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If Gordie LaChance had never seen the dead body of Ray Brower, bloodied hair, bloodied nose, lifeless unseeing eyes, ants and bugs swarming over his lacerated and bruised face, he might've thought he was looking at one now.
It was late in the afternoon. The heat of the morning had mellowed out into a pleasant coolness, aided by the gentle breeze sweeping through, as the sun began its slow descent towards the horizon. Still a good hour or two left of light, which Gordie had decided gave him plenty of time to trek down to the treehouse in search of his missing book report on The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. He and Chris had spent the afternoon prior working on the assignment together up there. It hadn't taken Gordie very long at all. He spent most of that afternoon helping Chris finish his, a slow and steady process, halted mostly by Chris's lack of belief in his own abilities rather than any actual lack of intelligence. Gordie had done his best to encourage him along the way but, despite his way with words, he never seemed to be able to string them together into the kind of stirring, soul-deep wisdom that made people really believe them, and trust them, like some sort of guiding star. Not in the way that seared the words into a person's heart and mind, to become a part of them, to be carried with them forever. Not in the way Chris could, and had done for him.
"You could be a real writer someday, Gordie... It's like God gave you something, man, all those stories you can make up. And He said, 'This is what we got for ya, kid. Try not to lose it.' "
All was quiet inside the treehouse as Gordie climbed up the ladder, so he wasn't expecting company as he pulled himself up into the trapdoor opening.
He definitely wasn't expecting the body of Chris Chambers, skin splattered with bruises, sprawled motionless on his back on the timber floor.
Gordie's stomach dropped as he scrambled inside, slamming the trapdoor shut behind him. Kneeling beside Chris, he saw the boy's face more clearly. A deep red swollen bruise bloomed around his left eye socket and down to his left cheek. A reddened handprint marked the other side of his face. Dried blood smeared across his mouth and chin, trailing down his neck to stain the collar of his white t-shirt. It came from his nose, which was still sluggishly seeping blood, and the bloodied split sliced through both his top and bottom lip.
Gordie's heart hammered inside his chest. "Chris! Wake up!" he shouted, shaking the boy by the shoulders.
Chris stirred, groaning weakly, his forehead creasing into a frown, but did not move.
Gordie shook him harder. "Chris!"
This time, to Gordie's relief, Chris tugged away feebly from his grasp, hissing in pain. His eyelids peeled open slowly, eyes swimming for a moment as they searched for Gordie's face. "Shit, Gordie," he groaned, shutting his eyes again.
"I need to know you're not dead, you bastard!" Gordie exclaimed.
"Do I look dead to you?"
"Yes!" The word escaped Gordie's lips without warning, without time for his brain to hold it back, his voice cracking on the edge of it. An awkward silence fell between them. He quickly released Chris's shoulders. As he unclenched his hands, he realised they were trembling. In fact, his whole body was, a nervous, jittery vibration running through him like an electric current. He felt shaky, like if he tried to stand, his legs would not hold him up, instead leaving him wobbling like a newborn deer.
Chris's eyes were open now, looking at him. "I'm okay, Gordie," he said softly, gently, like Gordie was a frightened animal. "I just... I think I just need to lay here for a bit."
Gordie frowned. "You don't look okay," he said, not convinced.
Chris's shoulders twitched in a barely-there shrug. "Been worse."
Gordie's heart sank. Sadly, he knew Chris wasn't lying. He remembered the time Mr Chambers put Chris in the hospital for an overnight stay. Beat him so bad he broke his nose and his right wrist. Injuries that couldn't be hidden behind a day or two off school. Still, the sickening clench in Gordie's chest and stomach wouldn't let him just ignore the bruises and blood painted across his friend's skin, no matter what Chris said.
"You need a doctor, Chris," he insisted. "You're hurt bad."
"Geez Gordie, just let it go will you!" Chris snapped back at him, then winced.
Gordie sighed, shaking his head. "Man, you must have nine lives or somethin'."
"Probably down to about three," Chris joked, breathing out a slight laugh.
"Anything broken?" Gordie asked.
Chris shrugged. "Dunno."
"Will you let me check?"
Chris went quiet in thought for a moment, and Gordie thought perhaps he would say no, that perhaps inspecting his injuries was a vulnerable step too far for Chris's privacy, a revealing of things he didn't wish to share, but then... "Sure."
Gordie shifted to kneel beside Chris's knees. First, he ran his hands along the length of the boy's legs, right then left, jeans rough against his palm. As moved to check his arms, he paused. He hadn't noticed the markings before. Thick, red finger-like bruises snaked around Chris's forearms, a tight grip tattooed onto his skin, but that wasn't all – long angry red welts, the ones on his hands punctuated by patches of broken skin across his swollen knuckles. He felt cautiously along the battered skin, his touch perhaps too soft to check for any real damage, but it would have to do. He took his friend's hands in his, one at a time, unfurling each finger carefully, like the fragile petals of a flower. Nothing cracked or bent grotesquely, and Chris made no sound, other than the faint whistle of air flowing in and out of his blood-crusted nose. Laying the hand to rest back down on the timber floor, Gordie's eyes fell to Chris's torso. As he placed his hands on either side of the boy's chest, he felt the bones shift as Chris inhaled sharply.
He pulled back his hands. "Sorry!"
"It's fine," Chris replied through gritted teeth.
Gordie held the worn edge of Chris's t-shirt between his fingers. "Is it okay if I look?"
Chris sighed. "It won't be pretty."
In any other situation, it would have been the perfect opportunity to sling a joke like, "Well I've already seen your face, how much uglier can it get?" But not this time. As Gordie peeled back the white t-shirt, he had to bite his lip to hold back a gasp, threatening to become a sob, as his throat tightened at the sight of the mottled purple and red mess covering his friend's chest.
He never said anything to Chris, but in that moment, anger burning inside of him like the fiery core of the Earth, he wished someone would kill Mr Chambers, or that he might just drink a bottle too many that night. Or maybe stumble out drunk into the street, right in front of a car, whose brakes just so happened to fail. He knew it was evil to think like that, but surely not as evil as beating your own son halfway to death's door. Surely any God would spare him that one evil thought, or maybe even agree with him.
Without too much pressure, he lay his hands against the sides of Chris's chest again. Beneath his splayed fingers, he felt the boy's ribs shift with each breath, in and out. As he moved them higher, softly palpating the skin and bones, he felt a steady thrumming beneath his hands. Chris's heart beating, somewhere below his fingertips. It should have felt reassuring, a sign of life that proved his friend was alive and well, but instead it served as another dreaded reminder that life was fragile, that all it would take was for something to make the pulsing heart and rhythmically shifting lungs he held in his hands stop, and all life would seep out of the boy's body.
Shaking his head to rid himself of the thought, he tugged the t-shirt back down, and his eyes met Chris's bruised and bloodied face. He pressed a gentle hand to his cheek, his thumb stroking tenderly along the swelling underneath his eye, along the bone of his eye socket. Tears began to well in Chris's blue-green eyes.
"Does that hurt?" Gordie asked softly.
"Not too bad," Chris choked out. "I just..." He blinked, attempting to swat the tears away, though one dripped onto Gordie's thumb. He didn't mention it. Instead, he stretched out his legs, the best he could among the treehouse's childhood debris, and lay down close beside Chris, his body angled to face him.
"Do you know what day it is?" he asked.
"Thursday," Chris answered. His brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Just checking your brains aren't all mushed up in there. You need them for college courses."
A hint of a smile crossed Chris's face, before something dark swallowed it up, choked it down and spat up more tears instead. Gordie watched as they trailed from the corner of his friend's eye.
"I don't wanna go home, Gordie," Chris confessed, his voice quiet and strained, barely above a whisper. His bloodied bottom lip quivered.
Gordie rubbed a hand along an unmarked spot of skin on his friend's arm. "You can come stay with me tonight. My folks probably won't even notice." The perk of being the Invisible Boy in his house was that he could do a lot things he wanted without much fuss. That was about the only perk, but still, he'd take his parents' disinterest over what Chris dealt with any day.
Chris shook his head. "No, I think I might end up dead if I pull anymore shit this week," he said. "Probably already in even more deep shit now. I just... I needed to get out. I didn't think, I just... ran. Or tried to. Guess my body knows the way here even when my brain's not thinking straight. Guess maybe it felt I'd be safe here."
Gordie's chest ached like someone had his heart clenched in their fist. It was the most he'd heard Chris talk about his father's violence. Usually they just skirted around the topic. Talked about it without talking about it, you know? Chris had been more open though, since their journey to see Ray Brower's body. Not with everyone. Just with him.
The breeze outside picked up, rustling the leaves of the elm tree. Golden rays bled through the gaps in the worn wooden palings and flooded in through the windows.
Gordie took a deep breath, as if he could somehow breathe in the afternoon's calm and natural beauty, then slowly let it out. "You're gonna get out of there someday," he told him.
Chris snorted. "I wish."
"You will. I know you will."
Chris rolled his eyes. "Okay, God."
Gordie sighed. "If I was God, I'd write your life story real nice."
Chris turned his head to face him. "Would it have a happy ending?"
He nodded. "The happiest."
Chris smiled, and the ache in Gordie's chest melted into a pool of warmth.
They lay there for a while. Chris dozed off briefly. Gordie found himself listening to his steady breathing as he watched the sunlight and shadows dance together across the walls and ceiling of the treehouse.
As the sun began to set, the sky blooming with a mix of pink, orange and gold among scattered clouds, Gordie helped Chris down from the treehouse and walked him home. Neither of them spoke as they trudged down the road, just a quiet, "See ya," once Chris's house came into view. Gordie didn't go up to the house, but as he watched Chris disappear behind the closed door, his heart lurched, almost tugging him forward, the fear of what could happen inside creeping up his throat. If life had taught him anything, it was that death could happen when you least expect it.
Chris's whole body felt heavy as lead as he staggered inside. The house was quiet and dim. His mother and Eyeball were nowhere to be seen, and at the sound of his father's drunken snores vibrating from the couch, he exhaled the breath his lungs had been holding in tight. Over the years, those guttural snores had become a sound of safety and peace, knowing the man would not wake until morning.
He decided to forgo dinner, the violent pounding in his head starting to turn his stomach, and dragged his aching body to his bedroom instead. Stiffling a groan, he eased onto his bed. It hurt to breathe, and his head felt like a metal ball was rolling around inside his skull, pounding into his brain each time he dared to move it. As he closed his eyes – it hurt to do that too, his swollen eye socket pulsating – he wondered if he'd be recovered enough for school tomorrow. He wondered if he should've given Gordie his book report to hand in. He'd worked hard on that and, actually, was quite proud of it.
You're gonna get out of there someday.
Maybe he'd even get a half decent grade for it.
You will.
Wouldn't that be something, he thought, as sleep came at last to give him some relief from his misery.
I know you will...
He dreamed of a place far away, somewhere so unlike Castle Rock no one could ever mistake it as such. A beach, covered in warm smooth sand, with waves tumbling and crashing on the shore, blue as the clear sky above. A towel beneath his back, sun glaring down on his face as he watched the birds fly free overhead, carried on a gentle summer's breeze. Beside him, Gordie sat hunched over a notebook, pencil scratching across the page, a soft smile on his face. The sunlight beamed over his hair and skin in a way that seemed almost heavenly, angelic.
"Whatcha writing?" he asked, pulling himself up to glance over Gordie's sunburned shoulder. "Can I see?"
Gordie tugged the notebook away. "It's not finished yet."
"I don't mind," said Chris. "I don't need to know the ending. I'm happy with whatever you've got right now. Come on."
Gordie looked at him, his brows creased in thought "Are you sure?" he said at last, loosening his protective grip on the book. "It's not very good."
Chris grinned, reaching a hand up to tousle his friend's hair, while taking the book with the other. "Gordie," he said, relaxing back on the towel, "with you, there's no way it can be all bad."