Part 2
I don’t need a lot. It’s not vital in life to constantly need. That’s a fallacy we tell ourselves to justify the things we want that we can’t explain otherwise. When the need becomes so great that it overtakes our common sense and we’re paralyzed by it, then maybe there’s a problem. I’m not sure I could ever be a serious hardcore addict. It takes far too much dependence on variables that I can’t control. If I needed a bottle of liquor, I’d have to find the money. Hell, I’d have to have the money. Then I’d have to find a store and it would have to be open and if it wasn’t, I’d have to find another one. If I were into the harder shit, it’d be even more precarious. I like instant gratification far too much to bother with all of that.
I know what I want in life and what I absolutely need and there’s not big market crossover potential there.
What I need right now, what I know I can’t do without and how I know I’m not a fucking addict on a regular basis because I’ve never felt like this, is a Vicodin. Or three.
**********
I need to pee. There’s no question in my mind that I need to pee. I know that I need to get up in order to pee. I know that if I need to get up in order to pee, I’m not going to be able to lay back down and go right back to sleep. I know the fact that I’m already awake enough to realize that probably means that the chances of my falling back to sleep have already been significantly diminished.
For fuck’s sake, it’s not even dark yet, and the blinding white of the snow is making it even lighter than normal. My eyes can’t adjust to this light. This may be the longest day of my life. I need a good eight hours of uninterrupted sleep to recharge and get my bearings again.
Hopefully the drugs have knocked him out. I don’t think I can take another blood laced spit cup for a few hours. If I keep my eyes closed when I walk past his side of the bed, maybe I can ignore it. Maybe I can stay half asleep and pretend this is just a dream.
Fuck! If I don’t pee soon, my bladder is going to explode and I won’t have to worry about his blood spewing, there’ll be more than enough of my own to take up the slack.
It feels like I’m carrying a brick fresh from the oven in my bladder, burning, heavy pain. I have to be careful not to put too much pressure on it when I sit forward. I don’t want to make any sudden movements. I could take the long way and climb off the bed and walk around it, or I could walk over him and save half the trip. I suppose I could do this without tripping or waking him up. I’ve done it enough times in the past, in much groggier states.
That’s what I’ll do. With my eyes closed. Because I’m not really awake. It’s just a figment of my imagination. Just swing one foot forward and one leap off the bed. Simple.
FUCK! I’m not cleaning that up. FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!
I open my eyes and watch the spit and blood form a puddle on the floor. I can feel him staring at me. I don’t even have to look. I can’t be bothered. It’s not going anywhere. My bladder comes before all else. The rest will be waiting for me when I get back and I’m sure I’ll be on my hands and knees wiping up the mess I made.
I can’t do that with brick mortar crushing my kidneys. I need to relieve myself first. I walk halfway to the bathroom. He’s awake, which means he’s not sleeping, which means he can’t sleep. Which means he should really invest in a better nursemaid. Someone who notices these things the first time around.
“Are the pills wearing off?” I rub my eyes, clearing them of the little sleep I managed and see a blurry nod through my fingers. Forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards.
I suppose another minute of waiting won’t kill me.
**********
One measly Vicodin, that’s all my pain and suffering warrants. It’s a good thing I’m not an addict, because I’d have to find new friends to feed my addiction. He’s clearly not going to cooperate. I’ve never drank bottled water through a straw before. It reminds me of the apple juice boxes I’d have at lunchtime when I was a kid. I’d suck that thing dry for every drop. Waste not, want not. Obviously my oral fixation started early in life. Wouldn’t Joanie be proud to know that it all begins with her? If I subscribed to the theory that my life was ultimately all my parent’s fault, I suppose I could go back even further. She didn’t breast feed me. Where else was I going to get milk later in life? Hah. I’d love to see her face when I told her that one. Gay boys and their mommy issues on the next Dr. Phil Geraldo Springer.
“Are you delirious yet?” I watch him sneer at the paper towels he uses to clean the floor. He should be used to my bodily fluids by now. I don’t know what the big deal is.
“Absofuckinlutely.” I cross my hands on my chest and close my eyes, letting the pill work its magic. I’m not sure I like watching him flinch at trying to clean up my mess. Technically, I guess it’s the mess he made. Still, that’s me all over that floor and the thought that I gross him out kind of pisses me off.
It’s probably a good thing I don’t blame anyone else for my fuck-ups. I’m not sure I’d know where to start or when to end, or what I’d miss out on if I did. Like forgiveness, and all the times I’ve been forgiven, maybe even when I shouldn’t have been. Yeah... that whole concept of forgiveness, that’d be a hard one to justify if I constantly blamed someone else.
“Why do you get to sleep on your back?” he chirps, unsympathetically.
“What?” I figure it’s best to keep all of my conversations to one word answers. The less effort I have to make, the better off we both are.
“I mean, I realize you can’t lean on your face right now, but you sleep on your back all the time. You don’t see me complaining.” All I can do is stare murderously. “I think I figured out why you don’t like me to though.” He cockily tosses his rags into the wastebasket he’s holding and inspects his job. From the look on his face, he’s impressed himself.
“Really?” Maybe I’ll try two words in a row on the next round of medication, exactly four hours from now.
“Yeah, you don’t want me to sleep.” I’m hoping it’s just the drugs starting to kick in. Only, he’s not the one taking them. “Do you remember how you used to always watch old movies when you couldn’t sleep? Back when you had a television that is...” Thanks for the reminder. “It was just the same movies, over and over. I think the familiarity kind of lulled you to sleep.”
“Uh-huh.” I have the distinct feeling he’s using my incapacitated state to his advantage. I can remember a few nights when he’d wake me up after I’d dozed off on the couch, complaining that the TV was too loud and he’d heard the movie a million times already. I think he just didn’t like having to sleep alone. I’m not sure I was ready to sleep with him constantly back then. I must have just gotten used to him being there after awhile.
“Well, my theory is that I sort of became the replacement for that. You keep me awake to entertain you, until you’ve tired yourself out. And if I’m dead asleep, then what good am I to you?” Huh?
“No.” That’s not how it is at all. I’m not a fucking puppy that needs a chewtoy to keep myself occupied.
“So, what’s the big deal if I snore a little?”
He’s really not that loud. It’s just that... I don’t know. I don’t want to get used to that sound. I don’t want to be able to predict every noise he’s going to make based on what position he’s in. I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want him to come drag me off the couch and then I obediently shut the television off and follow him. I don’t want to know that he takes three short breaths in before he lets out one long exhale of breath when he’s asleep on his back. I don’t want that. I just want him to sleep here. Be here. That’s all, no more than that.
“Nothing.” My jaw hurts. I’ll save the rest for later.
“Good to know.”
He walks over me, missing my kneecap by less than an inch. He does that all the time. He never leaves the bed from his side, to get to my side of the room. And he never re-enters that way either. I can’t count the number of times he’s woken me up and I’ve watched him pee, waiting for him to come back so I could go back to bed and not be surprised by his footsteps kicking me awake all over again.
I watch him climb over me and sit cross-legged on the pillows. There’s not much to do in this apartment, now that it’s been stripped bare of all of his life’s necessities, television, stereo, computer, my cock. I look up to see him watching me out of the corner of his eye. He holds my stare for a moment and then lazily spreads his fingers in my hair, massaging my scalp with them, like he always does.
I just want him to be here to do this. That’s all.
**********
Pop. Pop. Pop. Ouch! Motherfucking fuck! I suck my thumb between my teeth, biting down on the stinging sensation. That’s a nifty trick human beings are capable of, relieving pain with greater pain. Maybe I should stick it in some butter, or is it the other way around. Don’t stick a burn in butter? I can never remember these things. I’ll just put some cold water on it. I continue shaking with one hand and reach over the counter to try and reach the faucet. An unfortunate consequence of being human and not being made of rubber are those awful snapping sounds our bones make when we stretch them to capacity. If I stretch an inch more, I’ll pull my shoulder right out of its socket or snap my neck in two. Not that my death would greatly affect things. Given how well I’ve dealt all day, I wouldn’t be surprised if he mistook my cold, lifeless body for a cushion he thought he’d sold off long ago.
“Why don’t you just let go of the popcorn?” I’m startled enough by his voice coming up behind me, to do just that.
“You’re up!” I feebly try to pass my culinary masterpiece off onto him so I can concentrate on salvaging the remains of my thumb.
“Did you expect me to sleep through all of that noise? Christ, couldn’t you find something quieter to eat?” Personally, the smell would have woken me up. Noise I can deal with, it’s in one ear and out the other, but you can’t ignore the smell of something right underneath your nose. It’s not like you can choose to breathe or not breathe. “What are you planning on doing, marinating it in that butter? Why are you using the burner all the way back there?”
“Why are you asking so many questions? It’s only popcorn.” Cold water pours over my thumb, another nifty trick we’ve taught ourselves, how to numb the pain into submission when we can’t make it disappear. I like to drown my popcorn in butter, not drizzle or sprinkle it on, but soak it in butter. It grosses him out, especially when I get my hands all greasy and touch him.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the nice, compassionate, pet the feeble one? Where’s your consideration?” He clenches his jaw, rubbing it from the effort it took to say that many words at once, and alternates between shaking the popcorn and stirring the butter.
“My stomach swallowed it out of sheer starvation. Do you want some soup or something? I can make that when I’m done.” Soup seems like a fix all sympathetic gesture. Who can be mad at someone bearing soup? I shut the faucet off and feel the vein pulsing in my thumb, better that than pain.
“I think I’m capable of opening the can and dumping it in myself,” he mumbles, halfheartedly. Well I never said I could make it from scratch or anything. “If I could figure out where I’m supposed to put it, that is.” He inspects the burner situation, one Jiffy Pop on the front right burner, one small pot of melting butter on the back left burner and one pot with water to boil for hot cocoa on the front left burner.
“I was reading some book that Ben has. It says you’re supposed to use all four burners on the stove to keep the energy flowing or some shit.” From the look on his face, some shit seems most appropriate. “If you ignore some of the burners it means you’re ignoring certain parts of your life.”
“And what do you do if you only own a hot plate?” He shuts both active burners off and grabs a big wooden bowl to dump my midnight snack in.
“Admit defeat and immediately hang yourself,” I deadpan. That gets half of a half smile, it’s all he can manage in his sorry state. “I can do that.” He just shrugs his shoulders and pokes the foil on top of the package with a fork, careful to not let the steam burn his hands, unlike myself. I retrieve another pot for his soup, ignoring the lonesome back right burner, instead deciding to focus my energy on a place I can reach without a lot of effort, the no longer occupied front right burner.
It’s eerie in a way, this silence we make as he goes about finishing my popcorn to perfection, even if he wouldn’t so much as touch it on the healthiest of days, and I master the art of the electric can opener. It’s eerie but it’s not unexpected. He doesn’t like to be helpless and doesn’t like me to treat him like he is. He feels better when he’s active and I feel better knowing I can do something for him without being too obvious about it. Besides, I’m sure he’s starving. The least I can do is not fuck up a bowl of soup.
*******
I wasn’t really sleeping. It was more like keeping my eyes closed and being halfway between a daydream and consciousness. So, it’s not like he really woke me up. So, if I’m not mad at him, it’s okay, he didn’t really do anything wrong. He wasn’t being inconsiderate, even if he technically was because he didn’t know I wasn’t sleeping. Something tells me he did though, just like he always knew when I was no longer awake and paying attention to whatever movie I was watching. I bet he can tell the difference between my eyes being closed and me actually being asleep. He shouldn’t know all of that though. He’s too young to be so predictable. And I’m too old to rely on that. Too old to start using four fucking burners randomly, instead of two reliably. Who gives a shit how my chi is divided up?
Apparently he does.
He stirs the pathetic little pot of chicken soup, as if that will make it get hotter any quicker. Maybe he’s dividing up the energy in the pot, spreading the heat evenly so it’s not half-cooked. Fuck it, I should just be grateful that he’s here at all. Okay so I wanted him here, it’s not a big deal. It’s just that I don’t know many people who could put up with me under the best of circumstances, much less for hours on end with nothing else to do but sit and stare at the four walls. I can’t even talk to him without exceedingly painful effort. Somehow, he’s okay with that. That’s what he does best, put up with me. I’d rather shove that responsibility off on him. Otherwise, left to my own devices, all I’ve got are some really sturdy beams for support. I should know...
“How are you feeling?” He digs a hand into the deathtrap I’ve created for him, all butter. I picture his arteries clogging with every bite he takes.
“I feel like I just went on a marathon 72 hour blowjob session.” The sound of what might be words whistles through my front teeth.
“That good?” he smirks. “Well, you look like you went ten rounds with Zach O’ Toole’s cock and lost.” He loves my misery, he gets some sick satisfaction at me not being up to full speed.
“Fuck you.” That comes out loud and clear, with fully formed jaw movements.
“At least it got you talking, instead of whimpering.” He’s contrite and quiet. More quiet than contrite. “Are you in any kind of pain?” He turns his back to me, focusing all of his concentration on stirring my soup.
“It’s manageable.” It is, the worst of it is over, I think. I no longer feel like I want to disassemble my face, which is an improvement over where I was at this morning.
“Good, then grab a spoon and eat some of this. You shouldn’t be taking those painkillers without anything to settle your stomach.” If anyone knows that, it’s him I suppose. I’m right. What the fuck does it matter where your chi flows if you can’t control the rest of the universe. It doesn’t stop fists from flying or bats sailing through the air.
Maybe I would have taken better care of myself if it really did matter. I wouldn’t be where I’m at now, all stitched together and dependent on something to ease the pain. I wouldn’t have let it get so out of control and ignored it for so long. Maybe I could have prevented this... all of this. But I still couldn’t control anyone else and neither could he. We shouldn’t have to, we should just be responsible for ourselves.
“I’m not hungry.” I turn to go back to bed.
“I don’t care.” He bangs the pot down on the burner. “Look, I know it hurts, okay? But trust me, it’ll hurt more when you have to dry heave because the fucking pills are making you nauseous, because you didn’t eat anything and you’ve got nothing to throw up. You need to put something in you. Now just fucking sit down and eat. ”
He splashes the hot liquid in a bowl, droplets hitting his already damaged hand. He doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. I’m not sure. He shoves a spoon in, as a finishing touch and practically drops the bowl on the counter for me to retrieve.
Why did I want him here again?
I sit down with as much of a huff as I can conjure up, force feeding big spoonfuls of soup into my mouth. It feels good, and warm, not too hot. I don’t even have to blow on it to cool it off. Somehow it tastes better because someone else made it. Isn’t that always the case? We have a semi-staring contest as he watches me eat, like a sport, chowing down on his popcorn. When I finally start consuming the soup like a normal human being instead of an animal, he acquiesces and leans on the counter with his bowl. He plays with it, more than he eats it, suddenly not very hungry after all.
I reach across the counter to his grease filled, death beckoning limp hand hovering above the bowl and stop him from picking at nothing.
“It’s good. It’s what I needed” He meets my look with half-lids, not willing to believe me, just yet. “Thanks.” He nods his head, bites his bottom lip and looks down at the bowl, at our hands dangling precariously above the cushioning of soggy, butter filled popcorn. And down he shoves, smiling wickedly while I squirm.
Maybe that’s why I wanted him here. To force my hand.
*****
They should be here any minute now. I hope he doesn’t get mad, it’s just that when they called they were all concerned and I figured he’d be up for seeing the rest of civilization after two days of solitary confinement. Michael thought we were both dead. That’s what you get for not answering your phone for two days. It must be a relief to him that Brian is okay. Besides, I’m sure he’s sick of seeing nothing but me for such a long stretch of time. I’d by lying if I said I was sick of him. I find him fascinating to look at, if nothing else. He looks different from every angle. With his swollen cheeks, it’s been a whole new experience seeing him like I’ve never seen him before.
I have to go home though, I’m sure Daphne is wondering where I am and I’m exhausted. Being attentive to his needs is a full time job. I’d never cut it as a nurse. I can barely handle one patient with patience, much less a whole roster full of perfect strangers. I need to breathe some fresh air, not the stale, recycled air we’ve been exchanging for the past couple of days. I like feeling the cold sting my face every now and then, it shakes me out of my comfort zone and forces me to walk faster, get where I’m going with purpose and survive without much damage. I even like the snow on the ground, especially the parts no one has walked on yet. I like being the first person to mark their territory with my footprints.
Brian likes to think I need to be with him all the time, but the truth is I like having my own space to take care of and to fuck up if I feel like it. It’s just that, at the end of the day when I’m finished with the rest of the world and whatever mess I’ve made or thing I’ve accomplished, I like him to be there to make me forget it or encourage me to keep moving in the right direction. I need him to be there. So, the way I see it, he’s wrong, I don’t need him all the time. I just need him at the end, when no one else is around.
I think I survived okay without him whenever I needed to, until it was time to wind down for the day. I always get anxious at that point. That’s when I wanted him the most. Sometimes I had nightmares, sometimes I just couldn’t sleep. Then the morning would come and I’d convince myself that that would be the day things would change and that’s how I’d get through it. Until the end.
Morning is here and it’s cold outside.
“Going somewhere?” I continue shoving my socks into my backpack as he wanders back in from the bathroom.
“I’m going home. The second string will be here to take over in a few minutes.” My restlessness catches up with me. I’m suddenly more tired than I have been, in a while.
“What ragtag team is that?” He props his head up with a couple of pillows. Not that I expected him to care that I was leaving, but you know... oh, forget it.
“Michael, Lindsay and Debbie. I bet her chicken soup is a thousand times better than mine,” I laugh, because we both know it’s true. There’s not even a contest. “And Lindsay and Michael will make sure you’re thoroughly pampered.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He brushes off my attempt at levity with a seriousness I didn’t expect. I feel awkward having him watch me in silence.
“At least you’ve stopped spitting blood and you still have feeling in your lip and chin.” Funny, I don’t even remember my dentist mentioning it to me as a possible consequence. I’m not even sure I knew I was having them removed. I didn’t pay much attention because he mostly spoke to my mother about it and she made all the decisions. I just opened my mouth and let him have his way. What can I say, I’m easy like that. “Now, just think, you can fit 12 inches in there instead of 10 with all that extra space.”
“Too bad I haven’t figured out how to give myself head yet.” I zip my bag and laugh. He’ll be just fine without me. “Don’t let them in,” he mock pleads with a sullen pout.
“Why not? They’ll wait on you hand on foot.” I sit on the edge of the bed and rub his scalp.
“They’ll never leave.” He has a point. “Besides, I can take care of myself.”
“They’re worried about you,” I raise my eyebrow down at him. “Let them at least see that you’re okay, or they really won’t leave you alone. It’s nice of them to at least try. You don’t know how important that is or how many people would love to have so many people concerned about them.” I watch my hand pick at the cuff of my shirt with my burnt thumb.
“They didn’t remove my spleen, just a few teeth for fuck’s sake. Did someone wipe your ass when you had it done?”
“My mother let me eat ice cream all night and I felt fine by midnight, minus the stomachache all the ice cream gave me. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Figures. You sailed right through.” He makes a whooshing motion with his hand. “They just slipped them out and you went on like nothing happened.” I can’t tell if he’s seriously depressed or just putting on an act so I don’t leave him alone with the vultures.
“That’s me. They just put me back together and I keep moving forward without looking back.” Except when I can’t, always at the end. Didn’t he know how much I needed him? I bat away the thoughts that preoccupy my mind with a few swift blinks. It’s alright. It doesn’t matter.
I feel a tug on my arm, pulling me down towards his face. He puts his mouth to my ear, rubbing the crown of my head. “312B, right side of the corridor. A window pane like they were watching a fucking science experiment gone awry, every night.”
I look at him. That’s all I can do. He looks back. I hold on without a blink.
“Brian?” I hear Michael’s voice before I hear the door open.
Always at the end, when I need him most.
******
He scurries off the bed like we’re about to get caught doing something we shouldn’t have been doing. Given that it’s the two of us, he’s probably right. We shouldn’t be doing all of that. No one wants to see us that way. I smell chicken soup and bury whatever appetite I might have had. I don’t want that. Debbie puts too much shit in hers. I like it simple, like he made it, broth and chicken without all the extras.
I hear sneakers scuffing my wood floors, running up to the bedroom, before a huge propulsion of air hits me and the bed practically bounces off the floor. When I open my eyes to survey the damage, Michael is laying across my stomach smiling up at me, Lindsay is sitting at the foot of my bed and Justin is halfway out of the room, giving me a pitiful wave goodbye.
“How is the crown prince of misery?” Lindsay asks.
“Did they give you stitches? I know how much you hate getting stitches,” Michael stares at my mouth like he’s going to will it open by looking long enough. He’s been there for every stitch, scrape and bruise. He probably knows my medical history better than I do.
I can see Justin kissing Debbie hello, making small talk. From the look on her face she’s chastising him for not calling sooner. He nods his head obediently and kisses her cheek, throwing the strap of his bag over his shoulder.
I pull myself out from under Michael’s weight, climbing out of my side of the bed, walk past Lindsay, into the kitchen. I check what burner Debbie is occupying, back left. We never moved the rest of the pots. She has no other choice, unless she wants to wash all of our dirty dishes. I would never ask her or anyone else to do that. We made the mess, we’ll clean it up later.
“Justin.” I walk towards the door, and catch him before he can open the elevator shaft.
“Yeah?”
I’m not sure what to say. I don’t even know why I’m standing in the middle of my door and the hallway, my feet freezing on the cold concrete just outside my door. I don’t even know why he’s still here, why I’m not letting him go. “Come back.” He looks hesitant, my hands move around the air for no good reason, dividing up the oxygen. “Whenever you’re done.” I feel myself smile and my jaw doesn’t hurt doing it. “Save me from this.”
His eyes soften. “You don’t need me to save you. You’ll be alright without me.” He comes towards me rubbing the side of my jaw gingerly.
That’s where he’s wrong. I’m not. I’m not alright without him. I don’t know if I need him but I know I’m not okay without him. Which some would say meant I needed him, but I don’t need things. I want what I want when I want it. I want him to not leave and if he does I want him to come back. I want him more than I need him and I think maybe it’s better to want something than to need it. Nothing motivates you to need, you do it because you have to. To want something, to truly want something and to get it and keep it, that requires a lot more drive.
I want to need him. I think it may have already started.
“So you’ll be back, right?”
“I’ll be here.” With that, he walks away.
He lifts the rickety wood and steps inside the elevator. I watch him slowly move out of my sight, as the elevator begins to move down.
Even when he’s gone, he’s still here, occupying empty spaces. I couldn’t ask for more
Screencap courtesy of Princess of Babylon, Mia and Elliot