Message in a Bottle

Chapter 2

7 MONTHS LATER

POV BRIAN

I wince as I carefully climb down the deep, nearly sheer cliff face, knowing all the foot and hand holds by heart. My ankle is killing me but I had to get out of there. I finally get down onto the craggy, rocky beach and sigh with relief. I look down at my ankle and feel a tear at the corner of my eye. "Fuck it! That bastard!"

While I love Ireland and my grandfather's place, I hate *him*. My father is definitely his father's son, that's for sure. Jack is just a less senile version of his father.

Anyway, here I am; some months after graduating high school, upon Jack's insistence, I came to my grandfather's house in a small town a little ways from Galway, to spend (waste) over half of the year that I'm taking off before college with Jack's dear old dad. 'You have to know your roots and that takes time, Sonny Boy!' Jack had said. My roots are the last thing I wanted to know about- but I'd get away from Jack and Joanie for awhile, I figured.

Although, Jack doesn't dare try to hit me anymore now that I'm bigger and stronger than he is, I still hate the man and that house is simply oppressive. I wanted to get away. And I was curious to see Ireland- the pictures I'd seen of the landscape and castles were so beautiful.

But I found out quickly that grandfather's not much different than Jack used to be as far as abuse goes. And unlike with Jack, I don't fight back against my grandfather - he's an old, decrepit, withering man; I can't strike an old man. With grandfather, I just try to get away which is usually pretty easy. But not always- senile or not, he has tricks and he ambushes me when I'm sleeping; grandfather uses his mahogany cane- he goes crazy- and seems to think I'm Jack all the time. I don't look anything at all like Jack did at my age, but that doesn't seem to occur to the old bat. Still, as I said, I don't strike back- and usually, the blows of his cane are relatively lame given his weakened condition. But not always.

Luckily, I've found this haven: a sheltered, rocky beach surrounded by near-sheer cliffs that I doubt many could scale up or down without knowing my secret holds in the granite walls. I'm 'safe' here, and watch the waves crash against the craggy boulders. Luckily, even at high tide there are rocks to perch on, and there's even a cave if it rains. I've stocked the cave with supplies and food because sometimes I'll stay down here for a week at a time, knowing full well that when I get back to the house I'll bear the brunt of that fucking cane, usually at some time when I least expect it. Grandfather likes to come up behind me or wait 'till I'm asleep because otherwise he knows in that demented mind of his that I'll get the cane away from him. Grandfather likes to use canes; Jack branched out into belts, hockey sticks, ice skates and all sorts of weapons. Jack's so much more versatile.

True to form, grandfather woke me up at dawn this morning with a crack to my face and then my ankle. The physical pain grandfather inflicted this morning bothers me, yes- but I'm used to pain. What really makes me sad is that I was really looking forward to playing in the annual Galway soccer tournament tomorrow, my last day here. But now I can't. As soon as I felt the blow to my ankle, I knew there was no way I could play. It was sheer will that got me down that cliff wall just now.

I wipe away one stray tear and pull the ice pack from the back pocket of my loose cargo shorts. I limp over to 'my' high, flat boulder half of which is submerged in the water and I sit at the edge. I remove my sneaker and then I dangle my rapidly swelling, purple ankle in the icy water. I then hold the ice pack to the left side of my face, which is certainly swelling and I'm sure from experience, turning a lovely shade of purple/blue. Fuck. I have to think, as much as I'd rather not, of the irony. Here I thought I'd gotten away from this shit after showing Jack who was bigger and stronger. Jack finally leaves me alone and then his dad takes over.

Grandfather was in a particularly nasty mood this morning, it would seem. Maybe because I leave the day after tomorrow. I was fast asleep and then I felt this searing pain in my ankle and he started yelling, "Get up, Jack, you lazy ass!" as he kept hitting me with his cane. I spun around, having been asleep on my stomach and before I could focus on the cane, it smashed me in the face and I grabbed it and pulled it away from him. I raised it to clock the motherfucker and he cringed. I made a threatening motion and he cowered lower. I finally just told the old fuck to get out of my room. He limped away hurriedly.

And now at least I have a cane- which I need because my ankle is fucked up beyond belief.

I will *never* have children if this is the Kinney legacy.

The cool water feels good on my ankle as the sun beats down and warms the rocks. Idly moving my foot in circles in the water, I remove my shirt and lay back, trying not to feel my disappointment about the missed soccer game. As I was packing months ago for this extended 'visit', playing in the big game was really the only thing I was excited about- I was really looking forward to it; partly because I love soccer, I'm good at it and it's such a huge event in Galway- a big, big game that's like a big party for the town; and partly I was looking forward to it because it marked the day before I went back to the Pitts. As soon as I'm back there, I'm going to move out of Jack and Joanie's horror house and be free of them. I'll be staying with Emmett of all people- but he's better by far than Ma and Pa Kinney. Once Carnegie Mellon's about to start, I'll move into the dorms. And I'll start my life. *My* life.

I throw an arm over my face to keep the sun out of my eyes, being sure the ice pack on my face stays in place, and I start to doze. Luckily, I don't really need much sunscreen, I seem to reach a certain level of tan and stay that way. I recall some kid who was blowing me calling me a golden Adonis; I'd burst out laughing- I *still* crack up over that. I'm a fucking scarred, damaged freak! I begin to feel a thin sheen of sweat form over my body despite the ice pack on my face and the cold water on my foot. The warmth of the sun feels so good caressing my body.

I begin to slip away into a deeper sleep when something bumps my cold, nearly numb ankle. What the fuck! I kick it away and begin dozing again. Whatever it is bumps my leg again and I curse out loud- there's no litter here on this part of the coast! What IS this thing? I remove my arm and the ice pack from my face, push myself up onto my elbows and look at the offending object in the water. A bottle. Why the fuck would a coke bottle end up here? These rocks and waves surely would have crushed it by now!

While I don't like grandfather, I do like Ireland and its beautiful landscape and rocky beaches- especially my own beach haven- and I don't want it to become a littered shore like the ones in the US. I painfully bend over, reach into the water and pull out the bottle. Immediately I notice that it's not a regular coke bottle- it's heavier glass. I peer at it and see a piece of paper inside.

Oh, good lord. I feel like I've received a chain letter or something! Still, I manage after some effort to get the sturdy cork out and I fish the note out with my pinkie. I unfurl it and try to read it with my one unswollen eye. The first thing I see is a beautifully rendered sketch of a young man, about my age or a little younger, at the top of the page. He's smiling- beaming really- and even though it's in pencil, it's apparent he's blond. There's a seascape behind him, a sandy beach- he's not from near here, obviously. Inadvertently, I trace my finger across the image's lips. Then I decide, what the hell- and read the letter.

"September 14

"Dear finder of this message:

"My name is Justin and I'm a 16-year-old gay male. I attend a Catholic school in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, a school that is filled with homophobes- both students and faculty. So, me telling you I'm gay means I'm basically outing myself to a stranger via a message in a bottle. Odd."

Hm, I think to myself. He's from the Pitts too. Wow. Small world. This bottle traveled quite some way if it came all the way from the States. Obviously not directly from Pittsburgh as there's no ocean near that godforsaken city.

"My parents don't know I'm gay- my father in particular has very strong negative feelings about homosexuals and thinks they're all perverted child molesters with no morals who should burn in hell. It's alienating to know that if your own father found out you were gay, not only would he think those things of you, but he'd disown you after probably beating the crap out of you. That's what my dad would do; I know because there was a story in the paper about a father who killed his son after the boy came out-- and after reading it aloud at the breakfast table, my dad got this creepy grin on his face and said, 'Good riddance.' It gave me chills.

"Fuck. I can't wait to get out of this school, and my house"

'Amen, brother,' I think to myself.

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this, stranger. Maybe I'm kind of purging my fears and feelings that have been lodged in my soul since I was a kid and I first knew I was gay. Basically, I have no one else to talk to about it. I have a friend, Daphne, but she's straight, and while she knows I'm gay and is very supportive, she doesn't know what it's like to live in fear of someone somehow finding out who she is and beating her up or worse.

"Needless to say, I'm a virgin (a frustrated one!). I try to act straight around people. It hurts inside to have to deny to the outside world who I am.

"I want to become an artist (the portrait at the top of this message is of me- it's not terribly good, but so it goes); but my father thinks that's for 'pansies and fairies' and I should be playing sports and aiming for colleges that have strong business programs, not fine arts. His alma mater is Dartmouth, so that's where he's pressuring me to go. I want to go to the Pittsburgh Academy of Fine Arts. He and I haven't had that argument yet, as I haven't told him about it. It's yet again another way in which I'm denying who I am.

"Wow, writing a message in a bottle that may be read by a total stranger (or that will more likely be swallowed by the sea) is like writing in a diary!

"I don't dare keep a real diary and voice these things- my parents snoop and would find and read it. And that would be it for me.

"I do sketch, but I keep my sketch books locked in my school locker, although that's risky too: several jocks at my school like to hassle me at my locker. A favorite game they like is to snatch whatever they can from my locker as I get my bag and play 'keep-away'. Thinking about it, I guess I really should destroy the drawings, as many are of naked men. If the jocks saw those images, it'd be even more a living hell for me at school than it already is.

"One male image I keep drawing and re-drawing is of a beautiful, tall, sad young man. He has these haunting, deep eyes and a beautiful physique. And I don't know why, the image just keeps unfolding on the pages- it's mysterious, really. And a little creepy because I've never seen anyone like him- it's not a real person. Just some figment of my imagination. Maybe I'll destroy my other drawings but fold one or two of those sketches up and keep them in my shoe or something so they don't get found. This is the guy- in case I can't keep *any* of my sketches, by putting the image in this letter, I'll at least know it exists on paper somewhere."

I look at the image he's sketched out and my mouth drops open. The letter almost flutters out of my fingers in the sea breeze and I quickly tighten my grip to prevent from losing it.

The image is of me. I hear Twilight Zone music in my head and I close my mouth with a clomp before I start to drool in my stupor. I look back up at the portrait he drew of himself and wrack my brain trying to think if I've seen him somewhere before. Nothing comes to mind… And I'd remember, I know.

Maybe *he's* seen *me* somewhere and just doesn't remember it- I mean, we're living in the same city. It could be. I choose to believe that because otherwise, this is too creepy. Especially because the other possibility is that he's a stalker. That latter scenario isn't likely though. How could he know *I'd* find his bottle? He doesn't even think ANYone will. Shaken, I read on.

"Why am I blithering on like this? You don't even know why I'm writing this as a message in a bottle in the first place! It's an assignment for school, believe it or not. My crazy but nicer-than-most science teacher has the entire class doing it for a study she's conducting. So the whole assignment's not even for our benefit. Besides, most of the messages will never reach someone, she says. I won't bother going into her study or how she's using the data she collects- it's a long, somewhat boring story. I suppose if you're interested, you could answer this message and ask her.

"But anyway, the only required information she wants us to be sure to include in this message is…"

I skip that crap. Fuck a teacher making students do her data gathering for her. Lazy bitch.

"I'm sorry if this seems like a pathetic letter- but I just wanted to get some of this shit out and since as I said, there's no one else to talk to and realistically, since no one's likely going to get this, this is a way I can unload my feelings and fears and secrets to the sea. It's big enough to take it, and it won't come after me and kill me like that poor kid's father did..

"If someone actually *does* find this and read this message, I'd be interested to hear from you, if you are so inclined. If you have email, you can reach me at jtartist@pitts.com. I don't have a toll free number, but my cell is: 412-590-1615.

"Um. Thanks for listening. Hope to hear from you, whoever you are.

-Justin"

I reread the letter, and again feel a tear in my eye- gawd, Kinney- get a grip! It's just his experience is so sad, and so typical, and in some ways, a lot like mine- at least with how Jack would react knowing I was gay. Luckily, Jack's so drunk all the time, I rarely have to hide much. I scan the letter once more, searching for his last name; there is none. Just the contact number and email address. Fuck it! I have to talk to this guy- I pull out my cell phone, thankful I have an international one. I've called Mikey from this spot, so hopefully Justin's location in the Pitts is reachable despite the wall of granite behind me. Mikey's wasn't when he was at the Big Q, but it was when he was at Woody's of all places.

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