Preppy: The Life & Death of Samuel Clearwater, Part One
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CHAPTER THIRTY
DRE
When Billy came over and told me what he’d seen over at Preppy’s, I wasted no time hopping in Mirna’s car. It was the second time I’d been behind a wheel in years, but the dread I once felt toward driving was an afterthought, far behind the one that told me I had to get to Preppy as soon as possible. I hadn’t put too much thought into where he lived so I didn’t know what I was expecting to see when I pulled up to the address Billy had given me, but the three-story stilt home towering over the smooth waters of the bay, was not it.
There wasn’t too much time to linger on the view, or on the siding in much need of repair, or the overgrown plant beds, because a crash sounded from somewhere inside the house and I bolted from the car, leaving the engine running and the door open. I tried the front door but it was locked. I banged on the screen, ringing the doorbell several times over, but my only answer was the squawking of a bird from a nearby tree. I attempted to open the window but it didn’t budge. I hopped off the porch and darted around the back of the house, taking two steps at a time, losing my flip flops in the process. The back door was not only unlocked but had been left partially open.
“Preppy?” I asked, pushing open the door so hard it slammed against the wall with a thud. I darted from room to room, finding them all empty. It was dark and musty, the curtains all drawn and not a single light was on. The smell of weed and something sinister hung heavy in the air. The shag carpet was old and stiff, stabbing the bottoms of my bare feet as I jogged down the hallway, stopping in front of a closed door when I heard movement from within.
“Preppy!” I called out, jiggling the handle but it didn’t budge. When there was no answer I ran back to the kitchen and searched for something I could use to unlock it. I grabbed a knife from a drawer but dropped it when my eyes locked on the bar stools. I darted around the corner, picked one up and lugged it down the hall. I didn’t stop at the door, but instead used every bit of my forward momentum to hurl the stool against it. Over and over again I bashed the legs of the stool into the door, splintering the wood around the handle until I made a hole large enough to fit a couple of my fingers through, the jagged wood slicing my skin as I felt around for the lock and flipped it open. I wasted no time opening the door.
I tried to prepare myself for the worst.
The worst was exactly what I found.
One look at him was all it took to realize how wrong I’d been. The spark I’d seen in his eyes that first night wasn’t the sign of a monster. It wasn’t the glint of an evil man.
It was a warning.
A warning that he’d been hurt and had never healed. It was the anger and the fear of his past lurking just beyond the surface waiting for him to finally break.
And break he did.
The room was dark, except for the green lava lamp on the bedside table and a small reading lamp that was turned over onto the floor, blinking on and off. Preppy was pacing the room, shirtless. His jeans were open and hanging low on his hips, his belt dangling from the loops. His hair was disheveled. He carried a bottle of whiskey by the neck in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other.
“Why?” he asked, the pain in his voice cut through me, sharper than any knife. He kicked the closet door in with his foot, sending it careening off the hinges.
“Preppy,” I said softly, taking a tentative step toward him. “Preppy, it’s me. Dre. Doc.” I stopped at the foot of the bed as he continued to pace, and although I was right there it was like he couldn’t see me, his eyes glazed over. He let his cigarette fall onto the carpet, and immediately I stomped it out with my foot before it could catch fire. He threw the bottle into the bathroom where it smashed the mirror into pieces, sending shards of glass shooting around the room like shrapnel. He pushed down his jeans and took his soft cock in hand stroking up and down angrily.
“Preppy. It’s me,” I said again, taking another step toward him. There was no fucking way I was leaving him in that condition. I was either going to find a way to drag him out of it or we were going down together.
“Go away,” he barked, his voice a strangled cry. He fell to his knees, bracing himself with one hand on the carpet as he continued to stroke himself furiously, growling in frustration until finally he stood up and stepped out of his jeans.
“I’m not going anywhere, Preppy.”
He paced the room, yelling at the wall. He overturned the desk. He paced back to his nightstand, where he leaned over and snorted three lines of blow in a row. He ran to the closet and came out wielding a large pocket knife, stabbing it into the drywall and running it down to the baseboard with his teeth bared and his face turning ten shades of red. His knuckles were white. “I was a good boy!” he cried out. “Bad boys have wrinkled pants. Bad boys wear t-shirts and ripped jeans. I was a good boy. No fucking wrinkles. I was such a good boy!” he yelled as his fist sailed through the wall.
Preppy was in the grips of his own personal hell and I had no idea how to drag him back out.
“Fuck you! Fuck yoooooouuuuuuuu,” he screamed to the ceiling, banging his head against the wall again and again, so hard his eyebrow split and blood trailed down his face, narrowly missing his eye.
“Don’t do this!” I shouted. “Stop! Stop!” I cried, jumping up onto a coffee table that was pushed against the wall.
“Die motherfucker! You’re dead, just fucking die you god damned asshole!” he screamed again, the tendons tight in his neck and the veins in his forearms popping at the surface of his skin. I reached for him, grabbing his face on both sides and pulled him toward me. Consequences be damned.
He swatted at my hands and pulled away.
“Don’t you see? He broke me. I’m broken!” he shouted. His eyes were bloodshot and his voice raspy from yelling. “And that fucking bitch let it happen! She fucking let it happen!”
“You’re okay. You’re not there anymore.”
“But I am! I’m always fucking there!” He pushed his hands through his hair and looked as if he were pulling it out. He spun in a circle and dropped to his knees again, tugging on his cock.
“No!” I screamed, “Look at me.” I jumped off the coffee table and got on my knees, pressing my forehead to his. “Samuel Clearwater, you are a good man. I see that in you. Everyone sees that in you. Don’t let him take that away from you.”
DRE
When Billy came over and told me what he’d seen over at Preppy’s, I wasted no time hopping in Mirna’s car. It was the second time I’d been behind a wheel in years, but the dread I once felt toward driving was an afterthought, far behind the one that told me I had to get to Preppy as soon as possible. I hadn’t put too much thought into where he lived so I didn’t know what I was expecting to see when I pulled up to the address Billy had given me, but the three-story stilt home towering over the smooth waters of the bay, was not it.
There wasn’t too much time to linger on the view, or on the siding in much need of repair, or the overgrown plant beds, because a crash sounded from somewhere inside the house and I bolted from the car, leaving the engine running and the door open. I tried the front door but it was locked. I banged on the screen, ringing the doorbell several times over, but my only answer was the squawking of a bird from a nearby tree. I attempted to open the window but it didn’t budge. I hopped off the porch and darted around the back of the house, taking two steps at a time, losing my flip flops in the process. The back door was not only unlocked but had been left partially open.
“Preppy?” I asked, pushing open the door so hard it slammed against the wall with a thud. I darted from room to room, finding them all empty. It was dark and musty, the curtains all drawn and not a single light was on. The smell of weed and something sinister hung heavy in the air. The shag carpet was old and stiff, stabbing the bottoms of my bare feet as I jogged down the hallway, stopping in front of a closed door when I heard movement from within.
“Preppy!” I called out, jiggling the handle but it didn’t budge. When there was no answer I ran back to the kitchen and searched for something I could use to unlock it. I grabbed a knife from a drawer but dropped it when my eyes locked on the bar stools. I darted around the corner, picked one up and lugged it down the hall. I didn’t stop at the door, but instead used every bit of my forward momentum to hurl the stool against it. Over and over again I bashed the legs of the stool into the door, splintering the wood around the handle until I made a hole large enough to fit a couple of my fingers through, the jagged wood slicing my skin as I felt around for the lock and flipped it open. I wasted no time opening the door.
I tried to prepare myself for the worst.
The worst was exactly what I found.
One look at him was all it took to realize how wrong I’d been. The spark I’d seen in his eyes that first night wasn’t the sign of a monster. It wasn’t the glint of an evil man.
It was a warning.
A warning that he’d been hurt and had never healed. It was the anger and the fear of his past lurking just beyond the surface waiting for him to finally break.
And break he did.
The room was dark, except for the green lava lamp on the bedside table and a small reading lamp that was turned over onto the floor, blinking on and off. Preppy was pacing the room, shirtless. His jeans were open and hanging low on his hips, his belt dangling from the loops. His hair was disheveled. He carried a bottle of whiskey by the neck in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other.
“Why?” he asked, the pain in his voice cut through me, sharper than any knife. He kicked the closet door in with his foot, sending it careening off the hinges.
“Preppy,” I said softly, taking a tentative step toward him. “Preppy, it’s me. Dre. Doc.” I stopped at the foot of the bed as he continued to pace, and although I was right there it was like he couldn’t see me, his eyes glazed over. He let his cigarette fall onto the carpet, and immediately I stomped it out with my foot before it could catch fire. He threw the bottle into the bathroom where it smashed the mirror into pieces, sending shards of glass shooting around the room like shrapnel. He pushed down his jeans and took his soft cock in hand stroking up and down angrily.
“Preppy. It’s me,” I said again, taking another step toward him. There was no fucking way I was leaving him in that condition. I was either going to find a way to drag him out of it or we were going down together.
“Go away,” he barked, his voice a strangled cry. He fell to his knees, bracing himself with one hand on the carpet as he continued to stroke himself furiously, growling in frustration until finally he stood up and stepped out of his jeans.
“I’m not going anywhere, Preppy.”
He paced the room, yelling at the wall. He overturned the desk. He paced back to his nightstand, where he leaned over and snorted three lines of blow in a row. He ran to the closet and came out wielding a large pocket knife, stabbing it into the drywall and running it down to the baseboard with his teeth bared and his face turning ten shades of red. His knuckles were white. “I was a good boy!” he cried out. “Bad boys have wrinkled pants. Bad boys wear t-shirts and ripped jeans. I was a good boy. No fucking wrinkles. I was such a good boy!” he yelled as his fist sailed through the wall.
Preppy was in the grips of his own personal hell and I had no idea how to drag him back out.
“Fuck you! Fuck yoooooouuuuuuuu,” he screamed to the ceiling, banging his head against the wall again and again, so hard his eyebrow split and blood trailed down his face, narrowly missing his eye.
“Don’t do this!” I shouted. “Stop! Stop!” I cried, jumping up onto a coffee table that was pushed against the wall.
“Die motherfucker! You’re dead, just fucking die you god damned asshole!” he screamed again, the tendons tight in his neck and the veins in his forearms popping at the surface of his skin. I reached for him, grabbing his face on both sides and pulled him toward me. Consequences be damned.
He swatted at my hands and pulled away.
“Don’t you see? He broke me. I’m broken!” he shouted. His eyes were bloodshot and his voice raspy from yelling. “And that fucking bitch let it happen! She fucking let it happen!”
“You’re okay. You’re not there anymore.”
“But I am! I’m always fucking there!” He pushed his hands through his hair and looked as if he were pulling it out. He spun in a circle and dropped to his knees again, tugging on his cock.
“No!” I screamed, “Look at me.” I jumped off the coffee table and got on my knees, pressing my forehead to his. “Samuel Clearwater, you are a good man. I see that in you. Everyone sees that in you. Don’t let him take that away from you.”
