Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

Secrets	By : kattanon Category: S through Z > The Shield Views: 974 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Shield, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
- 12
Disclaimer: - I don�t own any of the characters of The Shield, they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX.
Secrets Chapter 11.
Holland sat cross-legged on his bed and absently stared out of his window, his eyes gazing out at the perfect blue sky. His mind had been in turmoil, but now he felt� Well he wasn�t too sure what he felt. It wasn�t relaxed, it was more like numb, or perhaps empty, or a combination of both. Next to him was his backpack, and in front of him was a note pad and pen. He was trying to organize his thoughts, find the perfect words.
He sighed and looked down at the object he held in his hands. It was a photograph. It was of a man and woman, or more exactly it was of a bride and groom. The photo had been very carefully folded down the middle, so that the serious faced man was tucked away underneath, while the smiling bride was uppermost.
This was the only picture Holland had of his mother. All the others had been burnt; he knew that because his father had told him so. However, this one had for some reason, perhaps because it was being used as a bookmark, been tucked away in a book about butterflies. Four years ago Holland had taken the book down from its shelf to help him with a school project and the photo had fallen out.
The groom in the photo was his father, so he had logically concluded the bride must be his mother. Before he�d seen that picture of her he hadn�t been able to remember what she�d looked like. He had been little when he�d gotten up one morning, and discovered that she�d disappeared from his life. No, he thought to himself, he�d woken up to discover she�d abandoned him.
The day he�d found the photo of her he�d gone to the bathroom, and held it up next to the mirror as he�d looked at his own reflection. Then he�d realised his father was right, he did have his mom�s eyes and mouth. His father still told him that sometimes, if he was feeling particularly talkative when he was using him. In fact, he�d only told Holland a couple of months ago, late one night while he�d lain next to him in this very bed, in a bitter tone still slightly out of breath after his exertions, that the older Holland got the more he was growing to resemble her. As Holland looked down at the smiling face in the photograph, and he lightly ran a fingertip over her image, he knew his father was right, and he was glad. True she might have abandoned him, but to have looked in the mirror every day, and seen his father�s face gazing back at him, those cold grey eyes, that thin, sneering mouth, that would have been too awful.
As he thought of his mom he felt the familiar huge aching void inside himself. It was as if some inner part of him that should have been there was missing. It was a piece of him that hadn�t been ripped away, but rather quietly stolen away from him in the night.
He wondered, as he had a thousand times, what it was about him that had been so bad that she had left him behind. He would lie awake at night sometimes, staring up at the ceiling, asking himself that question. At least now he didn�t cry over it anymore. Not like he had at elementary school, when all the other kids got to make mother�s day cards, and he would be allowed to sit in librlibrary reading. Then he would sit hunched over a book, trying not to let the librarian see the tears that would land on the open pages.
Looking down at his mother�s face he wished he could meet her, even if it was just once, to ask her why she�d not wanted him. Not only had she left him behind, but also she�d never made any effort to see him again. There had been no birthday cards or Christmas presents, just a loud, brutal silence.
His father had told him he was the main reason his mom had left, and he had no evidence to the contrary. He said that she had hated motherhood, had hated Holland, and that she had run away to escape the trapped feelings that having a child had made her experience. The lack of contact from her for the past ten years certainly seemed to point to his father being right, but Holland sometimes wondered if his father�s version of events was entirely accurate.
Although Holland had no definite memories of his mom he had something else. They were impressions, like the ghosts of feelings that would sometimes echo through him when he thought about her. Feelings of warmth, safety, of being held gently, maybe even of being loved. Still he wasn�t entirely sure if these elusive apparitions were real or imaginary. Sometimes he thought that he wanted them to be real so much, that he wanted his mother to have loved him once, so badly, that he conjured them up from his own mind. Things he�d seen on the television, read in books, had been stolen by his subconscious and twisted into what he wanted, what he needed them to be.
Holland sighed and put the photo down. Whatever the truth, whatever her reasons for leaving him, Holland knew that he couldn�t forgive her. For not wanting him, he could forgive her that. For not loving him, or at least not loving him enough, he could forgive her that too. However, for abandoning him to his father, he couldn�t and wouldn�t forgive her that.
When Holland had been younger he�d thought that all fathers did those things to their sons. He�d look at all the other boys in his class, and think that their fathers were just like his. He thought they all had a special secret to keep just like him.
Of course as he�d gotten older he�d realised that wasn�t true. He�d seen programmes on the television, read articles in the newspaper, had talks at school. alw always found the talks on "Stranger Danger" a little amusing if truth be told, because he knew that it wasn�t necessarily the strangers you had to worry about, but rather those closest to you.
He couldn�t remember a time when the secret hadn�t existed. However, as the years had past the secret had grown. There had always been the physical punishments. The pain inflicted with an open hand, a fist, a belt, but the other things, those had evolved over time.
At first it had been mutual touches, and then it seemed that as he grew older his father would judge him old enough, periodically, to progress onto the next level of abuse. Until now at fourteen he most certainly wasn�t an innocent in any sense of the word.
He hated it. It made him feel dirty, corrupted to his very soul, but what could he do? Even though he knew what would happen, he would sometimes try to fight, to refuse his father, to say no. It never did him any good. His father was bigger and stronger, and when he was annoyed nothing would stop him from taking what he wanted. However, Holland stubbornly held on to his ability to still say no. Admittedly he rarely did, mostly he quietly acquiesced, and did as he was told. Sometimes though he needed to refuse, if only to see if he still could.
When his father had woken him up on Thursday night, after he�d come home late from the office, annoyed and seething with pent up frustration, Holland had still been half asleep when he�d cringed back from him and shaken his head in refusal. ask asked his father not to hurt him, and as his father had told him to "shut up boy" and had undone his belt to take off his trousers Holland had burst into tears and said "no please dad." Of course it hadn�t meant he�d been spared, and he�d also had to take a beating with his father�s belt until he�d begged to begivegiven, but at least he was still able to say that one little word. He wasn�t completely crushed, or at least he hadn�t been. Now he wasn�t quite so sure.
What had happened at school yesterday had shaken him badly. Not just Jackson�s attack on him, and what he�d tried to him him do, but more the fact that Jackson had picked him to do it to.
Jackson had shoved him up against a wall in the locker room, and with fumbling fingers had undone his trousers, and reached inside touching him, scratching his flesh in his clumsy frenzy. Jackson had laughed at his pleas for him to stop; he�d laughed at his tears, and told him,

"Don�t pretend you don�t want it you little faggot�don�t pretend you don�t love it. Looking at me with those eyes�the way you move, the way you feel�you�ve been begging me for it for weeks."

More than his actions it was those words that had shattered Holland to his very soul.
His father always said it. Sometimes in a cruel, sneering voice as he reached for him when Holland would try to shrink back away from him. At other times he would whisper it huskily in his ear while he was taking his pleasure from him,

"It�s your fault Holland, you make me do it. The way you look at me�the way you move, leading me on. You�re like your mother�a little slut just like her�you�ve got her bad blood in you."

He�d had his doubts, times when he�d lain awake after his father had finished with him, and he�d wondered if his father was right, was it all his fault? However, he�d always had some deep reserve of inner-strength that had pushed those self-doubts away. He would tell himself it wasn�t true, that he didn�t want his father to do those awful things to him. They hurt him, they disgusted him, and he wasn�t to blame.

Now however, he realised he�d been fooling himself. Jackson had seen the same darkness in him as his father did, that "bad blood". Why else would he have picked him? That would be his life then. Until now he�d held onto the belief that one-day he�d escape. If he worked hard enough at school he�d get a scholarship, and then he would be able to escape his father. Leave home, go to college, have a normal life free from fear, and pain, and humiliation. However, yesterday with Jackson had shown him how much he was deluding himself. That was never going to happen. He was never going to have a "normal" life. How could he when he wasn�t a normal person?
There must be something dank and putrid inside him. When he�d been given a soul there must have been some kind of mistake, and his had been some kind of dark, sickly, deformed thing that corrupted him, and everything he touched. Maybe that was why his mom had abandoned him. Her maternal instinct had detected that foul darkness in him, and he had repulsed her. There could never be an escape to a better life for him. Because he didn�t deserve one, this was all he was good for.
Just as hour ago his father had shown him that. His father had been going to play golf for the day with his friend the mayor. Yet he hadn�t been focused, he�d been feeling tense he�d said. So he�d told Holland to follow him to his study, and once there, knowing what was expected of him, Holland had gone down on his knees, and done for his father what Jackson had tried to make him do for him yesterday. When he�d finished, and his father had rearranged his clothes he�d reached down and patted Holland on the head, and called him "a good boy" like some kind of pet. Then without another word, with him still kneeling there, his father had picked up his golf clubs and left.
As soon as Holland had heard his car driving away he�d run to the bathroom to be sick. He wasn�t allowed to do that when his father was there, apparently it was "ungrateful", but now he allowed himself the luxury of vomiting. After he�d finally finished dry heaving, his stomach muscles burning with each spasm, he�d used half a tube of toothpaste to brush his teeth until his gums bled. However, the bitter taste would not go away, and he was sure it was still on his tongue like poison, even now.
Maybe if he thought no one else knew the things he did for his father, the things he allowed his father to do to him, maybe he could hold on, but even that had been taken away from him.
Vic Mackey knew, Shane Vendrell knew. They knew the secret; they knew what he was. How lonforefore everyone knew? The whole school, the whole town. The carefully constructed façade he�d worked so hard to project to other people. The walls he�d so carefully built up in his mind to keep the growing darkness inside him imprisoned, neatly boxed and buried, they were all crumbling. Everything was spinning out of control. The only piece of control Holland had in his life was guarding the secret, and now he�d lost even that.
The strange thing was Mackey and Vendrell actually seemed to care. They�d told him they wanted to help him, they�d saved him from Jackson. Why, was what Holland couldn�t figure out? They were cool; they were popular, while he was just a geek. Some stupid, gawky, fumbling kid whom shied away from other people, and was considered a joke, a non-entity. Why would they want anything to do with him?
Suddenly a dark suspicion crept into his mind. Unless they wanted something from him too. Was that it? Did they look at him and see him for what he truly was? Were they tricking him, making him think they cared before they demanded "payment" from him?
He shuddered and dismissed the thought. Jesus, just how twisted was he to think that? He�d looked into Mackey�s eyes, and he�d not seen that kind of evil in there, not like his father�s eyes, or Jackson�s for that matter. However, he was pretty sure that Mackey wouldn�t let the matter drop. Holland knew that he would keep on at him to tell. Then eventually, when he kept on refusing, well perhaps Mackey would take the decision out of his hands.
Mackey didn�t understand, no one did. Vic Mackey saw things in black and white, right and wrong, while Holland lived in a world that was painted subtle shades of grey.
He hated what his father did to him, what his father made him do. A huge part of him hated his father, wanted to smash him and hurt him, make him feel as worthless as he made him feel. However, there was a part of him that loved his father too. As much as he�d tried to stamp that part of himself out, he couldn�t.
Sometimes his father could be nice, kind even. He could go for days, sometimes longer than a week, without getting angry. He wouldn�t hit him, or shout at him, or use him. Holland loved those times, and he loved the man his father was at those times. Still aloof, still hard at the core of his being, but also with a dry wit and an incisive mind. He would talk to Holland about his work, his colles ass as if he was his equal. He would ask Holland about his schoolwork with genuine interest. Holland would love him then, be eager to please him, wanting this man, this father to stay. However, it never lasted, and something would happen to bring back the other James Wagenbach. Holland would know as soon as he came into his father�s presence when that man was back. It was as if his father gave off an aura, and he was sensitive to its changing moods. Then the pain woul bac back, the snide, belittling comments, the humiliation. Yet still Holland always knew that buried inside this monster with his father�s face was his real dad, the one he loved.
He couldn�t do what Mackey wanted, he couldn�t tell, he couldn�t betray his dad. It was a trap. A trap for him and everyone around him, and he could only see one way out of that trap. He did have an escape after all. He�d always known it was an option, but while he�d had the hope of that "normal" life he�d always resisted taking it. Now though he couldn�t see any other choice.
Finally, the perfect words he had been searching for all this time popped into his minPickPicking up the note pad and pen he wrote just one, short sentence in his very neatest handwriting,
"No one can help me."
Then he reached into one of the side pockets of his backpack, and pulled out the nearly full bottle of Tylenol he�d placed in there yesterday morning.
- 10
- 11
- 12
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Secrets