No More Happy Birthdays

Part 3

Bo did not see hide or hair of Vincent until noon of the next day, when he called down the stairs for what he swore aloud was the last time, to announce dinner. Thankfully the threat worked, because within less than a minute he could hear the basement door opening and footsteps ascending the staircase. Already seated, Bo watched as his brother shuffled into the room, a bundle of clothes and hair with little human left in plain sight. With a funny sort of slow movement, the young man sat down at the far side of the table, across from his brother, who sat back and placed his booted feet on the table.
“You like god damned birthdays so much…” Bo announced, “I made something special for you. I made them taters just how you like them.” His feet leaving the table’s edge, he leant forward and removed a lid from the large steaming pot in the centerpiece. Indeed, cooked potatoes simmered in the cool evening air, their image framed by a wafting scent of garlic and cheese. Vincent looked uneasy at the very sight of them.
“Don’t you want ‘em?” Bo solicited. “They’re your birthday present. Ain’t I doing what you wanted to do?”
Vincent hid behind his hair and stared at his wrung hands in his lap.
“Ain’t I being just like my brother?” The other man asked, lifting an eyebrow as he observed his twin. “Ain’t this what you want? It’s for damn sure what Mama wanted.”
Why can’t you be like your brother, Bo? One of the things his mother said that he hated the most. Little freak-boy’s sweet and perfect, isn’t he? Look at how good he is at the table, how well behaved he acts…
Vincent was not behaving well at this table. He stared at his plate and refused to take any of the food Bo had made for him. And this, his goddamned birthday dinner! Was this not what he wanted all along, the damn spoiled mama’s boy?
Bo shoved the pot closer to his brother as he stood, and he saw how harshly Vincent flinched.
“I am just about getting sick and tired of this horse shit. Now eat your fucking supper, because if you don’t, I sure will, and I’ll kick your ass back down into your precious cellar.”
Shaking his head, Vincent pushed his chair back, fists still bunched up with wads of his sleeves. He winced again when Bo picked up the pot and dumped it in the kitchen sink with a resounding clatter.
“You ungrateful little shit, get your faggot ass outta my sight!”
Vincent hesitated, which made Bo respond with a low, “you heard me.” The deformed man, fists still clenched, stood slowly from the chair and turned to leave, his head still hanging low and hidden by onyx colored hair.
His leave from the table was what caused Bo to notice the real problem. Vincent’s hands straightened out only to settle against his stomach as he continued on his way, slouching unusually as though doubled over within his now bow-legged walk. Bo could hear his twin’s hard breaths even from the other side of the long kitchen.
No wonder he never saw the dumb ass come up for food.
“Wait,” he called out as he hurried toward the man. Vincent flinched again, but stayed put as ordered, and even opened his rigid arms at his brother’s urging. There before him, Bo could see that his twin’s pants were not even buttoned. To do so would have been a discomfort anyway, from the way Vincent’s belly now swelled. To prove his suspicions, his outstretched fingers prodded the bloated flesh and his malformed brother yelped at the inspection, jerking away and holding his stomach once more.
Sneering at the discovery, Bo stared at his brother’s single eye beneath the stringy black hair. “You’re holding it in, aren’t ya?”
The pace of Vincent’s breath increased for a moment and he moved towards the basement door again, but Bo stopped him.
“You can’t hold it back forever. You wanna shit your bed? Do ya?”
Vincent sniffled at the thought of the inevitable. He did not want to soil his cot any further, or anywhere else for that matter, but the thought of relieving himself terrified him. He had already tried once and the pain was excruciating. What if it tore him open further? Again, he pulled away, but a grip of iron held him back with enough force to hurt his arm.
“Come on,” Bo ordered, engaging in a strange tug-of-war as Vincent resisted him. “If you want me to drag your lopsided ass, I will, and I’ll knock you against every door frame as I do it.”
Still refusing to go willingly, Vincent slackened his frame and made the journey to the bathroom as slow as possible without incurring his brother’s wrath any further than would prove harmful. When they finally reached the room, he was shoved inside and instructed to strip down below the waist and take a seat. Bo leant against the frame of the door and folded his arms, his bearing matching his stern expression.
“Now we’re gonna stay here until you take a shit like a good boy. You want to act like a big fucking kid, I’m gonna treat you like one, so do as you’re told.”
Vincent sounded near the point of hyperventilation, and Bo’s attentive presence certainly did not help. However, if his brother had not been there to watch, he would probably have sat there all day, avoiding it further. Forty-five minute passed before Vincent eventually gathered enough courage to try what he knew was going to hurt like hell.
“Well?” Bo asked, patience most likely thin as paper by now. Two seconds later, he saw his brother tense up, back bent and fists again clenched. Breath hard and heavy, Vincent’s form shuddered and with his attempts to void, he grunted and groaned. Nothing happened for almost five minutes.
“Harder. Don’t be a pussy.”
Teeth grating, Vincent obeyed and his groaning increased in volume. A particularly loud moan arose and he gripped the edges of the toilet seat, knuckles white. The white seemed unusual compared to his contorted face, which was going redder with every push. By the time Bo knelt down in front of him and told him to stop, Vincent was out of breath. Yet no splashing had occurred, and no smell filled the air.
“Stand up,” Bo said, and he glanced with disappointment into the empty bowl when his brother did as told. Shutting his eyes and giving a tired sigh, he exited the bathroom and strode up to the coat rack, removing a light coat.
“I’m gonna head to the drug store. I’ll be right back.”
The drug store was just as abandoned as the rest of the town, but it still had essentials left over from when the town still hummed with the lives of people who were not quite yet wax attractions. Bo did not linger for long, because he knew the place, just like any other building in the small town, well enough to find what he needed. He remembered his father often said that fiber was the best thing for a clear colon, hands down, and so he instantly grabbed a box of fiber laxative and was out the door again, running now. Despite a week passing since his horrible mistake, he still saw Vincent paying dearly for it. He did not need this getting any worse than it was.
The laxative tasted terrible, but Vincent swallowed it down anyway, knowing it was the only thing which could help him now. He felt deeply ashamed that this had to happen in the first place, that he had refused to defecate to the point of complete blockage.
What Vincent had failed to do though was drink. Both men had forgotten that the treatment required constant hydration and the two brothers discovered this early one morning when Bo was awoken by a piercing, agonized moan. He sprang from his bed and ran to the source of the sound, which had originated in the downstairs bathroom.
Sitting on the toilet, half naked and shining in sweat was Vincent, fingers tightly gripping the porcelain seat and shivering. Bare feet sliding on the tiled floor, he rocked back and forth slowly, desperate to evacuate, but so far unable to succeed. With every attempt, he gave a low, loud groan, grimacing at his effort and pain. The sight made Bo incredibly uneasy, as did the awful sounds which carried throughout the house. It reminded him of the commotion made when their mother had died.
Bo hated himself in his brother’s moment of unease and torment. He resumed his leaning position against the door frame and forced himself to look away from the sad sight before him. All this was because of him and what he decided to dish out as proper punishment. He had done it to women they caught before and the act itself then was not a problem. But his brother? How could he just say he was sorry for that? The thought of telling Vincent that it would not happen again was idiotic. Already once was one time too many. Glaring to himself, he found that his brother’s cries of discomfort were too awful to simply ignore or brush off as belonging to someone else.
“HARDER!” He found himself yelling, which he soon regretted. Vincent took the shout seriously and increased his effort, only to cough out a horrible sob. Bo felt worse and stepped forward to kneel in front of his twin, who was still fearful when near him.
However, as he leant forward to try and help in some way, Bo heard a splash. Wincing at the sensation, Vincent, with tears running down his miserable half-formed face, looked into his brother’s eyes imploringly. Almost ready to congratulate his twin, Bo helped Vincent to his feet, only to find a bowl full of foul, brownish fluid, and not much else. Predictably, Vincent was still holding his belly and moaning pitifully.
“Not done yet, huh?” Bo asked rhetorically. As he bent over to flush the toilet, he felt arms surrounding him and a body leaning against him. Though still afraid of him, Vincent asked for Bo to supply him consolation. Even though Bo never liked being affectionate, nor did he ever find Vincent’s coddling agreeable, he just felt worse over the entire situation, and how badly it had become. His frown deepening, he gave serious thought in pushing his brother away.
Vincent’s breath caught in his throat and he promptly collapsed back onto the toilet seat, holding his stomach and bending at the waist. Separated from the other man, Bo stood dumbfounded for a few seconds until he snapped out of it and knelt down again. Vincent was holding his breath and shaking where he sat, face going red once more. Eye squeezed shut, tears still seeped from it like a leak in a pipe and the veins which pumped in his neck seemed nearly increased in size.
“Hey!” Bo, reached out and took his brother’s head in his hands, fingers entwined in the long black hair. “Hey… settle down there…”
Sobs bubbled up from Vincent’s throat and in addition to his deformity his crimson face was contorted in the most unbearable, wretched expression Bo had ever seen.
“Ain’t workin’, is it?” the kneeling man asked, and this time, as Vincent looked at him, Bo’s eyes were sympathetic. Vincent’s hands were shaking now, and when Bo took them in his own to still them, they were cold and sticky with perspiration. Remorse itching in the back of his mind like a cat’s claws, Bo pulled the hands toward him, guiding them around his waist. Needful for comfort as he was, Vincent accepted the offer and hugged his brother as hard as he safely could. The feeling of a face pressed into Bo’s chest with half of it missing was surreal. Minutes passed before Vincent tried again and his arms tightened around his brother as he moaned.
“Okay, this ain’t gonna work out,” Bo said, interrupting the scene. “You do anymore and you’ll give yourself a heart attack.”
Looking past the trembling figure whose back shuddered with every breath, Bo looked into the toilet and saw no progress whatsoever. What if Vincent never got through this? If so, he would certainly die. Bo never wanted that, no matter how many times he got angry with his brother. He needed to do something…
“Vincent, we’re gonna try something,” he announced. “I just need you to stay calm for a minute.”
Oblivious to what sort of solution his brother had in mind, Vincent could only watch as his hug was undone and he was moved forward on the seat.
“Okay…” Bo murmured, leaning around his twin’s body and reaching forward slowly, an uneasy look on his face. “This might work. Just… keep still…”
Licking some tears stubbornly remaining on his cheeks, Vincent waited, and he had a feeling he was not going to enjoy whatever this option might be, but what could he do? Anything they had to try at this point would most definitely be painful, so he thought that he might as well do as he was told and try not to complain too much.
What he did not expect, however, was the intrusion deep inside him that was Bo’s finger.
Vincent’s reaction was not a surprise to Bo, but he could have appreciated deeply if it had not happened. His brother, however, saw things differently. The moment he felt the finger enter, he howled out and tried frantically to break away from Bo’s hold on him. Surely the intrusion hurt, but his terror muffled out all senses now. He hardly cared about the blockage in his stomach now, as long as he was not violated again such as he was only a week ago.
“NO!” came the piercing shout from Bo’s lips as he clutched his brother in his arms and heaved him back onto the porcelain seat, fingers curling about a large hunk of hair and full body weight pinning the terrified young man down. His rebuke made him sound like someone reprimanding a mangy dog.
“No, Vincent…” his voice was near a growl, but now at a calmer volume. “No… this is for your own good.”
Beneath him he could hear the panicked breaths and feel the terrified heartbeat. Carefully, the hand which had grasped his twin by the hair loosened its hold and flattened over the scalp, stroking softly.
“I ain’t doin’ what I did last time. I never should’ve done that to you, but now I can’t take it back. I liked the present you made me. I’m so sorry… you’re my brother… I should have never done that… ever. Right now is not what I did last week.” The other arm slackened off from Vincent’s back when Bo felt the muscle there slowly release and go soft.
“I’m only trying to help you now. I don’t wanna hurt you like I did last week. Never again.”
The warm, quivering body he held against him lost some of its rigidity, but Bo found himself considering the possibility of what could happen once this was all over. Vincent may possibly never forgive him for what had happened. Perhaps the scarred young man would remain in the cellar, never returning to his sculptures, never letting his art grow. Both were too disheartening to think of for very long.
“I won’t hurt you like that this time. I promise…” Bo continued, his voice and touch still as soft as a person such as he could manage. “This may just help you out. You just need to keep real still. You think you can do that for me?”
Vincent rarely ever heard Bo apologize for anything, especially when it came to being so cruel and angry. Hearing the words now was welcome to his ears and the apology brought him a strange feeling of peace. Perhaps his twin really was sorry and maybe this was the only way left to cure him. Slowly his hands wrapped themselves around folds of clothes, gripping the shoulders of his brother’s shirt. He was ready.
Though his cries of pain were loud and his grip on his brother hard, Vincent remained very still until he knew it was over. His single eye glittered with tears and several drops fell to the ground when he felt the invasion leave his body. Bo had done his best and managed to dig two fingers inside the tight confines of his brother’s cavity until he felt something warm and soft come loose.
“Oh, now that’s gross…” he said as he stared at his shit covered fingers. An odd groaning escaped from Vincent, except not from his mouth. As his stomach gurgled further, he grabbed Bo by the wrist and urged that they try again. As much as he hated it, Vincent had a feeling it was working.
Thus, Bo reached in once more. He felt as though he were reaching between the seat cushions of his truck for loose change. He tried to keep that in mind as he felt something thick and wet blocking the path of his fingers. The fingers grasping his shoulders tightened, a sign that he was on the right track, and he gently probed further. Once he had finished digging out more of the wastes, he washed his hands, listening to the gurgling his brother’s stomach made over the running water. Vincent was bent over, his head between his knees, with his folded arms over his stomach, breath heavy and slow. He breathed harder, long strands of dark hair blown about by his exhales, and the sputtering which exited his rear end was quickly followed by an audible splash. He whimpered, the pain clearly evident on his face.
“You need help?” Bo asked, watching the spectacle and quietly thankful that progress was being made. Vincent turned his head away, still embarrassed at the fact that his suffering had to be watched at all times. He felt like such a goddamn chicken-shit. Soon enough, he groaned again and wished he could die, but a pair of clean, warm hands pushed his hair aside, stroking the scalp.
“You’ll get through it,” Bo assured him, giving a confident smirk. “Now shoot that shit clean out for me like a man.”
Hands holding his stomach, Vincent grunted when his brother pulled away the arms and replaced those hands with one of his own. It soothed his brother, and Bo could tell. Though it made him uncomfortable in his general refusal of any affection, he allowed it, to help his twin more quickly mend. Slowly, delicately, he massaged the aching, swollen belly. Vincent gave a sigh which indicated how much he appreciated the gesture and took Bo’s free hand in his, biting his lip. It was now or never…
As Vincent strained, Bo pressed. Covered in sweat and tears, the disfigured brother’s face and voice were both caught between a sob and a scream. Complexion red, he squeezed Bo’s hand as though ready to break it as he struggled where he sat. Bo encouraged him as he knelt on the floor, though his constricted hand was starting to hurt like a son of a bitch.
Though the time taken felt like an eternity to Vincent, he had only taken thirty seconds to bring about the splash in the bowl below him. He whimpered and caught his breath for a moment before he tried to pass another lump of the hardened feces enduring inside him.
Exhausted, he did not give up until he was absolutely sure he had nothing left to evacuate, and he leant forward, resting against his lap. Bo meanwhile looked into the bowl and found blood amongst the damned pile of stool. He took the perspective that much more could have shown up, but he did not like the sight of it nonetheless. Patting his twin on the back, he stood up and held out his hand.
“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up and off to bed. You look like you could use some rest.”

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To be continued...