“Not sure about you, boys, but I don’t want to see him on the pitch ever again. Filth doesn’t

belong on Chestnut Road.”

The others mutter their agreement.

The tibia of his left leg snaps with a sound that’s not as dry as he thought it would be, and right

after that the fibula. Soon after the same bones in his right leg follow. He has forgotten about the

number of bones in his feet, and though he doesn’t hear them breaking, the sound of his own voice

tells him at least some of them are no longer whole. It’s no use to cry out his agony when two of them,

in an act of bizarre choreography, stamp their full, substantial weight at the same time on both his

ankles. He’s just helpless to stop it.

One heavy boot resting on his upper leg and one on his shin to make sure his left leg stays

motionless. His kneecap cracks. The same procedure happens for the right one. Steve hears it right

through his own screams and his attackers’ laboured breathing. Breaking down the body of a

sportsman who takes care of his health and condition proves to be more work than they likely

imagined.

He’s almost certain the femur of the fit, adult male, the strongest bone in the human body, and

protected by regularly used muscles in his case, can’t be broken by human force alone. He will never

again underestimate the power of love turned into hate.

They can stop now. If it’s the spilling of blood they’re after, they can rest in the knowledge to

have done a satisfactory job. There are enough broken bones in both his legs, enough torn muscle to

keep him in hospital and out of Chestnut Road Stadium, even as an spectator, for weeks, if not months

to come. If it’s about hurting him so much he’s forgetting what it feels not to hurt, then the sounds he

makes must be a reliable indication of their success. Likely he’ll never see the training pitch at The

Three Graces Park again. If he’ll ever be fit enough to do anything with a ball, it will be as a last

reserve of a low ranking non-league club when everybody is out with the flu. Miracles do happen, and

he has borne witness to them, but not with guys past a certain age. Not the goodbye he imagined for

himself. He’ll live, though.

It doesn’t stop. If there was a moment they could have walked away, happy with the result of

their intervention, they have missed it. If anything, they raise their effort. Their boots take turns, but

never rest at the same time. They appear to have found their rhythm.

He no longer wants to look into their eyes. And why would they want to look into his?

Fear grows stronger than pain, even if it’s for only a few seconds. He’s willing to beg, to

grovel at their feet. They want him to lick his own blood off their boots? No problem. Say out loud

that’s he’s a fucking queer and he deserves everything they did to him? Why not? He’d even try his

best to sound genuine, if so required. If it gives him the chance to see Daniël again, he will do it all.

Football is just a game. His life is reduced to a fast dwindling list of essential items, and dignity is no

longer among them.

“Please...”

He doesn’t trust they even hear him. But perhaps the way they silently, simultaneously use

their boots on him must be considered their answer. He starts to tremble, though he feels it’s not fear

as such, terrified as he might be, that’s causing his body to shake uncontrollably, but something

mainly physical. And still he tries to crawl away, the need to get to Daniël and be safe in his arms

greater than the logical conclusion that a wrecked body won’t get him very far. Something, hard and

heavy like a branch, hits him on the side of his head. He hopes it will be enough to be knocked out, if

only for a short moment, to give him some respite from the agony. It’s not. He does however hear a

strange murmur in his left ear and involuntarily he shakes his head.

“What? You don’t like it here, with us? We’re not good enough for you? Don’t fancy us, real

men? You want to be some place else? Perhaps getting fucked by that tall Dutchman? Does it hurt

your poor little heart that he doesn’t go for poofs?” The man uses his boot to stamp Steve’s left hand

into the ground. “Do you use this hand to wank when you‘re thinking ‘bout him?” He switches to

Steve’s right hand. “Or this one? Oops, I guess you’re not getting any action any time soon.”

He doesn’t understand why they are still talking. Do they think their words somehow add to the

hurt? That there’s some dignity left that can only be killed off by verbal abuse?

A thick branch is shoved under his nose. “You must have taken a peek when you’re under the

shower, after the match. He’s got a big one? Like this?”

Sometimes, when they’re totally sated with their lovemaking and still hovering a bit between

being awake and asleep, Steve oh-so-gently cradles Daniël’s spent cock in his hand and waits until

dreams find him. His attackers will never know this beauty. He doesn’t pity them for it.

He’s just as surprised as they are that he’s able to whisper a few words that are halfway

understandable. “You... will... never... have... him ....”

The toe of a boot makes his words taste like blood.

“Get his jeans off; I’m going to stick this thing so deep inside those rotten guts of his he can

bite on the other end with whatever teeth he’s got left.”

“He might even get off on it.”

Their laughter drowns out the rest of the words. Steve only knows both his ankles are taken

into iron grips and he’s dragged away. Pain, once again, gets a new meaning. He screams with wide

open mouth, the sound lost and small.

The tiring shivers finally stop, only to be replaced by violent, irregular convulsions.

His bladder and sphincter muscles give out.

He knows he’s dying. He feels rather than hears his own pitiful, soft whimpering. He’s a

hunted animal, offering its throat to the beast, unable to flee, past the will to fight.

His left hand is under my head.

His right hand embraces me.

He is no longer aware of the individual kicks. Muscles continue to tear, bones to break and

blood to mingle with blood. He stares blindly at something he’s no longer able to see. His ears still

pick up sounds, but are not able to give useful meaning to any of them. Pain blossoms into the fullness

of its potential. None of it matters.

My beloved is mine and I am his.

He just wishes he wasn’t so tired.

I adjure you, daughters of Jerusalem,

If you find my beloved

That you tell him that I am faint with love.

His collapsed lungs try their best against cracked ribs. His heart is as brave as ever, but

sometimes all the courage in the world isn’t enough. There’s so much love in every fibre of his being,

it lights the darkness of the deepest night and it is strong as life itself, but like all living things, it too

must bow its head for death. Hadn’t he kissed the words on his beloved’s upper arm? Smiling

because... god... so young his treasured boy... Mors vincit omnia – Death conquers all ...

I am my beloved’s.

His desire is toward me.

He’s grateful he said goodbye to Daniël with a smile and a kiss. Not a bad word between them.

He has been blessed with the joy of friendship and love.

This is my beloved, and this is my friend ...

A calm sadness is all that’s left.

Chapter 3

Everything is as usual and yet everything is somehow slightly off. The match is a match, with a

pitch and a referee and linesmen and the sound of fans, but he has no idea against which club they’re

playing. He’s acutely aware of them being there, and yet every time he thinks he’s able to take a