-------------------------------------
Chapter Eighteen, Part Two: Innocence
-------------------------------------
Satan...you know where I lie
Gently, I go into that goodnight
-------------------------------
The day Dave had tried to kill himself was the day he'd lost his
faith. He'd forgotten that *that* was the exact day it happened after
all of these years, only remembering after recalling the day in
detail. The process of losing faith had been gradual, starting a few
days earlier, after Dave had needed God but had received not even a
single trace of comfort. So, at first, he'd hated God, really hated
him with every fiber of his being. He'd cursed at Him, called Him a
good-for-nothing bastard, not caring if it would come back to haunt
him in the end because what did it matter if he was going to Hell
anyway? After all, he couldn't have imagined a Hell worse than the one
he was already living in.
It was when he'd sat down on the floor in his bedroom, sobbing
uncontrollably, and tried to kill himself that he'd realized God did
not exist. If he did, how could he possibly have let this happen? What
was the point of being God if you couldn't help people? Wasn't that
what He was good for? Salvation, salvation. Where was his salvation
now?? Where had been his salvation all of these years? Or was he so
bad, was he *that* *horrible*, that he didn't deserve it?
Suddenly, Dave remembered all those stories he'd read in books and
heard in stories about atheist men who turned to God in a moment of
desperation, just to receive some sort of comfort that someone was
listening. But he wasn't going to give in, not this time. God wasn't
real, there was nothing after you died, nothing. If there was nothing
offered here, then there was certainly nothing offered afterwards.
His friends, his mother...what would this do to them? He'd thought
about that as he'd done it, but time healed and people eventually
forgot you. Your features faded in their mind, until even a picture
couldn't get you to remember their smile. And then the pain subsided.
At least that's what he hoped as he bled to nonexistence on the floor.
Nonexistence, because death wasn't real. You didn't die, you
just...stopped. And that was better than living through this Hell of a
life one day longer...
---
"But what got you to that point, Dave?" John asked softly,
interrupting his story. His brow was furrowed in deep concentration,
but also in pure concern. "What could have been so terrible that you
would hurt yourself like that?"
"God, John, it was...it all just changed so fast, I mean...I was so
happy...mostly happy anyway. I mean, yeah, my father was a prick,
but...I was in love for the first time in my life. It was so...great.
Steven was so great." Dave scrubbed his face with his hands, and John
could see he was clearly tearing himself up over the loss of a
boyfriend and good friend. "We had the greatest times together. I
loved being with him. I had a great friend in Miranda. We had so much
fun together. Everything was...great...everything except my father,
but...he almost didn't matter, John. All that mattered was Miranda
and...and Steven..." He sighed, leaning his head back against the wall
behind them. "I guess I'm getting ahead of myself. I guess I should
start at the beginning..."
---
Well, not the beginning of his whole life story, but when he first
started to lose his faith. It was funny how, all these years later and
still an atheist, he would define those memories like that. He
supposed he could find the deeper meaning behind it, but never quite
felt like analyzing those years of his life too much.
The "beginning" started when Dave was about seventeen years old, still
a junior in high school. He'd been growing out of clothes left and
right, like most teenage boys do, and he'd been growing *into* the
handsome man that he would eventually become. Taller, with broader
shoulders and more build, even popular girls were starting to notice
him. But they didn't really matter to him, because he was still with
Steven, for almost a year now. He smiled then, lying on his bed in a
pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt, listening to his favorite
Aerosmith CD as he daydreamed about his future, about finally getting
free. Free of his father and his abuse.
One day, he was going to be a doctor. What specific kind, he wasn't
too sure of yet, but he knew he would like to do something fast-paced,
like trauma. Maybe he'd be an orthopedic surgeon. Or perhaps an
emergency room physician. In his contemplation, he was a mix of both,
doing surgery and also attending to people in the emergency room. He
was young, though, since he couldn't picture himself older. He
couldn't picture himself doing any of the mundane aspects of any
doctor's job, either. He never dreamed that doctors spent much of
their time doing paperwork...
---
"That explains a lot," John cracked.
"Doesn't it though," Dave said, smiling slightly, and John was
relieved to see it after tonight.
"How did you think the paperwork got done?" he asked, smiling himself.
"I never really thought about it," he answered, rather honestly. "I
guess I thought you had a nurse assigned to you and she followed you
around and wrote down everything you said." He smiled again, this time
"God was I wrong!"
"Big time," John stated, nodding.
---
He'd been lost in his daydream and the music when his father's voice
had startled him back into reality. "Dave!" he heard reverberate from
downstairs. His head shot up from his pillows quickly, as he glanced
at the clock. It wasn't nearly ten o'clock yet, which was when he had
to go to bed, so he wondered what his father could possibly want.
"Dave!!"
Quickly, he hopped off of his bed at the sound of his name being
called again, trying to avoid any type of confrontation. He didn't
exactly have a burning desire to get pushed around because he didn't
respond to his father's beckoning in time, especially if Dad had had a
bad day at work or something like that. He closed the door behind him,
bounding down the stairs to head towards the kitchen, where he pushed
open the swinging door and saw his father's back turned towards him.
"What is it, Dad?" he asked cautiously, staying towards the door;
hasty exits were key to survival here. However, his father didn't
answer him, but instead kept his back towards him, causing Dave to
gain a puzzled and worried expression. Hesitantly, he said: "Dad? Is
something wrong? Did I do something?"
"You left your books on the table," was the simple reply he received.
"Sorry," Dave immediately apologized, approaching to take them from
the table. If he just took things nice and easy, he wouldn't get
anything more than a berating. But he didn't know why leaving his
schoolbooks on the table was suddenly a problem - he'd been doing it
for years. Then again, any excuse was a good enough one for his dad to
smack him around. "I put them there every day," Dave explained, "so I
remember to take them in the morning, after breakfast. I'm sorry, I
won't leave them there anymore if you don't want me to."
"Well, I don't want them there anymore!" was the harsh reply he
received, and Dave could tell his father was a bit drunk - but, then
again, when wasn't he? "I was going to take them to you," his father
continued on, his back still to Dave, which was beginning to grate on
the young boy's nerves. He hated it when his dad wouldn't look at him,
because he had a harder time gauging reactions that way. So,
cautiously, Dave stood back, not taking the chance to get caught off
guard if he went near his father. And, at least if he was standing at
a safe distance, he was more likely to dodge an unexpected lashing out
until his father calmed down.
"I'll take them right now," Dave said, cursing himself as he heard the
desperation in his voice. He didn't need any trouble right now, or any
other time for that matter. Hastily, he said again: "Sorry."
"I said I was going to take them to you," his dad said, and Dave
steeled himself as best he could, though he felt his heart beating
faster in his chest. Something was very wrong here. "...When *this*
fell out of one of your books," his father finished then, and finally
turned to show Dave a slightly creased sheet of notebook paper with
neat script written all over it. The color immediately drained from
Dave's face as he realized what that was: a note, from Steven. More
specifically, a *love* note. The boy was too shocked to even reply, so
instead, he just stared at the paper in his father's hand. "What are
you? Some kind of fag??"
"No!" Dave quickly replied, snapping out of his reverie to look at his
father with a sort of desperation in his eyes that he was unable to
hide. He turned into a stuttering mess, usually able to think quickly
in situations when he needed to lie, but he was unable to think now,
when it mattered the most. Sometimes, he'd contemplated what his
father might do if he found out his son had a boyfriend. He didn't
know, and that had been the big problem, why he'd never even let
anything slip by accident. He just didn't know.
And now, he was going to find out, the hardest way possible.
"Well??" his father snapped. "What is it??"
"It's, uh..." Jesus Christ. How the hell could he explain something
like that?? "It's just..."
"It's just what, Davey?" he asked, using that nickname that he knew
Dave hated as he took a step closer. Dave immediately took two steps
back, shocked into silence as his father's face twisted into anger,
rage ready to explode upon Dave like a time bomb. And, when Dave
didn't reply soon enough, his father took another step towards him and
grabbed his wrist tightly, painfully, before the boy could get away.
"What the fuck is this, Dave? What is it!!?"
"It's just a joke, Dad!" he cried frantically, trying to pull his arm
out of his father's grip, already feeling the circulation being cut
off from his fingertips. He looked to his father's unimpressed,
merciless eyes. "It is! I swear to you, Dad! It's just a joke!"
"I don't know any boys who joke like that," he spat through clenched
teeth, twisting Dave's arm and causing him to let out a cry of pain.
With disgust, he said: "I always knew that kid was a faggot. And look
what he's done to you."
"I'm not a...faggot," Dave said, swallowing the lump in his throat as
tears sprung to his eyes. "Dad, I'm not..."
"Do you know what happens to fags like you?" he asked harshly, pushing
Dave into the wall so violently the back of his head smacked against
it with a loud thud. A flash of pain shot through him, and in that
same instant his father smacked him hard, harder than he ever
remembered being hit. The smack across the face was followed by a low
blow to the gut, which left Dave breathless. He doubled over in pain,
gasping for air as his father watched his son's tortured attempts to
breathe. When Dave was finally able to, he looked up, thought he knew
what was coming next and that he couldn't do anything to stop it,
because it only made things worse when he tried to defend himself.
He'd only be able to beg for mercy with everything he had, because God
knew it only got worse.
But his father only smiled somewhat satisfactorily, as he slowly
approached Dave, taking his face in one hand and forcing him to look
up, though Dave would not look into his father's eyes. "Do you know
what happens to pretty fags like you??"
Finally, Dave met his father's eyes, his own wide as he realized he
wasn't going to be getting the regular punishment today. No,
today...today his father was going to do the only thing he could do to
really teach him a lesson, to really scar him, to instill in him a
fear that would grip his heart for the rest of his life. Suddenly, he
found himself being pushed forcibly into the wall once more, knocking
him senseless. "I asked you a question. Do you know what happens to
pretty fags like you??"
Dave managed to shake his head. "No..."
"I'll show you, you little fucking faggot."
-------------------------------
All our lives get complicated
Search for pleasures overrated
-------------------------------
*Flash!*
The air had been sucked from his lungs, and he can't breathe. His head
hurts...he knows he was hit but he can't remember how many times. He
can taste blood in his mouth. What's worse is that his face being
forced down into the mattress beneath him, painfully crushing his
bruised skin and bones. It hurts. He screams but the music is blaring,
and he can't even hear himself over the stereo. Oh, God, it hurts.
*Flash!*
A gentle hand touched his face, brushing over his jaw to cup his
cheek, and Steven leaned close, kissing his lips feather-light. He
tasted like chocolate. The older boy took his hand, as they walked
down the sidewalk, their ice cream in their other hands as they
meandered on this hot summer day. Eventually, they made their way to
the park, where they sat down in the field, and Steven wrapped his
arms around him, holding him close. He liked the fact that they didn't
feel the need to fill the silence with meaningless words.
*Flash!*
She held him as he cried, her hands rubbing comforting circles over
his back. He was shaking with sobs, his whole body trembling while he
gripped her tight, afraid to let go. Miranda was the only one who
understood she couldn't say a word to anyone, which is why she was the
only one who knew all his secrets. He could tell that she did, could
see in her eyes that it broke her heart she couldn't tell someone, but
he knew she wouldn't tell. She'd never sell him out like that, she
hadn't yet and she wouldn't ever. She didn't need to, this was enough
to help him get by, her just being there was enough. And he told her
that, told her that every time. But he could clearly see it didn't
ease her guilt one bit.
*Flash!*
"Cut with me."
"And go where?"
"I don't know," Steven said. "Anywhere. We'll take my car. Go out to
lunch. Then maybe go back to my house...no one's home..." He glanced
up at the mischievous twinkle in his boyfriend's eyes, just as he felt
the older boy's fingers brush discreetly across his thigh. "Come on,
Dave..."
"Fags!"
He looked to where he thought the slur had come from, but couldn't
find the culprit in the busy halls. When he glanced back to his
boyfriend, he was almost surprised to see that it didn't faze him.
Another smile, this one somewhat sad, telling him a very different
story. With a flourish, he leaned up and kissed his lover, hard and
passionately - boldly. There wasn't a need to care. Not when they had
each other.
"Come on," he said. "Let's get out of here."
*Flash!*
"Shhhh...I'm doing this because I love you, Davey..." Ragged
whispering into his ear, a large hand covering his mouth to stifle his
cries as a sharp pain rips him in half. "You'd let me if you loved me
too..."
He's crying, whimpering, unable to move against the weight working
against him. He's too young, he's too small, he can't...he can't get
away, he can't get out. He knows if he tries it'll only get worse. And
then he'll hate him, really hate him. Maybe if he just closes his
eyes...
*Flash!*
"Shhhh..." Something's wrong. Oh, God. This has happened before, this
has happened before. And it's happening again. He closes his eyes to
try to block out the feelings, the music already blocking out the
sounds. He swears this song will be stuck in his head forever. Images
flash across his mind's eye, disjointed nightmares and missing
memories coming together, meshing and smoothing themselves out, like a
perverse jigsaw puzzle completing itself. But he doesn't want to know
what the picture will be once it's finished.
He opens his eyes again, unable to take the visions coming to him, but
he can't block them out because it's happening right now. His eyes
fixate themselves on a cross hanging from the wall above his dresser,
a distressed Jesus hanging gracelessly from the wood. He finds himself
praying to God, wondering if this is what His Son had felt like in His
moments of death. Did Jesus weep then? Did Jesus weep now, for him?
God, help him. Please, help him. He couldn't take it anymore, he was
sure he was going to be broken into pieces, just like that fucking
jigsaw puzzle. But could he be put back together again? He was
convinced he wouldn't be able to get up this time, not now, not after
this. Somewhere else, just picture yourself somewhere else.
Steven. Steven, and ice cream. Buying it for him at the stand down the
street, near the park. They sit down, and the older boy wraps his arms
around him. He leans close, gently, and kisses him. He tastes like
chocolate. No...it's not chocolate. It's revolting, it's disgusting.
It's vomit.
He's vomiting, his whole body shaking violently as he does so.
Laughter, laughter filling the air, and he's humiliated. He's covered
in blood and tears and vomit and semen, and he's humiliated. He's
humiliated, and he hurts, he hurts all over. His head hurts, his body
hurts...his heart hurts. Please, save him, God. Please...please, save
him.
There is no reply as the song continues to echo throughout his head.
But he knew there wouldn't be. There never had been, why would there
be one now? He hates Him. He hates God, for doing that to Jesus, and
for doing this to him. He hates God for taking his pride and taking
his blood and taking his life. He hates Him. He hates Him...
He closes his eyes again, the blackness so warm and inviting. He's
scared to give in, knowing from experience that when he wakes it could
be much worse. At least if he's conscious he is aware of what's going
on. But what's the point if you can't stop it? What's the point if
you're broken beyond repair? What's the point if you can't do anything
and no one will help you? No one cares? God doesn't care, why should
he?
And so he gives in, allowing the comforting darkness to envelope his
mind, dragging him down into the nothingness he'd become. Because even
Jesus had given up and died on that mother fucker of a cross.
--------------------------------
"Hey," John said softly, reaching out and gently touching Dave's knee.
After telling John his father had found a love note from Steven, he'd
suddenly stopped talking and began staring off into space, his eyes
fixed on the floor but John knew it wasn't what he was seeing. "Where
did you go just then?"
"I..." Dave said, looking up at John for a moment before quickly
turning away. He seemed almost frustrated. "Shit..."
"What?" John persisted.
"I was just...thinking about..." His voice caught in his throat, and
although Dave wasn't looking at him, John could instantly tell he was
crying. Frantically, the younger man wiped away tears. "Forget it,
it's not..."
"I don't want to forget it."
"No, no, that's...that's not what I meant," he quickly explained. "I
meant...I don't know what I meant...my thoughts get sort of mixed up
sometimes...I..."
"You can keep going, Dave," John stated, wondering if perhaps Dave was
embarrassed or ashamed. "You can tell me anything, I won't think any
less of you. I love you, Dave, I could never think any less of you."
Dave nodded, but he wouldn't look at John. Instead, he pulled at the
strings of his sweatpants, untying the knot and tying it again, and
then repeating the process several times. Eventually, he stopped, just
fiddling with the untied strings now, wrapping it around his finger
and unwrapping it, again and again. He must've realized what he was
doing because he stopped, leaning his head back against the wall and
sighing deeply.
"I passed out," he simply said, as if that was all there was to it,
but he soon went on. "He started hitting me...a lot. And...when I
realized that he wasn't - that he wasn't just going to, you
know...beat me...I started...I start fighting him. I'd never done that
before, and he just *let go*...he just kept hitting me and kicking me,
over and over and over, and..." He paused, flinching, and half of John
was wondering what he was seeing, while the other half didn't want to
know. "I just passed out after a while, and all these weird things
were going through my head...Miranda...Steven...
"When I woke up, he was..." Suddenly, he gasped, and soon he lost his
composure once more, wiping away tears that were only replaced by
fresh ones. "I...I started remembering...I started remembering all
those times, when I was a kid...I must've blocked them out, but I
remember it now...and I remembered it then for the first time...he
said he loved me, and that...if I loved him too, I'd... I didn't know
any better, I swear I didn't...I was just a kid...I was just a fucking
kid..."
"What...what do you mean?" John asked, although he knew full well what
Dave meant. But there was still that part of him that thought - that
hoped - he was wrong, that maybe...
"He used to come home from the bar all the cops would hang out at
after their shifts," Dave stated then, his eyes wandering the room
although John knew he must've been seeing the past and not the
present. "He'd talk to my babysitter...he was always so sweet to her,
and she just swallowed that act whole. After she left...I'd hear him
downstairs...I thought that maybe if...maybe if I pretended to be
asleep, he'd leave me alone, but he...he didn't care...he'd come in,
and...he would do all kinds of things...anything he wanted...over and
over. God...I had to...I had to or he'd make me, and that was...that
was always worse, I didn't...God, I was so fucked up, I thought if I
let him, if I...I thought that'd he'd love me, I wanted him to love
me..." He burst into tears, burying his face in one hand, the other a
balled fist at his side. "I just wanted him to be nice to me, John...I
was just a little kid, and I just wanted him to be nice to me...I
mean...he was my dad, and...I wanted him to love me...I just wanted
him love me... Was that wrong, John? Was that wrong for me to want him
to love me? Was I...bad?"
"Hey..." John said softly, his voice thick as he pulled Dave close to
him. He'd never wanted to use his money and influence for anything
even remotely horrible, but, right now, he swore to God if Dave's
father was still alive his life would be a living Hell, as much as the
Hell he'd put Dave through. "Dave...you did nothing wrong. Nothing
wrong as a child, nothing wrong as a teenager...your father was the
one who did wrong, not you. God, Dave, I wish you could believe that.
I wish I could make you believe that..." he whispered into his ear,
smoothing his hair back as he continued to hold his lover
comfortingly. "I swear, Dave, you did nothing wrong..."
"I...I passed out again..." he stated, after a short pause. "It hurt
too much, I couldn't..." He paused, letting out a deep breath. "When I
woke up again, it was late, and he was gone...I was alone,
but...God..."
--------------------------------
Never armed our souls
For what the future would hold
--------------------------------
*Wake up!*
His eyes snapped open, and he was immediately aware of a headache all
over his whole body. It frightened him, because at the same time he
was somewhat numb with the pain, letting him know that it was very,
very bad. But he knew if he moved, the pain would only worsen...and he
wasn't ready for that just yet. So he laid there, his face buried in
the mattress, one arm trapped beneath him and the other awkwardly
splayed across his back.
Start small, he thought, and then took a few slow breaths before
moving the arm that had been twisted behind his back earlier to keep
him immobile. Almost immediately, his shoulder protested with pangs of
jarring pain that sent white flashes through his brain. Upon further
inspection, he saw that his wrist and hand was swollen and an ugly
purple color. It was definitely broken, though he only vaguely
remembered how it had happened: running up the stairs, tripping as his
father grabbed his ankle, his wrist breaking his fall and also
breaking in two.
He took in a shuddering breath, his chest hurting - more specifically,
his ribs. He knew a few were bruised and cracked, if not broken. He'd
taken a hit or two down there, too. Knocked the wind right out of him
and made him sick to his stomach. He remembered throwing up, and was
suddenly aware of the fact that he was lying in his own vomit. It
nearly made him throw up again, but he twisted his head so it faced
the other way. He didn't want to think about what other fluids he was
lying in. Not just yet.
The next task was going to hurt like hell, and he was loath to tackle
that feat. But he couldn't just keep lying there on the bed like this,
he had to get cleaned up. However, thus far he'd been pretending he
didn't exist from the waist down, and if he moved he'd feel every
bruise and ache, including those below his hips. And he didn't want to
think about that either just yet.
Maybe he didn't have to get up, he suddenly thought. Maybe if he just
laid here a while, things would be okay. He wasn't that badly hurt. He
was just beat up, just like all the other times, that was all. He
could lay here and sleep it off. He'd done it before. It wasn't that
bad, it wasn't bad at all.
Just to prove it to himself, he reached down between his bare legs,
closing his eyes tightly as he felt sticky liquid there. There was
more than just blood, and as he trailed his hand up his abdomen to his
chest, he felt it there too. In an instant, he knew he'd come some
time during the course of the night, and that alone was enough to make
him retch. How could he? How could he find pleasure in that? He'd
considered his father a pervert for doing this to him, a dirty,
disgusting pervert, but who was really the pervert here? He hadn't
wanted to, had fought so hard to get away, and yet he still came...
---
"I fought so hard just to...just to get away from him," Dave was
saying. "I didn't want to...I swear I hadn't wanted to. I was so
scared once I realized what he was going to do to me. And I...I tried
to get away, I swear I did." He paused for a moment, his jaw clenching
and his eyes hardening. He seemed angry, but the tears still managed
to escape his eyes. "But once he finished it wasn't enough for
him...he wanted to make sure that...that he destroyed me
completely..."
"Dave...wait..." John said, puzzled. "What...?"
"I can't..."
"You can tell me anything, Dave," he said softly. "I promise you.
Anything..."
"He...he started touching me...I screamed and I begged, but he..." He
suddenly broke off into a sob, gripping John's shirt tightly. "I was
so scared...he was hurting me, but then...he kept talking and
touching, and - and I...I came, John, I came... He touched me like
that...my own father touched me like that, and I came. I felt
disgusting. I feel like a...like a disgusting piece of trash. I'm so
disgusting..."
"Dave," John said, reaching out to touch him gently, but the younger
man flinched visibly and pulled away. It was apparent that he still
felt that way, that after all these years he still felt disgusting,
still felt like a piece of trash. Suddenly, Dave looked up at him,
and, God, he seemed so insecure and vulnerable. And John could see he
was waiting for him to say something, to agree with him, to tell him,
yes, he was disgusting, and John couldn't stand to be with him any
longer. And it broke John's heart. "Dave, you're not disgusting. Your
body had a natural response to what your father was doing, not to
mention the stress of the situation. It wasn't your fault. You didn't
have control over anything that was going on. I swear to you, it
wasn't your fault."
When Dave didn't respond to anything he said, he tried a different
approach. "Dave, you've treated rape and molestation victims before,
right?"
"Yeah..." was the hesitant reply.
"Have you ever blamed them?"
And, just as hesitant: "No..."
"Have any of them ever had this issue?"
"Yes..."
"Did you think they were disgusting?"
"That's different."
"Why?" John asked. "Because it isn't you? What makes you so different
from them?" Silence. John placed his hands on Dave's shoulders,
holding him back so he could look into his eyes. "A patient comes in
after being sexually assaulted. They're feeling extremely remorseful
because they had a sexual response. What would you say to them, Dr.
Dave, if they told you it was their fault? Would you say they're
disgusting?"
"I'd say their body reacted to the moment," he said quietly, his eyes
darting away from John's. "Their bodies betrayed them and it
wasn't...their fault. Stress, stimulus...a number of things come into
play..."
"And do you believe that?" he asked. "Or do you really think they're
disgusting, and you just lied to make them feel better?"
"No," he said, so quietly John could only understand the word by the
shake of his head. Slowly, his lashes rose to look John in the eyes,
and then uncertainty he saw in them broke his heart. "I believe
that...do you?"
John nodded silently. "The same thing goes for you, Dave. Your body
betrayed you too, by reacting to a stimulus...a natural stimulus...and
it's okay. Stress...fear...all of it betrayed you, and your body had a
reaction. You couldn't control that. Someone hits you, and it hurts.
You work out too much, your muscle cramps. You can't control those
things either. My point is, is that you are not sick, and you are not
a pervert. My point is, is that you didn't like what your father did,
and you didn't ask for it, or for anything that happened, that night
or any other night. My point is, is that you did absolutely nothing
wrong."
Dave's eyes were full with tears. "You really believe that?"
"Of course I do," he said. "Because it's true."
Silently, Dave leaned forward, burying his face in John's shoulder as
he gripped him tight. "Thank you," he whispered softly into his
lover's ear, and John could hear the pure sincerity in the words, and
also the utter relief of waiting over ten years to hear someone tell
him none of this had been his fault. Someone besides his mother or a
doctor, or anyone who felt obligated to do so. But John wasn't
obligated to do anything, which Dave knew. He could just as well call
him repulsive and walk out on him, rather than stay here with him and
hang on to his every word. However, John could still hear the doubt in
his voice as he quietly asked: "Is there...any part of you that thinks
it's disgusting?"
"Yes. All of it," he replied, and his lover glanced up in surprise,
his eyes showing his pure, childlike fear. "I think it's disgusting
what your father did to you, and what he made you do. It's absolutely
disgusting that he could do something - that *anyone* could do
something like that to their own child. It's disgusting. But *you* are
*not*, Dave, you are *not* disgusting. Do you hear me?"
Silently, Dave nodded, before letting out a shaky breath and running
his fingers through his hair. "After that," he said, and John
considered he was just getting of the topic but didn't stop him. "I
couldn't stand to be in that room anymore. I felt like I was going to
suffocate if I didn't get out of there..."
---
He couldn't remember how long he'd been lying there before the bitter
scent of the room had pervaded all of his other senses without
warning. He couldn't even breathe through his mouth without smelling
it. It was disgusting, lying here like this. Absolutely disgusting.
*He* was disgusting, lying here in blood and semen and vomit, like
some piece of trash discarded once he was finished being played with.
And he *felt* like a piece of trash. He couldn't stand it, and he had
to get out of this room. He had to get out.
He took a deep breath, then another, ignoring his aching chest as he
tried to muster enough strength to get up. With a stifled groan, he
swung his legs over the side of the bed, pain shooting through him as
he did so. His nonexistent waist was now making itself known, and his
heart raced as he wondered what the fuck he was going to do. But he
couldn't worry about that at this exact moment - first, he had to get
out of here.
Sitting up proved to be more difficult - and much more painful - than
he thought it would be, and standing was an accomplishment he barely
managed without collapsing. But he was determined to get out of his
room. Where he was going he had no idea, but he couldn't stay here. He
started towards the door, each step punctuated with pain, but he
ignored it. He was good at that, it was a practiced skill he'd
mastered since as long as he could remember. Ignore the pain, pretend
you're somewhere or someone else, and you'll make it.
He did make it, to the bathroom across the hall at least. He closed
the door and locked it firmly, before turning on the light and
standing before the sink. Firmly, he held on to it for balance,
knowing he'd never be able to remain standing otherwise, and he kept
his eyes focused on the faucet, which dripped every so often. He
turned it on, washing his hands, procrastinating, before, with bated
breath, he glanced up into the mirror.
Oh, God...
He turned away, disgusted, and almost burst into tears. Almost, until
he leaned forward into the sink, splashing cool water on his bruised
and bloodied face. His father had never really hit him anywhere so
obvious, knowing the possible repercussions if someone got suspicious.
After all, his he was a mandatory reporter; he knew the obligations of
the teachers and counselors at school. All that it would take was one
of them - just one of them - to get suspicious and call in social
services, and he would be screwed. He'd get in trouble at work, and
most likely lost his kid. Not that he really cared about Dave, but it
would screw up his reputation at work, and any chance of making
Sergeant.
Now, as Dave stood before the mirror, he hadn't realized how much
comfort he'd taken in the fact that clothes had always concealed his
bruises. If he couldn't see them, he could pretend they weren't there.
But there they were, every time he looked in the mirror, every time
he'd feel the curious eyes on him, wondering what happened to the poor
kid with the black eye and the bruised jaw and the swollen nose. And
Dave would remember it, remember it with a sort of animosity and
disgust he'd never felt before - and not only at his father, but also
at himself.
He leaned forward again. The water washed away his tears.
A creak on the floor outside. He snapped off the faucet and stiffened,
the hair on the back of his neck rising as he listened, holding his
breath. There it was again! Shit. *Shit!* His father was awake, and
walking down the hall. He had to pass Dave's room to get downstairs,
and while he'd closed the door behind him, what if his dad decided to
open it and check what he was doing? He wouldn't be in there. Would he
get in trouble? Would his father get angry? Angry enough to...?
God. Oh, God. He couldn't go through it again, not again. God, not
again. He glanced around, his breathing ragged as he searched for a
way out. The window above the toilet was small, but he knew he could
fit through it if he wanted to. However, directly below the window was
nothing but open air separating him from the ground, and while he was
desperate he wasn't stupid. But, then again, death would be better
than to go through what he had just gone through all over again. Maybe
he could just wait in here until his father went back to bed, and then
-
The knock on the bathroom door startled him so fiercely he stumbled
back, tripping and falling solidly into a sitting position on the
closed toilet lid. He nearly cried out in pain but just bit his lip,
hot tears escaping his tightly closed eyes as he tasted blood in his
mouth. God, he couldn't do it again. Not again... His chest tightened
as he considered getting dragged back into that room. He couldn't go
back in there. All that blood...the soiled bed sheets...that smell,
that horrible, putrid smell...he couldn't go back in there. He
couldn't do it again...he couldn't.
"Dave?" he heard the rough snap of his father's voice from just
outside the door. Please, God, please... "Are you in there??"
Somehow, he managed to find his voice, which was thick with emotion
but also hoarse from earlier cries. "Yeah. I am."
"Get the fuck to bed. I have a detail shift early tomorrow."
"Okay...in a few minutes."
But once he was sitting there, he didn't feel much like getting up,
especially when the only place to go was his bedroom. And he couldn't
go back in there, he couldn't. It was as if his life depended on it -
which, maybe, it did. So he sat there, listening to the groans of the
floorboards in the hall until the slamming of his father's door caused
him to flinch. He wasn't sure how long it was until he heard it - his
father snoring obnoxiously loud, just like he did every damn night.
And that was his cue.
Carefully, he stood, hissing through clenched teeth as he did so, and
crossed the small bathroom to the door. Each snore he made a movement
- unlock the door, open it, move into the hallway, take a step
forward, then another. And he made sure he could still hear his
father's snores as he made his way down the stairs and out the front
door.
--------------------------------
We were innocent
--------------------------------
"Where did you go?" John asked, after Dave trailed off. He could see
the clear terror in his lover's eyes, as if he were still living that
night, as if his father were going to burst into the room and...God.
He could only imagine what Dave had gone through all those years ago,
what he'd gone through that still managed to haunt him all these years
later.
"At first..." Dave said softly, so quietly John could barely hear him.
"At first I just wandered around...I hadn't really thought about where
I was going to go when I left, I just wanted to get away. I was
so...out of it when I left, I didn't think to take an money, so I knew
I couldn't get far...especially barefoot in bloody pajamas...I was so
stupid, I mean...where did I think I was going?"
"Dave, you were *not* stupid," John said, surprised that he'd even
think something like that. "There's absolutely no way you could've
been in the right state of mind, your father had just...he'd..."
"You can say it, John," Dave snapped, suddenly angry. "After my father
had just raped me. If you can't fucking say it, then how are we
supposed to be able to deal with it?? Is it because you can't say it?
Or...you don't want to?" Abruptly, he pulled away from John, standing
and crossing the room to the broken window. He crossed his arms over
his chest, one moving to cover his face...the bloodied and bruised
hand. Quietly, he said: "God, I knew this would happen..."
"What?" John asked, standing as well and extending his hands in a
pleading gesture. "Knew what would happen?"
"I knew that there'd be a part of you that'd be ashamed of me," he
stated, his eyes traveling over the fragments of glass still stuck in
the sides of the window frame. He traced one of the scars on his
wrist, and John felt his heart jolt. "You're ashamed of what...he
did...of what I let him do...God...I knew I shouldn't have told
you..."
"God, Dave, no!" John exclaimed, moving so that he was standing in
front of him. He was somewhat relieved when he saw Dave's eyes turn
away from the glass, but then sighed with despair as the younger man
took a step back and then sat down on the floor against the arm of the
couch. He was still touching those damn scars as John knelt down in
front of him, grabbing his arms roughly. It startled Dave, but he knew
that the young man didn't always need gentleness. "Dave, listen to me,
damn it! I love you. *I* am *not* ashamed of you. Not today, not ever.
I didn't use the word rape because I didn't want to upset you, not
because I'm ashamed of you. So stop telling me how I feel about
this...shit, even *I'm* not sure..."
"See," he whispered quietly, still not looking at John.
"Shut up, Dave!" he said, startling him again and causing him to look
up. "That's not what I mean. I just...I don't know. I don't blame you,
and I'm not ashamed of you. I'm angry, but...not at you. And I'm hurt
and confused and...I don't know what else. And *that's* what I'm not
sure of. But I know that I love you, so stop trying to push me away.
Just...give me time, Dave, and let me help you. Jesus..."
It was John's turn to cry now, and as soon as he started Dave reached
out and touched the nape of his neck, as his head was bent forward.
"I'm sorry. Please don't cry, John. I...I'm sorry. I'm just...I'm just
scared. I don't...I don't want to lose you..."
"Stop worrying, Dave," he said, as he moved closer to Dave so that he
could hold him. He looked into his lover's eyes, his hand brushing
against his cheek before his lips softly touched Dave's. "Don't worry,
sweetheart. You're not going to lose me, I promise."
For a few moments, they sat there like that, holding each other, until
Dave spoke up. "Do you want me to keep going, or have you heard
enough?"
"I want you to keep going," John replied, rubbing Dave's back gently.
"I want to hear everything."
--------------------------------
Angels, lend me your might
Forfeit all my lies to get just one right
--------------------------------
As soon as Rob Lowe began to take off his shirt, Miranda Raypack was
glad that she'd dragged Dave to see "St. Elmo's Fire" in the movies
last week. This was definitely one of the best dreams she'd had, next
to the one with the Terminator's cute butt. Oh, and then there was the
one with George Michael...
Tap tap tap.
What was that? There, again, this time more incessant. Rob Lowe was
still taking off his shirt, but he was slowing down, fading away.
Wait, she tried to say. Wait, Rob, wait! But there was that damn
tapping sound again, and this time she could hear her name. Miranda,
Miranda...
When she looked now, Rob Lowe was no longer there but her best friend
in his place. What was Dave doing here? He was saying her name, but
when she replied he kept calling out to her. He was shirtless, just as
the object of her affection had been, and while his chest and back
were almost as toned, ugly bruises and scars marred his olive skin.
He was calling to her again. "Miranda! Miranda!"
"I'm here!" she cried, but he couldn't hear her. He was crying now,
and she was too, at the fact that she couldn't help him although she
was right in front of him. "Dave! I'm here!"
Tap tap tap!
The tapping was getting louder now, too loud, so loud she couldn't
even hear him anymore, couldn't even hear herself. It annoyed her, as
she watched her friend crying and suffering like that. Damn it! What
was that sound?? Why wouldn't it go away!? Why couldn't she figure out
where it was coming from!?
Miranda! Miranda!
"I'm right here!" she said, but now his voice was getting softer, his
visage fading away. "Wait!" she yelled, her voice cracking like it did
when she was scared. Darkness was settling over her, and somehow
becoming tangible, as if she reached out she could grab it. It
startled her, so much so that soon her eyes were snapping opening to
reveal the real darkness of her room, the only light coming in from
the glass door that led to her terrace. This used to be her
grandmother's room, with it's own back exit out the balcony and down
the steps, until the elderly woman had died. Then, Miranda had
inherited it, being the oldest of the three Raypack children.
The tapping at her glass door to her terrace jarred her, and she
nearly screamed as she turned fast to see someone standing there,
knocking on it. D�j� vu swept over her as the tapping sound
reverberated throughout the room, her best friend's recognizable voice
calling out to her in an urgent whisper. "Miranda...it's me, it's
Dave...please let me in...please?? Miranda...Miranda! Please..."
Quickly, she scrambled out of bed, dread gathering in the pit of her
stomach. Something had to have happened to make him come out here this
late at night, and she prayed it wasn't anything she couldn't handle.
She knew Dave wouldn't go to a hospital no matter how hard she begged,
and if something happened to him as a consequence she'd never be able
to forgive herself.
"Dave, what's going on?" she asked, as she slid open the glass door.
He came in with a burst of speed, as if he were afraid to be seen.
Lord knew if his father found out about him being here this early in
the morning, he would surely be in deep trouble. If her own parents
found out, Miranda knew she'd be in trouble too, but nowhere near the
capacity as Dave, who was now pacing the room. "Dave?"
"He found out," he simply stated, and then burst into tears.
Immediately, she moved to him, taking him in her arms, but he pulled
away with alarming vigor. She, herself, staggered back, a new kind of
terror seeping into her veins. What the hell had happened? Suddenly,
she was also aware of a bitter smell permeating from her best friend.
Coppery...blood. But...he also smelled like sweat and...vomit. Her
brow furrowed as her worry increased. "I'm sorry," he apologized, his
voice thick as he tried to contain his emotions. He wasn't succeeding.
"Miranda, I don't know what to do. He found out, he found out. I think
he's going to kill me, he wants to kill me. Oh, my God, he's going to
kill me..."
"Dave, slow down!" she whispered harshly, trying to snap him out of
it. He was a mess, that was for sure, and she could barely understand
what he was saying. He was shaking and his eyes were wide with terror,
and as he moved into the moonlight she could see the disfigurements
maiming his face. "God, Dave, what happened??"
"He found out," he repeated, moving to the bed so he could sit down,
but when he did he winced and got back up. This seemed to make him
more upset, and Miranda was almost sure that her parents were going to
wake up due to his cries. It didn't seem like such a bad thing right
now, considering every time she got a better glimpse of Dave his
appearance seemed worse and worse.
"What did he find out?" she asked. "Dave, stop for a second, okay?
What did he find out?"
"Steven!" he hissed, as if it were obvious. "He found out about me and
Steven..."
"Shit," she breathed. "How? What happened?"
"He found a note," Dave said, his shoulders sagged in absolute defeat.
Usually, he spoke with his hands, and since he wasn't it was probably
the only reason Miranda noticed that one was tucked against his chest,
the other cradling it there. She tried to see why, but couldn't in the
darkness. He began speaking again, drawing her eyes back to his
bruised face. "Miranda, I don't know what to do. I don't know what to
do! I thought - I thought he was going to kill me but he didn't. I
don't - I - what do I do??"
"Dave," she said, motioning for him to keep it down. "You'll wake up
my parents. Does he know you're gone?"
"He was sleeping when I left," he replied, and was then suddenly
alarmed. "What if he wakes up?? Oh, God. He'll kill me."
He kept saying that, and she didn't like it. No way in *hell* was she
letting him leave here if those words were true, but she had to figure
that out by comprehending her friend's panicked rambling. "Okay.
Just...tell me what happened. Exactly. Did...did he beat you up?" A
tentative nod followed. "How long ago? Just now?"
He shook his head, and then glanced at the clock. "A few hours ago. I
think. I...I can't really remember..."
"Did you get knocked out?" she asked. "Dave, if you got knocked out
you could've gotten hurt worse than you might think you did." She saw
him flinch at her words, and suddenly more tears were silently making
their way down his cheeks. Tentatively, she asked: "Dave...how bad was
it?"
"Oh, God, Miranda," he cried, and she began to too. She tried to hide
it though, because she had to be strong for him. She couldn't fall
apart when he needed her. "Miranda, it was so bad...he just came at
me, and pushed me up against the wall. He said...he said I was a fag
and then he just started hitting me...I got away, and I tried to run
up the stairs and get to my room, but he caught me and...and he
just...he wouldn't stop, he wouldn't..." He was sobbing now,
absolutely terrified although there was no danger here. She tried to
take a step forward, to hug him reassuringly, or do *something* to
make him feel better, but he took a step back. He didn't even seem to
realize it, which scared her more. "Miranda, he wouldn't stop...please
believe me when I say I tried to stop him, please believe me...I tried
so hard, but he was on me and all over me and I couldn't...I tried, I
tried, but I couldn't..."
"Dave, stop," she said, absolutely confused and absolutely petrified
at the same time. "You're not making any sense...what...I don't
understand."
"I can't, I can't..." he said, which puzzled her even more. "I can't,
Miranda."
"Can't what?" she asked. "Can't go home? Can't...can't tell me?" He
nodded. "You can't tell me. Why not? Dave, we can tell each other
anything, that's why we're best friends. What...what happened? What
can't you tell me?"
"Because...Miranda, it was so bad," he stated, moving to the bed and
sitting down, although she saw him visibly wince. He remained there
though, though he shifted uncomfortably, and she knelt down in front
of him, close to his knees, the smells overwhelming all of her other
senses, and she didn't even want to begin to imagine what they were
from. She reached next to her, where her nightstand was, and pulled
the chain to her lamp until the light clicked on. And, for the first
time, she saw the damage that had been inflicted upon her best friend
by his own father.
"Oh, my God, Dave," she whispered. "Please, talk to me."
He wouldn't look at her, although she tried to catch his eyes as he
spoke. "Miranda, I couldn't...I tried to get away but he was faster
than me, and he...he was all over me. I started panicking and I
couldn't stop him, I couldn't stop him...I thought he was going to
kill me, Miranda, I swear to God..." His voice hitched as he choked
back a sob, and he was rambling but she let him, trying to figure out
what he was saying. "God, it was so disgusting, Miranda, it was so
disgusting. I feel so disgusting, I'm so disgusting. Oh, my God, it
was so disgusting..."
"What...?" she asked, and finally he met her eyes. And she saw it, saw
it with such certainty that it arced through her and chilled her heart
so much she shivered. She looked away, as she began to cry, her hand
covering her mouth to silence her sobs.
"Miranda..." her friend quietly said, as he touched her hair with his
good hand. "Miranda, please don't cry. Please don't cry..." She
couldn't stop though, and knew that he was probably talking to himself
as well as her. Tentatively, he touched her again, and she knew he
wanted her to hold him even though he couldn't say it. Dave never said
that kind of stuff. Quietly, she took him into her arms, feeling him
tense but soon relax and melt into her embrace. He held on to her,
shaking as he sobbed into her shirt, begging her to stop crying and
telling her that it was going to be okay. "Miranda, it's going to be
okay, you don't have to cry. You don't...you don't have to be sad..."
"I know, Dave," she whispered, her voice thick as she cradled him in
her arms. "I know...I know...it'll be okay, I know...it might not be
today, or tomorrow, but it'll be okay...it'll be okay..."
--------------------------------
All those colors long since faded
And all our smiles are confiscated
--------------------------------
"Those words meant so much to me that night," Dave said softly. "It
made me think that maybe...just maybe...one day everything was going
to be okay..."
"She sounds like she was a good friend," John said, his voice thick as
silent tears made their way down his cheeks.
"She was. God, she didn't deserve to be treated the way I treated
her," he stated, and John had a feeling he'd be hearing about that
soon. "You know...Abby reminds me a lot of Miranda. I think that's why
we're so close...why I let Abby get close to me in the first place.
They have a lot of the same qualities."
"Like what?" John asked.
"Smart, funny...loyal, protective," Dave said, after pausing a moment
in thought. "Beautiful...inside and out."
"You see so many wonderful qualities in other people," John said, "it
shocks me that you can't see them in yourself, Dave."
"John...I know you don't like Abby very much," Dave said quietly, and
John knew the statement was partially said to change the subject. He
didn't say that, though, because he wanted to hear just what Dave was
getting at. "But she's a good person. If you took the time to get to
know her, you'd love her."
"Dave..." John started, but didn't really know what to say. Had it
been that obvious? But...it wasn't that he didn't *like* Abby, because
he did, really. He just didn't like that she and Dave were so...close.
He didn't like that Dave was able to say "I love you" to her before he
was able to say it to him. But how could he say that now without
sounding like a complete asshole? Here Dave was confessing the worst
thing that could happen to a person, and John was jealous of a
friendship. "Dave, I like Abby, I really do. But...I just...I don't
know, I just get jealous sometimes. It's nothing that you two do, it's
just me and my ego, I guess. But that isn't important right now.
What's important right now is you getting through this."
There was a long pause, and the way John was holding Dave - with the
younger man leaning against his chest - he couldn't really see his
face, so he waited for a reaction. He wasn't really expecting what he
got: "You get jealous?"
"Yeah," he admitted.
"That's kinda sexy."
John chuckled softly, glad to see Dave's humor despite everything.
Quietly, he asked: "Do you want to continue, or do you want to stop
for the night? Or...I don't want to push...I"
"Do you want to hear any more?"
Gently, John took Dave's hand. "I want to hear everything you have to
say, Dave, no matter how bad."
--------------------------------
Never were we told
We'd be bought and sold
--------------------------------
Steven Drake was beginning to get worried.
So his boyfriend hadn't gone to school Tuesday. No big deal, he could
be sick. But when he'd called that night, no one had answered the
phone. Dave's father usually didn't pick up, except when Dave wasn't
home, but he didn't answer now. Which meant that they were both gone.
But where were they? Steven had brushed it off as something bizarre,
figuring he could ask Dave about it tomorrow in school.
Tomorrow rolled around, and Dave still hadn't been in school. Now
anxious, Steven had hunted down Miranda, who had been extremely hard
to find; briefly, he wondered if she was avoiding him. And, since it
was now Thursday, it was needless to say that she hadn't been very
forthcoming about anything during their short conversation.
"You don't know where he is?" he'd asked, as she'd rifled through her
locker.
"I do," was the reply he'd received. "He's at home. He's sick."
"Why won't he answer the phone?"
"He's sick."
"Too sick to answer the phone?" he'd asked, skeptical as hell. "What
about his dad?? Why doesn't...?" He trailed off, seeing her flinch at
his words, and suddenly his heart was doing ninety miles an hour. "Did
something happen, Miranda?"
She looked at him, finally, her eyes telling him a story in a language
he couldn't understand. For a moment, he just stared at her, startled
by her reaction. He'd managed to then open his mouth to say something
- anything - but the bell rang, and she made haste towards her class
without another word.
"Miranda - Miranda!!" he called, going after her, but she wouldn't
turn back. He let out a frustrated "Shit!" punching the locker next to
him and denting it, scaring a few tardy underclassmen nearby.
Psychology was his next class, a course he and Dave had managed to get
together. The class was quiet without Dave's comments, which usually
ended up in some sort of debate on how the teacher was wrong. Most of
the time, Dave gave a pretty good argument and they agreed to
disagree.
Damn it, Steven thought now. Something had happened, he could feel it
in his bones, knew it with the same assurance that told him the sky
was blue. And it scared him, the more he thought about it, the more
detailed the scenarios got in his head. Because while Dave had never
actually confided in him what went on in that house, he knew his
father was quite the asshole, to say the least, and got a pretty good
idea from an occasional glimpse at a bruise as to what went on.
"Shit," he hissed again, drawing several eyes his way. But he didn't
care. He didn't give a single damn. Because all he could seem to
understand was how his boyfriend's empty seat gaped at him the entire
class.
--------------------------------
We were innocent
--------------------------------
Thursday night had always been Dave and Miranda's so-called "movie
night." They'd walk to the rental store down the street, pick out a
few flicks, and then watch them over at Miranda's until around nine.
They were both movie freaks, and usually ended up having a great time
even if the movie sucked. But tonight, as Miranda watched the
television with Dave in her living room, it was anything but
enjoyable.
Dave didn't seem able to sit still, and while he'd remained quiet most
of the time, occasionally he grunted or hissed through his teeth as he
shifted uncomfortably. Miranda couldn't even say what the movie was
vaguely about if asked - she couldn't concentrate on anything but
Dave, sitting next to her in obvious pain. She heard him hiss again,
and just couldn't take it anymore.
"Dave, you need help," she blurted out, turning away from Michael J.
Fox driving at illegal speeds to get back to the future.
"What?" he asked, surprised. That'd come straight out of nowhere.
Quickly, he replied, "I do not, I'm fine."
"You haven't relaxed since you got here!" she exclaimed. "You keep
moving around and making noises. You need a doctor, Dave."
"I'm *fine*," he stated, this time more firmly. "I don't need anyone."
"So why are you cutting school?" she asked. "If you're so fine, why
aren't you going to school??"
"I'm not cutting," he snapped. "My dad said I could stay home."
"Yeah, to cover his ass," she hissed.
"That's right, Miranda, he *is* covering his ass. But that's fine with
me, just look at my fucking face," he snapped, indicating it as he did
so. The swelling had gone down, but the bruises were still there. His
fingers gingerly traced his jaw, up to his nose and eye, and then he
turned away from his friend. "I can't let Steven see me like this. You
know how he gets."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her flinch at his words. He knew
he should've never come to her that night, but he hadn't exactly been
in the right frame of mind at the time. Now, lucid, he felt bad. He
knew how *she* got: guilty as hell that she couldn't help. Wasn't her
fault she didn't get that he really didn't need it. She just didn't
understand that, no matter how hard he tried to explain it to her.
"Look," he said, after sighing. "I'll go tomorrow, okay?"
"That's not the point." She crossed her arms over her chest. Great,
now she was upset. "The point *is*, is that you need to see someone."
"No!" he yelled, more harshly than he'd intended. "I don't need to see
*anyone*!! I'm just beat up, I'm not dying!"
"Dave, what he did - !"
"He didn't *do* anything," he said, cutting her off sharply. "He only
beat me up. It happens. I'm fine. Can we just watch the fucking
movie??"
"That's not all he did, and we both know it, Dave," Miranda stated,
looking at Dave, her worry for him only increasing with his denial.
And maybe it was only to be expected, but it couldn't be healthy.
"Look," he spat. "I don't know what you imagined in your sick head,
Miranda, but I just got the shit kicked out of me. Whatever else you
imagined."
"Fine," she replied, turning back to the screen. He glanced at her,
seeing her chin quavering as she fought not to cry. Shit, he thought,
as he leaned his head back against the sofa behind them. Of course he
knew that wasn't true. Every moment of everyday he thought about what
had happened that night, but, God, he did not want to speak of it with
another human being. He sighed, before turning to her again, when she
abruptly snapped at him, startling him because she never got like
*this* before. "Shut up, Dave. Okay? Just shut up. If you want to
pretend that nothing happened, then shut up. No, you didn't come to me
at two in the morning, absolutely terrified that your father was going
to kill you. No, I didn't hold you and cry with you, and say that
everything was going to be okay. No, you didn't go home an hour later
and leave me wondering if I was ever going to see you again. No, none
of it happened, Dave, okay? None of it fucking happened."
And now *he* felt guilty as hell, as he turned back to the television.
God, he'd been so stupid to go to her like that, felt so stupid to
expect so much of her, expect so much that she couldn't possibly give.
He felt so selfish, felt like such a bad person. Quietly, he
whispered: "I'm sorry."
"It's not okay. Sometimes sorry isn't enough, Dave." He flinched,
looking at her in surprise, but she was still facing the television.
He opened his mouth to say something, but he didn't know what to say
to fix this, to make everything just go back to the way it'd been
before. The doorbell rang out, interrupting his thoughts, and Miranda
quickly jumped up. "I'll get it."
Dave remained on the floor, damning his life for being so fucked up.
Now, his best friend - his only friend, really - was angry with him,
and even an apology couldn't make it better. He felt like an asshole.
Maybe when she got back, he could talk to her more, explain things to
her, reassure her even, and it would be okay. Then they could finish
watching the movie and have fun, like always. A quick glance at the
clock let him know he'd have to go in a few minutes, but he could talk
to her in that amount of time. It could be okay in that amount of
time. It had to be. After everything that had happened in that last
few days he couldn't lose her.
"Who was it?" Dave asked, when Miranda stepped back into the room.
He'd been looking at the television, but when she didn't reply and
instead just stood there, he glanced up at her, ready to ask her again
when he saw who else was in the room. "Steven."
"Hey, Dave," his boyfriend responded, as he stood from the floor
quickly. The older boy's face immediately softened as he saw Dave's
bruises and overall harried appearance, and when he took a step closer
he was surprised that Dave took a step back. "What happened to you?"
"What are you doing here?" Dave asked, ignoring the question, unable
to meet his lover's eyes. Instead, he met Miranda's, his glare
speaking volumes. "Did Miranda invite you?"
"Yeah," Steven replied. "She did. She's worried about you, and I've
been worried for days. Where have you been?"
"Home," he stated, quickly. "I've been home. I've been...sick."
"I called a million times."
"I know. I was sick."
"Too sick to answer the phone?" Steven asked, but didn't pursue the
thought. "You look like shit, Dave."
"Thanks," he said, sarcastically. "I feel like it too. Listen, I'd
love to hear you insult me some more, but I have to go home."
"I can't let you do that."
"What?" He glanced up, in surprise, only noticing now that Steven was
standing directly in the doorway. Slowly, Dave turned to look at
Miranda, asking accusingly: "What did you tell him?" Almost
immediately, she began to cry, guilty tears quickly making their way
down her face. "You fucking bitch! You promised me you wouldn't say
anything! You promised! What the fuck, Miranda!!"
"I'm sorry, Dave," she cried, a hand moving to her mouth to stifle a
sob. "Dave, I'm so sorry."
"Sorry my ass," he snapped, angry. "You lying bitch. I trusted you,
you lying bitch!"
"Dave, stop it!" Steven yelled, startling him. "She's just worried
about you. We're both worried. God, why can't you see that! We're only
doing this because we love you."
Dave winced, the familiar words echoing throughout his head. Quickly,
he regained his composure, stating, "I don't care. I have to leave or
- "
"Or what? Or your father will kill you?" Steven asked, taking another
step closer to Dave, who took yet another step back. Dave threw an
accusatory glance at Miranda, remembering her words from earlier and
that night. She'd said the same thing then...God, what had she told
him? "Is that what's next? He'll kill you? I'm sorry, but I'm not
going to let that happen."
"So what are you going to do??" Dave asked with a bitter laugh. "What
are you going to do? Call the police? Because they're not going to
help you. My dad's a cop, Steven, he's one of them. You think they're
going to turn in one of their own? Good luck, because it's not
happening. He's fucking untouchable! So just forget about it, and move
out of my way."
"No." The response surprised him. "I'm not moving, Dave."
"Steven, get the fuck out of my way," he said as evenly as he could.
"I am not going to stand here and play games with you all fucking
night. I have to go home. I live in the real world, Steven, not in a
dream world. I live in a world with consequences. So I *have* to
*go*."
"Dave, just listen to what he has to say," Miranda tried.
"Fuck you!" Dave yelled. "*Fuck* you!"
"Would you stop yelling at her??" Steven asked, almost seemingly
annoyed. "She isn't doing this to hurt you. We're just trying to help
you."
"I don't need your help!" he cried, his voice sounding desperate to
his own ears. "I don't need your help, and I sure as hell don't want
it! So get the fuck out of my way, Steven, before you make me late!"
The older boy didn't budge, and Dave let out a frustrated sigh before
moving towards him. "Get out of my way."
"Make me."
"You don't think I can? Is that it??"
"I don't think you *will*," Steven countered. "You are not your
father."
"Don't count on that," Dave hissed, his eyes cold and hard.
They stood there for a moment, staring each other down. Steven was
taller but Dave was stronger than he looked, and both knew that,
although the former had never seen any kind of violence from his
boyfriend. In fact, Dave always seemed afraid that he might lose
control and hurt someone as a consequence, making him even more gentle
and apprehensive. That's why the hard shove to Steven's chest took the
older boy more by surprise than it should have, nearly knocking him
off of his feet. He regained his balance quickly though, grabbing
Dave's arm roughly before he could move past him, pulling him back
into the room.
"Stop!" Miranda screamed, and Steven only realized then - too late -
that he had grabbed at Dave's visibly bruised wrist, causing the
younger boy to cry out in pain as he lost his own balance and fell
hard.
"Dave!" he said, quickly moving to help him off of the floor, but his
boyfriend - if he could still even be called that - pushed him and
actually crawled back away from him. "Dave, I'm sorry, I didn't mean
to hurt you."
"Why is it that everyone who is supposed to love me hurts me?" Dave
yelled, pain etched on his face, not only from his arm but also from
falling to the floor right on his ass. "Just get away from me. Don't
touch me, don't fucking touch me. None of you touch me."
"Dave, I - "
"Shut the fuck up, Steven," he snapped, as he stumbled into a standing
position. Steven stood directly in front of him, his closeness
unnerving. "Get out of my way."
"Dave, I'm sorry." He tried putting his hands on Dave's shoulders,
reassuringly, but Dave only pushed them away. "Dave, just listen."
"No, *you* listen!" Dave yelled. "Get the fuck out of my way! I'm
going home!"
"Dave - "
"Move!"
"Dave, would you just - ?"
"I said *move*!!"
"Dave!"
The loud smack reverberated throughout the room, the sound of Steven
hitting the floor even more startling. Dave stood there, horrified,
his knuckles stinging as he stumbled back, tears brimming at his eyes.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you, either of you. I
guess I am my father's son. I'm so sorry. I never...please forgive
me..."
In an instant, he was running, bursting out the door and onto
Miranda's front lawn, running down the street to his own house. He
heard footsteps behind him, heard Steven's voice calling out to him.
Dave might've been stronger but he'd never been a fast runner, and
Steven was on the track team. He knew his efforts to escape would be
in vain, but he wasn't going to give up. Giving up had never been his
forte. Not yet anyway.
"Dave, wait!" he heard, Steven's voice almost directly behind him.
"Dave, please, wait! I just want to talk to you!" He felt Steven's
hand on his arm then, stopping him from running and making his own
momentum turn him around to face the other boy. Out of breath, Steven
said softly: "Dave. Just wait a minute."
"Steven, let me go," Dave told him, trying to get out of Steven's
grasp but he wouldn't relent, knowing Dave would start running again.
"Steven, let go of me."
"Dave, just listen," he said beseechingly, reaching out to gently
touch Dave's face, but the young boy flinched, his breath catching as
he did so. His voice shaking, absolutely heartbroken, Steven asked:
"God, Dave...what did he do to make you so afraid of me?"
With surprise, Dave glanced up, his eyes searching Steven's with
confusion. Why would he ask that if...? He realized it then: she
hadn't told him. She hadn't told him a single thing. His best friend
hadn't gone back on her word, she hadn't broken her promise to him.
She never broke her promises to him, he should've remembered that. And
he was crying now, at the fact that he must've hurt Miranda so much
with the awful things he said to her. This was all his fault. His
entire fault...
"Dave..."
"I'm sorry, Steven," he said quietly, shaking with sobs. "I'm so
sorry. Please tell Miranda I said I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of the
things I said. To you too. I know you love me, I know that. I love you
too, Steven, but you have to let me go. You have to let me go."
Both knew he wasn't just talking about letting him go physically. And
it hit Steven hard, harder than any punch that could be delivered to
him, from Dave or anyone else. "Dave, I can't do that."
"You have to. Please, Steven..." He felt the other boy's grip loosen
on his arms, until his hands reluctantly fell away from them. Dave
began to cry harder as he backed away. "I'm sorry, Steven. I never
meant to hurt you. Please believe me when I say I'm sorry."
"I believe you, Dave," he replied, but it was too late. He was already
gone.
--------------------------------
This prayer is for me tonight
This far down that line, and still ain't got it right
--------------------------------
Dave quietly stepped inside of his house, closing the door behind him
carefully and wincing as he heard the click of the lock behind him. He
stood there for a moment, his forehead leaning against the cold wood
of the front door, trying to regain his composure before he continued
on. With a ragged sigh, he turned to go upstairs, startling and
stepping back into the closed door as the figure of his father stood
before him.
"You're late."
"I know," he stammered, nodding. "I'm sorry. I wanted to see the end
of the movie."
"Seeing that fag again?" his father asked, grabbing his bruised wrist
hard, causing Dave to gasp.
"No," Dave replied quickly, shaking his head. "I was at Miranda's
house."
"You messing around with her now?" he asked accusingly, as he pushed
Dave back into the door. "You better not, or you'll end up just like
me, with some fucking faggot kid you don't want."
"I'm not, I'm not..." Dave stated. "We're just friends..."
"Yeah, right," was the harsh reply he received. Abruptly, he grabbed
Dave's face, forcing him to look at him. "Just like you and that
faggot are 'just friends.' You're not still seeing him, are you??"
"I said I wasn't."
"Don't get fucking smart with me," he snapped, and suddenly moved very
close to him - so close Dave could feel the erection pressing into his
hip and smell the alcohol on his breath. He felt sick then, but
swallowed the bile that was rising up in the back of his throat as he
began to shake. "You know what'll happen when you get smart with me."
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice thick.
"Oh, don't start crying, you fucking baby," he said, disgusted. He
pushed Dave back again, the metal knob of the door hitting his back.
"Get the fuck to bed."
"Okay," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper before he ran
upstairs and into his room, closing the door behind him. He fell to
his knees before his bed, almost as if he were praying, and he was
tempted to before he realized with a sudden epiphany that no one was
listening. God didn't exist; if he did then surely he wouldn't have
let this happen, wouldn't have let Dave get so lost and desperate and
hopeless. No God would let that happen. And the only explanation that
Dave could come up with was because God didn't exist.
And he realized, at that moment, that he was completely and utterly
alone. Miranda hated him, Steven had let him go, and now he didn't
even have a God to turn to. What...what was left? His mother didn't
have a clue as to what was going on, so she couldn't help him, no
matter how desperately he felt like picking up the phone and calling
her right now. No one could help him. Not that false God, not anyone.
Suddenly, with such anger that scared him, Dave grabbed the crucifix
off of his dresser and broke it in half, the plastic Jesus breaking in
two and breaking away from the wooden cross. He held two pieces of
wood in his hands, one full of sharp, splintered points and the other
solid and razorblade sharp. He was transfixed by the sharp piece, and
suddenly realized what he had to do.
It still made him sad, and he began to cry as he sat down on the
floor, leaning against his bed. Tentatively, he took the sharp wood
and cut his arm, nearer to his elbow than his hand. It stung, but only
for a moment. Closer now, he cut himself again. And again. Again. Now,
the wood hovered above his wrist, the veins almost more prominent than
usual.
What would happen to him? he wondered. He was convinced he would just
stop, because if God didn't exist than neither did Heaven or Hell. You
just stopped, you didn't die. Death wasn't real. Nothing was real
anymore. There was no one, there was nothing to live for. Not Miranda,
not Steven, not his mother. Would they miss him, though? Eventually
they would forget him. He would be nothing but a memory to them
someday. They wouldn't hurt forever. They hated him now anyway; sooner
rather than later things would be back to normal for them. This, he
was sure of.
So, with a final sweep of his hand, he pierced his skin and dragged
the sharp wood across his delicate veins, asking for forgiveness just
in case there really was a God. Because, sometimes, he just didn't
know what he did. But he was almost sure he would've done better if he
knew how.
--------------------------------
And while confessions not yet stated
Our next sin is contemplated
--------------------------------
"How could you possibly have believed that people would be 'okay'
without you?" John asked, his vision blurred by his tears. "God...I
would die without you, Dave. God..."
"You know that isn't true, John," Dave said, so calmly John was
shocked into silence. "You'd mourn for me for a while, maybe be pissed
at me for doing it, but...eventually you would move on, and someday
I'd just be a distant memory in your mind. So distant you'd barely
remember me."
"How can you say that to me?" John asked, utterly shocked. "Is that
how you feel about me? Is that how you would feel if I killed myself,
or if I died??"
"No, but that's different," Dave stated, shaking his head.
"That's...well...you."
"What makes your grief so much deeper than mine?" John asked,
confused, but then it hit him. Dave's grief wasn't deeper, it was just
that Dave wasn't as important. Dave didn't think he was important, he
didn't value himself as a person to be missed. "Oh, Dave," John said,
despairingly. "You are so wrong. You don't know how many people would
miss you if you died. You should've seen everyone when you overdosed.
Abby was a mess. She couldn't eat or sleep, she could barely work.
Luka asked about you on a daily basis. And your mother? God...your
mother was physically ill. Her heart was broken, Dave.
"And me?" John asked, his lover's expression showing his guilt. "I was
a mess, Dave. I was incomplete without you. I missed going to work and
seeing you there. I missed coming home to you. I missed feeling you
next to me when I slept, and seeing you there when I woke up. I
couldn't even imagine what it would be like if that were permanent.
Shit...I'd probably kill myself too."
"I'm sorry..." Dave said, quietly.
"That's not the point, Dave," John stated. "I know you think we'd all
move on, and maybe we would...maybe someday I would, if I didn't
decide to join you. But it wouldn't be the next day, or the next week,
or the next month...probably not even the next year. You're my
soulmate, Dave. Do you know what that means? Do you have any idea? It
means that I can't live without you. It means that I ache for you when
you're not around, and even when you are I can feel it because I'm
thinking about the next time you'll be somewhere else. When you were
lying in that hospital bed and I couldn't be with you, I wanted to
die. I know that you think you're shit, and that you don't matter, and
that people would forget you, but you're wrong, Dave, you are sorely
mistaken. And if that's what your father thought, then he was wrong
too. More wrong than words can ever express."
John couldn't see Dave's face, since it was buried in his chest, but
he heard his lover take in a quavering breath, felt his lover shaking,
and knew that he was crying. And John was crying to, but it didn't
matter. Because every word he's spoken was true. "I know that you
don't believe me, but someday you will...I promise you, someday I will
make you believe me, Dave."
"That's not the end of my story," Dave suddenly said, and while John
wasn't surprised he'd changed the subject, he was surprised that he'd
change it to that.
"Then go on," he urged softly. "I'm listening."
--------------------------------
Never did we know
What the future would hold
--------------------------------
Logically, his story couldn't have ended there, since, over ten years
later, Dave was still alive and kicking. Or at least half alive,
because that was sure how he felt these days. But, anyway, someone had
found him that night, after he'd passed out from blood loss. It had
probably been his father, though he'd never asked and no one had ever
told him. He'd never know why his old man hadn't just let him bleed to
death on that floor, after all the times he'd nearly killed Dave with
his own bare hands. His father had died in prison before he could ask
- not that he probably ever would have. He'd never spoken to the man
ever again after the day he woke up in the hospital. But he often
wondered if his fathered toyed with the idea of letting him bleed to
death on the floor.
It'd been daylight when he forced his heavy eyelids to open, the sun
creeping in through half-closed blinds. Immediately, he'd recognized
his surroundings, having been there several times before. His nose
took in the smell of antiseptic and other various scents, just as his
ears heard the sounds of rubber soles squeaking on linoleum along with
gurneys and trays; he always took comfort in hospitals. It was the
only place he ever felt safe, the only place he knew he was free from
danger.
His mother had been asleep in the visitor's chair next to his bed. He
reached out his hand, noticing his gauzed wrist as he did so, and
nudged her gently. His voice was hoarse when he spoke to her.
"Ma...wake up. Hey, Ma..."
Her eyes snapped open as she heard his voice, and her expression
displayed her guilt as she reached out her hand and touched his face
with the sort of affection only a mother could have for her child. Her
eyes welled up with tears as she leaned forward and kissed his cheek,
his forehead, his nose, his lips, everywhere. He waved her off,
embarrassed at what he'd done and the fact that he hadn't been kissed
like that by his mother since he was ten.
"Dave, I'm so glad you're awake," she said, wiping away the tears that
were only replaced by new ones. "I was so worried about you."
"It's okay," he assured her softly, but the words sounded hollow and
fake even to him. "I'm okay now."
"You are," she stated, nodding. "You're safe now, no one can hurt you
anymore."
Then, he, himself, started to cry, ashamed that he could show such
emotion in front of his mother. He never liked to cry in front of her,
because he knew it upset her. But he was so overwhelmed with so much
emotion he couldn't help it. He was safe now. He'd never be hurt
again. And he could move to Chicago with her and start a new life
there. He wouldn't have to be afraid anymore. He was free. He was
free, and it was the best feeling in the world.
"Dave's awake?"
His stomach dropped to his knees as he heard that voice, and it was as
if the air had been punched right out of his lungs. He looked at his
mother, absolutely horrified. "What the hell?"
"Dave, watch your language," she automatically warned, but then sensed
his terror. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"
"What's he doing here?" Dave asked, looking at his father, who was
standing in the doorway of the hospital room. "What's he doing here!?"
"He's your father," his mother stated, as if he didn't know.
"You said..." Something was wrong. Something was very, *very* wrong.
"You said no one would hurt me anymore. What...who were you...what??"
"Steven," she replied. "I was talking about Steven, about what he did
to you. The bruises, the scars, the...other injuries...he can't hurt
you anymore, Dave. He's in jail now."
"No, no, no..." Oh, God. Oh, no. This couldn't be happening. This
couldn't...but...how?? Immediately, he looked to his father, angry and
appalled. "You lying son of a bitch. You lying son of a bitch!! You
liar! You fucking liar!! You're a fucking liar!!"
"Dave!" his mother exclaimed, surprised by her son's behavior. "Dave,
you don't have to lie for him anymore. Steven can't hurt you here."
"Steven would never hurt me!" Dave yelled. "He loves me! He loves me!!
And I love him! We don't hurt each other, we've never hurt each
other!"
"Dave, sometimes people that love us, hurt us," she told him,
consolingly. "They don't mean it, but they need help."
"No, Ma, you have to listen to me," Dave said, just as a doctor
entered the room, probably from hearing the commotion. "Ma, you need
to listen to me. It wasn't Steven who did this to me."
"Dave, it's good to see you awake," the doctor said, a middle-aged man
who was handsome for his fifty-some years. He was smiling, although
Dave could see the confusion in his eyes. "I know you're a little
upset now, but you need to calm down. Everyone did what they could to
help you, not hurt you. You're safe now."
"No!" Dave cried, and then pointed to his father. "He hurts me! He
hurts me!! It wasn't Steven that did this to me, I swear to God it
wasn't Steven! It was him!"
"You'd better watch it, Dave," his father said, his anger obvious in
his tone. "You'd better watch it before you make accusations like
that. I didn't do anything to you, it was that faggot kid."
"Frank, don't say things like that," his mother said, annoyed. "You're
not making this any better."
"Your son's trying to protect his boyfriend by blaming me," he
retorted. "He brainwashed you that much, huh?" He looked to Rhonda.
"You don't even see him! You call yourself a mother, and you just fall
for everything that comes out of his lying mouth!"
"I'm not lying!" Dave said, as he began to cry from the hopelessness
of his situation. "I swear to God, it was him! Ma, please, listen to
me, please..."
"Dave, calm down, honey," his mother said, as she pulled him into her
arms. He clutched at her tightly, sobbing into her shoulder.
"Shhhh...Dave, just calm down, okay? You're safe here."
"You keep saying that," he whispered into her ear, just loud enough
for her to hear and not anyone else. "You keep saying that, Ma, but
it's not true, it's not true...Dad did this to me, I swear I'm not
lying to you. You don't think he's capable of this, but he is, he
is...he did this to me, Ma, and he did it to me when I was a kid
too...I was just a little kid, Ma...I'll tell you everything, I swear
I'll tell you everything if you'll just listen..."
"Shh..." she said soothingly, pulling away but meeting his eyes and
nodding slightly. She glanced at the doctor and at her ex-husband,
feigning innocence as she said: "Why don't you let me calm him down,
okay? Then we can straighten everything out and start talking about
when he can come home."
"I want to be here," Frank insisted, his stare fixed on his son.
"Perhaps if we gave him a sedative...?" the doctor suggested.
"No!" Dave exclaimed, just as his mother jutted in.
"I want to speak with my son. Alone."
"Certainly," the doctor stated, ushering a disgruntled Frank out of
the room. "If you can't calm him, we can prescribe something to make
him feel better, at least for now. All he needs is some rest and
reassurance."
"Of course," Frank replied, glaring at his son. "You just watch what
you say. It'll save everyone a lot of trouble."
Automatically, he nodded, his eyes darting away, but once they were
alone, he glanced up at his mother, his eyes pleading. Without waiting
for a request, he began to speak, his words tripping over one another
as they came out in graceless sentences. He never stopped, spoke over
her when she tried to interrupt, and kept speaking until he was
finished, because he knew if he even paused once he might not be able
to continue due to self-consciousness or an outside force. God knew
how much time he had before his father or that doctor came back in.
And he begged his mother to believe him, explained everything in such
detail that she knew he couldn't have made this up on the spot or
elsewhere. Lies were never that intricate, and she felt sick to her
stomach, so much so that she excused herself for a moment to throw up
in the bathroom adjoining Dave's room. God, how could she have missed
this??
Dave winced as he heard his mother's retching from behind the closed
door. At least she believed him, he considered sadly, feeling guilty
for making her sick like that. He was always feeling guilty, but knew
most of the time things were his fault. Maybe if he just did what he
was told, behaved like he should, then no one would be in this mess.
God, why did he have to be so fucked up?
"I told you to watch what you said." His head turned so fast to face
the doorway that his neck let out a crack of protest. His father moved
to the bed, as Dave scooted as far away as he could. "I hear her in
there. What the fuck did you tell her?"
"Nothing," he said quickly. "I didn't tell her anything."
"Fucking liar," he hissed, grabbing Dave's bandaged wrist and
squeezing hard, his fingernails digging into the sutures beneath and
drawing blood. "You can't do anything you're fucking told, can you??"
"I'll scream if you don't let me go," Dave threatened, his voice
shaking. He knew it'd been a mistake the instant his father reached
out and grabbed his face, his large hand covering his mouth and nose,
hindering him from screaming but also from breathing. God...after
everything...after finally feeling an ounce of hope, his father was
still going to manage to kill him. It figured.
"Get away from him!" His mother, God bless her. She was small, Dave
was already taller than her, and Dave knew she would never stand a
chance against her former husband. If Dave couldn't, certainly she
couldn't either. "You get away from my son! You get away from my son
and out of this room, and I'm calling the police, you disgusting
pervert!"
"Your son is a fucking lying faggot," Frank yelled, his grip
tightening against Dave's wrist and against his face. He couldn't
breathe, and he felt his chest tightening from the lack of oxygen. In
vain, he tried to pull away, but his father was stronger than him.
"He's feeding lies to you, and you're just eating them up like the
good mother you pretend to be, you stupid bitch."
"Let him go!!" she screamed, moving to them and hitting her ex-husband
with all her might. It was a noble effort, but she didn't do much
damage and Dave's father definitely didn't relent. She began to
scream, moving to the doorway and calling to anyone who would listen.
"Help! I need help! Please, help me! He's trying to kill my son!! I
need help!"
Almost instantly the room was crowded. A security guard had grabbed
Dave's father around the waist, pulling him hard, jerking his hands
away from Dave and allowing him to breathe once more. Yelling. Crying.
Fighting. Handcuffs snapping shut. Protective arms around his body,
cradling him. His mother's familiar scent engulfing him. It was all
meshed together at this point, everything happening somehow at the
same time and yet in slow motion, stretching on into forever. From
what his mother had told him later, Dave had been so upset he'd
actually been sedated into a numb stupor until the next day.
Sometimes, he wished he could've been sedated into a numb stupor for
the rest of his life.
--------------------------------
Or that we'd be bought and sold
--------------------------------
"Pretty fucked up, huh?" Dave asked softly.
"Yeah," John agreed just as quietly, and then kissed Dave's forehead.
"Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me." His lover just
shrugged, in that deceptive way he always did. "Can I ask you a
question?"
"Sure."
"What happened to Steven?"
"Well..." Dave said, rather shakily. "When my father was arrested and
charged, they released him. After that, I don't know. He tried to see
me in the hospital. He stopped by all the time, but I wouldn't let the
nurses let him in. Miranda would come too, but...eventually she gave
up. But Steven, he...he kept coming. Up until the day I left. I used
to imagine him after I moved away, going there and finding out that I
was gone...God...I treated them both so badly, I never wanted to see
them again...they'd be better without me in their lives, fucking them
up and pulling them down into my shit. And now history is repeating
itself with Abby and you."
"Dave - "
"I only went back to New York once," he interrupted, before John could
get in another word. The older man sighed, allowing him to get away
with it. "To testify. And then my father was convicted and sent to
prison...but I wasn't there when he was convicted or sentenced..."
"Why?" he asked.
"I was still too fucked up," he replied. "I didn't even go to my
senior year of high school. I had tutors and all that, because I
would've had to graduate a year later, and...I didn't want to be
behind. I used to care about stuff like that..."
John felt Dave sigh against him. "Well, look. Now we're together, and
we can deal with it and not hide from it."
"John, I don't know if I can," he said, his voice so wretched it broke
John's heart. "I'm...John, I'm scared."
"I know."
"I don't even know where to start."
"Don't worry. We'll figure it out...together," he assured Dave. "But
right now, let's start by getting that hand checked out."
"No!" Dave exclaimed, pulling away from John and standing quickly. A
bit too quickly, and he nearly lost his balance from the bout of
dizziness that swept over him. He covered it up by taking a few steps
away, speaking rapidly. "I don't want to go to the hospital. I don't
want anyone to see me this way, I... You can do it, John. You take
care of me, you fix it."
"I...Dave," he said, standing and carefully watching his lover's
reactions. "I can't. You need x-rays, sutures..."
"You can do sutures!"
"I can't do x-rays, Dave."
"It's not broken."
"Really," John said, unconvinced, and then held out his hand. "Then
give it to me. Come on. Give me your hand."
Hesitantly, Dave extended his bruised and bloodied hand towards John,
who took it and began pressing on each bone. Dave tried to hide his
pain, but soon couldn't and pulled away, yelping in pain. "Fuck," he
hissed, cradling his hand.
"I thought it didn't hurt."
"I never said it didn't hurt," Dave countered. "I just said it wasn't
broken."
"Dave..."
"All right, all right," he said, conceding with exasperation. "I'll
go, but I won't tell them what happened. What really happened,
anyway."
"I know," John stated.
"You won't either, right??" Dave asked, his expression showing his
panic as his whole body seemed to tense. "You promise, right?? You
won't tell them the truth either, will you?? You won't, right?"
"Dave, easy..." John said, touching his cheek with gentle fingers.
"I'll tell them whatever you want me to. I won't break your confidence
-- *ever*. I promise. Just calm down, sweetheart."
"I...sorry," he said, shaking from the mere thought of everyone find
out his secret. John could almost feel the terror emanating from him.
"I know you won't, I'm sorry, John...I'm just..."
"I know," he stated, reassuringly, before easing out of the embrace.
After a minute, he indicated the bedrooms. "Do you want Abby to come?"
"No..." he said. "She has an early shift, and I think I've bothered
her enough for one night...for one lifetime..."
"I don't think she would mind."
"No, let her sleep," he said, and suddenly seemed disgusted. "She has
enough going on in her own life without dealing with my shit."
"Dave..."
"Could you write her a note?" he asked, quickly. "So she doesn't
worry."
"Okay."
Silently, Dave watched John scribble something down on paper,
wondering how much this had changed their relationship. For the
better, he hoped. Maybe they would get past this, and then they'd be
better for it. And maybe he would be a better person...a better
doctor. So then this whole night wouldn't have been in vain. When he
glanced at the clock, he saw that it was nearly sunrise. God...only
two hours ago John had come home. How could he have told John all of
that in such little time?
Once John was finished, Dave got up from his chair, and suddenly felt
dizzy again, probably from blood loss. Sure, it hadn't been much, but
that coupled with the stress of the evening was getting to him.
"Shit..."
"What's wrong?" John asked, before seeing Dave nearly collapsing.
Quickly, he reached out and grabbed his arm, wrapping his other arm
around his waist. "Hey! Dave! What's wrong? Are you okay?? Are you
dizzy again??"
Again? Dave thought. So he *had* noticed the first time, when they'd
finished talking in the living room. Such a perceptible lover he
had... "I'm just a little dizzy...and *really* tired. God, John," he
whispered, leaning his forehead against John's shoulder. "I feel so
tired...I feel so old and so tired..."
"I know," John said, as Dave looked up into his eyes. Was he really
going to be okay? John wondered. And as he started toward the door,
John reached out and touched his arm to stop him. "Dave...uh...wait
just a second..."
"Why?" he asked, the apprehension clear in his eyes. "What is it?"
Softly, John said: "I just...wanted to say..."
"What?" Dave asked, alarmed, when John trailed off. "Are
you...changing your mind? I mean...you don't...I don't know. You can't
handle it, or you don't - "
"No, Dave! God, no ...I just..." Nervously, John looked down and
shifted his weight from one leg to another, one of Dave's traits that
he managed to adopt after spending so much time with him. "I just
wanted to say... how proud I am...of you..."
"John..."
"Just...listen to me. Please?" he asked, cutting him off. He looked
away, briefly, before turning back to Dave, who was surprised to see
tears in the older man's eyes. "I am so incredibly sorry that you have
to live like that...*through* that. I don't think I'd ever be able to
survive what you have. You are so strong. I know you don't think you
are, but, Dave...after everything that's happened, and you're so
smart, funny, compassionate, and successful...I would never have been
able to do it, Dave. Never."
"That's not true," his lover said, looking away. And John was about to
say that he was almost sure he'd never have lived through it, until
Dave spoke again. "I'm weak, John...I *couldn't* live through it,
that's why I tried to...kill myself. I'm weak, John...just like my old
man said...shit, just like him. Remember?" he asked, quietly. "I'm my
father's son."
"Dave..." he said, his brow knotted with compassion. "That's not true,
and you know it. You are nothing like your father. You are sweet, and
loving, and compassionate. You could never -- *would* never - hurt
anyone deliberately. Your father was a cruel and evil man, and he
wouldn't hesitate to do that...but you would. Because you are
*nothing* like him. You are not your father's son. And if I ever hear
you ever say that again I'll be very angry with you. I would never be
with someone like that, so if you won't believe anything believe that.
Do you understand me?" And when he didn't get an answer. "Well?"
He let out a shaky sigh. "Yes."
"Then say it," John demanded. "Say you are nothing like your father.
Say you are not your father's son."
"Since when are you a motivational speaker?" Dave asked. He was trying
to be sarcastic, but it wasn't working; he was too busy trying not to
cry.
"Dave..."
"I am nothing like my father," he said, his voice cracking. "I am not
my father's son. Happy?"
"You didn't say it for me." Dave simply looked away, but John
continued speaking. "You know, Dave...you're stronger than anyone I've
ever met. You survived everything, even if you *did* try to kill
yourself. You survived, and you still managed to graduate from high
school on time. You went to college, and even when you didn't get into
the medical schools you wanted to, you did a brave thing by going all
the way to Grenada. And you did all that alone...without money or
family influence. And you became a doctor - a *good* doctor, what you
always wanted to be. All because you're strong, Dave. It amazes me how
strong and determined you are. But you know what amazes me the most?"
"What?"
"How much of an amazing and caring man you are," he said, softly. "You
could've grown up to be this cruel and evil person like your father,
but instead...you care about your patients, your coworkers, and your
friends and family, and...me. You're loyal and loving...the way you
stand by Abby and me...the way you love us...it's absolutely amazing.
The way you've just...turned my life around, it's - " He broke off,
his voice cracking as his composure threatened to break as well.
"Dave, I am in love for the first time in my life, and it's the most
wonderful feeling I've ever experienced. Every time I look at you,
every time I hear your voice or just smell your beautiful scent, I can
feel it. Every time you walk into a room, or lie in bed next to me, or
make love to me...I can feel it, Dave. And I...I want you to know that
nothing's changed that. Nothing that's happened tonight, and if
anything...I'm even more amazed by you. I'm in awe of you, Dave. And I
want to thank you, for trusting me and...and for loving me. Because I
know I don't deserve it."
"You really mean all of those things?" Dave asked, looking away,
abashed by his own emotion. Hastily, he wiped away his tears with the
palm of his hand, but they were only replaced with fresh ones. "You're
not just saying it to make me feel better?"
"Every word is true."
Briefly, he looked away for a moment, before abruptly leaning up and
kissing John on the lips. The warmth and absolute love behind it spoke
volumes, which Dave was glad for, because this was one of those rare
moments in his life when he was speechless.
"Come on," John said, once it ended. "Let's get you to the hospital."
--------------------------------
Innocent...
--------------------------------
Kerry Weaver pulled the thread taught, before sweeping the needle
through flesh and repeating the process, knotting as she went along.
Usually, she didn't concern herself with suturing, left that to the
residents who needed the practice. However, in the early hours of the
morning, the patient name had caught her attention and her concern.
And now, instead of a resident suturing a patient, she was suturing a
resident, who was a patient himself.
She glanced up at Dave Malucci, who had remained quiet throughout the
entire procedure, x-ray and everything. John had brought him in,
explaining that he and Dave had been in a bar/restaurant where another
patron had picked a fight with the Italian doctor for "no reason."
During the scuffle, Dave had accidentally punched a window,
effectively cutting his hand on the glass and probably breaking it.
Something had seemed a little off about the story, but she'd kept her
mouth shut, hoping that if she got Dave alone she could inquire more
and decide whether or not this was something she should get involved
in. She knew the first few months into recovery were very emotional
and very challenging, and she wasn't going to risk almost losing Dave
again.
"I'm going to have to start charging you rent," she said, hoping to
get some sort of response from him.
"Huh?"
"You keep coming in here," she stated, smiling sardonically. "Any more
times, and I'm going to have to start charging you rent."
"Oh. Yeah," he said, and cracked a small smile, though she could see
it clearly didn't reach his eyes. She was somewhat glad when he went
on, though. "I pay enough at my apartment. And now I have to replace a
window."
"At your apartment?" she asked, puzzled. "I thought - "
"At the bar," he interrupted quickly, too quickly, but she let it
slide - for now. "They're probably going to overcharge me, too. Now'd
be a good time to ask for a raise, huh?"
She smiled wryly at him, appreciating his humor, before he glanced off
again and got lost in his thoughts. She was almost finished with the
laceration on the palm of his hand when she noticed a faint scar on
his wrist. Too curious not to ask, she blurted out: "What happened?"
"I told you," Dave stated, and she glanced up, confused. "I
accidentally punched a window."
"No. I mean here," she said, and then reached out with a gloved finger
to trace his scar. He flinched so violently it caused her to pull the
suture right out, effectively cutting his skin. "I'm sorry, I didn't
mean to startle you."
"No, no, that's...okay," he replied quietly, but did not speak any
further, leaving her question unanswered, perhaps forever. She let it
go, knowing it was probably none of her business anyway. She heard him
take in a sharp breath, and was about to apologize for hurting him
when she realized he was crying. He seemed to realize it too, and
flushed with embarrassment as he furiously wiped away his tears. "I'm
sorry. I'm sorry, I'm just...fucked up. I think I'm drunk."
"Dave, we both know that isn't true," she stated, not only because he
didn't appear inebriated in the slightest, but also because he wasn't
stupid. "You wouldn't jeopardize your recovery like that. And if you
did you wouldn't come here. Would you?" He shook his head, trying to
hide his face from her by looking away. "Dave, are you okay?" He shook
his head again, before reconsidering and nodding. "Do you want to talk
about it?" Another shake of his head. "Are you sure?"
He met her eye, and for an instant his eyes told her everything and
nothing all at the same time. Then, just as suddenly, the moment was
gone as he looked away, the sound of the door opening scaring him back
into his shell. Annoyed, Kerry glanced up to see John enter the room,
holding an envelope in one hand and an x-ray film in the other.
"John, can you please give us a minute?" she asked.
"What?" He seemed genuinely puzzled. "I just got back with the films."
"I know," she said. "But just give us a minute."
"Is something wrong?"
"John, please."
"It's okay, he can stay," Dave interjected, his voice quavering and
giving away more than he'd intended it to. He just didn't want to be
alone in the room with Dr. Weaver anymore, afraid he'd say something
he'd later regret. Here he was already crying like a baby, and
hopefully with John here he'd be forced to keep up the façade and calm
down. With as much cheer as he could muster - which really wasn't much
at all - he asked: "How's it look?"
"Broken," he replied, much to Dave's dismay. He stuck the films into
the light box, turning it on and showing the two doctors. "Not your
hand though, only your ring and little finger, so you won't need a
cast. But you'll need splints."
"Shit," Dave hissed, just as Weaver turned his hand to start suturing
a cut across his knuckles. "I'm stuck with scutwork now, aren't I?"
"Next time try watching what you hit," Dr. Weaver warned.
John was suddenly leaning over his shoulder, his face very close to
Dave's as he watched Dr. Weaver working. "If you try a horizontal
mattress it'll scar less."
"This way is least likely to get infected," she stated
matter-of-factly, not glancing up from her work. "Flawless skin won't
matter when he has to get his fingers removed."
"Oh, come on," the Chief Resident said, incredulous. "The chances of
it getting infected - "
"John," Dave jutted in, his voice laced with exasperation. Kerry
glanced up, curious at the fact that Dave had used his first name
instead of his last, like she'd always heard him do. She was surprised
at what she saw: they were looking into each other's eyes, John's
displaying his pure concern and Dave's showing his desperation. But it
was more than that...it was...it was like the hand that John softly
brushed against Dave's neck, but condensed into a gaze. Both the
gesture and the stare surprised her, and she suddenly felt like a
peeping tom. Something was definitely going on, but did she have a
right to interpret it?
"Sorry," John said softly, stepping back, pulling his hand away from
Dave's skin. He cleared his throat, as Dave turned back to his
sutures. "Uh...I'm going to wait outside."
"You can stay if you want," Dave stated. "The Chief's almost done
anyway, right?"
"Yes," she replied hesitantly, still slightly puzzled. "I just need to
get you those splints and then we'll be done. You can get those, John,
from the supply closet."
Quickly, John left the room, closing the door behind him as he stepped
into the hall. As he walked, he ducked away from a few gossiping
nurses, hearing all about Dave throwing some guy in a bar through a
window. Shaking his head, he made his way into the supply closet,
sighing as he half-heartedly searched the shelves. He hadn't really
meant to touch Dave like that, especially in front of Kerry, and he
was surprised he'd displayed such an affectionate gesture in public
without thinking. But he'd been so focused on Dave he'd almost
forgotten their boss was in the room.
God...what was he going to do? He couldn't help Dave, didn't even know
how, really. He supposed he'd have to talk with Dave's psychiatrist
about this. He was still seeing her about his addiction, and although
her specialty was substance abuse, perhaps she could help with this,
or maybe give Dave a referral. Perhaps John could even tell her -
vaguely - what had just happened in hopes that it would help her.
Although, after their last conversation, when John had expressed his
concern over Dave's mental stability, from what she said about their
sessions together Dave wasn't forthcoming about much. At least if John
told her, then she could bring it up. But, knowing Dave, this would
probably piss him off, and he might stop seeing her altogether once he
was aware she knew.
Another sigh later, and John was making his way back into the exam
room, splints in hand. Soon, Dave's broken fingers were bandaged up,
the young resident examining them with distaste. This was really going
to put a damper in his shift, which, as he glanced at the clock, was
at noon. It was already six o'clock. By the time Dave had finished
talking to John and the latter had managed to convince him to come to
the hospital to get his hand checked out, it'd been very early in the
morning. X-rays and sutures had taken up the rest of the time, along
with a wait for Dr. Weaver to be finished with her last patient. Now,
hours later, they were finally on their way out.
"Dr. Malucci," Weaver said to him, as she walked them to the ambulance
bay entrance. "Don't bother coming in today. You won't be able to get
anything done, you can't even suture with those fingers."
"Chief..." he began to protest. "I can come in. I can do other cases."
"If you come in," she threatened, "you're fired."
"Then I guess I'm staying home."
"John," she said then, stopping in her walk with them at the door.
"Can I speak with you privately, please?"
John caught Dave's eye, who was looking at him with apprehension.
Tonight, Dave had finally trusted him with his deepest secrets, and no
way was John going to betray that trust now. He nodded reassuringly at
the younger man, saying: "I'll meet you at the car, okay?" Hesitantly,
Dave turned and continued walking through the ambulance bay doors, and
John glanced at Kerry expectantly. "What is it, Dr. Weaver?"
"John..." she started, her eyes showing her confusion and worry. She
sighed deeply, leaning on her cane more heavily than usual as one of
her hands ran nervously through her hair. "Look...I...I don't know
what happened tonight. I know what you said, but let's just say I
don't believe you. It seems as if...I don't know what it seems. I just
know that it might not be my business, but I'm...concerned. If you
need anything...if *Dave* needs anything...you know where to each me."
"Thanks, Kerry," he responded, trying to smile as reassuringly as he
could, but he knew he was failing miserably. Even *he* didn't know if
Dave was going to be okay, and he knew exactly what had gone on only a
few hours ago. But, she seemed satisfied with his reply, and she
nodded before turning and moving into the Lounge.
The ride home had been just as silent as the ride there, and when they
got into the apartment Abby was getting ready to leave for her
scheduled shift. She seemed to feel awkward for a moment, not knowing
what to do at first, before she approached the two men, who were
taking off their coats at the door. She glanced at Dave with pure
concern, asking him how he felt.
"Hungover," he replied, and it was true. He felt like he'd just woken
up with a killer migraine, a stomachache, and stiff muscles, as if
he'd been out partying the night before. He could only wish that were
the case. Tiredly, he rubbed his eyes, sighing. "I'll just sleep it
off."
"Okay," she said, and then suddenly hugged him. It surprised him, but
somehow it was...nice. Reassuring. He hugged her back, silently
thanking her. There was something unique about a hug from a best
friend, something that could always manage to cheer you up, even if it
was just a little bit. She leaned out of the embrace then, grabbing
her coat off the rack along with her purse. "I'll see you guys after
my shift. Uh...bye."
"Hey, Abby?" Dave asked, before she left.
"Yeah?"
"We told them...at the ER, that I got into a fight in a bar," he
stated, his eyes cast to the floor. "You won't...you know..."
She walked over to him, gently leaning up to kiss him on the mouth.
"Don't worry, Dave," she said, hugging him once more, this time
tightly. "Your secret is safe with me, I promise."
"Thanks."
"You bet."
After she left, John followed Dave down the hall and into the bedroom,
watching him carefully, trying to gauge how he was feeling. He could
really only imagine the pain that his lover must be going through, the
pure hurt that must've been carried with him throughout his entire
life. Briefly, he wished that Dave's father was still alive so he
could use some influence to make his life a living Hell, and suddenly
he wondered exactly how the man died. He wasn't about to ask, but it
was something to store for future conversation.
He undressed as Dave did, until both were only clad in their boxers
and undershirts. They were equally exhausted, wanting nothing more
than to crawl into bed, but when Dave moved under the covers John
hesitated, standing there until Dave noticed, his expression showing
his puzzlement.
"Are you going to lay down?" he asked.
"I...I didn't know if..." He sighed, unsure of how exactly to express
himself. "I didn't know if you'd want some...space."
Dave glanced at the empty space next to him, before looking up at
John. "I want you here."
"Okay," John said quietly, before moving under the covers. He kept his
distance, however, unsure of how much he was really wanted. He got his
answer when the young man moved close to him, resting against his
chest, listening to his heartbeat. Assured, John wrapped his arms
around Dave, holding him close, never wanting to sleep anywhere else
but with him in this bed. Dave was safe now, and John was going to
keep him that way, no matter what it took.
"John?" the other man asked hesitantly. He shifted, so that he was on
his stomach and looking into John's eyes. "I...I want you to know
that...what I said before...about...about loving you? I meant it. I
love you, John...I love you more than anything I've ever loved in my
entire life, and it's..."
"Scary?" he offered, when Dave trailed off.
"Wonderful," he clarified, and then smiled softly, a smile that
reached his eyes and touched John's heart. Gently, he leaned down and
kissed John's lips, but soon his kiss was more fervent, more
passionate, as his hands roamed and his fingers explored. John allowed
him to do it, but didn't reciprocate much more than the kiss, unsure
of how to act because he didn't know how Dave would *re*act,
especially after last night. But the younger man pulled back, his eyes
desperate and pleading, expressing a sort of urgency that John had
never seen before. "Help me forget. Please? Just...just help me forget
everything. Everything except...you. Please?"
"Are you sure, Dave?"
"Please, John. Make me forget..."
Silently, he nodded, capturing Dave's lips in a kiss as he ran his
hands up Dave's beater, his fingers running over the toned muscles and
marred skin. And Dave did the same, tracing up John's chest before
pushing his shirt up and away, the older man sitting up slightly to
allow him to get it off completely. Dave sat up, straddling John's
thighs as he removed his own shirt, and for a moment, he paused,
glancing down at his bare chest as his fingers traced feather-light
over his scars. He glanced up into John's eyes, his own expressing his
absolute anguish, but soon something else flashed over them, a mix
between anger and determination, and he leaned down to kiss John
again, hard and feverishly.
Their underwear were soon on the floor, and then covers were pushed
aside by their movements. With dark eyes Dave watched John prepare
himself, and then he was positioned before him, John's legs wrapped
tightly around him as he entered him, guiding him and urging him
forward. And Dave moved with him, agonizingly slow, his arms
supporting his weight as he kept John's gaze.
"Oh, God..." Dave whispered, as he closed his eyes. "God, John...I
love you...I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you..."
He picked up the pace then, the words turning into unintelligible
moans as he thrust harder and faster, his brow furrowed, sweat
glistening over his body. He was leaning close to John now, his lips
touching his ear as he breathed raggedly and unevenly. "God...God..."
he whispered, breathing harder now, until he was near
hyperventilation, and John felt his body tense against him, knew he
was going to come soon. And he held onto Dave tight, allowing himself
to be used for comfort like this, knowing Dave needed it right now.
Sharply, Dave breathed, and John was suddenly aware of the fact that
he was barely able to contain his composure. He was leaning back
slightly now, not much but enough for John to be able to see his face,
and he could see the hurt there, and also anger at the fact that he
couldn't control his own emotions. He met John's eye, and quickly
regained his resolve, thrusting hard, a little too hard but John
didn't mind. This wasn't about him right now.
Faster, faster than what seemed humanly possible, and Dave thrust one
final time, holding his position and moaning inarticulately as he
came. Once his body was no longer tense, he collapsed atop of John,
his head buried in the crook of John's neck, but his breathing only
became more erratic as he began to cry.
"Shhhh..." John soothed, smoothing Dave's hair back with one hand as
he rubbed comforting circles on his back with the other. "You're okay,
Dave...you'll be okay, I promise. You'll be okay...it's okay, Dave,
it's okay..."
"I wish I could believe you, John," Dave said. "I really wish I could,
but I can't...I'm so fucked up, I'm so...I'm so sorry, John, I'm so
sorry. I've hurt so many people, and I'm so sorry...I'm so sorry..."
"It's okay, Dave," John said, holding tightly and rocking him
soothingly. "It's okay, Dave, I promise...you're going to be okay. I
promise, Dave, I promise... Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow,
but someday, Dave, I promise...I promise..."
But whom was he really trying to convince? he wondered, as he
continued to hold Dave and comfort him, until the younger man cried
himself to sleep. And John fell asleep soon too, wondering how in hell
he was going to fix this, wondering if he could. And promising that he
would do everything in his power to try.
--------------------------------
We were innocent
--------------------------------
To be continued..
Copyright Footer', 'This site is not affiliated in any way with "ER", its writers or production company, or NBC, and makes no profit from the show. The ERROS skin is by Brihana. The script is eFiction version 3.4.2© Tammy Keefer, http://efiction.org\r\n