love at Sanctuary, nobody had any delusions about that, but there was nothing resembling treatment either. The boys were simply warehoused. They developed prison mentalities to prove their masculinity, impress one another, and save themselves from being further victimized. That mentality fed, and fed off of, the subculture of sex, violence and intimidation that dominated all interactions among the wards. And I was no exception to that.
The worse case I saw, and the boy to whom I owe my redemption, was Bruce Livermore; a slight and very child-like fourteen year old with dark hair and soft velvet green eyes. By the time he was born his parents had already separated onto their own distinct paths of decay, leaving him, by proxy, in the care of his heroin addicted mother for the first four years of his life.
She had failed him in every respect, finally dropping him off on his father’s doorstep one day and disappearing into the black void of anomnity. She hadn’t fed him, washed him, or taught him how to dress himself. She also failed to potty train the boy, and this quickly alienated any small warmth his father may have had for him. Though, as Bruce told me, it was doubtful his father ever possessed any feeling for him, or for any other human being.
The third time four year old Bruce shit his pants his father carefully undressed him, sat him down, and procured a mayonnaise and shit sandwich that Bruce was to eat before being beaten. The uncomprehending crocodile tears he shed held no sway over his father’s fury. In fact, it seemed to Bruce that the incident only opened the door to all that happened to him later. And there was much that happened.
By the time someone took the time to look past all the labels he acquired for his violent behavior, he was eight. When they moved him into foster care the social workers had to annotate the pock marks on his hips and buttocks from where he had been strung up and beaten with a nail studded board; they had to procure special shoes because his heels had been turned into pin cushions by the needles that pierced his flesh every time his weary young body fell back from keeping his nose in the ‘nose hole’. Social workers were also required to explain to the potential foster parents that he was somewhat incontinent because of the innumerable, and somewhat large, objects that had been shoved up his backside. They did not mention the common sexual abuse, or the animals, or the fact that he had trouble sleeping when not tied to the bed. Those things were best left unsaid.
Needless to say, Bruce bounced through a plethora of foster homes before he garnered himself the label of ‘unredeemable’ and was referred to the care of Dr. Minot in the hopes that he could perform yet another miracle. But it only took Bruce a few days on the dayroom floor before he threw the whole subculture of Sanctuary into chaos.
He looked ten, but he fought like a wildcat. He spewed a litany of expletives at anyone who had, or assumed, authority or control. The orderlies called him feral, and approached with pepper spray and truncheons in hand. They didn’t try to subdue him, but merely clubbed him or sprayed him senseless enough that they could drag him off to the Bug or back to his cell.
The predators in the dorm fared no better, Bruce sought them out before they could even think of making a move on him. He was used to the abuse. He enjoyed it, relished it and claimed it as his own rightful attempt at love. He would hop from bed to bed, ministering to adolescent desires while he searched for some proof of his own worth.
That was how he came into my room.
He crept into the room one night while I was sleeping and dove under the covers for my piss-hard penis. After battling for a few unfocused moments, I pried him off of me, stood him outside of my bed, and wrapped a blanket around myself as I sat up.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked him.
He stood there, hands on hips, sneer on his face, eyes