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Saturday 0415 hrs
Whitney Fordman was this year’s scarecrow. If he wasn’t mistaken, the last scarecrow ever was.. how could he forget.. Clark Kent. But there wasn’t any ever since. Clark had somehow managed to get the Crows to abandon the dreadful tradition since. Good old Clark. Beautiful Clark. Always running around saving someone.
//Can you save me too Clark? You did it before. Can you do it again?//
Smallville is always cold. Its the onset of winter and the chill in the wind is totally unbearable.
//But don’t go by what I say, my opinion is biased here. What with the no-clothes thing you see. Not even underwear. Its cold.//
//Was it cold the night Clark was here? Must have.//
That night, Lana had cuddled up next to him in the truck as they drove to the dance. She had shivered slightly and Whitney had given her my jacket. She looked so sweet in his oversized jacket. Like a little bundle of eternal love and beauty. He should have been the happiest teenager in the world at that moment. He wasn’t. Whitney couldn’t stop thinking of the scarecrow.
He was the guiltiest teenager in the world and knew it and felt it.
//Like I feel now. 19 going on 20 but a teenager still right? God its cold.//
//It hurts. So much. I deserve it. I deserve it. I let dad die. I let him down then I let him die. Mom cries at night. She has me and still she cries. Oh wait, I’m not around anymore am I? No.//
And Lana? He hurt her too. Actually didn’t she dump him? Yes.
//I must have driven her to it. I deserve this. This was meant to be. I deserve to be the scarecrow. Not Clark. Never Clark. God its so cold. Think warm Whitney. Ignore the pain. It will go away. How long can you possibly bleed. It’ll stop when there’s nothing left won’t it?//
Whitney was laughing. He was shivering to the bone and hurting all over and laughing at his own sick joke. Then as suddenly, he stopped.
//Think warm. Think warm. Warm. Warm. Warmer. Warmest. Hot. Hot. HOT. Ok not working//
The ropes cut through his flesh and his whole body was riddled with cramps. He didn’t even have the energy to struggle. He wondered if he struggled at all. Throughout the night. Did he struggle? At all?
Something got into him and he started jerking his limbs in a vain attempt to break free.
//I deserve this. I deserve this. I deserve this. I deserve…//
And then suddenly he heard his naval instructor bellowing at him.
“WHAT’RE YOU DOING HERE FORDMAN?”
“WHAT YOU SLOW OR SOMETHING? ANSWER MY FUCKING QUESTION! WHY ARE YOU HERE??”
“S-S-SIR TO BE A MARINE SIR!”
“You wanna be a marine? YOU WANNA BE A MARINE?”
“WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU WILL BECOME ONE?”
Ok I get it.
“Because I have what it takes to be a marine. SIR”
“Standard test paper answer private. I want the truth son. Why did you sign up?”
Back to stammering.
“S-Sir like I said…” He looked at his instructor. He drew a deep sigh.
“Because I blew my football scholarship sir. And this was where my dad wanted me to be.”
“He ain’t around?”
“You think that’s good enough reason to be risking your life and the lives of all American citizens? You know what you will be responsible for private?”
“SIR. I am not here for kicks or for lack of choices SIR. I am not here under any pressure either. I am here to fulfill my father’s last wish and I intend to live up to every expectation while doing so SIR”
“You sure you wont give up after say a month?”
“Fordmans don’t give up SIR”
“Marines don’t give up either cadet. If you wanna be both, DON’T FUCKING FORGET THAT!”
“SIR YES SIR!”
He had given up. He couldn’t fucking move for Christ's sake! He was cold. He was so cold. He had been mercifully passing out but then waking back up all night. He couldn’t feel his limbs any longer. The blood had started to clot on his wounds due to the severe cold too. So cold. He deserved it. He deserved it. He deserved…
Whitney’s red truck pulled up into the field. Running over the corn. //Poor corn. I’m so sorry.//
The truck’s headlights craned directly at him. Whitney had gotten used to the dark. The bright glare hurt and humiliated.
Nigel got out. So this was it. This was the end.
“Sun aint up yet Mr Mahaney.” His clattering teeth hardly allowing him to speak.
“I know. Don’t worry. I wont kill you till the horizon lightens. I want you to see your last sunrise before you go to meet your maker”
Whitney laughed. “Maker! That’s funny. Yeah, Maker!” He fucking laughed.
Nigel smiled too. “Yes... Whitney.” He moved close. Really close.
“And what a maker he must be to have made something so …” He pressed a palm to his cheek. “.. beautiful and …” put his other palm flat on his stomach. “..so exquisite…”
Whitney flinched as hard as he could. This was totally unexpected. His eyes got as wide as they could get.
Nigel was moving his hands now. Down his neck to his chest. Down his belly to his groin. To his scrotum. Whitney gasped. No. No. NO!
“It’s a pity I’ll have to put you down. I’ll be really sorry to let such a pretty .. package go.”
Nigel’s voice was viciously soft. He let his hands explore the helplessly exposed body and paid no attention to the painful noises he was eliciting from his victim as he alternately caressed and sought out painful wounds and dug his nails in. He pinched the nipples standing erect not 'cause of stimulation but from the biting cold. He stroked and fondled the boy's cock and balls shrunk not from the cold but his impure touch. Whitney was really struggling now.
“Nigel don’t. please…”
Nigel played with Whitney's exposed genitals, twisting his dirty fingers in his pubic hair and pulling, calling him all kinds of dirty names. He tugged and pinched and scratched until Whitney was doing what he had fought so hard not to. He wept.
The laughter that followed was an unmerciful inhuman sound that sent greater shivers down the naked spine than the bitter cold had all night.
Nigel brought one hand round to Whitney’s back and grabbed his ass. He then smacked it so hard Whitney almost forgot about the hand in front torturing his cock. Then he was fingering his crack and let one finger slip into him that made him squirm more in his bondage. Whitney was really screaming now. He didn’t want this. He didn’t deserve this. Did he? And then he phased out again. This time it was Whitney who was laughing.
Like a maniac.
He was crying too. His tears fell on Nigel as the latter kneeled and brought down his teeth to his groin and took a hungry bite. Then he took something out of his pocket. It was a Swiss knife and he flicked it open without once taking his mouth off Whitney. And then he was drawing the blade across the naked thighs and the naked chest and the naked stomach. All this while he kept sucking and nibbling at Whitney’s sac and penis relentlessly.
Whitney was way gone now. He wanted to die right away. To hell with the sunrise. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me!
“Scream for me Whitney”
Nigel was hissing at him as he rubbed his entire clothed front with that of Whitney’s naked one. “Scream.” And he stabbed his left thigh with the knife. Whitney gasped and continued to sob quietly. His face was a total mess with all the blood and tears and scars from the night’s assault. He kept his eyes shut tight.
//End this. Please. Kill me.//
“Talk to me Whitney. I sure love to. I’ll tell you everything that I would do to you…”
Whitney couldn’t decide what was worse, Nigel talking to him or Nigel torturing him.
“I’m gonna tell you how beautiful you are, and how tight your ass is as I am fucking you senseless” the hand gripping at his ass was squeezing him painfully.
“And how sweet your blood tastes..” He was licking at his wounds now.
“And I’m gonna make you beg. And scream. Will you do that for me Whitney?”
Nigel was using his first name as spitefully as he was using his last name before. Whitney decided he’d rather have Nigel torturing him. Quietly.
“If you had to cry for help Whitney, who would you call? Hmmm?”
The knife was being twisted. Whitney panted harder. His mouth flew open to scream but no voice came out.
“Who will it be …Whitney?”
Nigel was totally engrossed in his sick games. Talking was really big on his agenda it seemed. He slowly pulled the knife out and Whitney gasped again. His eyes flew open.
“Shhh... its ok. Its ok little one”
Yeah right. Whitney was manically but quietly laughing again.
Then the caresses started again. Upward direction. “You haven’t answered my question..” The caresses changed to kisses. Upward still.
“Close your eyes Whitney” He did almost automatically.
“Now think and tell me, who is it you want to come and rescue you hmm?”
Nigel reached his face. Whitney’s mind was in extreme agony and thoughts were running around in circles, flashes, white flashes jumping across his eyes..
Flashes of his dad... Daddy’s dead.
His mom, NO! He didn’t want her here. Didn’t want her to see him like this. No.
No one, there was no one else. His friends? Yeah right.
Lana, Lana? Lana didn’t love him. She loved….
Clark. Dear God.
And then there was that fatalistic calmness rushing through him again. So this is how it must have felt. Helpless. Worthless. What if someone had taken advantage of Clark that night the way he was being used now? Who would he have called for?
The knife jabbed into his right thigh. Whitney screamed. “Yes that’s it! Scream Whitney. Scream for me. Who’s your savior Whitney? What's the name? What is it? Answer me..” And the knife turned.
Blinding white pain.
Blinding white flashes again. Bunker. Check your uniform. Where’s his uniform? The Instructor was back.
“Whitney Fordman. Didn’t know the army started letting women sleep in the men’s bunkers.”
“That’s me SIR”
“That’s You SIR?” More laughter.
“I prefer RUNNER SIR”
US Marines Rule Book Page 1 Line 2: Never tell your senior officer what *You Prefer*
“That’s your call sign? RUNNER? What for? To remind you of all the home runs you made in minor league boy?”
“N-N-No Sir its j-just..”
“Quit stammering Fordman! And quit hiding behind your old life’s glories whatever they may have been. You’re a new man now. Doesn’t matter what you did in the past. Don’t matter a fuck how huge a star you might have been boy. What matters is what you do in the Now. Is that understood?”
“Good. Now I don’t like this RUNNER shit. I’d rather you keep your first name as your call sign too. Suits you” And more laughter.
“Now then Mr. Fordman, what's your call sign?”
“WHAT IS IT? ANSWER ME!”
“Whitney” His voice came out softly and hardly audible.
Nigel looked up. “What?”
“Whitney” “Its Whitney SIR!” The voice picked up. And got stronger and stronger.
Nigel was baffled. He stared at the figure from where he knelt on the ground. And it struck him that Whitney was losing it.
“Its WHITNEY SIR!!!”
“WHITNEY WHITNEY WHITNEY!!!!!!!!”
Nigel got up and stared. And stared. He had truly never seen any sight so beautiful. Never heard any sound so wonderful.
Whitney was screaming at the top of his lungs now. He couldn’t stop, He wouldn’t stop. He was screaming for the Whitney he once was and never will be. He was screaming for the Whitney who was loved and cared for and capable of so many good things and he screamed for this Whitney who was alone and degraded and unwanted and worthless. He screamed and screamed and screamed … never to be heard.
He screamed his last.
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