Friends Till The End

It was not a group of innocent young boys at Wilkinson. Most, if not all, of the inmates belonged there. My friends and I fell uncomfortably in the middle. We were not there on assault or robbery charges. We were there because of pure stupidity.

Me and my friends tried to stick together, becoming a target to Nokes and his crew. We were targeted as a group that could be toyed with, partly because of our ages, our crime, and because we did not belong to an already existing gang.

With other inmates and other groups, the guards drew a line and waited for that line to be crossed before they attacked. With my friends and me, there was never a line. With us, Nokes and his crew could go on the attack at any moment, for any reason. For us, there were never any rules.

-

It was the morning of my thirteenth birthday. We had passed our first month at Wilkinson’s without any further incidents. Ever since the beatings Vic and I had taken, we kept our distance from Sean Nokes and his friends. We withstood their verbal abuse, ignored their nudges, taunts, and slaps. It was our safest play. We had all lost a few pounds due to the quality of the food and the inability to sleep. Only time would tell how worse our appearance would look after we were done with our time.

I was walking in the middle of a line with Jaime in front of me and Vic a few people back.

“Hold the line,” Nokes barked out. “Perry, Preciado, Fuentes, step out. The rest of you, mouths shut and eyes forward.”

We stood at attention, arms brushing our sides, and our eyes straight ahead. Nokes stood in front of me with a broad smile on his face and ordered the three of us back to my cell. Vic and I were too scared to move that we had to be pushed along by Nokes.

Nokes and his crew had knew my birthday was coming up and asked frequent questions about my past birthdays, always wondering what the best present was that I ever received. We did not know what Nokes had in store for us, but we knew enough not to expect a cake or balloons. We knew to expect nothing but the unimaginable.

I walked into my cell, Jaime still in front me and found Adam Sanders, Ralph Ferguson, and Henry Richards sitting on my bunk smoking cigarettes. In the corner, Mike stood at attention.

Ferguson had his shirt off, winking at Richards and Nokes while Sanders shut the door. I looked around the room and watched as the four of them unbuttoned their shirts. My body was wet with sweat and I felt weak enough to faint. I saw Jaime open and close his fists and Mike shut his eyes to all movement. I heard Vic start to wheeze, his breath coming in small bursts.

Nokes asked me if I liked surprises. When I answered no, they all shared a long, loud laugh. Ferguson came off the bunk and rubbed my face, asking how old I now was.

“Thirteen,” I said.

Richards pointed at Mike and ordered him to face the wall. Mike, moving slowly, did as he was told. Ferguson moved past me and ordered Vic and Jaime to do the same. The rest of the guards moved closer to the walls, leaving space for Nokes and I to stand and have room in the middle of the cell.

My voice cracked from fear and nerves. “What do you want?” I managed to ask.

“A blow job.” Nokes said.

I do not remember much about that day. I remember being forced on my knees and closing my eyes and consciousness to all the laughter coming from Sanders, Richards, and Ferguson. I remember Nokes’s sweaty hands holding the back of my head. I remember feeling numb and wishing they would kill me before the night was over.

I never spoke to my friends about it, nor did they ever mention it to me. We tried to forget about those moments as deep inside ourselves as possible. To this day, no clear picture of the sexual abuse we endured at the Wilkinson Home for Boys has surfaced in my mind. I have buried it as deep as it could possibly go. But it is there, and will always be there, no matter how hard I work at blocking it out.

The details of those forced sexual encounters have been a series of blurs. I see hands slap bare skin. I see pants torn and shirts ripped apart. I feel hot breath against my neck and strong legs wrapped around mine. I hear groans and laughter with my back and neck wet from another man’s sweat and spit.

In those blurry visions, I am always alone and crying out against the pain, the shame, and the empty feeling the abuse of a body leaves in the tracks of the mind. I am held in place by men I hate, helpless to fight back.

What I remember most clearly about that day was that it was my thirteenth birthday, the loss of my innocence, and the end of my childhood.

Notes