The Beautiful Whore
A Short Story
ABOUT THE WRITER
Mr. Bread was born in 2002 in the salad bowl of the world. Currently, he spends his free time obsessing over arts. He has an upcoming book through Nut Hole Publishing entitled The Panifesto, coming soon.
Henry was 5’11” and 135 lbs. His frame was skeletal, which was exaggerated by his short pomp hairdo. He didn’t like this haircut, but he didn’t know what else to get; this was the only hairstyle he’d ever had. His mother had worked as a hair stylist when he was younger, so it only felt right.
Henry didn’t have many friends, or any friends, really. At school, he would try to talk to his classmates, but it had just past winter break, so it felt like any chance he had at companionship kept diminishing as it got further from the start of the school year. He was a Junior in high school. In his spare time, he would go on forums and chat rooms, such as 4chan and Discord, but he could never connect with anybody. Instead, he would just scroll through them, reading others’ conversations, angry that even with the anonymity and “chance to be anybody” on the internet, he couldn’t shake who he really was.
Henry had level 2 ASD. He knew he had it, but he didn’t know what it meant. All he knew was that he had a longing for something. Henry wouldn’t leave the house much, though he wanted to. He wanted to have a reason to. He craved the ability to hang out with friends, talk about gardening and botany, walk aimlessly around town, but he couldn’t. He had nobody to do it with, and his mother wouldn’t let him go out alone. Instead, he would have to be accompanied by his mom or, on the rare occasion, his cousin(s), and live life through their curated lens.
Henry’s interests were limited: ecology, first-person shooters, and hip hop. His favorite plant was a Calathea rattlesnake, his favorite game was Valorant, and his favorite musician was Chief Keef. Early on in his exploration into R/Chiraqology, Henry had found out that Chief Keef also had autism. It amazed him what somebody who was “like him” could do: make it big at age 16, perform in front of crowds filled with countless people, and be in a gang.
Henry lived in a smaller town; 15.23 mi² with 32,475 people occupying it. The town was upper-middle class, with the average family raking in $134k per year, and had a yearly crime rate of 11.74 per thousand residents. Two towns over, however, was crime-ridden poverty. 64.06 mi², 159,827 people, an average income of $57k, a crime rate of 70.03 per thousand residents, and impending gentrification. A small portion of the students at Henry’s high school lived in that area and would travel over in the mornings. Alongside their backpacks and binders, they brought with them the culture of their town. There had even been a rumor that one of the kids, a 15 year old named Brandon, would bring a gun (which his mother allegedly gifted him) to school each day.
Henry liked what Brandon and the rest of the “poor kids” represented to him. They were kinda like Chief Keef’s gang before he got famous, he thought. He wanted to be in a gang. From what he saw through music videos and screen recordings of Clubhouse, being in a gang meant you had each other’s backs, worked together in the interest of the whole, and were friends. Henry wanted a comradery like that. He wanted to feel a part of something.
One day, as his school lunch started, Henry walked past Brandon’s friend, Mike. Mike was more approachable than the rest of their clique, but in Henry’s eyes, his aura was still reminiscent of King Von or Lil Reese. Henry watched Mike as he walked off campus, presumably to a park on the next street over. Henry wasn’t supposed to leave campus, his mom told him. He had to stay on the panopticon-esque premises where he would be safe, keeping all possible negativities of the unknown at bay.
The next day, the lunch bell rang, and Henry watched Mike again. He watched how Mike’s sagged pant legs bunched at his Air Force Ones, and how Mike let them fall even more with each step. Instinctively, Henry went into the bathroom, took the belt off of his khaki trousers, put it in his backpack, and walked back out. He was just like Mike, he thought, with the only exception being that he was wearing Vans Era 59. When he walked out, Mike was gone, but Henry knew he was at that park. He looked around behind him, checking to see if anybody was watching, and started off in that direction.
Henry stopped at the crosswalk on the corner of his school and looked at the ground. He was afraid, irrationally, that his mother and/or cousin(s) would drive by at that moment, see him, and embarrassingly scold him. But momentarily, the light turned to give him the right-of-way and some relief. He stepped, making sure to fit his foot in each stripe of the crosswalk, and met the street’s other side. Upon reaching it, Henry saw the park. He had only walked through here once with his mother, when he was 7 or 8 years old, and had only seen it through auto glass ever since. Seeing it now felt weird. The park looked smaller, the grass less green, and the sky less blue. Determined, he continued to walk.
He saw Mike sitting with Brandon, a kid named Martin, and 2 others he didn’t know, but recognized. They were at the other end of the park. He didn’t want to go over there, but he remembered what could lie ahead: friendship, comradery, fraternity, etc. This was his one chance, and he couldn’t let it go to waste. He kept walking awkwardly, cutting across the grass, with them now noticing his obvious path in their direction. He heard them laugh towards him, but he assumed it was due to something one of them said. They were confused, and he was destined. As he got within 15 feet, he heard one of them say something to him. Unable to make the words out, he didn’t respond. They stared at him, awaiting some form of response, which he delivered in the form of silence. He opened his mouth, paused for a moment as he searched for words, then said, “Can I hang out with you guys?”
“What’s up?” said Brandon, laughing a little.
“Can I sit with you guys?” asked Henry once again.
“He’s special,” Mike said as he looked to the rest of his friends,”He’s not gonna do anything bad.”
“Your name’s Henry, right?” Brandon asked.
“Yeah,” Henry said as he slightly leaned forward, assuming their questioning to be acceptance.
“Sure - yeah you can sit with us.”
Henry was overwhelmed with joy, thinking of all the possibilities of what their friendship could be. Would they stroll the streets, looking for “opps”? Or would they all “trap out of a bando” together? Would they “fuck hoes”, like Future rapped about? Henry was envisioning all these situations, picturing himself as a “big homie” in a relationship where they all were mutual “big homies”. They had interacted for a sole 25 seconds, but it felt like the foundation of something that would last forever.
Henry sat at their table next to Brandon, facing Mike, and intersected sight with the other two he didn’t know the names of. Henry sat, but didn’t listen. His fantasies rang louder than the voices right next to him. He noticed one of the kids whose name he did not know looking at him, awaiting a response.
“What was that?” Brandon asked
“What’s up with you, dawg?”
“Nothing. Just school. What’s your name? I’m Henry.”
“I know. I’m Dante.”
“Cool. So what’s up with you, Dante?”
“Nothing. So wassup? Why’d you come over here?”
“I wanna be in a gang. Your gang.”
“Gang?” Mike slyly asked.
“Yeah, your gang.” Henry confidently answered.
“You wanna be in our gang? Are you sure?” Dante chuckled, mentally nudging Mike and Brandon with his eyes.
“Yeah, I like gangs. There're no gangs here I can find, besides yours. I like BDs.”
They, minus Henry, all laughed.
“You fuck with BDs? We’re ADs.”
“I don’t know what ADs are. Is that new? Are you guys like the ‘OGs’?”
“Yeah, basically.”
“Ok, what do I do? I don’t want to kill people.”
“Nah, we don’t kill anyone, don’t worry. You won’t have to kill anybody. We don’t got opps like that.”
“So what will I do then?”
“We all had to prove our loyalty. Are you tough, Henry?”
“I’m tough.”
“Are you sure? ‘Cus we’re gonna have to jump you in.”
“How?”
“You gotta fight us all at once. You gotta make it through that, and then you can be in the gang,” Dante said, trying to hold in his chuckle.
“Ok. Ok I can do it.”
“You sure? You don’t have to be in the gang.”
“No, I can do it. I can fight.”
“Alright, bet.”
“Do you guys fight me now?”
“Nah, campus security might come. After school.”
“Ok. I can do it. I’m gonna do it.”
The 5-minute bell rang. They all had to go back to school for the remainder of the day: 2½ hours. To most, this was the easiest part of the day; the time flew by faster than the rest (though the last 10 minutes felt like hours), and freedom awaited once it was over. But not today. Every second dragged on as he was giddy with anxiety-riddled happiness. To him, his teachers sounded like the adults in Peanuts cartoons, and every word he actually had to process just took away from his fantasies. He wished he could just pass out and wake up with Dante and Brandon welcoming him into his new life as a gang member.
Finally, after hours of daydreaming, the final bell rang. It felt like the beginning of summer, or even more: a graduation. He walked out of class into a flurry of students all going their own ways. They all looked like they were waiting for something. But not Henry, however, for the one thing he wanted awaited him. He texted his mom: “Mom, I’m going to do homework in the library today. I’ll text you when I’m ready for you to pick me up.”
He hit send, anxious with the thought that his mom might not see it, or even outright ignore his requests. Despite that, he walked to the outer edge of the school with determination, sharing the same fears as earlier, but now with a coexisting confidence. He crossed the street, now able to hide behind the high density of others doing the same. He saw the park once again, looking now as bright as it did in his childhood, and could make out his soon-to-be fellow “gang members” in the distance. He felt like a kid again, like he was relieved of all the loneliness he had ever felt. He was trembling.
Henry reached them at the same table they were before. Mike stood up, followed by the rest of them.
“Alright, you ready?”
“I’m ready. I can do it.”
“Alright, there’s still hella people here, so we’re gonna go to the creek.”
“Ok.”
They all walked to the creek, which was further down in the park. Henry had never been to the creek, nor knew it even existed. He followed about 5 steps behind as Dante and Mike led the way. They ducked between trees, walking down a slope of gravel and dirt onto a flattened patch next to the water.
“Alright, take your backpack and shit off,” Brandon instructed.
“Ok,” said Henry. He took off his backpack and jacket, setting them neatly on a loose pile of leaves so as to not get them dirty.
“Alright, you ready?”
“I’m ready.”
Brandon, Mike, Dante, and the fourth person, whose name Henry still didn’t know, circled him. They put their fists up. Henry did the same. Dante threw the first punch, hitting Henry in his left ear. His guard immediately dropped as he reached for his ear. “Come on, keep your fists up,” said the fourth person tauntingly. Brandon threw the next punch, connecting with Henry’s left cheek. It hurt. He had never hurt like this before. Mike punched his nose. He felt dizzy. The fourth person hit his left ear once again. Henry was scared. He wanted it to be over, but he still wanted friends more than anything. Dante elbowed his chest. Henry felt a weird taste, and his stomach felt funny. Brandon punched his temple. Henry collapsed.
Henry’s lips began to smack and his eyes widened. He was on his side, but as he struggled to move, he became chest down in the dirt. His fingers moved frantically, like he was trying to snap, but made no sound. He shook, though not with glee as before, but because he could do nothing else. He had no idea of his surroundings now, and forgot all about his “gang”. He couldn’t remember anything at all. He reached into his pocket and picked at it repeatedly until his hands stopped moving. Saliva fell from his mouth, collecting in the dirt below him. Henry had had a temporal lobe seizure, and died there on that dirt.
His mother waited for his text.
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