Outliers [L.S]

31

He opens his closet doors, revealing Clay scrunched inside. My heart sinks at the sight. He looks awful, as if he's only eaten a crumb of bread a day for years. Various bruises litter over his bare arms. Even as he sleeps, his face is wrinkled into a look of pain.

"Come on boy. You've got a visitor," my father coughs. He gives him a kick. I don't show a reaction despite how my heart picks up. "Come on," my father coos. He grabs Clay's arm, ripping him to his feet roughly. Clay's eyes flutter open in panic. Although his eyes are open, it does not look like he's seeing.

"Don't make me drag you," my father coos. Clay's legs buckle against his own weight. Even though I don't want to, I watch. I want to build up as much hate for my father as I can.

"Ahh! There you go. Okay sit right here in your seat," my father continues. He places Clay's body into a wooden chair.

Once my father has Clay seated, he takes his own again. I watch as he picks up his cigarette.

"Oh shit. It's gone now. Look Boy! You made me waste my lucky," my father jabs his burnt out cigarette into his tray, pulling another from his pack. "It's okay. I'll just get another," my father mumbles around a cigarette in his mouth.

"How long have you had him," I questioned. My father shrugs, leaning back in his chair, a lit cigarette in hand.

"Dunno. Found him during the week you've been back though. A sucker at talking. Harry's got him trained well," my father takes a drag from his cigarette. He blows the smoke out slowly, eyes wide with curiosity. "Say! Does Harry train his men?"

I shrug, because honestly I didn't know. I've never heard of anything like that. Clay doesn't look like he's in shape to answer. He's kind of just sitting there, staring at something.

When I first met Clay he didn't appear as a nice person but I knew he was close with Harry. I wondered what Harry would do if he knew Clay was here being tortured. I wasn't even sure if it was my fathers intent to torture Clay but that's what he was doing.

"I think he sort of just gathers his guys," I answered, peeling my eyes from Clay. The left side of my fathers mouth dips as he nods.

"Clay, you know my son here? Seen him before?" A wave of uncomfortable washes over me at my fathers words. Clay shifts, his dull eyes looking at me. His chapped peeling lips move, but no sound comes out.

"You've got to wet them boy," my father tells him, demonstrating by licking his own lips. Clay looks from my father back to me, licking his lips.

"Yes." His voice is no more than a hiss.

"When have you seen him," my father asked. Clay's head falls to his shoulder. I could be crazy but his eyes seemed to be begging me for help.

Clay's response is a loud sigh. My father shakes his head out of the corner of my eye.

"He's dead," my father sighs. I furrow my eyebrows, turning abruptly.

"What do you mean? How do you know," I asked in a rush. My father shakes his head and again, clicking his tongue.

"That was his last breath. His chest isn't moving anymore," my father explained, pointing to Clay's still body.

I don't answer. My father puts out his cigarette, dropping the filter into the tray.

"He had a long run! That guy," my father commented. "I do have another guy for you to see. Do you want to? He's a lot more lively. Got him yesterday." I ignored the way my father was talking about people as pets.

I continue to not speak. I knew my answer would be no but if I said that my father would become angry, and I didn't have the guts to say yes.

"Good! Let me ring Travis. He's in the cell rooms currently."