Who am I today?

Who do I think I am today?

Someone different than yesterday? The day before? Last week? Last year?

Different than the person I was before my brains got scrambled with a baseball bat?

Maybe.

Yes.

Yes, I’m someone different.

Yes, I’m scared. Yes, I’m angry. Yes, I want to kick Hobbs’ fucking brains in.

Yes, sometimes I don’t like myself very much.

Yes, yes, yes, yes.

You GODDAMNMOTHERFUCKINGASSHOLEPIECEOFSHITLOSERDICKFACEJACKASSBASTARDFUCKER!

I suck in a gasp of air as if those words really came from my mouth.

But they didn’t.

No, they didn’t. They rang in my ears. Bounced around in my brain. But I just stood there silent. Face to face with Chris again for the first time in almost two years. I heard Cody’s voice. I heard Chris’s voice. But I couldn’t process.

Chris was standing in front of me. Fucking Chris Hobbs. Looking at me. Standing two feet away from me, that sneer on his face, that look in his eye, and I coulda swung at him, coulda kicked out his feet, coulda lunged at him, throwing him to the hard pavement. I coulda screamed all these words at him and pounded in his head while I did it.

But I didn’t.

I froze.

And at the end, all I heard was faggot. For the six millionth time in my life. That was it.

Snatches of the prom, pieces of memory and made up dreams all flitted through my head. I remembered something when I looked at him, but it was quickly washed away by this overwhelming feeling of wanting to just cover my hands over my head and bury myself in the ground. To run, get away, flee from this place, this person, this situation.

I felt embarrassed and ashamed and cowardly.

Proved I was a coward. I couldn’t stand up to him. Couldn’t before, couldn’t now. Proved that no matter how much time goes by, it’ll never get better. I’ll always fear him, always have nightmares, always get that feeling in the pit of my stomach in large crowds, always… always… always…

Be brain-damaged and permanently injured.

Because of him. And he doesn’t care. Doesn’t regret it. Not one bit.

No remorse. How can that be? I can’t understand hating someone so much that you’re sorry that they’re not dead because of you. That you wish them dead.

I don’t get that. I can’t.

Cody feels that way. I know he does. He wishes people dead.

I can’t.

But I know I’m not the same as Cody.

I take another drag on the cigarette and keep staring at the target hanging on the wall. Staring at the hole where I imagined Chris’ forehead should be.

Don’t know where Daphne is. Haven’t talked to Brian in two days.

Have this slip of paper in my hand with Hobbs’ address. Easy enough to have found. Easy enough to have figured out.

But I never wanted to find him. Never wanted to see him again.

Never.

Remember seeing him at the hospice, remember running away, my feet slipping on the wet tile, remember running down the front steps of the hospice and leaving Em there. Remember getting to the loft and sliding open the door and locking it behind me. Remember lying on the bed and curling the pillow over my head and blocking everything out.

Remember waiting for Brian to get home. To tell him. To let him know.

Wanting him to do something, even though I know there was nothing he could possibly do.

Remember feeling helpless. Vulnerable. Weak.

And after two years, you’d think I’d have gotten over it.

But I didn’t. I haven’t.

The phone rings and I check the call display. Cody. I pick it up and arrange to meet him downstairs in 15 minutes.

Deep breaths.

I tear down the target and crumple it up into the smallest ball that I can and shove it deep into the garbage. I put my pink posse t-shirt in too, pushing it down underneath banana peels and junk mail.

This ends tonight.

Go downstairs and wait for Cody, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk until he gets there. We climb on the bus and ride out to Chris’ house in the suburbs, Cody whispering words into my ear, telling me how good this is going to feel, telling me I have to do it, telling me this is the right thing to do. But all I can focus on is my squirming stomach, the shakiness in my knees, the way my palms feel clammy and cool.

We finally get there and wait outside, sitting on his porch. I keep wiping my palms on my pants and Cody keeps giving me sideways glances. He can’t know what this feels like. No one can. No one ever could.

And finally Chris’ SUV pulls up and Cody grabs my jacket, pulling me to my feet, and we step in front of him as he gets out of the car.

My heart rings in my ears again. I have to focus. Have to get past...

And then I find my voice and tell Chris I want an apology. He looks at me, asks me for what, and I tell him. Recite off what I memorized, because I knew if I didn’t have it written down and read it over and over and over again nothing would come out when he looked at me. Just like yesterday at the construction site. Just like at the hospice.

“For bashing me. For causing me brain damage and permanent injury. For giving me nightmares every night for two years. For filling me with fear every time I walk out the door. For treating me like a sub-human who doesn’t deserve to live,” I say these words and they mean something to me. They mean everything to me.

Chris looks at me. Blank. “That’s what you are, Taylor,” he says, leaning into me.

No! I want to yell out. NOW! I scream in my head. NOW! Do it! Push him away, take him down, kick him in the head, do anything, everything, do what you’ve done to others, do what you’ve practiced, learned, do what you’ve wanted to do...

But I can’t. I’m paralyzed. Can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t speak.

I think I’m in shock.

Chris pushes past us, his hand pressing up against my chest and I feel revolted. Smell his cheap cologne, his day old sweat, and all I can think of is how can you do that? How can you hate me so much?

I feel emasculated. Then Cody puts the gun in my hand, and I stop thinking. I wrap my fingers around the metal, feel the power and strength and imagine Chris’ head on that target again. I quickly folllow after Chris and steal Cody’s words and scream out...

“Don’t… fuck… with… me!” They’re not my words, they’re his words, but they’re coming out of my mouth, my shaking body, wracking inside, scared shitless of what I might do, what he might do and then I’ve got Chris on his knees in front of me, like a movie, like a Tarantino film, but this isn’t a movie, it’s real, it’s happening, the knot in my stomach, my shaking hand, everything is so real.

He’s still mocking me, trying to placate me, treating me like a child, like an idiot. Thinks I’m playing a game, and maybe he believes that right up until I press the barrel to his head hard enough to leave an imprint.

I shake my head slowly at his pleas to stop.

And I make him apologize. Force it out of him, one piece at a time. Not because I need to hear it anymore. Not because I think the remote possibility is even there that he would mean it. No, I make him apologize because I know he hates it. More than anything. Maybe more than me.

The words stutter out of his mouth slowly, but it’s not enough.

I lift the gun from his forehead, give him a split second to think that maybe this is over. That maybe I’ll show him the mercy that he failed to show me.

No such luck. I look at his big stupid face, and think about what he would hate even more.

“Now suck on this,” I spit at him. I push the gun in his face and keep yelling at him until he takes it between his lips. Watch him take the cool metal into his mouth. Watch him humiliate himself at my feet.

“Now you know what it feels like,” I tell him, staring right into his eyes, making sure he hears me, understands me. “The fear that all faggots feel, all their lives. Walking down the street, holding hands,” I take a breath. Even though I’m saying these things, I know they’re not really true. He could never, ever, ever know what it really feels like.

But this is close enough. My hand shakes and I can feel the barrel of the gun clicking against his teeth.

“Because of assholes like you!” I scream at him suddenly, and I see him jump. “And you know what?”

I cock the gun and he starts to cry, hollow sobs that echo through the barrel. I want to shove it down his throat. Smash it across his face. Pound his fucking head in. Kick him and punch him and make him stop breathing. I hate him. I despise him. More than anything, anyone, ever in my life.

“We’re tired of it,” I stare into his pathetic face and let my finger dance on the trigger.

Cody tells me to do it. Do it, do it, do it.

But this isn’t Cody’s fight.

This is my fight.

My battle to win or lose.

My life to justify.

My life.

Which is far from being over.

I know there are no bullets in this gun. I know that nothing would happen if I pulled the trigger. A puff of air and nothing more.

But that’s not the point.

I don’t need to pull the trigger.

This is worse.

Now he’ll always carry the same burden that I do.

He’ll always wonder...

What if...?

What if he hit me... a fraction of an inch this way... or that way...

What if he hit me at a different angle? Or even a little bit harder?

What if he hit Brian too?

What if he hadn’t dropped the bat? What if Brian hadn’t hit him back? What if I hadn’t recovered? What if I was a vegetable forever?

What if I died?

What if... it never happened?

Who would I be then? What kind of a life would I have had? What life was I meant to have?

Those are my what if’s... that I carry with me forever. That haunt me, that plague me, that make me lie awake at night.

Chris can carry his own. He can jump every time he hears a familar *click*. He can peer down dark alleys and wonder if the crazy faggot is going to show up again. Chris can wonder what if... I pulled the trigger.

And I’ll know that I’m man enough not to.

I stare into his face. And all I see now is that scared kid. Remember that look, fuck, that look on his face when I called his shit on Liberty Avenue. That’s who I see now. A pathetic, sorry, worthless human being.

That’s all he is. All he’ll ever be.

I take a breath and pull the gun from his mouth. Tell him to go inside. Let him go.

Let it go.

Cody starts yelling at me, and I pass him back the gun. Cody’s angry, Cody’s pissed, Cody’s pushing at me, trying to control me, make me as angry as him, as frustrated as him, as full of hatred as him.

Cody is self-loathing. I think I just realized that.

I’m proud. I have family and friends that love me. I have a partner that loves me even more. I have everything I could possibly want, including my self-respect.

That’s something Cody will never have.

And I have a conscience.

Something Chris will never have.

I’m a better man than both of them.

I walk away and leave it all behind. It’s over.

Over.

It’s too quiet.

I haven’t talked to him since he stormed out. Since he grabbed that gun outta my hand and left. Walked out the door.

But I can’t call him back. Can’t chase after him.

There’s nothing I can say. Nothing he wants to hear, anyway.

Instead I throw myself into work. Instead I try not to listen to Daphne. Instead I sit here and think about the things I could’ve said, I could’ve done. Think about the past and think about the future and think about what might happen today or tomorrow.

I think about Justin and what he’s doing tonight.

Daphne’s words run through my head.

He’s already hurt. I’m hurt. Can I take any more? Can he?

And what did I say?

At least he’ll know he stood up, fought back, and didn’t run away.

False words. Stupid words. That I didn’t mean, didn’t believe, didn’t want to say. Is that how I felt when I stood up? When I showed up at his prom? With my ideals and trying to make a point? When I tried to help him stand up and fight back?

Was all that worth it?

Of course not.

And now he’s got a gun. Going after a fucking psychopath with a gun. With another goddamn psycho at his side.

This isn’t Justin. This isn’t Justin. This can’t be Justin.

God.

The latch on the door opens with a clunk and my heart stops. The hollow sound of the door sliding opens echoes through the loft.

“Justin?” I call out without even thinking. I take a deep breath and jump to my feet, taking a few steps to stand at the top of the stairs to the bedroom.

It’s dark in here. I’ve been lying in the dark since the sun went down.

He shuffles into the loft, kicking off his shoes. I step down to the bottom step then stop, holding onto the wall, holding on to anything.

He doesn’t look up, just takes a breath, and pulls off his jacket, throwing it to the ground. Head down, eyes focused somewhere else. Mind focused somewhere else.

“Hey,” my voice bounces off the walls.

He raises his head and looks at me, his face a blank canvas, his eyes dark, his skin pale.

A few steps closer, then more, then he’s in my arms, grabbing me around the waist tightly. He pulls me down to sit on the top step, and curls between my thighs, wrapping his arms around my leg, resting his head on my thigh.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice coming out barely more than a whisper.

He shakes his head. “No.” His voice is broken.

I put my hand on his back and feel him shivering beneath my fingers. “What happened?”

He sucks in a breath then lets it out again. “Nothing. Nothing happened,” he says, and turns his face into my thigh, pressing his eyes against the denim.

I touch the back of his head, smoothing my fingers across the short hair, remembering days when I could comb my fingers through every strand.

His back starts to shake beneath my hand and then I hear him… soft gasps of air, deep heavy breaths, a quiet breakdown that builds into nothing more than sniffles and silent sobbing. He curls up tighter and all I can do is stroke his back, his hair and lean over him, trying to hold him. Try to get my whole body around him and to cover him.

Protect him from something inside that I know couldn’t ever possibly protect him from.

The loft echoes with his tears and I whisper over and over it’s okay, it’s okay, even though I know that’s bullshit.

Slowly it stops, fading away to silence. He sighs deeply and lifts his head, leaving big wet patches on my jeans, red streaks across his cheeks. Pushes his hand across his face, wiping his nose, his eyes.

I look at him and blink hard a few times.

“It’s over, Brian. It’s all over,” he says and takes a deep breath. “I…” he stops and looks down at his hands. “I’m not crying any more over fucking Hobbs,” he clears his throat and swallows hard.

“It’s okay to cry, Justin,” I put my hand on the back of his neck and he looks up at me. 

“Not because of him. Not because of that,” he says, and leans against my chest. His voice is steady and his eyes are clear. He’s stopped shaking and I hope to God I have too. I press my cheek to his head and brush my stubble across his short hair.

“Listen… I’m going to stay here tonight, okay?” he starts to stand up and grabs my fingers.

“Like you need to ask,” I say, and he leans down and kisses me.

He pulls his shirt over his head, and starts to unbutton his pants. “I need a shower.” He heads off to the bathroom, and I debate following him, joining him, but I don’t.

I wait for the water to stop running and bring him his sweat pants and a t-shirt to change into.

“You hungry?” I ask, and he shrugs.

“I guess,” he pulls the clothes on and rubs the towel across his head.

“Well, c’mon,” I grab his hand and drag him into the kitchen. I open up the fridge and have a look inside, then reach for the peanut butter and the loaf of bread.

“Sandwich?” I ask, holding them up.

He nods just barely. “Sure.”

I pull out two pieces of bread and start to spread peanut butter over one of the slices. “You wanna talk about it?” I say quietly. I want to know and I don’t.

I hear him sigh and I raise my eyes just a little to look at him.

He starts shaking his head. “Not really.”

I cut his sandwich in half and put it on a plate and slide it over to him. He picks at the corner of the bread and breaks off a small piece, putting it in his mouth.

I don’t say anything, just watch him chew and swallow, then pull off another small piece. I pour him a glass of milk, and he drinks half of it in one gulp.

“I know you probably don’t want to hear this… but… I can’t ever put it behind me. Being bashed. I… I just have to deal with it. Live with it,” he says and picks up half the sandwich, taking a bite.

“Since when do you give a fuck about telling me what I want to hear,” I say softly, then catch his gaze, letting the corner of my mouth lift in a grin.

He smiles a little and sips at the milk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and pushing the rest of the sandwich over to me.

I grab his hand and squeeze his fingers together.

“Justin,” I say… holding on to him. He looks up at me, blue eyes that can’t ever lie. Blue eyes that see right through me.

“Yeah?” he says back, his thumb rubbing over the top of my hand.

“You’re the bravest person I know,” I barely whisper. I want to tell him more, want to tell him I’m proud, that I was scared, that I didn’t want him hurt. I want to tell him that he’s important to me, that he’s strong and courageous and so fucking amazing. I want to tell him everything but all those words get stuck in my throat and I just hold on to him by the barest thread.

He shakes his head and looks down at his glass. “No… I’m not,” he says quietly.

I grab his chin in my hand and force him to look at me. “You fucking are,” I say and stare at him till he nods.

My hand falls and he glances down at his fingers, tracing a pattern on the countertop. “I think I’m going to bed now,” he says softly. “I’m really tired.”

I nod and clean up the dishes, hear him walk up the stairs to the bedroom, the soft flop as his shirt and pants fall to the floor, the swish of the duvet being pulled aside.

Then it’s quiet again. I walk towards the bedroom… pull my shirt over my head… climb up the steps. He’s curled up on his side, pillow bunched up in his arms. I stare at him for a minute. Watch him in the dark shadows of the room.

He rolls over on to his back suddenly, giving me a look. “You coming or what?” he asks, a wide grin on his face.

I laugh a little through my nose. “Yeah, I’m coming,” I answer and pull off my jeans, climbing into bed beside him, kissing him hard, taking his breath away. I slide on top of him, his warm body pressing up against mine, and kiss him over and over and over till I can’t breathe anymore. Till I can’t taste anything but him. Till my mouth is covered with his spit and his hands leave warm patches on my back and his cock is pushing hard into my stomach.

He says he can live with it. He says it’s over. He says that it’s done and dealt with and a part of his life.

He’s right. It is part of his life, who he is, the man he’s become.

I just wish I had the courage to deal with it as well as he does. I wish I could confront my fear, wish I could confront the pain, wish I could recognize it all for what it is and learn to live with it.

I wish all those things and more, then get lost… climb down his body and take his cock into my mouth and feel his fingers in my hair and I forget everything and get caught up in him.

I share his courage, his bravery, his strength. And I share what I can back with him.