Do Unto Others

Chapter 9

Note: All past happenings are in italics.

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Justin…

I can taste the silence in the loft, cooled air tainted with the metallic sting of metal. I sigh, moving my left arm and resting it over my eyes.

One beat…

Two…

Four…

Twenty…

Forty-five… and counting…

I count the beats of my own heart. Don't stop, please don't stop.

Brian's hands on my back. Warm hands pressing into polished marble. His knee pushes on my thigh, pushing it up, making a space for him, only him.

I moan, filling the loft with lust and heat.

"You're so smooth." I turn my head to the right, staring into the sun. It's blinding. Rough hands touch my skin, my thighs, me. My foot slips on the hardwood. I don't move it on purpose but I pay for it anyway.

Coffee kissed teeth on petrified flesh, marking territory that is already claimed.

I can't see.

I slide the condom on, my fingers tracing a path along the rigid member. I have not yet perfected the act of patience. "Fuck me," I say through clenched teeth.

Brian wastes no time.

He presses into me, forcing air into my lungs and a ringing into my ears. His hands find their way from around my body and into my hair, long locks of blond. I feel his grunts and moans as he fills me completely, leaving promptly only to return again.

I close my eyes.

I bite the flesh of his ear, worrying it between my teeth, sharing my pleasure with him. "Oh God Brian," I moan. I don't recognize my own voice. I open my eyes and stare into him. His top lip is edged in sweat. I lick my own lips before pulling him close and covering his mouth with mine.

His tongue snakes into my mouth and I welcome its warmth.

His hand leaves a mark on the side of my face that burns as hot as ice that's been left too long against the skin. "Now see, why would you try and bite me?" He presses his hand firmly into the flesh of my neck, pinning me to the wall and pressing his thumb into my jaw, forcing me to look at him.

My hands are wrapped around his wrist, trying to even out the pressure, push some of it back toward him. "You know," he says as he steps closer to me, "I am starting to get the feeling that you don't like me very much."

'I don't like you,' I think and even my thoughts are whispering, afraid of being heard. "Fuck… you."

I can feel the vessels in my neck struggle as he lifts me slightly off the ground. My feet stand on end, waiting to lose all contact with the floor.

The edges of my vision cloud over and before I know it, it all disappears.

I follow Brian into the darkness, blindly. Bright strips of pleasure and exhaustion paint a trail into the deepest section of oblivion and inebriation. He collapses on top of me, his nose pressing secretly into the crook of my neck.

I let my eyes roll open, washed in the drunken euphoria of a thousand shots of ecstasy. My foot slips away from him as we both catch our breath. He lets out a great rush of air and rolls away from me. I let him.

Cold air takes up residence in his absence and I place my hand on my stomach, my forefinger gliding over my bottom rib. "You know, if you're going to start being that loud every time we fuck we are really going to piss off the neighbors," Brian says as he lights a cigarette.

Carbon monoxide floods into the air and I smile. I love the smell, so remarkably common and on him, from him, completely unique.

I allow myself to blush at his words. "I screamed?"

"Mm," he huffs as he blows out a ring of smoke and presses his lips, soft and moist, to the side of my face. "You woke the dead."

Funny, I did not hear myself scream.

Not… dead… yet, are the first words that assault my brain as I blink back into consciousness. "I was wondering when you were going to wake up. I decided to let you sleep for awhile. I didn't need you to be awake," he says as he looms over me.

I ignore the cooling fluids that I feel draining from me. I push it away from the front of my mind.

He wraps his hand around my wrist and presses a glass into my hand, the amber liquid smoothing along the soft curves of the glass. "Drink this," he says. I don't move and his fingers tighten over mine. "I'm not fucking asking."

He helps me press the glass to my lips.

I drop my hands from my eyes and suppress the urge to scream.

The loft is different at night, when everything is quiet and nothing but memories and lingering regrets are left to idly wander.

I don't sleep. I can't. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to my heart beat away the minutes.

Brian moves in his sleep and I look over at him, the moonlight fading into his skin, turning him bluish white. I get up off the bed and walk out of the bedroom, my body running on the few hours of sleep that I managed to get yesterday.

I sit on the sofa and look out of the window, my fingers dancing over the black cast on my arm. An artist's fingers that are slowly losing the strength needed to perform their task. I pull on the Velcro strap, loosening the brace until it slides free from my arm.

I place it next to me, telling it silently to be quiet, not to move. I finger the scar that runs parallel with my skin, unable to stop touching it, even when a blast of pain finds its way into the vicinity.

"Well, I don't know about you," I say to the small stuffed puppy that Brian will never admit he bought, "but I think the scar is very endearing. Like a… battle wound," I say with a smile as two tears slide down my cheeks. I wipe them both away.

I think back to the stuffed care bear that Daphne carried around with us. Wherever we went the bear was there. It knew all our secrets and told no one so we let it stay, until Daphne discovered something else she liked.

We were two best friends, always together. We still are.

I reach for the phone on instinct, my ears trained on the other room, listening for any sign of Brian waking up. I don't hear anything.

"You're going to get me in trouble, Justin," Daphne whispers, small tremors of amusement riding on the words.

I shift on my bed and lay on my stomach, my feet in the air, tenting the sheets. We start middle school in the morning. We are finally going to be in the seventh grade. I'm glad, sixth grade was starting to get really boring.

"No, I'm not," I say with authority. Daphne is always worried about getting in trouble.

"Well, what do you want? It's really late and we have to go to school in the morning," she says. I bury my face in my pillow and hold the walkie-talkie to the side of my head, making an imprint in the pillow.

"I know," I say with a small laugh, "I just wanted to make sure that the walkie-talkies work," I tell her. She sighs and I can see the smile on her face clearly in my mind.

I hear the rustle of sheets and I kick my legs back and forth as I wait for Daphne to say something. "Good night, Justin," I hear suddenly. I stop kicking my feet and answer on auto-pilot.

"Good night, Mrs. Chanders," I say as I turn the walkie-talkie off as fast as possible. 'Oh man,' I think, 'Daphne is going to kill me.'

"Hello?" I hear Daphne's sleepy voice answer. She clears her throat and waits for me to say something.

"Daphne," I say, tears trapped in my throat. I play with the puppy's ear and scratch his head, waiting for the panting tongue and wagging tail. It never comes.

"Justin, is that you?" she asks. I can tell she is sitting up in the bed, turning on the lamp, looking at the time. "It's five o'clock in the morning."

"I know," I say into the phone. "I just…I, wanted…. Do you remember when we were thirteen and we got those walkie-talkies?"

"Yeah, I remember. Justin, are you okay? Do you want me to come over?" she asks. I hear her moving around on the bed and I know she is getting up.

"No, no," I say twice and I hear her movements settle. "I just, wanted… to hear your voice. I'll talk to you later." I hang up the phone before she can decide to pull on her clothes, over her pajamas, and drive over.

I toss the phone down next to me and pull the coffee table closer to me. I put my feet on the table and sit the dog on top of my bent knees.

One beat…

Four…

"I think I am going to call you Blue. Yes, I know you're brown, but that's okay. I like the way blue sounds," I tell my faithful companion. I pat the top of his head and lean back on the sofa, pulling at the sleeves of my shirt and pulling my arms in close to my skin.

"You're going to stretch all of your clothes out doing that," Brian says as he looks up from the magazine he is reading.

My arms are stretched above my head, the ends of my sleeves held tightly between my fingers and a pencil behind my ear, taking a break. "Yeah, and you pulling them over my head over and over at every angle do nothing to contribute to the problem," I say.

He glares at me before turning the page of his magazine.

"Look Blue, here comes the sun."

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Ronnie Jr. …

"Use less water next time. You're overworking the clay. Relax with it, it's art… not rocket science," I say with a smile.

"Okay," Reyna replies as she looks at her work.

"Okay, people, the time has come for the annual Art Explosion. As you all know, every student is given a chance to enter an original work," I announce as I walk around the room. Sunlight is streaming through the high windows, bathing the room in much needed light and shadow.

"What's the prize for first place?" Anthony yells out. I hate when students yell out but I swallow my annoyance and keep talking.

"Keep your fucking mouth shut if you know what's good for ya," my dad says as he pushes me up against the wall and walks away.

I wipe the tears from my face and take a deep breath. I have to smile, smile for the guest. Smile at mom's funeral. Pretend to be happy.

"Oh Ronnie," Mrs. Penn says as she wraps her arms around me, "I am so sorry for your lost. Your mother was a very beautiful woman. I will miss her so much." She starts to cry as she pulls away, wiping at her nose with a crumpled tissue.

I stare at her, her perfume assaulting my senses. Her make-up is cracked and her lips are dry, smeared slightly with the temporary moisture of tears and perspiration. Her sentiments are not real. She hated my mother. My mother was not fond of her.

I no longer feel anything.

"You make sure you take care of your father, okay?" she says as she hugs me again and moves on. She circles her arms around my father and starts her speech all over again with practiced sympathy and grief.

I glance to my right at Ryan as he stands next to me, both feet resting on their sides as he watches Mrs. Thomason, one of mom's closest friends, handing people obituaries. I nudge him with my right arm and smile at him.

We only have to pretend for a little while longer.

"Ah, I bet everyone would like to know the answer to Mr. Dallis' question." The students all watch me, waiting for me to tell them the first place prize. "Well, it seems that this year there is the very generous amount of two thousand dollars awaiting the artist who decides to put themselves up for slaughter."

"Two… thousand?" Billy Ackrund asks. I nod my head as I tap my dry-erase marker against the side of my thigh. I see the two men enter the classroom, my eyes immediately drawn to their guns and badges.

"Umm, yeah… two thousand," I say as my throat dries. "Why don't we end class early today? Give you all a chance to start on your projects," I say. The students all start to pack up their things, not unaware of the two looming men in the room, their mere presence is nerve pinching.

I check myself. I must remain calm.

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Brian…

"Are you okay? It's just like walking out of the loft," I say as we walk toward the dental office, one foot in front of the other.

"I'm fine, stop fucking asking me if I'm okay," he tells me as he tightens his grip on my hand, holding my right arm close to his side and taking deep, paced breaths. We reach the building and I feel like we have walked miles through the desert.

"Whatever you say," I reply as I pull open the door and step into the office. The faint buzzing of tools and the smell of cleanser waft through the air as we make our way to the desk. "Justin Taylor, he has a nine o'clock appointment."

She looks down at her book and finds his name. "Okay, here we are. Have you been here before?" I know Justin isn't going to speak to the woman. I can almost feel his pulse running through his fingers and into my body.

"We saw Dr. Morrison," I tell her. She nods and looks up from her appointment book after jotting something down.

"Okay, well, have a seat and we'll call you back shortly."

We sit in the chairs. They are comfortable and relaxing but Justin does not sit back. He stays tense, sitting up straight in the seat next to me and staring straight ahead. I look over at the middle-aged man across from me, reading the times trying to pretend he knows everything about anything.

"Justin," Dr. Morrison calls as he stands propping the door open. I get up first and wait for Justin to do the same. "Brian, how are you?"

"Just peachy, doc," I say as we follow him into the back and into a private room. Dr. Morrison closes the door behind us and gestures to the chair in the room. I let Justin's hand slip from mine as he gets into the dentist's chair, his feet nervously moving from side to side.

"Hello, Justin," Dr. Morrison says as he moves around Justin. He keeps his movements slow, not wanting a repeat of the emotional outburst that Justin had at the first visit weeks ago.

"Hey," Justin says, his hands placed calmly in his lap. I know better. I know that tears threaten to spill from him at any moment. I know he wants to run out of the door and into obliteration.

"Okay," Dr. Morrison says as he slips on some gloves, turns on the overhead light and sits down on his stool next to Justin's head, using his foot to raise the chair. "Let's take a look."

"So, doc, how's it look?" I ask. Justin is wiping at his mouth, trying to remove all traces of the solution that Dr. Morrison used to clean his mouth. He swings his legs over the side of the chair, placing his feet near the floor and causing the leather to protest.

Dr. Morrison turns the light off and pushes it further out of the way as he pulls off his gloves and looks at Justin. "Well, provided that you keep progressing how you've been and there are no foreseeable complications then I don't see why we can't have the wires off as early as your next visit."

Dr. Morrison gets up and Justin wipes at his mouth, his fingers toying with the paper edges of the bib. "Everything looks good," he says as he pulls the gloves from his hands.

"Are you going to take the wires off?" Justin asks. Dr. Morrison washes his hands and pulls some paper towels from the dispenser.

"Yes, I think it is safe now to take them off. But, I want you to know that this is in no way an excuse for you to slack off on your oral maintenance and you'll need to keep eating the soft foods for the next few weeks."

"If you don't get that fucking chicken broth out of my face I can seriously see myself inflicting bodily harm on you," Justin tells me.

I don't follow him into the bedroom. He looks like he might mean it.

"Great," Justin says. Dr. Morrison grabs some more gloves and sits down, pulling the tray he prepared over with him. "Is it going to hurt?" Justin asks and I get up to stand on the other side of the chair.

"It shouldn't, but we'll give you a local anesthetic and a prescription for the pain along with an antibiotic to ward off infection. We can't be too careful," Dr. Morrison says as he readies the needle.

Justin moves his hand and grabs onto mine as he closes his eyes tightly.

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Ronnie Jr. …

"We understand that Ms. Monroe was a student in your Art Concepts class," Detective Ramirez says as he walks around, glancing at the students' works, getting a feel for the place.

His partner stands loosely, lingering near me.

"Yes, she was. She showed a lot of potential. I just can't believe she's… dead," I say, swallowing deeply and scratching the inside of my palm. The detective stops walking, and turns toward me.

"When was the last time you saw her?" He asks and my heart skips a beat.

His partner moves around the back of me, circling me. I can almost feel the suspicions rolling from them and I swallow down my own apprehension.

"Umm, I saw her that Tuesday. Yes, it was Tuesday," I say as I turn away from them and start to gather my papers, glancing once at the clock.

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Detective Jorge Ramirez…

It only takes one second to notice the flicker of nervousness as it rolls through his body. I glance at Josh and he looks at me.

He saw it too.

"Tuesday, you say?" He nods his head and starts to talk, rattling off the many reasons why he remembers it was a Tuesday.

She was seen leaving his class on Wednesday afternoon.

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