his arms free Chelsea tried to get up again but it caught both his wrists – God, he could feel that invisible cold strength around them like handcuffs – and pressed them into his pillow to hold him down. The coldness went down his exposed back like water. Then it went for Chelsea's pyjama bottoms. It took them by the ankles and yanked them down his legs in one swift motion. The boy's eyes watched them land on his computer monitor almost as if in slow-mo.
And then finally he found his voice.
Chelsea screamed. Louder than he ever had before. Louder than he even knew he could. So loudly it made his throat raw. He begged and screamed and pleaded into the darkness for help -- until its invisible hand shoved something white into his mouth (his wadded briefs) that blunted his screams into muffled vowels and snorts. It didn't matter anyway. There was no one there to hear or help.
He was naked in the darkness.
It pushed Chelsea's feet apart so wide that his ankles dangled off either side of the bed. With that and his wrists pinned together above his head his muscles were stretched taut – moving was almost impossible.
And then it started sucking him.
Chelsea's eyes bugged out in horror. The light from the street lamp might have been faint but it was enough to see by – nobody was there! And yet somebody_, something,_ was holding him down from two points of his bed and wrapping what felt like a mouth around his cock. He was soft at that point. Sweat matted up his fuzzy ginger pubic hairs. But the boy looked over his chest and watched it pull his flaccid cock `upright'.
And then it sucked him.
The sensation was unmistakable. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it. It was a mouth. A mouth that was tingling cold but also soft and somehow... tender. Then through the mire of fear and confusion (he had tears in his eyes he was so scared) something else found Chelsea in that dark moment.
Pleasure.
He sighed. His toes curled. His eyes rolled back into his head (which tilted back onto his pillow) as his other head was consumed all the way down to its pubic bush by a wet sodden snatch. The sensation stiffened his cock against his will. Chelsea wriggled with a suddenly delicious frustration as all six inches of it were worked over, up and down, down and up, faster and faster, again and again and again until tension swelled inside his balls and threatened to spill over...
...but then it stopped.
Chelsea's hard cock flopped onto his body with a wet slap. He released the breath he didn't even realize he was holding. He opened his eyes. W-why...? It was the only coherent thought his mind could muster at that point. But his confusion was short lived. Before Chelsea even had a chance to stop and catch his breath his whole body was turned (or better yet tossed) from back to belly. He landed with a thud. The impact was so hard and sudden that it almost winded him. The bed frame juddered. Then it took Chelsea's wrists again, this time dragging them to his freckled shoulders and fixing them there, whilst it spread open the boy's legs as wide as before. Then something hard and huge and cold pushed against the ring of his arsehole.
In the dreams of Chelsea Rice, his beloved and terribly hated Jonno was always like this. Forceful. Demanding. Unquenchable. But Jonno would be gentle with him in that first moment. Somehow, every time they fucked in the world of dreams, he always knew that Chelsea was a virgin.
But it didn't seem to know.
It didn't care.
There was no attempt at foreplay nor any presumption of preparation. One moment Chelsea was a virgin, the next he wasn't. His arsehole's little pink rosebud bloomed open like a flower and gave way against his will to the cock-shaped nothingness that plunged inside his hole and skewered him as deep as was physically possible. Even with his pants in his mouth, Chelsea's helpless scream cut through the silence. Its penis felt much like it's touch – cold and hard. Chelsea bit down upon his white fronts and struggled to adjust to its thickness. Sweat dribbled down his forehead as it allowed him to pull his legs up underneath his thighs and arch his back for some relief. Then it pulled out. The boy grunted hard. Then it thrust into him again. Chelsea cried out. He snatched bundles of bedding into his hands so tight his knuckles went white. He may as well have been holding on for dear life as it started fucking him.
And it was not gentle.
As soon as Chelsea felt its length and girth pull out maybe halfway from his arse it punched back in again so strong that the lower half of his body slammed the bed. Chelsea was utterly powerless to do anything as the thrusts evened out and picked up speed. If someone walked into his bedroom right at that moment it might have looked like he was just humping his bed awkwardly. But that was not the case. He was being fucked. He was being fucked so hard the bed was shaking. The head board banged the wall in riotous succession – thump, thump, thump, thump, thumb, thump! – and his continuous muffled screams became a kind of desperate and sustained staccato moan. His body rocked back and forth. His loose hair tossed to and fro. Chelsea closed his eyes and groaned his way through his ravishment. He didn't feel himself orgasm. He didn't even know when it stopped. Time became a memory as he lost track of it and moments blended with other moments; his feet in the air or his face in a puddle of his own semen, all blurred into one.