Do Unto Others

Chapter 10

Note: All past happenings are in italics.

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Justin…

Sunshine, blue skies, please go away…

"It's colder today than I thought it would be," I say. Brian nods but says nothing as we slip back into silence.

I know to you, it might sound strange But I wish it would rain

Brian reaches out his hand and turns the radio down, but not off. We both need the barrier to buffer the crushing reality of uncertainty. I dance my tongue, lightly, over the fronts of my teeth.

I never knew such a simply act could change the pace of my heart.

'Cause so badly I wanna go outside,

But everyone knows that a man,

Ain't supposed to cry, listen,

I gotta cry, 'cause cryin' eases the pain.

Oh yeah, people this hurt I feel inside,

Words can never explain,

I just wish it would rain.

"You heard what the doctor said, Justin. Just give it time," Brian says.

"Have you been able to graduate to the three pound weight?" Dr. Salas asks as he sits my chart on the counter behind him, moving himself closer; the wheels of the stool protesting the movements.

"No," I say softly, "I can barely lift the two." Brian takes a deep breath and crosses his hands over his chest.

"He's not sleeping, or eating," Brian says. Well damn, tell him I can't take five steps outside the loft without having a panic attack while you're at it.

"I'm not supposed to be eating," I say in my defense as I look at Brian and then the doctor. "So see, that's a good thing." It took me an hour an a half to make it out the door today, a minute longer than yesterday.

Dr. Salas is not amused, neither is Brian. "You have to eat Justin. You've lost enough weight," Dr. Salas tells me. "If you continue to drop then we'll have to admit you and place you on an IV."

"Yippee," I say flatly as he examines the rest of my injuries.

Brian sighs at that news and sits in the chair, specifically put there for that 'oh-so-important' significant other; or your jacket, socks, shoes and valuables if you just so happen to be flying solo.

"The stab wounds to your chest seem to be healing fine," the doctor tells me. Yeah, they actually weren't as painful as the cracked ribs and busted sense of normality. He finishes his exam and pulls the gloves from his hands, tossing them in the trash and wheeling back to me.

"So?" Brian asks as he sits up straight and clasps his hands together, daring the doctor to tell him information that he doesn't want to hear. Dr. Salas looks from him and back to me.

"Everything looks good. I'm going to fit you with a flexi-cast that's going to go under your brace. It should provide you with more support and help to speed along your recovery," he tells me as he presses the call button and continues to talk. I don't hear him. I tune him out.

"Justin… Justin," Brian calls. I snap my head back to the front.

"Huh?"

"I said, I am concerned about you not sleeping and eating," Dr. Salas repeats as a nurse knocks on the door. He glances around the room and invites the nurse to open it.

"Yes?"

"Can you bring me some flexi-casts? Different sizes, please?" She nods and leaves the room, returning in less than thirty minutes with various sealed boxes. "Thank you."

"I can't sleep," I say as he tries different casts on my arm. I grimace in pain as he jostles my wrist.

"Sorry," Dr. Salas says. Brian bites his bottom lip as he stands next to the bed. He smells like… Brian. I love it. "Why can't you sleep?"

I stare at the top of his head and frown. "I keep seeing things. I see things when I'm awake so I can only imagine what they'd look like in the darkness," I mumble. He finishes fitting the cast and slips my brace back into place, the black covering the flesh colored flexi-cast.

"I really would prefer that you try and sleep the natural way, but I can see that that is not happening for you anytime soon. So, I'm going to give you a prescription for something to help you sleep and some Xanax to help with the anxiety."

"Great," I say as he starts to write out the prescription. Brian leans into the table and the paper crinkles.

I hate the sound of that paper.

I press the palms of my hands to the sides of my head, boxing my ears and casting off the sounds of all that is living. I can hear the rush of cars and the thumping of Brian's heart as we drive along.

I press my hands tighter, forming a seal.

I can hear the ocean.

All around the farmer's bench,

The monkey chased the weasel,

The monkey thought 'twas all in fun,

Pop, goes the weasel!

"I'm serious Molly, cut it out," I say as I lean over my science book, my left foot resting on the chair and my right foot on the floor. She looks over at me and smiles.

All around the farmer's bench,

The monkey chased the weasel,

The monkey thought 'twas all in fun,

Pop, goes the weasel!

"Molly, I'm going to break that toy into a million pieces," I say as she ignores me, turning the dial on the toy radio and letting it play again. I toss my pencil down on the table and turn to stare at her, willing my anger and annoyance into her small body.

"MOLLY, TURN IT THE FUCK OFF!" I shout.

All around the farmer's bench,

The monkey chased the weasel,

The monkey thought 'twas all in fun,

Pop, goes the weasel!

"No, mom said that I could listen to it," she says as she combs the hair on her doll. "I'm going to tell her that you said a bad word and then you're going to get in…." I snatch the doll out of her hands and hold it tightly, my fingers gripped tightly around its neck.

"Hey, give her back. Justin, give her back," Molly screams. I point at the small 'radio' and hold her doll higher over my head.

"Give me the radio," I say. I am not all bad. I am willing to negotiate.

"Fine," she says as she stands, hands me the radio, grabs her doll and stomps off. My mom comes into the room no less than three minutes later and stands next to me.

"Honestly Justin, do you have to torment your sister?"

"She was being a pain," I say in my defense. She shakes her head and walks over to the refrigerator.

"Just you wait, in time you'll wish you were nicer to her," she says. I roll my eyes and glance at the offensive toy.

"Yeah, I doubt that," I say under my breath.

"Time is bullshit," I say as I welcome the world back into my senses.

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Detective Jorge Ramirez…

"She lied," Captain Kansan says as he walks behind me into my office. "She said her husband was with her on Friday night."

"And?"

"Turns out he was with his mistress," he tells me with a smile and a nod. "He's busted."

"What are you talking about?" I ask as Josh stands pacing in front of my desk, pictures of Janna Monroe's body hanging religiously behind him on the bulletin board, another fly in the spider's web. "The witness said that…."

"She says she was mistaken. She says that she remembers she thought it was a Wednesday because she had to pick up her husband at the train station, which she did every Wednesday," Josh tells me, the story coming off his tongue in waves as he gestures wildly.

"Well, it seems that she'd forgotten that her husband got his schedule changed," he says as he slams his hands on my desk and leans in, "to accommodate their upcoming vacation. She picked him up on a Tuesday." Josh raises his hands and runs his hands through his hair.

"Are you telling me, that the only suspect we have in this case was telling the truth?" I ask as I sit forward, my arms resting on my desk. Josh lets out a jet of air and nods.

"It seems that way. I mean, the guy was clean anyway. There was no record of him anywhere," Josh says. "I checked him out myself."

"Something about him… just, rubs me the wrong way," I admit, never one to roll on hunches. "Do me a favor and check into him again."

"Are you sure? He seemed to be pretty straight forward. Had all his ducks in a row," Josh says. I nod my head. I know.

"He was a little too straight forward for my liking," I say, my voice authoritative and even. "Look again."

"You're the boss."

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Brian…

I wipe the water from my eyes and take a calming breath, turning around to lean my head against the glass, the heated water beating down onto my back begging me to relax.

"The water is not that hot," I say as I reach my arm around his chest and pull him close to me, my swollen cock pressed firmly between his cheeks.

"Yeah, to you," he says as I push his head to the side and press my lips to his neck. He reaches up and holds the back of my head, making the kisses harder as he turns in my arms. "Fuck me."

I turn around and turn off the water, the image in my mind splintering into pieces.

I get out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist as I walk into the bedroom. Justin is lying in the bed, curled into a ball under the vast expanse of blue.

I surround myself with simple shades of creams and browns, colors that when treated kindly cast off the perfect reflection of dominance, complexity and welcome.

Whites…

Browns…

Grays…

The list goes on, shifting without a hitch from lights to darks, reveling in its covert operation to cast others off and hold them at bay. Strong, bold, cold and open space dusted with welcoming colors and open arms.

Except the bed.

The bed stands mutinous above the others, refusing to bleed and blend in. Refusing to conform and fall into the ranks; bold blue, raised above the floor and ruling the kingdom.

The bed provides a sanctuary… and he takes up residence.

I look up from the computer and sigh deeply. He hasn't moved sense he came from the doctor. He hasn't eaten sense he came back from the dentist, yesterday.

Thirteen pounds gone and counting.

"You do realize that that's going to take a lifetime to work off, don't you?" I ask as he opens the pizza box, the lid refusing to bend all the way back and touch the counter.

"You do realize that I can say the same thing about all the alcohol you consume, right?" He counters. "Besides, with my considerably younger metabolism it won't take me nearly as long as it'll take you."

"Hmm," I say as I walk over to him and run my hands down his arms, holding onto his hips. "You think so?"

"Yup," he says matter-of-factly as he leans into me.

"Then maybe we should start working it off now," I tell him as I turn him around and capture his lips in mine.

I blink away the memory and focus my eyes back on the bedroom. He turns over, laying on his right. The shades are drawn, blocking out the light and befriending the darkness.

I turn my attention back to my work, welcoming the distraction and the guilt I feel from needing it.

I don't know what to do for him. That's the truth, amplified as loud as the setting sun and just as beautiful. The only problem is that there is no one here to see it.

I don't know what to do. My heart tells me to scream, to open my mouth and let out a torrent of curses, but I don't.

I watch him struggle through everyday.

I watch him pretend like every inch of his skin doesn't crawl with unspoken memories and resentments. I watch him and it's like a mirror. I see myself. I see the walls that I worked so hard to build standing up against me and blocking me out. He learned so many things from me.

Completely disconnecting from his emotions is not one of them. I am glad.

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Justin…

Drip…

Drip…

Drip… Drip…

Drip… Drip… Drip…

The water beats against the tile, long ago cooled and sounding out its protest.

"What are you waiting for?" I ask as I look at myself in the mirror; another night of darkness and resounding quiet. I walk out of the bathroom and through the room, passing Brian's sleeping form as I make my way down the steps.

I grab the new sketchpads he bought and the box of supplies, walking over to the window. I press my back to the glass and drop the sketchpad in my hand to the ground, listening as it paints the walls with sound.

The moonlight casts an eerie glow that I have come to love and admire and hate. I resent its fearlessness, its ability to break through the dark and still be able to shine.

I drop to the floor, falling comfortably into a sitting position and leaning forward, my forearms resting on my shins and my heart in my hands. I sit the box next to me and flip open the top, searching through the contents with reckless abandon and needed release.

I close my eyes, feeling my blood course through me.

"I love charcoal drawings," I say as I stare at the finished work. "Something about it just looks so… mysterious. Like I am watching something that I am not supposed to see."

"Like a bad porno," Brian says as he glances at the drawing.

"No, like a self-portrait."

I clutch the piece of charcoal tightly in my right hand, positioned between my fingers and ready to try.

I open my eyes and look down at the blank page, so open and trusting. I hate it. I press the tip of the charcoal to the paper and I hate it. As my hand moves I feel release, timed to each stroke and perfect.

A pain shoots through my arm, down my fingers and under my skin. "Fucking… SHIT!" I shout, but I don't stop. I can't. I switch hands, grasping the charcoal in my left hand and getting up on my knees, looming over the innocent material.

I see Brian's form as it appears at the top of the stairs and steps down. He walks over to me and presses his palm into my flesh. "Justin," he says as he tries to still my movements. I yank my arm away.

I don't want him to touch me. I press it down and continue my assault. "It's not fair," I mutter as my hand flies over the page and I clutch my right arm tightly to my chest. "It's not fair."

"I know," he says and I bite my lip, keeping in the torrents and the screams. He retracts his arm and lowers himself to the floor next to me. "Justin, you're going to hurt yourself."

"Yeah, well, maybe that's not a bad idea," I say out loud, giving him a glimpse inside my thoughts. He takes in a shutter of breath and lets it out quickly. I let the tears fall from my eyes. I feel my anxieties bursting open, exposing me to infection and disease.

I hate everyone who walks along the street and fears nothing.

I hate everyone who laughs uncontrollably.

I hate everyone who pretends that the world is not fucked up, unfair, selfish and daunting.

I throw the charcoal across the room, listening as it ricochets into some forgotten corner. I reach into the box, knocking it over. The supplies scatter across the room, searching for a hiding place and hoping to escape my tantrum.

I hate that I want nothing more than to forget everything.

I hate that I manage the feat but then my tongue touches the backs of the implants without even trying and everything I managed to choke down floats back to the surface.

I hate it.

I hate whoever came up with the idea of a nutritional supplement.

I hate knowing that my skin is pale and there are dark circles under my eyes.

I hate knowing that I can't walk out the goddamn fucking loft without feeling like my chest is going to explode.

I hate my art for making me open, for making me trusting, for exposing me.

I grab another piece of charcoal and hold on tight.

The liquid strokes turn into angry stabs as I slam the charcoal into the paper, sending chips of black and bitterness onto the hardwood. "Justin, stop," Brian says as he moves closer to me, his arms closing over mine and stilling my movements.

He grabs my left wrist and wraps his hand around the brace of my right arm, holding me close against his body. I hold onto the charcoal securely in my burning palm. "I hate this. I hate it so much," I say as he holds onto me.

I hate myself for taking it all for granted.

"Justin, you'll draw again. You just have to give your hand time to get better," he says as I twist the cap off of my medication, four bottles sitting patiently on the countertop, my right hand shaking without command.

"You don't know that. You don't," I say evenly as I count out the pills. Brian walks up behind me and wraps his fingers around my arms. "Stop, don't touch me," I say as I shrug him off.

He lets out a sigh and moves away from me, standing behind me, leaning on the counter. "The doctor said…"

"Oh fuck the doctor," I say as I spin around and look at him. His tongue finds its way into his cheek but he says nothing. "All everyone says is the doctor says this and the doctor says that, but the doctor doesn't have to carry around a useless limb that shakes whenever I try to move it."

"It's not that…."

"What? It's not that bad?" I say, harsher than I mean to and calmer than I should.

He chooses to stay quiet. Good for him. "The doctor doesn't have to take… five different pills because he can't focus and he can't sleep and he can't fucking stop his goddamn hand from shaking," I scream icily as I throw down the bottle of pills in my hand, knocking over the rest and dusting the countertop in medicinal residue.

"I wish it would rain," I whisper.

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