RED PARALLEL

Chapter 2: The Gut Treaty

"Yes, I'm alive..." Traviz grunted to his panicked butler. "I'm at the..." He stared at the road's signal. "Ric... Rickmond's Avenue, 89. No, I've no idea. Come quick, I'm hungry."

Traviz handed the phone to the shop's granny.

"My little boy, you are hurt, what happened?"

"Not your business, granny."

He watched the can machine. It buzzed along with his stomach. I want you and you want me, they sang. The pain turned Traviz into a mistreated dog and he shuffled away.

"Can you buy me a b-soda?"

The granny bought him two.

The butler was furious.

"How am I going to explain to your father? You look terrible!"

Traviz ignored it. He slipped down the front seat of the car, jumping from old rock songs to old rock songs, turning up the volume and wincing at their noise, tilting the can and mouthing the enormous sandwich his butler had brought. A weird feeling struck him. He had a very interesting day. For the first time he did something in the streets rather than just hang around with no prospect of happiness. He got into a fight and ended up with some crazy black dudes... Way more fun than vegetating in the classroom or getting jumped by his papa who happened to be balling... Whatever that was... The black dudes were right about his styles and his skills, so they were right about his dad too. Papa is balling...

"Are you listening, Traviz?" the butler inquired, hands grasped onto the drive wheel. "God's sake... And may I ask why you're drinking this? Kid, you know about your gastritis, this is not healthy for you. What is your father going to think if he sees you all injured and drinking thi-"

"Hey, Manolo, shut up. I don't have gastritis. I drink what I want, okay?" Traviz spoke, mouth full of bread. "Plus, dad doesn't give a damn about me. You know that."

"That isn't true. He's just frequently busy with work and often times drunk..."

"Yeah, I know that, that's what assholes do." Traviz took a large gulp of b-soda. It dripped on his shoe. "Man, watch where you're driving! Jeez..."

"Sorry, son."

"Don't call me son." Traviz swallowed the last bite. "Dad should fire you. You're the worst driver ever."

"Ha. That is an exaggeration. Kid, put the seatbelt on."

"Blah blah blah. Whatever. You'll have to wash my kicks."

"What did you say?"

"My kicks."

"And what is that?"

"Duh, my shoes."

"Oh my God... Did someone drug you?"

"The hell you're talking about, Manolo?"

"For the hundredth time, my name is John, not Manolo."

"You look like Manolo, not John."

Christian O'Brien didn't care about the bruises. More than ten bottles of beer lay on the sofa and more than ten punches went right onto Traviz's belly. He celebrated. No bottles on his legs, this time. He tripped upstairs, vomited on the corridor's rug, and didn't pass out. It was his lucky day.

"I told you about the b-soda," John sighed, wetting cotton with alcohol.

"Shut up, Manolo."

He was prohibited to go to school. Not until all his bruises were healed.

"Of course, what would people think, huh?" Traviz talked to himself, punching the bathroom wall. "Like, 'Oh, my God, is that Christian O'Brien's son? Why is he so injured? Is Christian a drugged monster who beats his boy?'... Yeah, too risky, ain't papa?"