Do Unto Others
Chapter 8
Note: All past happenings are in italics.
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And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows, see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a rapid ghastly river,
Through the pale door,
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh --but smile no more.*
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Janna Monroe…
I watch my mother as she climbs the stairs of the Pittsburgh Police Department. She walks through the doors and her steps are even and full of purpose. "Excuse me, officer," she says, her voice full of demanded respect.
"How may I help you?" he asks without looking up from his paperwork.
My mother blinks her eyes, not content with the greeting that she receives from the officer. She slams her purse down on his desk, leather Prada burning into wood, demanding attention.
He looks over at her, his expression career hardened and impatient. "You can start… officer, by showing me the least bit of courtesy," she says, never one to be looked down on. She has worked too hard to be lessened by anyone. "My daughter is missing. She never came home yesterday and I am starting to worry."
"You have to wait at least forty eight hours before filing a missing persons report," the officer says calmly, his face less hard as he watches my mother wring her hands, nervousness playing just below her calm exterior.
"Two days? Look officer," she says as she leans on the desk. My mother never leans. I push the hair from my face and move closer to her. I can smell her perfume. I reach out to touch her and I feel nothing but emptiness.
I watch as she shivers and looks directly over at me, through me, before turning back to face the officer. "She has two little girls, both under the age of three. She wouldn't just leave them, I know she wouldn't. Could you please, please wave the rules? Please," she pleads.
Images of the Grinch's heart growing three sizes enter my brain as the officer lets out an even sigh and gets up from his stool. He walks over to a filing cabinet and pulls out the necessary forms.
"Fill these out. Try to be as accurate as possible and as detailed as possible," he says with a small smile. My mother takes them in her hand and smiles lightly.
"Thank you," she says before moving to one of the black department chairs to fill out the papers.
"It's too late," I say softly. "Make sure you tell Abby and Sam that their mommy loves them… very, very much." Tears fill my eyes and I wipe them away. I lean over and kiss her on the cheek and then… I am gone.
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Detective Jorge Ramirez…
It is a beautiful day. That is the first thing that floods into my brain.
I walk past the many police cruisers. The lights on some are idle, others are swirling, red and blue lights announcing their presence. His hand is outstretched before I even reach the yellow tape, stopping me. "I'm sorry, Jorge, I really am," Captain Kansan tells me as he keeps me from crossing the tape.
My heart is beating fast, so fast.
I shift my eyes away from Donald's; my captain, my friend. For over thirteen years I have worked under him. My eyes move over to the group of officers gathered by the bank of trees at the edge of the secluded park.
I see the small white shoe, the tan leg, the bloodied sock… and then they're gone, covered with nothing more than a white sheet and lost hopes.
I don't cry.
I need time to process the information. My son… my only son… dead… killed… not coming back… murdered. I don't cry. I can feel my insides as they try to turn in on themselves and destroy me. I don't cry. "He was only six years old," is the only thing I say and it comes out as a whisper.
I can never forget the first time I smelt decaying human flesh. It embedded itself in my memory. I'll keep it there forever. I have no desire to lose it. It keeps me human.
"Where did you find the body?" I ask as we pass under the yellow crime scene tape. Josh points over to the far corner of the alleyway.
We walk over the trash, dirt, grime and debris, coming to a stop in front of the decomposing body of what appears to have been a young woman, hidden by the three large dumpsters that stand proud against the brick wall of the local convenience store. "Shit," I say under my breath.
"One of the tenants in the next building over spotted a dog having at her leg when he was tossing out his trash," he says as he points at her left leg, the flesh rotting, broken and torn. Bodily fluids, long ago fresh, paint the ground and taint the air.
"Have you moved anything?"
"No, we were waiting for you," Josh tells me. I nod my head as I lean over the body, trying to get a good look at her face. "The coroner is on the way."
I sigh. We have been looking for this girl for the past eight weeks. "Make sure all the evidence is collected. I want no mistakes on this," I say to Josh as we walk out of the alley, passing other officers.
I pause at the crime scene tape, ignoring the questions that come from the people on the street. "You got it, boss, anything else?"
"A fucking strong cup of coffee," I say. Josh nods and goes to make sure all my orders get followed. I rest my hands on my hips and look up at the sky.
God, it is a beautiful day.
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Brian…
He is sitting on the sofa. I am sitting on the floor. The closer he lets me get to him the further away he pushes me. I shift slightly, getting more comfortable before leaning back against the sofa, assuming my previous position.
"This is stupid," Justin says as he holds the weighted ball in his left hand, his fingers barely gripping the inexpensive therapy tool. "It's not even helping."
"Maybe it would if you would actually start doing something," I say as I sit across the room from him, my arms resting on my raised knees. He locks eyes with me and flexes the fingers on his right hand.
The doctors took his pins and plates out and replaced them with a soft cast. They offered him any color he wanted. He chose black. It shouldn't have worried me. Black was the wise choice, the sensible choice. Black wasn't Justin. I started to watch him closer then.
"I am," he says as he wipes invisible strands of blond hair from his face. I look at him, stare into him… and wait.
He hasn't been sleeping and he is easily frustrated. His cheeks are sunken from the liquid diet that he now more than hates. The aftermath of his rape is starting to wear on both of us and I wonder who is going to break first.
"All you have been doing for the past twenty minutes is complaining. If you want to get your wrist back to one hundred percent then you are going to have to work more than just your jaw muscles."
Here it comes. All the anger, pain and fury just discovered that the gate was never locked. "Fuck you," he says and I catch tiny slivers of silver as his mouth opens slightly. "You have no idea how hard this is for me."
"You have no idea how hard this is for me," he says to me and my stomach clenches. The hair that the doctors had to shave away is starting to grow back. You wouldn't know that… unless you knew him, really knew him.
"I know," I whisper as I pull him close, my lips grazing the soft hair at his temple. He holds onto my hips, keeping himself steady. I place a kiss to his cheek, his lashes brushing against my heated skin.
"You have no idea," he says as his hands move, circle around my waist and pull me close. I can feel him trying to crawl inside of me.
He is right. I have no idea how hard it is for him to start all over again. I have no idea how much he wishes sometimes he would have died. I have no idea what the air sounded like as the bat sliced through it before connecting with flesh covered bone.
I have no idea.
"You're right, I don't," I say, my voice calm and even. "But the same goes for you," I toss back at him. In his anger and frustration he squeezes the ball, over and over, milking it for calm. He looks at me, his eyes already ready to cry. "You think you're the only one dealing with this?"
He doesn't speak. I don't want him to speak.
I stand up from the floor and smooth my jeans out as I walk over to the liquor cart. I pick up a glass and my old friend Jim. He sighs and sits back on the sofa, his arms crossed over his chest. He still wears the brace; the doctor says that he can start to wear it less in about a week.
I sit on the other side of the sofa, facing him, an old fashioned stand off. I pull my gun first, taking one shot.
"You won't let me touch you… get close to you," I say. He winces and his skin flushes and floods again, red mapping its way across his features. A single tear breaks through his barrier and falls from his eye.
"I just can't," he says. I press the cool glass to my lips and let the burning liquid burn its way inside my blood stream.
"And have I asked you to? Have I pushed you, rushed you?" He shakes his head no. He won't look at me. "You won't talk to me. I know you don't sleep at night. I know you lay there, awake and crying. I can feel the bed shake."
He always wants to air out the laundry. Well, here is it… the lights and the darks.
He stays like he is, tears running down his face and arms crossed. Save for the few things he told me right after he got out the hospital he hasn't said anything else. "I can't talk about it," he says as his eyes suddenly find the window behind me so interesting.
"Yes you can."
"I don't want to," he says as he finally looks at me. He drops the ball, no longer content with the tiny distraction. The discussion is not going away. If I back down now he'll never crawl back. The mud will be too thick.
I press forward. I am terrified of what will happen if I decide to stop moving.
"With me," I say. He looks at me confused. "You don't want to… with me?" He doesn't answer me. I know the answer already. I pour another drink and get up. I close the distance between us. He can't disguise the hitch that catches on his breath as my heat bounces off of him.
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Justin…
"I don't want to at all," I say as he moves his leg, grazing against my foot with the movement. I push him away and I pull him back and I know that there is only so many times that you can push and pull a person before enough is enough. He knows it too and he pushes back.
"If you don't want to talk to me then I think you should…."
"I'm not going to see some waste of time shrink, Brian," I tell him. He stares at me and drinks the last of his drink. He puts the glass down on the coffee table. The residual clatter of the glass tabletop in the silent room rides the lump in my throat.
I stand up.
The pain in my chest has reduced with the passing of time. I move away from the couch, the soft cast on my arm causing a rustling as it clashes with my pants. "Where are you going?" he asks. I stop walking and turn toward him.
"I'm tired. I'm going to bed," I say. I want to sleep until the scene changes. I don't want to think about this. I don't want to travel down this road. So many people have been here before but the path is fresh to me. There are no visible footprints to follow.
He is off the couch in seconds, crossing the floor with elegant steps until he is blocking the way. "Brian, move," I say. He stays where he is. "Brian, move out of my way."
"No, I want you to talk to me," he says. I scoff, and pivot on my feet, walking to the other door. He follows my every step, blocking my way when I reach the other side. "You always want me to talk to you, well, now it's your turn. Talk to me."
"What do you want me to say?" I ask. He doesn't have a degree in psychology. He isn't a specialist. He has no idea what opening all of the flood gates will do but he takes his chances.
"I want you to say it out loud. I want you to say the word." I shake my head. My heart is beating so fast that I can hardly breathe. "Say it," he presses. I shake my head no again. "Why not?"
"Saying it," I say as I pause and let the tears fall from my eyes, "Saying it… makes it real. If I say it out loud then it's not just a dream," I say shakily. It makes no sense but to me it's the only thing that is keeping me sane.
"Justin," he says as he takes a step toward me. I look at him, his arms open. He is not the enemy. I let his arms wrap around me and I bury my face in his tee shirt clad chest, holding onto him as tightly as I can.
"He raped me," I whisper, the cotton eating the words and soaking up the tears. "He raped me," I repeat and I tighten my grip on Brian, my legs giving out as I cry. He moves us back, up the stairs and onto the bed.
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Ronnie Jr. …
"Wow Ron, I know you've got to be proud of Mike," Mitchell says as he clamps his hand down on my shoulder. I have never liked Mitchell. He lets his dog shit in my yard. I don't like Mitchell or his goddamn dog. "He is one of the best on the team."
I smile and adjust Emily on my lap, her ten month old giggles filling the air as we sit on the bleachers watching Mike's soccer game. "Yeah, I am," I say. I look down at my wife, cheering along with all the other soccer moms.
Mitchell keeps talking, his hand touching my arm, leg or shoulder with every enhanced emotion.
"You're sitting in my fucking seat," a voice tells me as a heated hand is placed on my shoulder. I grab it immediately, twisting the wrist as I stand up facing the older, taller boy. I back him up against the wall as I continue to apply pressure to his pleading wrist. "Let me go, you fucking piece of shit."
I increase the pressure until I hear the familiar pop as bone rubs against bone. He screams out in pain. No one comes to see what the problem is. There are too many kids, not enough adults and a seemingly private conversation going on between two boys.
I press my face to his, our noses touching as exhaled breaths struggle to escape us both. My voice is low, menacing and lethal as I press my cheek to his.
"If you ever put your hands on me again your wrist won't be the only thing I break," I say into his ear. I release his wrist and walk away, ignoring his threats.
"Daddy," Mitchell's kid calls. I take his distraction as an opportunity to move over. I reach down to slide Emily's bag over next to me and I see it, red, glowing, telling and there. I pull out a diaper wipe and bend over to get the blood off my shoe.
It is old blood and as I wipe it off images of that night flash in my head. I feel my cock start to stir as the referee blows the whistle, starting the game. "Go Mike!" I scream out, a smile planted firmly on my face.
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Justin…
I let my hand run shakily over Brian's hair.
He is sleeping soundly, his head on my pillow. He held me as I cried myself to sleep and now I am staring over at him after sleeping more than I have in the past two months. He starts to stir and I remove my hand. "I knew you were up," he says as he opens his eyes and looks at me.
"Yeah, how'd you know that?" I ask, dried tears playing on my face.
He shrugs as he sits up. "Some things, sunshine, are simply unexplainable," he says as he leans over to kiss my cheek. I swallow my fears and place my left hand on the side of his face, guiding his lips to mine. The kiss is long, deep and needed.
We pull apart and he leans his forehead onto mine as he looks into my eyes. "I love you. You know that, right?"
I smile at him, the metal in my mouth muting it slightly. "I never had a doubt," I say as he gets up and walks into the bathroom.
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Brian…
"Do you know what he needs?" I look at the salesman like he has an extra cock coming out the side of his neck.
"He needs everything, but let's just start with the basics," I say as we walk through the aisles of Justin's favorite art supply store.
"Okay," he says as we start to make a list of all the things that I want so that they can be delivered.
We walk back over to the counter after racking up what looks to be a fairly big bill. "Is that going to be all for you?" he asks as he starts to scan the items into the system. I look around the store and then back at the list that we have made.
"Yeah," I say as I reach for my wallet.
"You might want to get some fans and mops. I find that you can never have enough mops, they are my absolute favorite and they work well with any style or surface. I think that Siberian Squirrel is one of the best, but I could be biased," the man next to me says with a slight laugh. I turn to him, eyebrow raised and frown planted firmly on my face.
"They're a type of brush," he says as if it was common knowledge. Perhaps amongst the people who frequent here it is but I am just a visitor. "You must not be the artist in the family."
"Gee, how'd you guess?" I ask as the man behind the counter tells me my total. I hand him my card and wait as he swipes it and hands it back.
"Well, whoever you're buying all the supplies for is one lucky woman," the man next to me says.
I stick my tongue into my cheek and wait for patience to fall over me. "Yeah, I'll be sure to tell him you think so," I say as I leave the store.
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Ronnie Jr. …
"Friendly guy," I say sarcastically as I hand my things to Pete. He rings them up as I look through the sample paints on the rack next to the register.
"Yeah, well, you wouldn't be too cheerful if your partner was raped and almost killed either, Ron," Pete says as he tells me my total.
I pull the cash from my wallet and start to count out the needed bills. "No, no I guess I wouldn't be," I say as I hand the money to Pete.
"Although to be perfectly honest, every time I've seen Brian in here he has acted the same." I nod my head as I process the little bit of information.
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Justin…
"Oh, sunshine, how are you feeling?" Debbie asks as I open the door and she wraps her arms around me. My heart speeds up and I do my best to cover the change in tempo.
"Careful, Deb," I say before she has a chance to tighten her grip. She releases me like my body is on fire and I am rejoiced and saddened all in one.
"Oh shit, I'm sorry," she says.
"It's okay," I tell her as my mother leans forward and kisses me lightly on the cheek. She moves away as quickly as she came forward telling me with her eyes that she understands, no matter how sad it might make her.
I move back and let them into the loft. I brace myself for the visit that I have managed to put off for longer than I ever thought humanly possible.
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Justin…
"That's the fifth time that you've listened to that song, Justin," Brian says as he moves into the bedroom and starts to strip out of his clothes.
"I like it," I say as I start to turn it up.
"It's fucking depressing," he says as he moves into the bathroom. I ignore him and turn the volume up until it swallows the atmosphere.
I can faintly hear the water running in the shower as I stare at the blank canvas that is set up in front of me. I press my back further into the couch as I flex my fingers around the exercise ball.
"What about his art?" Brian asks the doctor. I let out a sigh but refuse to say anything. "When do you think he'll be able to get started again?" Dr. Salas looks at me and then back at Brian.
"Provided he takes it easy I have no problem with him starting to get back into his art," he says. Brian doesn't say anything. He just nods as he files the information away.
There are bags and bags of supplies littering the floor in front of the computer desk and coffee table. I look at the sets of brushes that he bought.
All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
Their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow
I lean forward and unlock the latch on the art kit that he bought.
The supplies are new, the paint is new and the canvas is new. Bone white surface waiting to be manipulated, ruined with colors and purposeful imperfections. I put the ball down and pick up one of the brushes, fanning the bristles with the fingers of my left hand.
I don't want to paint. I can't. I am afraid to let my emotions fly freely. I am afraid that if I release them without any stipulation or restraint they'll destroy me.
And I find it kinda funny
I find it kinda sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you
I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It's a very, very mad world mad world
"Are you going to sit there and stare or are you actually going to paint something?" Brian asks as he grabs the remote and turns off the stereo. I didn't hear him come out of the bathroom and I drop the brush to the floor, listening as it clatters to a standstill.
He leans over and picks it up, leaving freethinking drops of water to fall to the hardwood. "No," I say. He walks away from me and I hear his movements as they start to climb the stairs.
"No, you're not going to just sit there and stare or no you aren't going to paint anything?" He asks as he slides into some jeans and walks back down the stairs and into the kitchen. He pulls out a bottle of water and twists the top, taking a long drink.
"No, I'm not going to paint anything," I say with conviction as I lean forward and place the brush on the table. He watches my movements as I watch the brush, a million thoughts fogging up my mind.
Silence rings loudly in my ears as I watch my blood drip with indignation down the surface of my canvas. I can feel the sweat from his hair as it burns into the skin on my back.
They are polar opposites, both symbols of life and death, both capable of more than what is first presented. Blood and Sweat; friends to the end.
I get up from the couch, keeping my eyes locked on the canvas. "Thank you for the supplies," I say, "but, I'm not ready yet." I walk into the bathroom and shut the door behind me.
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Brian…
"Fuck," I say to the open air as I pick up the brush he left abandoned on the table. I toss the brush back on the table and walk over to the kitchen. I'm going to need something stronger than water.
Song is "Mad World" by Gary Jules
*Excerpt is from The Fall of The House of Usher by Edgar Allen Poe
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