“So what’s your punishment going to be, Dew?” Sebbie asked, half-skipping as he walked.
Warning: this story contains disturbing content, including self-inflicted violence and attempted suicide.
“So what’s your punishment going to be, Dew?” Sebbie asked, half-skipping as he walked. In one hand, Sebbie held the hand of the small, hand-sewn doll Dew had made him when his previous one was burned. Selfishly, Dew liked seeing Sebbie with this doll instead. He watched the doll swing from Sebbie’s hand beside his bruised, skinny legs like a pocket watch from the fingers of a hypnotist.
Dew shook his head. “What’d you say?” “I asked what you were gonna choose!” Sebbie repeated, unbothered. “Did you forget?” “No, no.” His head had been in a fog all day. “I’m not sure yet.” “You better decide soon,” Sebbie warned him. “Daddy says your first punishment shows how devoted you are.”
“Hm,” Dew frowned. “Hm.” ` As they neared the edge of the school building, Sebbie slowed down to a normal walk. He stopped for a moment to hide Dew’s doll in his back pocket. Before they turned the corner, Sebbie asked, “Do I look alright?”
Dew turned to him and looked him over. A jolt of pain slid through him when his eyes reached the still-blistered burns on the side of Sebbie’s face, but he reminded himself that it was done; he could prevent more pain now instead of dwelling on the old. “Mm…” He hesitated. “Take the clip out of your hair.”
Sebbie’s lips puckered in a pout, but he followed Dew’s advice. A part of Dew hurt every time he had to choose between letting Sebbie wear what he wanted or seeing him bullied on the school playground. If Dew were the only person in the world, he’d let Sebbie act however he wanted. He’d even let Sebbie out of the monthly meetings and, really, that would be alright because, no matter how much his dad seemed to disagree, Sebbie never really did anything wrong.
Dew scowled at the thought of Sebbie’s dad, watching sternly as he sobbed in the firelight, screaming louder and louder as the steaming iron approached his face. He scowled at the thought of the kids on the playground who pushed Sebbie around and called him all kinds of things. Because Sebbie was the bravest of all of them, anyway.
Sometimes Dew wished they could run away, and he could bundle Sebbie in bubble wrap so nothing would ever bruise him again.
“Dew?” Sebbie’s concerned voice snapped Dew out of his thoughts. “You okay?” “Y-yeah.” They stood still. “…you ready to go?” “Yeah.” They turned the red brick corner of the school building and were hit by the full force of the bustling playground out front. Dew kept his eyes on Sebbie, who seemed to wilt for
a moment before straightening up and leading the way toward the smaller of the two jungle gyms, which was thankfully deserted.
They slid into the little structure’s short tunnel and sat side by side. Sebbie pulled out the doll again and held it in front of him by the arms, contemplating its simple button face.
“What are you gonna do for punishment?” Dew asked, not sure he wanted to know. Sebbie sighed. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea, but I found an old drawing in one of the Scriptures and I’ve been working on it…” Sebbie stopped for a moment, then said quietly, still looking down at the doll, “I know — ” but he was cut off by the tinny tolling of the school bell. He and Dew both scooted out of the tunnel and followed the herd of children into the red brick school building. Dew was one of the tallest now — not Sebbie, who was tiny — and they were about to finish their last year of elementary school. It was an important time, and of course, it would be crowned by tonight’s meeting. A pang of nervousness shook Dew’s spine. What was he going to do? He should’ve thought about this before now, but it hadn’t really seemed real. Like every child, his parents had decided his confessions and punishments for him his whole life. He should know enough by now to be able to do it himself — but he found he couldn’t think up a mistake he’d committed that deserved punishment. He’d been very good this past month, perhaps in part because of what he’d seen done to Sebbie at the last meeting… but now that would work against him.
As he followed the rest of his peers into their classroom, Dew wondered what kind of mistakes they’d be confessing to, what kind of punishments they’d do.
He couldn’t think of anything. Dew was anxious enough about this realization that he found himself drifting again. He put his chin in his hand and closed his eyes halfway. They drifted past the teacher — she wasn’t really doing anything important anyway — and eventually settled on a desk to his right, a little closer to the front. Slowly, they traced up the arm of the boy sitting there, the sleeve of his light knitted sweater, and up to his face, along his soft cheek, toward his soft eyes obscured by thick lashes. Dew watched Sebbie for a while, studied him, found himself memorizing the shape of his face, the world drowned out around him. He thought maybe Sebbie could be in an art museum. He’d paint him, but he couldn’t capture him. If Dew was an artist he’s capture Sebbie like this and put him in a museum where nobody could touch him. He’d only get the side of his face without burns.
Sebbie shifted, suddenly, and turned to face Dew’s direction. Dew’s head snapped down, but he knew Sebbie saw. He sat up a little straighter, then, in a strange stroke of boldness, knowing he’d be confessing everything anyway that night if he could think of how, he turned back and caught Sebbie’s eye. He saw Sebbie’s cheeks flush, and though the other boy turned away Dew saw the small smile he failed to suppress.
When Dew turned back to the teacher, he felt a hot flash of something like embarrassment, but wasn’t sure why. He knew he must be blushing, too, and hoped no one could see it. He spent the rest of the morning like this, and when recess came around he looked hopefully for Sebbie in the crowd of children, wanting very badly to just sit with him alone in their tunnel.
But when Sebbie came up to him, he had a worried look in his eyes. “Dew, I have to go home,” he said nervously. “I… need to get ready for tonight…”
“Oh,” Dew said, momentarily disappointed. But then, “I’ll go with you.” “You don’t have to — ” “No, it’s okay. I haven’t been able to focus all day. There’s no point staying here.” As unsuspiciously as they could, the boys made their way away from the playground and toward Sebbie’s street. When they made it a certain distance from the school, Sebbie pulled out Dew’s doll and held it by the hand. Dew watched it sway.
They reached Sebbie’s house, and his father opened the door, propping his arm on the frame. Instinctually, Dew shrunk away from him, but the man had nothing to say besides, “Come in, Sebastian, Dewey. What are you doing here?”
“I just want to make sure everything’s ready for tonight, sir,” Sebbie answered, ducking easily under his arm. Dew did the same, leery, avoiding eye contact. Sebbie’s father nodded and let the door close. Sebbie lead Dew down to the basement and as soon as the door closed, he turned to Dew with shining eyes. “He’s going to be so proud!”
A vague sense of foreboding settled over Dew. Nothing that made Sebbie’s father proud could be good. Even Dew’s parents thought so, and they never shied away from giving Dew his just desserts at meetings. As he watched Sebbie make his stumbling way across the neat basement, he remembered his own father’s voice: “I think the boy’s the way he is because of Jeremiah’s punishments. Problem is, the more he’s that way, the more Jeremiah punishes him.” Dew thought about the doll again and the way Sebbie always had it on him, like a talisman or maybe a lifeline.
He went over to stand at Sebbie’s shoulder. The other boy was staring dully out the window. “I lied,” Sebbie said quietly. “I don’t have anything to do. I just wanted to come home.”
“Oh,” Dew said. “That’s okay, too.” They were silent for a moment. “Decided what you’re gonna do yet?” “Yeah,” Dew lied, deflating a little more. “I want it to be a surprise, though.” “Oh,” Sebbie said. “I hope you don’t go before me.” “Why?” Sebbie hesitated a moment. “Nothing. I… just don’t want the bar to be too high. I’m still not sure this is enough.”
A sullen, crushing weight seemed to push down on Dew, landing heavy and dead like a fog. Following an urge, he wrapped his arm around Sebbie and leaned his head on the other boy’s shoulder. He felt Sebbie tense, then relax, then lean into him.
“Don’t do anything you can’t take, alright?” Dew whispered. Sebbie rested his own head on Dew’s and said in his soft, delicate voice, “We’re about to become men, Dew. I have to take it.”
Dew wasn’t satisfied with that, but he said no more. After a while, he left Sebbie to his thoughts. His father made him dress up nice for the occasion, the suit jacket and tie his mother bought for him even though they were just a bit too big. You’re taking your first step on your way to manhood today, he told Dew. Look the part.
Increasingly, Dew wasn’t so sure he wanted to be a man.
But he got into his family’s light blue Chevy and let them drive him to his manhood anyway. He could see the light of the bonfire from far away. It was already dark, and the fire bathed the town square red. Some people were already there. A few young couples danced near the fire and a group of children Dew’s age were clustered at the edge of the light. Dew’s dad parked and let him out, giving his hair a ruffle. “Make me proud, kid.”
Dew made his way through his group. Some of the boys gave him weird looks as he passed — it was what he got for hanging around Sebbie, but he didn’t care. And ah, there he was — sitting against a building wall a bit apart from the group, almost invisible in the shadows, fiddling with something shiny, which he tucked quickly away when he saw Dew. Dew sat beside Sebbie and touched his hand, making sure the gesture was hidden in the shadows.
“I’ll miss you,” Sebbie said suddenly, turning to him. “What do you mean?” Dew asked, confused. “We’ll still be friends, even when we’re men.”
Sebbie said nothing but turned to look at him, seeming to search Dew’s eyes for something that wasn’t there, that Dew didn’t know about.
“I don’t — ” A man stood before the fire and called everyone to attention. The usual opening words were said, and then the punishments commenced. Dew watched from the shadows beside Sebbie as the usual acts went through. A man confessed to stealing money from his brother and drove a stake through his hand, another confessed to laziness and asked an audience member to whip him. Dew only really registered his own parents’ confessions. His mother had lusted after a man from her work and so branded her cheek with her wedding ring, heated in the fire. His father had not shown enough interest in his family. He cut across his chest deep enough to scar but Dew knew he’d still eat dinner in his room with football on the television instead of talking to his son.
The man returned to the center of the gathering when it was over. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight is a special night. Here, we have children on the cusp of adulthood, all almost having reached their twelfth birthdays. Tonight, they will prove their devotion to divine Righteousness. Let us begin.”
Applause. The children all began to move forward. Dew moved to stand, but Sebbie grabbed his arm. Dew turned to him. “What — ”
Sebbie jerked forward and kissed him. Dew stared with wide eyes as Sebbie dragged him to his feet. As they joined the crowd, Sebbie let go of his hand lost himself amongst the children. Dew spun around, wide eyed, but couldn’t find him. His brain had ground to a halt like rusted clockwork. He barely heard the first name called out. As if from behind glass he watched the first child walk, trembling, into the center of the meeting. Underwater, he heard confess to disrespect and slice a knife across her palms, one for each parent.
The audience applauded her. She walked off with tears in her eyes. The next child stuck his hand in the fire and repented for his doubt. The next shot his leg with a nail gun because he had not helped his mother repair their garage door.
They all blended together. Dew forgot what he planned to do. Then he heard Sebastian’s name. The world slowed down. Sebastian — Sebastian now, with his head held high — walked into the center of the circle. He spoke without a shake in his voice.
“I have disappointed my parents,” he said, voice carrying despite its softness. “I’m lazy and dishonest.” He began to peel off his suit jacket. “I disrespect my elders.” His shirt fell to the floor. From his pocket, Sebastian produced a gleaming razor blade. The crushing weight of the earth seemed to settle on Dew’s shoulders. “I’m in love, too,” Sebastian continued quietly, “with a boy.”
Dew’s eyes burned. “I cannot let any of these go un-repented, but I can’t fix any of them,” Sebastian said, his voice rising. “So I must be punished for all of them. I can think of no better way to right such wrongs as these so fundamental to me.” He held up the razor blade and it gleamed hotly in the firelight. “With this, I repent for my life.”
In a fluid motion, one he’d surely practiced, Sebbie brought down the blade and gouged a long, deep cut down his wrist.
Dew screamed. He didn’t even make himself do it. As if possessed, he ran forward, weaving in and out of the crowd. Before he could break through, though, just before he could reach Sebbie, a pair of strong arms held him back.
“What do you think you’re doing, boy?” Sebbie’s father barked. Someone from the crowd yelped, “but he’s killing himself!” “That’s his business.” Dew felt the man’s hot growl on his ear. “Jeremiah, let go of my son!” he heard his own father cry, but from far away. “He’s done nothing wrong!” Dew shouted, kicking at Jeremiah’s kneecaps. “Let me go, make him stop!”
Sebbie was staring at him in horror even as blood pooled around his feet. “Dew, please — ” “Stop it! You don’t have to do this! You don’t have to make anybody proud!” Sebbie only shook his head. Dew struggled desperately, but turned away as Sebbie raised the razor again and cut it down his other wrist.
Jeremiah threw him into the ring like a rag doll. Looking up, Dew saw a woman drag Sebbie’s collapsed form to the edge of the ring. He struggled toward him, but Jeremiah came up behind him and held him again.
“What is your confession, boy!” he growled, stale breath washing over Dew’s face. “I’ve done nothing wrong,” Dew whispered. He looked out at the crowd for help, but nobody moved.
“I don’t think so!” “I’ve done nothing wrong!” Dew cried, and with a jolt of strength he hadn’t known was in him he threw off the man and scrambled to Sebbie’s side. Head pounding with adrenaline, Dew lifted Sebbie’s body — looking even smaller now than it usually did — onto his back. And he ran, and nobody chased after him, but he didn’t know that til he stopped and laid Sebbie down in the green plastic tunnel outside the school, unsure of how he got there but sure of why. “Don’t,” Sebbie groaned as Dew frantically checked over his wounds.
Blood gushed from them still, not seeming to have slowed at all. Dew tore off his suit jacket and wrapped Sebbie’s arm, but they were so bloody he didn’t know where to press. He laid his arms all across the boy’s back and willed him to keep breathing. It took him a while to realize that Sebbie was truly unconscious.
“But you’re not dead, not dead,” Dew panted like a prayer. “Just sleep for now and tomorrow we’ll go somewhere else. We’ll leave this town and go somewhere else. I’ll paint you the most beautiful portrait if you just stay not dead.”
He listened to Sebbie’s labored breathing. “Please, please.” He started to cry. “Please. I’ll do anything. No mistake would be bad enough to deserve losing you.”
The night got darker, then lighter, and in the morning smoke still filled the sky. Though he tried not to, Dew collapsed into an exhausted, fitful sleep beside his friend. He dreamed of a world where there were no bonfires, no meetings, and most of all no mistakes.
In the morning, he awoke with a start. Sebbie shifted beside him. His eyes were still closed, his breathing almost undetectable, but ever so slowly he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the little doll. His hand tightened around it, and Dew put his own hand on top, squeezing as hard as he could.
This story was written by MJ Pennell. MJ is a 15-year-old student whose hobbies include reading, drawing, playing the harp, and writing. She has only recently started submitting stories to contests like this and is so honored to have been selected as the winner! Though she hasn’t yet completed any major works, she hopes you look out for her in the future. You can find her on Instagram here.
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