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He pulled a chair from the kitchen to the desk in his room that held his radio, as well as a mirror barely the size of his forearm. The rectangular mirror leaned against one of his speakers, and slightly shook as some late night mixes hid the preparation.
Jerry always waited either for his father to fall asleep or to be ordered for a night shift to be able to put work on his cheekbones. Tonight was the nightshift; his father had called the house around five to let his son know he wouldn’t be home until twelve or one in the morning. Enough time for a twenty minute session, maybe Jerry could push himself for an hour. He bit his tongue with glee at the thought of returning back to Trinity as chad-lite; twenty minutes of pain everyday meant nothing if it was the journey to being seen as a person.
Jerry quietly shut the door to his room, however, he wasn’t able to lock it as the summer heat made the wood of the door expand, easily susceptible to jamming in the frame. He slipped to the floor around his bed, attempting not to create a loud thud that would disturb and burden his downstairs neighbors. Apple cinnamon air freshener clung to his carpet and whispered around his nostrils as he laid on the floor. His hand reached out beneath the frame of the bed, long fingers chased and ran, until they met rubber groves. Causing a grin on his face. He fished out the hammer.
The bottom of the handle was rubber, the rest, wood, before the head, obviously metal. The act gave the same nervous and fearful pleasure as the old playboy magazine but if someone were to find the hammer, they wouldn’t bat an eye. Plus this was more beneficial to Jerry then jacking off. Ascension was essentially baptismal, but you could ascend a thousand times in your life. He could begin anew, a new flame, and if he was beautiful no one would start anything with him, he could live life without confrontations.
Jerry crept up from the floor, over to the chair, he let the hammer sit on his lap as he angled the mirror to show more of his face. Once pleased with the sight, Jerry switched the music to a late night radio show. The talk of the paranormal or conspiracy didn’t have much meaning to him, its only purpose was to fill his ears with conversation and cover the meticulous process.
From the excitement, Jerry's tongue left its proper position. His jaw surgery helped a good amount but he still needed to suction off any remaining disruptions; it could be possible to do some chin tucks and neck curls later in the night, or maybe in the morning? His left hand went to grab at his face so his brain wouldn’t shake like it did when he got tackled.
He raised the head of the hammer two to three inches away from his right cheekbone. Jerry’s index finger cowered to the angle of his jawbone, away from his cheek. He tried not to slam the hammer too harshly against his bone, trying to find a sweet pressure. Yet, the far distance from the head and the bone proved it difficult. He endured his brain rattling in his skull and tasting metallic for only a second before his earlier grip left to cup the curve of his head, the hammer returned back to its rhythm. Jerry watched through the mirror as his eyes twitched when the head would hit at the top of cheekbone. Not enjoying the expression that reminded him of freshman fall, he scowled at himself, and a little at the dumb conspiracies.
As Jerry continued to flick his wrist, the head of the hammer stole the warmth of his skin; how the metal stayed cool in the month of May was beyond him. The repeated motion of it all reminded him of the very subtle teasing beginning from third grade, kicking someone’s chair or bouncing the basket beneath their seat. Except, lightly tapping his face with a hammer hurt more than his seat kicked. It also held similarity to the time Emile Janza punched his face, mainly cheek, in some dark alleyway. It was how he found out if you damaged your bones very minorly, it could heal into a different, better shape. Although, it stayed only for a little while. He only started the whole procedure for a week, and the beat down was at least a month ago.
The radio station changed segments to the host calling people on their phones or something. The conversation was sort of secretive, crazy people talking nonsense at night, speaking in terms Jerry could not understand; maybe that’s what The Goober experienced while speaking to him.
But, it was Goob who taught him, who showed the truth of the world and egged on a relationship if Jerry could become beautiful enough. Silent activities always made him wander in thoughts, so the segment change helped remind him to start the set for his left cheekbone. He turned his head slightly towards the right, enough to have a clear view of the other half of his face in the mirror without straining his eyes.
He still swung the hammer with his right, but having to angle it led to some of his face being covered, so much for working his angles. Now, it was difficult to determine whether he had the correct form. Jerry’s breath hitched, maybe the radio was spooking him. He stared into his pupils, long enough to feel them dry out. Manually, he blinked the sensation away. Again, the hammer drummed, but it was not as evenly paced like he did with his right.
Beneath the hammer, Jerry grimaced at himself, the swinging became more painful on his wrist than on his cheekbone.
Did that mean he was growing strength and his bone mass? His earlier smile returned, he’d be a person soon. The thought made the flick of his wrist more enjoyable. He begun to test different BPMs, the slight sound of pounding hammer to skin and bone, a beat to whatever crazy people talk was spewing out of his speakers. His eyelids didn’t flutter as much at the closeness of the hammer anymore. Bringing the hammer away and close matched the consistent picking up the pencil between words in a timed essay. He had written a few in English before the in between of fall and winter. Likewise to the completion of the first set, he felt disgusted about thinking of freshman fall, he tuned into the radio again, glancing over at it. The host began a long winded rant about the moon landing, the hammer going limp in his palm.
“I never want to be crazy like that,” Jerry whispered to himself. However, he couldn’t be bothered to change the station. He grasped the rubber handle tightly, subject change reminded him over to the right. He thought he barely touched his left. Brushing it off he thought back to the set.
This set and one more for his left should do it for the night.
Worry creeped onto his face as the realization that despite the radio, he wasn’t properly timing each set, so there was a high possibility his sets weren’t even. He forced relief back with the perspective of the reality of bonesmashing, it wouldn’t last for long, it wouldn’t be obvious if he worked one cheekbone more than the other once morning came. Then he’d repeat the whole process again…
Maybe he should wake up early from now on to bonesmash, then the wanted effect would be present to people.
Keys jingled while James Renault turned the head of the house key. The quick sound of the latch creaking out of the strike plate, he shimmed the key out and twisted the knob open. The house key clanked with the other keys on James’ keyring. A beeping from the microwave alerted him that it was now one forty-five AM, and the faint sound of voice paired with the light seeping from Jerry’s room greeted him. He glanced over to the small seating room, no traces of a sleepover. Already feeling groggily, he would briskly pop in and usher his son to sleep.
James walked lazily to the short hallway, hearing more of a conversation than music, it sounded like the voice of an older man. He stopped on his heels, who else did Jerry know? He reassured himself that it was most likely a DJ on the radio, making an intermission between music.
“Jerre, it’s late, turn the radio off,” He said, as he opened the door. His son, his only son and only child that the Lord Almighty brought to him and his wife, had a hammer to his face. “Jerome, what are you doing?!” The hammer instantly dropped from Jerry's hand, banging on his quad before landing on the floor, causing a thud. James watched as his son winced more from the hammer hitting his leg and being discovered rather than beating his face with said hammer. Jerry clutched his thigh with his right, and his left switched the radio off.
“What are you doing?” He repeated.
“Nothing… nothing bad.”
“You mean to tell me hitting yourself with a hammer is nothing bad?”
“I always get hit in football.” The response wasn’t very bright or like him to talk back to his father, but it was either deflect or explain.
“Do you get beat with hammers in football.” The sleep had been knocked out of him, like his son’s brain being knocked around with a hammer. “Where did you get a hammer?” James urged, looking back at the tool before glaring back at his son. Jerome's were wide but they stared off at the floor, away from his father. “Look at me when I’m talking to you. Or I’m going to beat you.” Jerry’s eyes were still wide as he met with his father, slowly he turned his cheek.
“Hit me here.” He pointed to his swollen and bruised left cheekbone. His gaze left his father, and to the now opened door. His molars grinded together, not optimal but he couldn’t help it, especially at the prospect of not needing to bonesmash himself.
“I’m going to take you to Worcester next week to see a psychiatrist." His father sighed heavily. His father was treating like a crazy person, like the ones on the radio. He was not crazy, he wasn’t like them. He played football, had faith and was a mild child, he didn’t have any mental issues. All he desired was to be a person. His father must’ve assumed that Jerry was eyeing the hammer, so he snatched it up. “You’re not keeping this. How long have you been doing this to yourself?”
“Only three days,” he lied, Jerry’s eyes stumbled back to his father, in hopes that it would add to his believability, but the prolongedly of it all dried up his eyes, like it did apparently a few hours ago. They begun to water, he wasn’t going to cry at this. He couldn’t. He wasn’t beautiful enough for people to care about his feelings.
It was as if it was her third miscarriage after Jerry, or in the car after the CT screening. The CT scan was new innovative technology, despite the two of them being pharmacists, the both of them were nervous of how safe the internal speed of the CT scanner could be. Tears bubbled in the corner of her eyes, when he’d attempted to comfort or see her expression, her pupils would wander off, away. When they would finally flood her lashes and waterline they would rush out. Her eyes held a naturally sad expression, but she was anything but sorrowful in her element, talking to patients or starting up a new home project. Now, her brows pushed forward, with news that either challenged the life she dreamed of, or brought it to a near.
Her son cried the same as her, perhaps because he took after her eyes. As a baby he would hold his breath while crying, and she or he had to blow air to his face to try and get Jerry to breathe. He hadn’t cried like that since elementary school, her son would curl up in one of their arms and sob and sob about how the other children treated him.
Her son was growing to be a good young man, in spite of all the teasing he faced during primary years, it seemed he was able to control his emotions now, able to hold his lunch during car rides, it was a possibility football strengthened her son. Yet, here Jerry sat, crying like he did as a young child, even holding his breath. Although, he didn’t scream and shout as he did as a baby. Even if their son was off the wall at the moment, he was still their only baby, and there was hope for medication to keep Jerry grounded.
James leaned the hammer on the outside of Jerry’s doorframe and pulled his son off his seat, holding gently but securely like he did when Jerry couldn’t keep his head up on his own.
“Tell me, Jerry, why?”
“I want to be strong. I don’t want to keep-” At last, he had caught his breath. “To keep getting hurt by the guys at my school.”
“I told you, you don’t have to stay there.” His father soothed Jerry’s hair, and he would until Jerry grew past him.
“I already made a good impression on the coach at Trinity. I don’t know if other coaches would even let me try out for quarterback and I don’t want to play any other position anymore.” He smushed his nose flat against his father’s shirt, it smelled of cough medicine. The continuous withholding of breath made Jerry breathe through his mouth, very much to his dismay.
“We’ll talk more in the morning,” his voice had softened like dousing clay with water. “I love you Jerry. Please get some rest, and please don’t ever do this to yourself again.” Jerry pulled himself away from his father. Though, tears continued to stream down his face.
“I promise I won’t hit myself with a hammer.”
His father left the room, taking the hammer with him. The door to the master bedroom opened and shut, but for some reason he hadn’t closed Jerry’s door on the way out. He stood momentary, then Jerry shut his own door as well. His back to the door.
From the new angle, he analyzed his room through a clouded view. His attention fell to his peewee football trophy. He knew it was heavy and dense enough at the base. Making a proper substitution. He just has to hide his endeavors better. Be more aware.