After Brian
Part 6
Warning: Violent Child Abuse Memory
Claire
Tense, chaotic. What did my therapist call my childhood? To me, it was a nightmare.
Brian wears his scars like badges of honor, medals. It's surprising really, he is so vain I am sure others have wondered before why he hasn't gone to a plastic surgeon and erased them by now. The scars are a violent map, a historical record of what came before and shaped the man he is today. I know he won't ever erase them like the memories he says he has long forgotten. There is no denying it, those memories are there whether he likes it or not, permanently etched on the surface, peeking through the soft skin - through the skin over the right shoulder blade, the notch on his left thigh, the pinkish ridge of skin on his white scalp.. .
The scar on the scalp, that's the one scar I guess I always did think he would fix, he so loves his hair. God how he loves that hair - shameless, really. When he gets sweaty or wet you can see a little bald spot right on the back of his head, where the hair shafts never returned after they were so rudely interrupted so many years ago.
How old was he 12, 13, 14? He had gotten suspended, Mrs. Margaret had caught him smoking behind the ball box when he was supposed to be in the library. This happened, I guess, right after he was transferred to the new school. Hell it may have been the reason, I am not sure. I sure as shit am not going to clarify that wonderful family moment with him.
The school called my mother to pick Brian up, and she took me out of my new school too, to witness the humiliation that Brian had once again brought to the family. On the way home, Brian sat in the back seat of the station wagon, stone faced, impassive, his face betraying nothing.
When Jack got home that day there was no lecture, no conversation or discussion. Alerted to the expulsion at his work site, he had stopped at the bar before coming home. Brian was sitting on one end of the couch and I was on the other. We had been sitting there silently for hours, waiting for Jack to come home. Brian sat and picked at his Jack Purcells and I sat there staring at him, my mind racing with fear.
I heard the car pull up into the driveway and the engine turn off. Brian paused briefly and then retied his shoe laces. Brian remained calm, almost serene. Serene because he had time to prepare for this, to steel himself. To Brian it was the flashes of anger that came out of nowhere that were the most frightening - unexpected violent outbursts, unprovoked, and suffocating…We knew, we both knew what was coming, the hurricane sirens had been blaring in our heads - Prepare! Prepare! Prepare! Seek Cover, batten down the hatches! But there was no place to hide except deep down inside.
Jack blew through the front door like a hurricane at gale force. We both knew better than to look up - to "eyeball" Jack - a lesson learned fast and early. I stared at Jack's feet, his work boots caked in mud. I watched his feet step towards Brian and then I looked over at Brian and he was gone. Not his body - he knew better not to run or resist the inevitable - but his eyes. He was gone to that place that safe place he had. He had warning, he was prepared. I wasn't, I never could be. Brian was always the strong one.
As Jack lunged for Brian, I was betrayed by my own fear. My own survival instincts overrode my reason and I lurched away from Jack, standing up and knocking over mother's sewing kit that was on the floor. Big mistake. No sudden moves, it distracted Jack from his original prey and put me squarely in his sights. As I tripped over the contents of the spilt sewing kit, I backed away, cowering, trying to collapse my spine, sink into my skin, make myself very, very small. It was too late, Jack had his eyes on me now, his attention fully diverted from Brian. One expertly executed open backhanded slap to the face and I was down in a flash and didn't get back up. I knew better. I could taste the metallic flow of blood in my mouth and tried to cover my head with my hands, anticipating the next move in the Jack Kinney bag of tricks - the 'pick the kid up by her hair' move.
"Dad." A simple word uttered from Brian cut through the tension. One simple, flat toneless word, "Dad", that was all that was needed to divert Jack's attention from me back to him. Before he responded, Jack spotted his weapon of choice for the night, my mothers sewing shears.
Jack grabbed Brian by the throat and began his task at hand, roughly cutting and ripping at Brian's hair, cutting his ears, his face, his scalp, his throat. I was there, the Kinney biographer, a witness that night like so many countless other nights, the historian and cartographer, the night that Brian got the scar on the back of his scalp.
After finishing his task, Jack, the man of few words, that Jack, said "How do you think you look now, pretty boy?" and then threw Brian and the shears down on the living room floor. At least he hadn't hit Brian after he roughly cut off all his hair. Perhaps even Jack had his limits on how much blood he could look at before he sat down for dinner.
The blood vessels are close to the surface, most sensitive and easily expressed on the face, the scalp. Brian's hair, his beautiful hair, worn shaggy like all good boys of the 80's, lay on the shag carpet, matted with his blood.
I was still laying on the floor, whimpering oh so quietly, my hands still over my head, afraid to look up. The room was silent except for my choked back sobs and the sound of Brian breathing, slow, calm breathes. "Claire." I peeked up at Brian; he had scooted up next to me and patted my head. "Claire." The all clear had sounded and we both got up to survey the damage.
We both bent down to collect the evidence, clumps of hair and blood. I took Brian's hand and took him into the bathroom so we wouldn't bleed on the carpet anymore. I remember that so clearly, worrying, worrying that if we got blood stains on the carpet we would get into more trouble.
In the dull yellow glow of the bathroom light I put a towel around Brian's head, wrapping it tightly, hoping it would stop the bleeding, at a loss to do or say anything. He sat down on the closed toilet seat and smirked.
"What?" I asked him noticing the small sly smile. Signature Brian. I took a wash cloth and wet it with warm water to wipe the blood off his face.
"Skin heads hit the Pitts! News at Eleven!" and then we laughed, so very quietly and desperately at it all. Brian didn't cry that night, Brian doesn't do crying.
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Present Time:
I remade his bed with clean sheets and a blanket I found in the linen closet. The alcohol and whatever else was in his system would wake him up in a few hours and I would be able to get him into bed. I took some bottled water out of the fridge to let it get to room temperature and was shocked to see actual food in there. Brian usually used his fridge as a big beverage cooler, beer, mixers but rarely actual food. There was bread and cheese - cheese for goodness sake. I wondered where it came from. I had time on my hands, checking every so often to make sure that Brian was ok, so I let my curiosity get the better of me. I started to wander around the loft. Hey, it isn't snooping if it was in plain sight, right? After my search for cash earlier in the day I had no interest in 'discovering' any more Brian Kinney sex secrets. There were enough clues to other mysteries scattered all over his immaculate loft. There were paintings, sketches, propped up on the walls everywhere. I know the interior decorator that had come up with the whole "sterile white Italian Operating Room motif" of the loft hadn't scattered comic book story boards and nude drawings of Brian about the place.
The photographs held my interest the most. All of them scattered about, framed and unframed of Brian and Gus, Gus and a beaming beautiful blond boy. A black and white photo of Brian sticking his tongue out between his fingers smiling, I mean smiling! God, he is so beautiful when he smiles.
There was one photo on the coffee table, half exposed under a magazine that accidentally slipped off onto the floor. Hey, gravity really, I wasn't opening any more drawers and the glossy mag slipped all by itself!
The photo took my breath away as I staggered backwards and sat on the couch. Before me was a photo of Brian and the blond boy, who I figured must be his Justin. The picture was taken outside, in someone's back yard. Brian was towering over Justin with his arms wrapped around him from behind. Justin's face was turned up looking back at Brian and Brian was looking back down at him with an expression as rare as the Hope diamond. Brian was looking down at Justin, beaming, just beaming with love.
"Fucking Shit!" Oops! The beast has awakened. I shoved the photo back under the magazine and went back into the bathroom to survey the 'damage.'
His eyes were squeezed shut under his hands and he was softly moaning at the feeling of being awake, alive, and on the floor of his bathroom. I went over and stood by his head. Sensing an alien presence he opened his crusty eyes carefully, blinking from the blinding bathroom light. "Claire, what the fuck are you doing here!" the Beast demanded.
"I came to borrow a cup of sugar, what the fuck do you think I am doing here?" I snarked, leaning down to help him get up.
"Fuck," he said slumping back down on the floor, not quite ready for prime time.
"Come on Brian, slowly, let's see if we can get you in the shower. The bed is made, clean sheets too, come on, let's get you squeaky clean and in bed, ok?" I went and started the shower.
"Jesus, Claire, you smell like shit!" he moaned.
"Yeah, I smell like your vomit, thank you very much."
How quickly we slipped back into our roles as easy as breathing. Me the pushy, domineering big sister, he the put upon baby brother, the little shit. Easy, comfortable skin to slip into. Since that night at the hospital he hadn't given up an inch of control, bossing me around, pushing me to do things. It was nice to be home.
I stripped off my clothes, leaving my bra and underwear on, and began to lug the lug into the shower. What's a little sagging skin and stretch marks earned after two sons between brother and sister? When you consider the happy family events of cleaning off blood and piss…the false pretense of modesty doesn't even deserve a second thought.
"I wish you had a tub. This would be easier, you know," I said, making conversation with the zombie in my arms. No, more like trying NOT to talk, to ask the million questions running through my head. Speak no evil! See no evil!
Brian stood, slumped up against the side of the shower stall as I washed off the last remaining stains of last night's sins.
When I shut off the water, Brian seemed to take this as his cue to slump back down onto the floor of the shower stall. He sat there staring, waiting for whatever torture I could think of next. I stepped over his inert body and quickly dried off.
Rummaging though his closet, I actually found some clothing that looked like it might fit me and some soft sweats to pour His Majesty into. I went back into the bathroom and Brian hadn't moved an inch to try to start drying himself off.
"I draw the line at wiping your ass," I said trying a stab at humor as I began to dry him off in the shower stall. "Come on now, let's get up and get into bed," I said trying to nudge him up. He wouldn't budge. "Get up, Brian!" I ordered him in the best angry mom tone I could muster. Surprisingly, he did what he was told and I quickly dried him off and got him into bed. Somehow I also managed to get him into the sweats and under the sheets without any further outbursts. Leaning back into his pile of pillows he silently sipped the bottle of water I thrust into his hands and ordered him to consume.
I sat on the edge of the bed and we both just stared at each other, not angrily, not judgmentally, just staring silently. This always had a centering effect on me, whatever Brian got out of it, I don't know. After a while I picked up a pair of sweat socks and lifted the bottom of the covers to expose his cold feet. Slipping on the socks I began to crack each of his toes, softly reciting one of his childhood favorites, 'This little piggy went to market'. He sighed and rolled his eyes back into his head, but notice he didn't move his feet, the big baby.
After he finished his water I got up to tuck him in. He sighed again deeply. "Time to sleep little man," I said, beginning a very strategic tucking in. I slipped the blanket under his feet and then shaped it tightly around him like I was packaging a mummy for shipment. No matter how big a baby, there is something soothing about the papoose effect of swaddling the blanket tightly around you - sort of like being hugged by yourself.
He was asleep in a split second - or at least doing an Oscar worthy performance of passing out cold. I left the bathroom waste basket next to the side of his bed and went back in to the living room to sack out on the couch.
You know that feeling when you are so tired you know you aren't going to be able to sleep, so you lie there trying to sleep, miserably listing to the buzz, buzz, buzz in your brain? Well that's what I did for what was left of the night, lying there listening to the buzz, buzz, buzz, and listening for any sign of distress from the bedroom.
Now a couple of years ago, hell, who the fuck am I kidding, a couple of months ago, I would have raided Brian's stash. The fact that I am lying here contemplating the stash should tell you that it is still a 'little' problem for me. Pills and pot, oh my! Never really got into the liqueur like the rest of the family, hated the smell of the hard stuff. Lucky, I guess, not so lucky with the pills. Remember behind the ball box when Brian got caught smoking cigarettes by Mrs. Margaret? Had she been by to check ten minutes before, she would have found me and Brian sharing a big fatty. Timing in life is everything.
Around 7:30 I called Toby's mom to check on my boys. I explained to Ben that Uncle Brian had the stomach flu and that I was going to stay with him today, but would come by to pick him up after school.
"Yeah mom, whatever, " he sneered. Fuck, he knew the score, knew what was wrong with Brian. Hell, he probably even knew why. Note to self, ask Ben after school. My little emotional savant.
I got up and made some eggs and toast for myself and Brian. Whether or not it would stay down wasn't an issue. It was going in. I brought the plate to his bed and woke him up.
"Get that plate the fuck away from me," he gasped.
"Good morning to you too fucker," I said hitting back his hands that desperately were trying to swat away the plate from his face. "Come on Bri, eat the food."
"Go away!'
"Bri, eat the food."
"Go! The! Fuck! Awaaaaaaaay!"
"Bri, eat the food. If you puke it up, it will clean out what's left in your system that needs to come up. If it doesn't, you can have some aspirin for that splitting headache." No need to tell me about the headache - he looked like the new poster boy for "Just say no to drugs!" bleary eyed, pale, green, and sickly.
Smirk.
"Brian?"
"Claire?" Smirk, he was looking at the food and then at me.
"Brian!" exasperated, I began to shovel a spoonful of eggs into his mouth. "This is insanity."
"I thought these were scrambled eggs."
"Brian!"
"Claire!" he smiled and I scooped another spoon full into his smart ass mouth.
"You're 30 years old Brian."
"You're closer to forty than I am."
"Right behind me, Buddy Boy. You know I should have left you to drown in a pool of your own vomit."
"Yeah, maybe you should have," he whispered hoarsely.
"God Brian! Today the role of martyr is being played by Brian Kinney!" We chuckled. He would live.
After he polished off the eggs and toast I slipped three over the counter pain killers into him and put him back to bed.
Around 10 a.m. a timid knock on the front steel door broke the silence of the loft. I walked over to see who it was, expecting Michael since he probably had a key. I pulled the door open on the unexpected guest, and we both gasped at the sight of each other. Before me stood a pretty, slim, blonde woman with an expression of terror. "I'm sorry, um, I didn't expect that anyone was here. I didn't see Brian's jeep."
"Brian is here, but he is asleep."
"Oh, Um"
"May I help you?"
"Well, um, I …uh…" she seemed like she was about to have a seizure she was so uncomfortable.
"Are you Justin's mother?" People, this isn't rocket science. They were the spitting image of each other.
"Yes, oh yes, I am Jennifer Taylor," she said slipping into her country club manners and finding her voice again.
"Hello, I am Claire, Brian's sister."
"His sister?" she asked confused.
Oh yeah, Brian the sharer, what did these people think of his family that didn't exist except to him? Yes, we are a bunch of freaks, how embarrassing.
"I am Claire, please come in, but…um he is asleep, out cold, god, he has the 'flu'," I said, making those little quote things with my hands that my sons like to use way, way too much when trying to make some sarcastic point. Wow, this lady is good with her kind knowing smile. Kinney rule one broken, speak no evil!
"Oh."
"Come in, I don't think we will wake him, he is pretty tired." I resisted the urge to make the hand quote thing again. "Is Justin with you?"
"No, he..he's at home."
"I'm sorry, Brian isn't the most communicative person but I thought he lived here?"
"Not anymore or at least for the time being."
"Oh," I shrugged, walking into the living room of the loft. That explains it.
"Yes, I came to get a few of his things. He needs some of his toiletries and some school work."
"Well, I think it might be time to invest in a new tooth brush," I said trying to lighten the mood. "The bathroom is pretty messed up."
She smiled weakly, "Ok, I'll be quick then, just grab a few things and call later to set up a time it would be convenient with Brian to pick up the rest?"
"Sounds like a plan." And she was off, rushing around the loft gathering sketch pads and papers. On the way out she paused to say good bye.
"It was nice to meet you Claire. Please tell …please tell Brian…I'm sorry…I mean I was sorry not to see him."
At two I woke Brian up and told him I was leaving to pick up my boys. His eyes widened in horror. "Don't worry. I'm going to take them home and leave you in peace and quiet for a while." His face relaxed and he rolled back over and, with a grunt, went back to sleep.