Diamond City Trilogy

Chapter 9: Cry For Help

Fresco stared up at his friend in horror. Dead? He shook his head, trying to sort through his fried memories. He didn't remember their deaths. And kill them? Fresco's body twitched involuntarily. He couldn't have killed them.

While he fought to process what Justin told him, his friend went on.

"Three months ago," Justin hissed down at him. "After the accident. You got all weird at school. The next morning your parents were found dead and you were arrested. They said you were a c***k head." Justin's face twisted in disgust. "I guess they were right. How the hell did you get out?"

Fresco shook his head. "I didn't kill them, man." He needed to convince his friend. "I don't remember any of it. Weird stuff was happening and then my folks..." He had a flash of a dark blue van and a man with a diamond on his coveralls. "Someone took me away and I..." The happily smiling bespectacled man hovered over him. "Justin, someone did this to me!"

If Fresco were able to see how he acted or for a moment understood just how bad he looked, he wouldn't blame Justin for being skeptical. As each memory hit him, he flinched, the tremors in his body making him jerk and rock like a damaged marionette. He'd lost twenty pounds and was a skinny, filthy parody of himself. But the worst of it was having Justin witness an attack of the hunger. A full minute passed as he clutched at his chest and stomach while his friend took it all in. When Fresco finally came out of the attack, Justin retreated from him and he knew his friend was done.

"Whatever," Justin whispered. "Get lost, freak, before I call the cops. Go back to your c***k head friends and leave me alone."

Justin closed his window, leaving a desperate Fresco to slink away, heart clenched in loss.

He cut through three yards before finding a quiet place behind a corner store to sit and gather himself again. He refused to believe he did what Justin said. He wasn't like this before that night. But what actually happened to him was still going in and out like a horrible living nightmare.

Fresco ran down his list of friends. He discarded each, knowing they would treat him like Justin did. The only person he thought of to trust was Coach, but after the meeting with his former friend, Fresco hesitated. Still, Coach Matters always treated him fairly and was also one of the few people Fresco told the truth about Daniel. Maybe he could help, or at least tell Fresco more about what happened to his parents.

Mind made up, he tried to rise but was caught in the grip of the need. This attack lasted much longer. Fresco had to rest for about fifteen minutes before he was able to pull himself to his feet and move.

It took the better part of an hour to get to Coach's house. Fresco took frequent rests and even snuck into a washroom at a gas station to try to clean himself up a bit. The attendant chased him off, forcing Fresco to run again.

Finally, bone weary and certain he could go no further, he sat down on a lawn chair in the dark back yard to rest one last time before facing Coach.

Despite his best intentions, and at the end of his reserves, Fresco fell asleep.

***

He was in the dark, frozen, confined, and in horrible pain. There was something sticking out of his chest, a shard of crystal glowing softly, pulsing with the beat of his heart, stealing his life away. Fresco struggled against it, trying to pull the thing free, the razor sharp edges of it slicing through his flesh. Hands slick with blood, skin in tatters, he stared as the shard continued to leach his soul, growing brighter and brighter.

As it took the last of him and left him empty, Fresco started to scream.

***

He awoke to being shaken by strong hands. Someone yelled hoarsely, the sound almost gone, and he realized with apathy it was him. Fresco opened his eyes to see the tall, broad form of Frank Matters standing over him.

"Fresco!" Coach's face showed his shock, his brown eyes huge. Fresco saw movement behind him and caught sight of Penny Matters, terrified, clutching a phone.

"Frank!" She called to him.

Coach looked over his shoulder at her and shook his head.

"It's okay, Pen. I'll take care of this."

"I'll call the cops," the slight brunette said, gesturing at Fresco with the phone, staring at him like she'd never seen him before. Like he never spent lazy Sunday afternoons there with the rest of the team having barbeques. He pushed down a hysterical giggle.

A barbeque, he thought, would be perfect right about now.

She pointed at him with the phone again. All the humor ran out of him as his heart stopped. But Coach shook his head one more time.

"Go back inside, Pen. It'll be all right."

She hesitated before retreating back into the house. Coach stared at Fresco for a long time before pulling up another chair and taking a seat next to him. Fresco, relieved Coach at least seemed willing to talk, closed his eyes against the rising sun.

"You look like hell, kid," he said.

Fresco nodded. "I feel like hell, Coach."

"What happened, Fresco?" He opened his eyes and saw genuine concern and curiosity in the big man's gaze.

He tried to smile and shrug, but the shakes made it hard to commit. "I wish I knew. That's why I'm here. I was hoping you could tell me."

Coach sat back in his chair. It creaked under his great weight. A former pro still in top condition, Frank Matters cared about as much about his players as he did about the game. It was obvious to Fresco the man was unprepared for what he was facing as he sighed heavily, passing one huge hand in front of his eyes and back through his dark blond hair, now shot with gray. "Folks are saying some heavy stuff, son," he said, peering closely at Fresco. "And I'll be damned if some of it doesn't look like it's true."

Fresco didn't say anything. He had no way to defend himself. But Coach was always kind, even about Daniel. Fresco hoped this time wouldn't be the exception.

"Are you on drugs, Fresco?"

"I think so," Fresco whispered.

Coach's eyebrows shot up, and he chuckled. "You either are or you aren't, kiddo," he said.

"I think they gave me something." Fresco wasn't sure how much to tell, but wanted Coach to know he was the victim.

"They?"

Fresco was about to respond when the longing hit. The pain took him away as he writhed on the lawn chair, body vibrating from the gnawing, tearing pain inside. He collapsed at last, wanting to cry, wanting it to go away, but fearing now he was trapped with it forever.

Coach stared at him with huge eyes. He let his breath out in a whistle.

"Boy, you are not well," he said. "I've seen the DT's before, and you're deep in them. What is it, Fresco? c***k? h****n?"

Fresco shook his head. "I don't know."

Coach was getting visibly angry but still struggling not to show it. "Listen, I want to help." He drew a deep breath and reached. "I knew guys like you when I played pro ball. Guys who fell off the deep end through no fault of their own. I know sometimes it can just get too big, be too much. You've seen it too. In Daniel. I know how much you hate what he turned into. You don't have to be like them, like him. You can kick it, kiddo. I can be here for you. But, I can't help you until you tell me what you're on."

Tears sprang to Fresco's eyes as he saw and felt the truth. Coach didn't believe him, either. His last chance at salvation was staring him in the face and all it would take was a simple lie. One word. Pick a drug, any drug. But the part of him that argued he was innocent wouldn't cave, not even for a chance at redemption.

Fresco pulled himself up and looked Coach in the face.

"I guess I better get going," he said.

Coach leaned away and nodded, his face sad. He got up and went back inside without a backward glance. Fresco shivered for a while on the lawn chair, the unnaturally heavy dew soaking through his clothes. He finally pulled himself together and stood up.

He swayed, steadying at last and headed for the tree line behind Coach's house, dragging his feet, trying to figure out what to do now that his last chance at his old life was gone. He couldn't blame Coach, but it didn't stop him from feeling sorry for himself. He never felt so lost and alone. Whoever did this to him successfully cut him off from every single person he ever cared about.

The question was, why?

As he reached the edge of the yard, he heard Coach calling to him. The big man jogged to the shocked Fresco's side, pressed a backpack into his hands with an apologetic smile, and a whispered, "Good luck, kid," before going back to his house and closing the door firmly behind him.

***