A new generation

 

Nineteen-year-old Josh Benson stared at the barrel of the rifle Jason Hardwood pointed at him. Shirtless from a hard day at the ranch, muscular arms folded in front of him, signature cap on backwards, he made eye-to-eye contact with Jason, his "Father like son Marine tattoo" prominent on his shoulder.

"What the fuck do you want, Hardwood? What you doing on our land?"

"Well, we finally got a Benson boy alone without his brothers. You boys caused enough shit for my father and me. Well, it's time for payback. Get in my fuckin' truck and my father is going to tie you up Marine style. Then we're going for a ride!"

Josh had no choice but to surrender his arms to the elder Hardwood, who emerged from behind the truck with coiled rope already in his weathered hands.

"Turn around, boy." The command came with military authority that brooked no argument.

Mr. Hardwood moved with practiced precision, yanking Josh's wrists behind his back and crossing them at sharp angles. The hemp rope made three tight wraps around both wrists together, then the older man threaded it up Josh's forearms, binding them parallel against each other. Each wrap pulled Josh's shoulders back unnaturally, forcing his chest out and making his spine arch. Hardwood worked methodically - wrist to elbow, elbow back to wrist, creating a ladder of rope that turned Josh's arms into a single, immobilized unit behind his back.

"Your grandfather squealed just like this," Hardwood muttered, testing the bonds by lifting Josh's bound arms slightly upward. Josh's sharp intake of breath confirmed the effectiveness. "Bensons always break the same way."

Josh gritted his teeth, refusing to give the bastard the satisfaction of a reaction. But as Jason drove them toward the Hardwood property, the older man kept adjusting the restraints with clinical detachment. A tightening here that made Josh's fingers tingle. A repositioning that forced his shoulders further back. Testing circulation with two fingers pressed against Josh's wrist, then shifting the rope configuration to maximize discomfort while keeping him conscious.

"Turn left at the barn," Hardwood instructed his son, never taking his attention off Josh. In the rearview mirror, Jason watched his father work with growing unease. The methodical expertise was nothing like the righteous fury he'd expected.

"Time to really get started, boy. Time to show you what your family's hatred has earned."

Inside the barn, a single bare bulb cast harsh shadows. Hardwood threw a length of rope over an exposed beam twelve feet overhead, the hemp dropping down like a noose.

"This is where it gets interesting, boy." Hardwood's voice carried the same clinical detachment he'd shown in the truck. He took another length of rope and began wrapping it tightly around Josh's biceps, just above the elbows, cinching them together behind his back. The binding forced Josh's shoulder blades to nearly touch, his chest pushed forward obscenely.

"Perfect," Hardwood muttered, testing the bicep binding with a sharp tug that made Josh grunt. He tied the hanging rope to the tight wraps around Josh's upper arms, then began to pull.

Josh's bound biceps lifted behind him, forcing him up onto his toes. The angle was unnatural, wrong - his shoulder joints screaming as they were pushed beyond their limits while the bicep rope bore his weight. His chest thrust forward involuntarily, back arched in an extreme curve, completely exposed and vulnerable. The position made every breath a struggle.

The barn door slammed shut, leaving Jason alone with his suspended captive. Finally. No more waiting, no more watching from the sidelines.

Jason picked up the stick and tested its weight in his hands. This felt right. This was what the Bensons had earned after generations of pushing his family around.

"Dad was too easy on you," Jason said, circling Josh's suspended form. He drew the stick back and struck Josh hard across the ribs. The sound echoed in the barn - wood against flesh, Josh's sharp cry of pain.

Good. Jason smiled grimly as Josh's body swayed from the impact, the bicep rope cutting deeper as he tried to absorb the blow.

"That's for what your grandfather did to mine," Jason said, striking again, this time across Josh's exposed back. Another cry, more swaying. Josh's breathing became even more labored.

Jason stepped back to admire his work, already planning the next phase. He'd start with the stick, then maybe use some of the other tools hanging on the barn wall. Take his time. Make it count. This was his chance to finally balance the scales between their families.

He hefted the stick again, eager for round two.For the second round, Jason set the stick aside and turned his attention to the rope system. Josh hung there, still swaying slightly from the beating, his face flushed and streaked with sweat.

"Let's see how much those arms can really take," Jason muttered, grabbing the loose end of the rope that ran over the beam.

He pulled hard, hoisting Josh higher until only his toes barely scraped the barn floor. Josh's entire weight now hung from the bicep binding, his shoulders stretched to their absolute limit. A strangled groan escaped his throat as the rope cut deeper into his arms.

Jason held him there for thirty seconds, watching Josh's face contort in agony, then suddenly released several feet of rope.

Josh dropped, the sudden slack sending him crashing down until the rope snapped taut again with a sickening jerk. The impact as his full weight hit the bicep binding was devastating - his shoulders nearly dislocated, arms screaming in protest. A raw cry tore from his throat.

"How's that feel, Benson?" Jason called out, already pulling the rope again. "Ready for another drop?"

He repeated the process - hoist, hold, drop. Each time the sudden stop sent shockwaves through Josh's tortured shoulders and arms. Each impact seemed to push his joints closer to their breaking point.

Jason found himself studying Josh's reactions closely, timing the drops for maximum effect. This was working even better than the stick.

For round three, Jason grabbed a longer rope and began binding Josh's ankles together, then connecting them to the bicep rope with a short length that forced Josh's knees to bend. Now Josh couldn't even touch the ground - his entire body weight hung from the bicep binding while his legs were pulled up behind him in an agonizing arch.

"This should really make you sing," Jason said, pulling the ankle rope tighter. Josh's back curved unnaturally, his spine hyperextended as his bound feet were forced higher behind him.

But when Jason stepped back to admire his work, something was wrong. Josh wasn't crying out anymore. His face had gone gray, lips tinged blue. His breathing was barely visible - shallow, desperate gasps that seemed to take everything he had.

"Come on, Benson, where's that Benson fight?" Jason taunted, but his voice sounded hollow even to himself.

Josh's eyes rolled back slightly, consciousness flickering. The combination of weight on the bicep binding and the extreme back arch was cutting off circulation, crushing something vital. His body wasn't swaying in pain anymore - it was going limp.

Jason watched in growing horror as Josh's head lolled forward, a thin line of blood trickling from where he'd bitten through his tongue.

"Shit... shit, no..." Jason rushed forward, frantically loosening the ankle rope. As Josh's legs dropped and his breathing improved slightly, the truth hit Jason like a physical blow.

This wasn't justice. This was just torture. And he'd almost killed someone his own age over some bullshit their grandfathers had started.

"What the fuck am I doing?" Jason whispered, staring at his trembling hands. "This is fucking wrong."

Jason stared at Josh's semi-conscious form, his own breathing ragged. The barn suddenly felt suffocating, the single bulb casting harsh shadows that seemed to accuse him from every corner.

What had he become? He looked down at his hands - the same hands that had just nearly killed another human being. For what? Some story his grandfather told about Bensons stealing cattle? Some grudge that started before he was even born?

Josh stirred slightly, a weak cough escaping his lips. The sound made Jason's stomach lurch. This wasn't some faceless enemy - this was a kid his own age who worked his family's ranch just like Jason worked his. Someone who probably had dreams, fears, people who loved him.

"Fuck," Jason whispered, running shaking hands through his hair. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He approached Josh carefully, like he might approach a wounded animal. Up close, he could see the rope burns on Josh's arms, the way his shoulders sat unnaturally from the strain. The damage he'd caused.

"Hey," Jason said softly, his voice cracking. "Hey, you still with me?"

Josh's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and pain-glazed. When they found Jason's face, there was no hatred there - just exhaustion and confusion. That look hit Jason harder than any punch ever had.

"I'm sorry," Jason whispered, the words torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "Jesus Christ, I'm so fucking sorry."

But sorry wouldn't undo what he'd done. And his father would be back soon, expecting to find Josh broken and begging.

Jason looked at the ropes, then at Josh's face, then back at the ropes. His hands moved toward the knots, then stopped.Jason's fingers were working at the knots around Josh's biceps when the barn door creaked open. His father's silhouette filled the doorway, backlit by the fading daylight.

"What the hell are you doing, boy?"

Jason's hands froze. He turned slowly, his face a mask of guilt and determination. "Dad, this... this has to stop. This isn't right. We're not—"

"You're untying him." Hardwood's voice was deadly quiet as he stepped into the barn, the door slamming shut behind him. "You're untying a goddamn Benson."

"He's just a kid, Dad. Like me. This whole thing is fucked up and—"

The backhand came without warning, sending Jason staggering. When he looked up, his father's eyes held a rage Jason had never seen before - not just anger, but something broken and vicious.

"You're just like your weak-ass mother," Hardwood snarled. "One look at a suffering Benson and you fold. Well, if you want to protect him so bad, you can join him."

Before Jason could react, his father had grabbed another coil of rope. Jason tried to run, but Hardwood moved with military efficiency, tackling his son and pinning him to the barn floor.

"Dad, what are you—NO!"

But Hardwood was already binding Jason's wrists, his movements brutal and efficient. "You want to be a Benson sympathizer? Fine. Let's see how you like their treatment."

Within minutes, Jason found himself suspended next to Josh, the same rope configuration cutting into his own biceps, his own shoulders screaming as his weight pulled against the bindings.

"There," Hardwood panted, stepping back to admire his work. "Now I got two traitors to break."

The pain was immediate and devastating. Jason's shoulders felt like they were tearing from their sockets as the bicep rope bore his full weight. Every breath was a struggle, his chest forced forward by the unnatural position. Now he understood the gray pallor that had crept across Josh's face, the desperate gasping for air.

"This is what happens to traitors," Hardwood spat, circling both suspended boys like a predator. "Both of you. Benson scum and the son who forgot his own blood."

Jason tried to speak, to reason with his father, but only managed a strangled grunt. The position had stolen his voice just as it had Josh's. When he turned his head, he found Josh's eyes already on him - no longer the pain-glazed confusion of before, but something sharper. Recognition.

They were both victims now.

Hardwood picked up the stick Jason had used earlier. "Let's see if my own son breaks faster than Benson trash."

The first blow caught Jason across the ribs, exactly where he'd struck Josh. The wood cracked against bone, sending shockwaves through his suspended body. He swayed helplessly, the bicep rope cutting deeper with each movement.

Josh watched, and in his eyes Jason saw something unexpected - sympathy. Not satisfaction at seeing his torturer punished, but genuine human compassion for another person's suffering.

When the stick came down on Josh next, their eyes met again. A shared understanding passed between them that had nothing to do with family names or inherited hatred. They were just two nineteen-year-olds being destroyed by someone's madness.

In that look, something shifted. The Hardwood-Benson feud suddenly seemed like exactly what it was - an insane cycle of violence that had claimed another generation.

Jason's lips moved silently: "I'm sorry."

Josh's barely perceptible nod said everything: "I know."

Hours later, Hardwood cut them both down with disgust. "I need a drink," he muttered, leaving them in crumpled heaps on the barn floor, still bound but no longer suspended. "Don't go anywhere, boys. We ain't finished."

The barn door slammed shut. In the sudden quiet, Jason and Josh lay gasping, their shoulders screaming as circulation slowly returned. They looked at each other across the few feet of barn floor - two broken kids who'd found something in each other's eyes that their families had tried to beat out of them.

Josh's lips barely moved: "Together."

Jason nodded weakly: "Together."

The barn door exploded open. Josh's father stood silhouetted against the night, rifle in hand. Behind him lay Hardwood's still form.

"Where's my boy?" he roared, spotting Josh on the floor. But when he saw Jason beside him, his face twisted with the same inherited rage. "You Hardwood piece of shit!"

He kicked Jason in the ribs, then again in the face. Blood sprayed as Jason's nose broke. "This is for touching my son!"

"Dad, stop!" Josh tried to shout, but it came out as a croak.

His father finally cut Josh's bonds, hauling him upright. "Come on, son. Let's go home."

But Josh didn't move toward the door. Instead, with the last of his strength, he grabbed the stick from the floor and swung it hard against the back of his father's skull.

The older man dropped like a stone.

"What..." Josh's father groaned from the floor.

Josh was already working at Jason's bonds with shaking fingers. "No more," he whispered. "No more hate."

Together, they bound Josh's father with the same Marine knots that had held them. Then, supporting each other, they stumbled toward Hardwood's truck.

As they drove toward the Mexico border, neither boy looked back at the barn that had broken them down and built them back up as something new.

Brothers by choice, not blood.They drove in silence for the first ten miles, both boys too exhausted and battered to speak. Jason's broken nose had stopped bleeding, but his face was swollen and purple. Josh's shoulders hung at unnatural angles, still screaming from the rope torture.

Finally, Josh broke the silence, his voice barely a whisper. "You saved me back there."

Jason shook his head, wincing as the movement sent pain through his damaged face. "I'm the one who tortured you first. I'm the one who—"

"Stop." Josh's voice was stronger now. "You stopped. When it mattered, you stopped."

Jason gripped the steering wheel tighter. "I almost killed you. I wanted to kill you."

"But you didn't." Josh turned to look at his unlikely savior. "You chose different. That's what matters."

They passed a road sign: Mexico - 47 miles.

"What the hell are we gonna do down there?" Jason asked, reality starting to set in. "We got no money, no papers, nothing."

Josh managed a weak smile. "We got each other. And we got something our families never had."

"What's that?"

"A choice." Josh shifted painfully in his seat. "We can choose not to hate. We can choose to be better."

Jason nodded slowly. "Think they'll come after us?"

"Probably." Josh looked back at the darkness behind them. "But they'll be looking for enemies. They won't know how to track down brothers."

"Brothers," Jason repeated, testing the word. It felt right in a way that family blood never had.

"Brothers," Josh confirmed. "By choice, not birth."

As they crossed into Mexico, both boys felt something their grandfathers had never known - freedom from the weight of inherited hatred.