[QaF] Ever After (Variations on the Theme)
I realize that it's been probably done to death and then some more, but after I'd watched 122, I just had to write this piece. And I must admit that I'm really satisfied with the outcome. :)
I'd like to thank darksylvia for beta-reading and all the suggestions she made. To cut long story short - you're awesome! ♥
Title: Ever After (Variations on the Theme)
Fandom: Queer as Folk (US)
Spoilers: Up to and including 201.
Rating: PG-13, I guess
Warnings: Lots and lots of angst.
Word count: 4 303
Ever After
(Variations on the Theme)
1.
There is a distant sound of hurried footsteps headed your way; you take a quick glance at the side-view mirror, and you can hear and see everything in a flash even before it happens - the faint swish of a baseball bat cutting the air, your stifled scream, a sharp intake of breath, the crack of a broken bone, resounding in the empty parking lot as if a bomb just went off, and then the dull thud of a limp body falling to the ground.
(It’s both like a flash and like a movie in slow motion - you don’t even know how that's possible, but it is, and it feels like a second stretching for a whole eternity, when the only thing you can do is just stare, motionless and completely frozen, not believing your own eyes, because, fuck, this has not just happened, this is not supposed to happen on a fucking prom night and everybody knows that. Such things just don’t happen.
Except they do.)
The second blow never comes - you saw to that, but it doesn’t matter anyway. The first one was enough. Chris Hobbs runs away (you want to chase after him, to make him bleed instead of Justin, but it’s already too late, and this is not some fucking fairytale, where everything could be fixed with one goddamn wave of a magic wand) and suddenly there is only you in the parking lot, only you and the motionless body. (No, not body. Justin. Body is what they say about dead people in black plastic bags.) Justin is too pale and too still for you to believe that what happened tonight wasn’t merely a figment of your imagination, that he was really flashing you that beaming smile just a minute ago, maybe even less. You feel like it’s been years since you jumped out of the jeep.
You know you’re still breathing, because your lungs burn with every rise and fall of your chest; your lips are moving, but you can’t make out the words. It’s most probably something along the lines of “no” and “fuck,” and “God,” but you really can’t be sure. At the moment, the only thing you are one hundred percent certain of is the faint thread of Justin’s pulse that you were so desperately looking for, and which took you too long to find.
Slightly annoyed female voice coming from your cellphone makes you realize that you must have called 911, but you don’t even remember pulling the phone out of your pocket or dialing the number. When you finally speak, your voice is hoarse and distant, as if you were listening to somebody else telling the woman in dispatch that yes, there has been an accident, a young boy, a blow to the head, the underground garage of Wyndham Garden, no, he’s unconscious, so fucking hurry up, no, you won’t fucking calm down and yes, he’s still breathing. (You just don’t know for how long.)
And then you wait for what feels like yet another eternity, kneeling on the hard concrete floor with your eyes closed and your hands gripping the stupid, white silk scarf (which is not entirely white anymore, just like Justin’s hair). The grip is so tight that your knuckles turn white and it hurts, but that’s okay. When you finally open your eyes, there’s still no one but you in the parking lot; the only difference is that now you can hear muffled sounds of music playing loudly in the ballroom. Then the song stops abruptly and the silence which comes after that is nearly deafening.
The minutes go by; in the pale, artificial light of fluorescent lamps Justin’s blood on the concrete floor looks too dark, almost brown, and it’s just not right, because blood should be deep red, like burgundy, not this ugly, dirty color. (But then again, nothing about this situation is right - Justin shouldn’t be lying here, not moving, cold and almost see-through like thin paper, bleeding all over your hands when you press the scarf against his wound to stop the flow. And you shouldn’t be here either, feeling numb and empty, and as if you were to blame. You know you are.)
You don’t remember much of the ride to the hospital, and what you do remember are sensations rather than actual events - strong, firm hands in blue gloves pulling you away from Justin, sharp light when they check your pupils to see if you’re all right, silky smoothness of the scarf you’re still gripping tightly, faint, metallic taste of blood on your tongue (you don’t know whether it’s Justin’s or maybe you just bit your lips until they bled), muffled voices coming as if through a thick wall made of glass.
The first thing after that you are completely sure of is a hospital hallway painted that sickening, ugly shade of white, and Mikey’s voice coming from the cellphone, his silent “oh my God,” and “I’ll be there,” and “just hang on.” (You try to do your best, even though every glance you take at the blood-stained scarf, hanging loosely around your neck, is like an admission of guilt, repeated over and over again.) Your eyes sting from staring at the wall without blinking as well as from something altogether different, and it’s just you in here, just you and a row of empty chairs, so you let go for once and don’t do anything even when your lips start to taste of salt.
When Michael comes to sit beside you, there are no words exchanged, but his hand on your neck is soft and warm - something that you forgot was even possible (Justin’s hands were cold, so cold when he was lying there, not moving at all, and that’s all you can remember). He’s stroking your hair gently, as if he’s afraid that his touch might break you, might send you flying into tiny pieces. (And the worst part is, you’re not sure if he’s entirely wrong.) Everything is so quiet that you can hear Michael’s hitched breath as he tries to pretend that he’s not crying. You close your eyes for a moment and then ask him to bring you a cup of coffee. The strong, black, slightly tart liquid does nothing to wash this bitter taste out of the back of your mouth, but you drink it anyway, burning your tongue and the fingers holding the thin Styrofoam cup. While Michael is making all these calls that need to be made, you wait in the nauseatingly white hallway for the doctor to come out of the OR and tell you that everything is all right.
Except it isn’t.
2.
There is a distant sound of hurried footsteps headed your way; you take a quick glance at the side-view mirror, and you can hear and see everything in a flash even before it happens - the faint swish of a baseball bat cutting the air, your scream, a sharp intake of breath, the crack of a broken bone, resounding in the empty parking lot as if a bomb just went off, and then the dull thud of a limp body falling to the ground.
(For a split second, everything freezes. You can’t see, or hear, or feel, and when the world goes back to normal, you don’t. You’re still trapped in that moment, unable to move, unable to fully understand what has just happened. It’s all like an abstract painting - an image which doesn’t make any sense at the first glance; you can look, but you can’t comprehend the meaning. In your reality, young boys don’t lie on the concrete floor in a pool of their own blood on their prom night.
Except they do.)
The bat is cold and smooth in your hands when you pick it up and hit. (Right now, you want to make Hobbs bleed, to make him pay, to make it right by whatever means necessary, only there’s nothing you can do to make it right. It’s done.) He screams, trying to get away from you, so you deal one more blow and the minute he runs away, you turn to Justin, bat completely forgotten, falling to the ground with a loud clatter.
Justin is just lying there, a pale figure on the cold cement floor, not moving, barely breathing, bleeding all over your shaking hands and the scarf you use to try to stop the loss of blood. You can feel the bile rising in your throat and you think you’re going to be sick.
There is a sudden movement behind your back and you realize that you must not have hit hard enough, because out of the corner of your eye you can see Hobbs take another swing. You turn around in an instant, but it’s once again too late and there’s nothing you can do.
You know you took the blow, because everything is spinning and you can feel blood dripping from your forehead, blurring your vision, turning everything red. There is somebody screaming in the distance, but you can’t see anything anymore or make out the words; still, you know that Chris Hobbs is gone - there are no more blows, no more hard wood hitting hard bone. Your fingers are slick when you fumble with the cellphone and dial 911; you know that you’re losing it, that you’re going to lose it any moment now, so you breathe hard and deep, and whisper to the woman in dispatch, hoping that it’s enough. Then you lie there for a moment, thinking that whoever was telling all these stories about seeing black spots and finally the ultimate darkness falling before your eyes must have been a fucking liar, because there is no darkness, just a lot of blinding fluorescent light.
When you finally wake up, it is the strange hour of the morning when the sky is still dark gray, but the light seeping through the windows becomes dim and pale, making everything seem unreal. They tell you that you have a serious concussion and a deep cut on your head that needed to be stitched up, but you are going to be just fine. Next they tell you that Justin is in a coma. It’s unreal, too.
You demand to be released immediately and even though the doctor tries to stop you, there’s really nothing she can do, not when your voice is sharp like a scalpel. You cut your way out of the hospital bed with harsh words, like you always do, and she finally caves in, telling you that you do it under your own authority. When you put your clothes back on, you can feel the dried blood on the scarf scratch against your skin (you cover it with a black shirt, so that no one else will see your guilt), and you can still smell it in the stale air, even though it should be suppressed by the odor of Lysol.
Walking out of your room into the sickeningly white hallway, you raise your head and see Michael. It’s the last thing you expected, but then you remember he’s your emergency contact, and someone from the hospital must have called him. He’s sitting right by the door with his head against the wall, his eyes closed, his body tense. You put your hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, and when he opens his eyes to find you staring at him, the dam breaks and he starts to cry. In between his “oh my God,” and “I was so scared,” and “thank God, you’re okay,” you wrap your arms around him and kiss him reassuringly on the lips.
“Oh God… Brian,” Michael wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, the other one clutching your forearm. “I came as soon as I got the call, but they wouldn’t let me stay in your room when you started to come around… They told me I could go back in as soon as they made sure everything was okay with you.” He tightens his grip, like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re really here, alive and well. “So they let you out already?”
You simply nod; telling Michael the whole truth wouldn’t be the best move right now. “I’m all right, Mikey. I’m all right,” you whisper, and then you remember that Justin isn’t. “I’m going to-“ you stop abruptly, but Michael already knows what you were trying to say. “I just need to- Wait there for me, okay?”
You find the nearest exit and light a cigarette. Leaning against the wall, shivering slightly in the brisk morning air, you drag the smoke all the way into your lungs and hold it there for a moment, until you nearly choke, so that when your eyes start to sting, you can pretend it’s just from the cigarette.
Jennifer Taylor barely acknowledges you when you finally make it back inside and find yourself standing outside Justin’s room. His father is not there, as expected, and his little sister (Molly, her name is Molly, you remember suddenly) is sleeping, curled in one of the chairs. Michael is sitting on the other end of the hallway, but he stays in his seat even after he sees you coming back, giving you all the space and time you need. They won’t let anyone in yet (and even when they finally do, his mother won’t let you in), so for now both of you stand in the hallway, watching him through the window. He doesn’t look real with all the tubes and wires attached to his body, his skin so pale that it seems almost translucent, and his hair disappearing under the bandages.
All of a sudden, your world starts spinning and you need to sit down. When you open your eyes to discover that nothing around you is doing somersaults anymore, Justin’s mother is glancing at you, as if she’s unsure what she should do. Or if she should do anything at all. She looks exhausted, you think. Exhausted, and pale, and crushed. You want to say “there was nothing I could do” or “I’m sorry,” and even though you know sorry is bullshit, maybe this one time it isn’t.
(You say nothing, though.)
Mikey is now sitting right beside you, his hand on the nape of your neck, stroking your skin softly. He looks worried. The deep cut on your head where the bat left its mark hurts like hell, and there’s no Jim Beam or drugs from your special stash to make it all better. The painkillers they gave you on your way out don’t work, so you just sit in the uncomfortable chair with your eyes closed and try not to move your head too much. When the pain goes away for a moment, you open your eyes to find Jennifer Taylor watching you from across the hallway.
“Brian, is everything all right?” she asks, her voice calm but firm. “Maybe you shouldn’t have left the bed so soon. How’s your head?” You assure her that it’s fine, and then the heavy silence falls upon you once more. Jennifer shifts uncomfortably in her seat, eyeing you discreetly. You know what’s coming next. “Brian, I’d like to thank you for being here, I’m really grateful for that, but I think you should go home now.”
If she wants to make it look like she cares so much about your well-being, so be it, you can play along. You stand up, give her short, polite nod and walk away, taking an unusually quiet Michael with you. Once you’re back at the loft, you set the alarm and drink until the bottle is empty, and the world starts to blur around the edges, bringing oblivion, taking away the memories carved under your eyelids.
You go back to the hospital every night for the next month and tell no one. (Michael and the rest of them come to visit Justin during the day, so it’s safer that way, but one night you meet his mother in there and pretend that you just came for a checkup. You don’t think she believes you, but she says nothing.) The nights start to blend into one another and before you notice, all the tell-tale signs of what happened are gone. No one would even suspect that you took a bat to the head. And then they finally tell you that Justin has come out of a coma and, except for his need for physical therapy, everything is all right.
Except it isn’t.
3.
There is a distant sound of hurried footsteps headed your way; you take a quick glance at the side-view mirror, and you can hear and see everything in a flash even before it happens - the faint swish of a baseball bat cutting the air, your scream, a sharp intake of breath, the crack of a broken bone, resounding in the empty parking lot as if a bomb just went off, and then the dull thud of a limp body falling to the ground.
(It echoes in your head, repeating over and over again - countless identical moments passing in a split second which feels like a lifetime. You know it’s going to take yet another lifetime to forget the images and sounds engraved in your memory so deep that they leave scars, and it’s all wrong, it’s all fucking wrong, because your memories shouldn’t taste like ash and unfulfilled dreams.
Except they do.)
The second blow stops mid-air when you catch Hobbs by the wrist and push him away, pulling the bat from his grip, taking a swing and hitting. At this moment, it’s as natural for you as breathing, you don’t even think about it, just let your muscles move of their own accord. Hobbs stumbles, you hit again, and then he runs, staggering, and there’s nothing you want more than to go after him, to hit him until he’s the one lying on the concrete floor, bleeding all over the place (you don’t dare to think: dying, because Justin is not dying, that’s not what’s going to happen). The truth is, you’ve always loathed violence (that’s something you have daddy dearest to thank for) and if you weren’t so scared already, that thought would freak you out.
Suddenly everything is silent, except for the muffled sounds of music coming from the ballroom, and you’re all alone in the parking lot, only you and Justin, lying on the cold cement with his eyes closed, completely still, and for one excruciatingly long moment you are certain that he’s not breathing anymore. (But then you find the weak thread of his pulse, barely present under your fingers, but present nonetheless, and you can breathe once again, too.)
There’s a pool of blood on the concrete floor - almost too dark in the pale, artificial light to be real, but the slightly sweet, sickening smell in the air is unmistakable and you think you’re going to be sick. Trying to overcome the nausea, you focus on stopping the flow of blood, but your hands pressing the white silk scarf against his wound are red and that’s all you can see, as if your world has narrowed down to just this one color. Your own blood is humming loudly in your ears, and suddenly you get the feeling that whatever you do, it might be not enough, because Justin looks too pale, almost translucent, and you can see the little blue veins pulsing faintly under his too-cold skin.
You don’t remember calling 911, hell, you don’t even remember pulling the cellphone out of your pocket, but you figure you must have, because the ambulance is here, and someone is dragging you away from Justin, so you just stand there, in the distance, unable to move, unable to talk, unable to think, lost in a haze, while they put an orthopedic collar around his neck and then lift him from the ground without effort, his body limp like a broken rag doll.
You did it. This is all your doing. You pushed and pushed, until you pushed fucking Chris Hobbs over the edge. (You were always told that you go too far, push too hard, but you never cared to listen - this is the never-ending story of your life. Except now someone else has to pay for this.)
The burning sensation in the pit of your stomach returns, so you take deep breaths, trying to stop the nausea, and you think that one of the paramedics asks you if you are all right, but you really can’t be sure; his words come as if through a thick wall made of glass. You are both hypersensitive and strangely numb at the same time - your hands hurt and you realize that you’re clenching your fingers around the scarf covered with blood stains, which look like strange red flowers blooming on the silk. You can smell blood in the air and you can feel its slightly metallic taste on your tongue, you can hear your own heartbeat and your blood coursing through your veins, yet you seem to be completely cut off from everything that is happening around you.
The hospital is silent and white - this is the first thing you remember clearly. They take Justin straight to the OR, shouting things you don’t understand, but you recognize the tone. It sounds like long hours in the waiting room, and red, swollen eyes, and silent conversations in the past tense. You sit in an empty hallway, staring at a wall painted that sickening, ugly shade of white which reminds you of all the nights from your childhood when you needed stitches and ended up in emergency room. The walls there were the same hideous color. You close your eyes for a moment and then you pull the cellphone out of your pocket to call Michael. The call goes straight to voicemail and then you remember that Mikey and the doctor were supposed to take off for Portland. (It’s too late, you think, not entirely sure what you really mean.)
Your throat tightens and your eyes suddenly sting so badly that the world around you starts to blur. (It’s not much of a difference, everything is still white and sterile, sort of like you feel on the inside - emotionless and blank.) For the first time in years you don’t know where to go from here, so you just sink back into your chair, feeling the blood-stained scarf, hanging around your neck under the black shirt, burn into your skin. (Wearing it is like doing penance for something there’s no absolution from. Not ever. And no repentance in the world can change that.)
You need coffee (in fact, you need whisky, a whole bottle of Jim Beam, preferably, but that’s not something the hospital cafeteria has to offer), so you slowly stand up and go down to the first floor. The hospital hallways all look the same - long, white, completely barren and almost completely empty. The only people sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chairs seem exhausted, resigned and prepared for the worst. (You are not.) By the stairs, you pass the chapel, and even if the thought of going inside crosses your mind for the briefest of moments, you ignore it and just move on. There’s nothing inside but stale air smelling of old incense.
The coffee is strong, black and tart, and even if it doesn’t wash the bitter taste out of your mouth, at least it helps you clear your mind a little bit. You think of all the phone calls that need to be made, and you’re not sure if you’re able to make them. (If Mikey was here, he would take care of it, he would take care of everything, including you, but he’s on a plane to Portland, and this is your personal nightmare. Except you can’t just wake up.) Your hands shake almost imperceptibly when you once again pull the cellphone out of your pocket and scroll down to find Taylor, J. in your contacts. Your voice is hoarse and quiet when you start to speak, the words get stuck on the tip of your tongue, but when they finally push through, there’s only dead silence on the other end of the line, followed by characteristic low tone when Jennifer Taylor hangs up without uttering even one single word. You know she will be here as soon as it’s humanly possible. For now, there’s only you in the long empty hallway, only you and your fear which is not going to leave. And yet, there’s still hope, somewhere deep inside of you, that by the time Jennifer gets to the hospital, Justin will be out of the surgery and there will be no reason to fear anymore.
You’re still all by yourself when the doctor comes out of the OR to tell you in a professional voice devoid of any emotion that there was nothing they could do, that the injuries were too severe and he lost too much blood, that they are sorry for your loss. For a moment you just wait for the world to stop, but it doesn’t. It keeps on going, dragging you along, and doesn’t care to ask if you want to stay in the time when Justin wasn’t dead. The doctor offers you a sad, apologetic smile that was for sure rehearsed in front of a mirror for hours, and the next moment you are left in the hallway all alone once again, feeling numb and empty, and as if you are to blame. You know you are, but - with your lungs and throat burning like fire with every rise and fall of your chest - you still think breathing should be a little bit easier.
Except it isn’t.
I'd like to thank darksylvia for beta-reading and all the suggestions she made. To cut long story short - you're awesome! ♥
Title: Ever After (Variations on the Theme)
Fandom: Queer as Folk (US)
Spoilers: Up to and including 201.
Rating: PG-13, I guess
Warnings: Lots and lots of angst.
Word count: 4 303
Ever After
(Variations on the Theme)
1.
There is a distant sound of hurried footsteps headed your way; you take a quick glance at the side-view mirror, and you can hear and see everything in a flash even before it happens - the faint swish of a baseball bat cutting the air, your stifled scream, a sharp intake of breath, the crack of a broken bone, resounding in the empty parking lot as if a bomb just went off, and then the dull thud of a limp body falling to the ground.
(It’s both like a flash and like a movie in slow motion - you don’t even know how that's possible, but it is, and it feels like a second stretching for a whole eternity, when the only thing you can do is just stare, motionless and completely frozen, not believing your own eyes, because, fuck, this has not just happened, this is not supposed to happen on a fucking prom night and everybody knows that. Such things just don’t happen.
Except they do.)
The second blow never comes - you saw to that, but it doesn’t matter anyway. The first one was enough. Chris Hobbs runs away (you want to chase after him, to make him bleed instead of Justin, but it’s already too late, and this is not some fucking fairytale, where everything could be fixed with one goddamn wave of a magic wand) and suddenly there is only you in the parking lot, only you and the motionless body. (No, not body. Justin. Body is what they say about dead people in black plastic bags.) Justin is too pale and too still for you to believe that what happened tonight wasn’t merely a figment of your imagination, that he was really flashing you that beaming smile just a minute ago, maybe even less. You feel like it’s been years since you jumped out of the jeep.
You know you’re still breathing, because your lungs burn with every rise and fall of your chest; your lips are moving, but you can’t make out the words. It’s most probably something along the lines of “no” and “fuck,” and “God,” but you really can’t be sure. At the moment, the only thing you are one hundred percent certain of is the faint thread of Justin’s pulse that you were so desperately looking for, and which took you too long to find.
Slightly annoyed female voice coming from your cellphone makes you realize that you must have called 911, but you don’t even remember pulling the phone out of your pocket or dialing the number. When you finally speak, your voice is hoarse and distant, as if you were listening to somebody else telling the woman in dispatch that yes, there has been an accident, a young boy, a blow to the head, the underground garage of Wyndham Garden, no, he’s unconscious, so fucking hurry up, no, you won’t fucking calm down and yes, he’s still breathing. (You just don’t know for how long.)
And then you wait for what feels like yet another eternity, kneeling on the hard concrete floor with your eyes closed and your hands gripping the stupid, white silk scarf (which is not entirely white anymore, just like Justin’s hair). The grip is so tight that your knuckles turn white and it hurts, but that’s okay. When you finally open your eyes, there’s still no one but you in the parking lot; the only difference is that now you can hear muffled sounds of music playing loudly in the ballroom. Then the song stops abruptly and the silence which comes after that is nearly deafening.
The minutes go by; in the pale, artificial light of fluorescent lamps Justin’s blood on the concrete floor looks too dark, almost brown, and it’s just not right, because blood should be deep red, like burgundy, not this ugly, dirty color. (But then again, nothing about this situation is right - Justin shouldn’t be lying here, not moving, cold and almost see-through like thin paper, bleeding all over your hands when you press the scarf against his wound to stop the flow. And you shouldn’t be here either, feeling numb and empty, and as if you were to blame. You know you are.)
You don’t remember much of the ride to the hospital, and what you do remember are sensations rather than actual events - strong, firm hands in blue gloves pulling you away from Justin, sharp light when they check your pupils to see if you’re all right, silky smoothness of the scarf you’re still gripping tightly, faint, metallic taste of blood on your tongue (you don’t know whether it’s Justin’s or maybe you just bit your lips until they bled), muffled voices coming as if through a thick wall made of glass.
The first thing after that you are completely sure of is a hospital hallway painted that sickening, ugly shade of white, and Mikey’s voice coming from the cellphone, his silent “oh my God,” and “I’ll be there,” and “just hang on.” (You try to do your best, even though every glance you take at the blood-stained scarf, hanging loosely around your neck, is like an admission of guilt, repeated over and over again.) Your eyes sting from staring at the wall without blinking as well as from something altogether different, and it’s just you in here, just you and a row of empty chairs, so you let go for once and don’t do anything even when your lips start to taste of salt.
When Michael comes to sit beside you, there are no words exchanged, but his hand on your neck is soft and warm - something that you forgot was even possible (Justin’s hands were cold, so cold when he was lying there, not moving at all, and that’s all you can remember). He’s stroking your hair gently, as if he’s afraid that his touch might break you, might send you flying into tiny pieces. (And the worst part is, you’re not sure if he’s entirely wrong.) Everything is so quiet that you can hear Michael’s hitched breath as he tries to pretend that he’s not crying. You close your eyes for a moment and then ask him to bring you a cup of coffee. The strong, black, slightly tart liquid does nothing to wash this bitter taste out of the back of your mouth, but you drink it anyway, burning your tongue and the fingers holding the thin Styrofoam cup. While Michael is making all these calls that need to be made, you wait in the nauseatingly white hallway for the doctor to come out of the OR and tell you that everything is all right.
Except it isn’t.
2.
There is a distant sound of hurried footsteps headed your way; you take a quick glance at the side-view mirror, and you can hear and see everything in a flash even before it happens - the faint swish of a baseball bat cutting the air, your scream, a sharp intake of breath, the crack of a broken bone, resounding in the empty parking lot as if a bomb just went off, and then the dull thud of a limp body falling to the ground.
(For a split second, everything freezes. You can’t see, or hear, or feel, and when the world goes back to normal, you don’t. You’re still trapped in that moment, unable to move, unable to fully understand what has just happened. It’s all like an abstract painting - an image which doesn’t make any sense at the first glance; you can look, but you can’t comprehend the meaning. In your reality, young boys don’t lie on the concrete floor in a pool of their own blood on their prom night.
Except they do.)
The bat is cold and smooth in your hands when you pick it up and hit. (Right now, you want to make Hobbs bleed, to make him pay, to make it right by whatever means necessary, only there’s nothing you can do to make it right. It’s done.) He screams, trying to get away from you, so you deal one more blow and the minute he runs away, you turn to Justin, bat completely forgotten, falling to the ground with a loud clatter.
Justin is just lying there, a pale figure on the cold cement floor, not moving, barely breathing, bleeding all over your shaking hands and the scarf you use to try to stop the loss of blood. You can feel the bile rising in your throat and you think you’re going to be sick.
There is a sudden movement behind your back and you realize that you must not have hit hard enough, because out of the corner of your eye you can see Hobbs take another swing. You turn around in an instant, but it’s once again too late and there’s nothing you can do.
You know you took the blow, because everything is spinning and you can feel blood dripping from your forehead, blurring your vision, turning everything red. There is somebody screaming in the distance, but you can’t see anything anymore or make out the words; still, you know that Chris Hobbs is gone - there are no more blows, no more hard wood hitting hard bone. Your fingers are slick when you fumble with the cellphone and dial 911; you know that you’re losing it, that you’re going to lose it any moment now, so you breathe hard and deep, and whisper to the woman in dispatch, hoping that it’s enough. Then you lie there for a moment, thinking that whoever was telling all these stories about seeing black spots and finally the ultimate darkness falling before your eyes must have been a fucking liar, because there is no darkness, just a lot of blinding fluorescent light.
When you finally wake up, it is the strange hour of the morning when the sky is still dark gray, but the light seeping through the windows becomes dim and pale, making everything seem unreal. They tell you that you have a serious concussion and a deep cut on your head that needed to be stitched up, but you are going to be just fine. Next they tell you that Justin is in a coma. It’s unreal, too.
You demand to be released immediately and even though the doctor tries to stop you, there’s really nothing she can do, not when your voice is sharp like a scalpel. You cut your way out of the hospital bed with harsh words, like you always do, and she finally caves in, telling you that you do it under your own authority. When you put your clothes back on, you can feel the dried blood on the scarf scratch against your skin (you cover it with a black shirt, so that no one else will see your guilt), and you can still smell it in the stale air, even though it should be suppressed by the odor of Lysol.
Walking out of your room into the sickeningly white hallway, you raise your head and see Michael. It’s the last thing you expected, but then you remember he’s your emergency contact, and someone from the hospital must have called him. He’s sitting right by the door with his head against the wall, his eyes closed, his body tense. You put your hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, and when he opens his eyes to find you staring at him, the dam breaks and he starts to cry. In between his “oh my God,” and “I was so scared,” and “thank God, you’re okay,” you wrap your arms around him and kiss him reassuringly on the lips.
“Oh God… Brian,” Michael wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, the other one clutching your forearm. “I came as soon as I got the call, but they wouldn’t let me stay in your room when you started to come around… They told me I could go back in as soon as they made sure everything was okay with you.” He tightens his grip, like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re really here, alive and well. “So they let you out already?”
You simply nod; telling Michael the whole truth wouldn’t be the best move right now. “I’m all right, Mikey. I’m all right,” you whisper, and then you remember that Justin isn’t. “I’m going to-“ you stop abruptly, but Michael already knows what you were trying to say. “I just need to- Wait there for me, okay?”
You find the nearest exit and light a cigarette. Leaning against the wall, shivering slightly in the brisk morning air, you drag the smoke all the way into your lungs and hold it there for a moment, until you nearly choke, so that when your eyes start to sting, you can pretend it’s just from the cigarette.
Jennifer Taylor barely acknowledges you when you finally make it back inside and find yourself standing outside Justin’s room. His father is not there, as expected, and his little sister (Molly, her name is Molly, you remember suddenly) is sleeping, curled in one of the chairs. Michael is sitting on the other end of the hallway, but he stays in his seat even after he sees you coming back, giving you all the space and time you need. They won’t let anyone in yet (and even when they finally do, his mother won’t let you in), so for now both of you stand in the hallway, watching him through the window. He doesn’t look real with all the tubes and wires attached to his body, his skin so pale that it seems almost translucent, and his hair disappearing under the bandages.
All of a sudden, your world starts spinning and you need to sit down. When you open your eyes to discover that nothing around you is doing somersaults anymore, Justin’s mother is glancing at you, as if she’s unsure what she should do. Or if she should do anything at all. She looks exhausted, you think. Exhausted, and pale, and crushed. You want to say “there was nothing I could do” or “I’m sorry,” and even though you know sorry is bullshit, maybe this one time it isn’t.
(You say nothing, though.)
Mikey is now sitting right beside you, his hand on the nape of your neck, stroking your skin softly. He looks worried. The deep cut on your head where the bat left its mark hurts like hell, and there’s no Jim Beam or drugs from your special stash to make it all better. The painkillers they gave you on your way out don’t work, so you just sit in the uncomfortable chair with your eyes closed and try not to move your head too much. When the pain goes away for a moment, you open your eyes to find Jennifer Taylor watching you from across the hallway.
“Brian, is everything all right?” she asks, her voice calm but firm. “Maybe you shouldn’t have left the bed so soon. How’s your head?” You assure her that it’s fine, and then the heavy silence falls upon you once more. Jennifer shifts uncomfortably in her seat, eyeing you discreetly. You know what’s coming next. “Brian, I’d like to thank you for being here, I’m really grateful for that, but I think you should go home now.”
If she wants to make it look like she cares so much about your well-being, so be it, you can play along. You stand up, give her short, polite nod and walk away, taking an unusually quiet Michael with you. Once you’re back at the loft, you set the alarm and drink until the bottle is empty, and the world starts to blur around the edges, bringing oblivion, taking away the memories carved under your eyelids.
You go back to the hospital every night for the next month and tell no one. (Michael and the rest of them come to visit Justin during the day, so it’s safer that way, but one night you meet his mother in there and pretend that you just came for a checkup. You don’t think she believes you, but she says nothing.) The nights start to blend into one another and before you notice, all the tell-tale signs of what happened are gone. No one would even suspect that you took a bat to the head. And then they finally tell you that Justin has come out of a coma and, except for his need for physical therapy, everything is all right.
Except it isn’t.
3.
There is a distant sound of hurried footsteps headed your way; you take a quick glance at the side-view mirror, and you can hear and see everything in a flash even before it happens - the faint swish of a baseball bat cutting the air, your scream, a sharp intake of breath, the crack of a broken bone, resounding in the empty parking lot as if a bomb just went off, and then the dull thud of a limp body falling to the ground.
(It echoes in your head, repeating over and over again - countless identical moments passing in a split second which feels like a lifetime. You know it’s going to take yet another lifetime to forget the images and sounds engraved in your memory so deep that they leave scars, and it’s all wrong, it’s all fucking wrong, because your memories shouldn’t taste like ash and unfulfilled dreams.
Except they do.)
The second blow stops mid-air when you catch Hobbs by the wrist and push him away, pulling the bat from his grip, taking a swing and hitting. At this moment, it’s as natural for you as breathing, you don’t even think about it, just let your muscles move of their own accord. Hobbs stumbles, you hit again, and then he runs, staggering, and there’s nothing you want more than to go after him, to hit him until he’s the one lying on the concrete floor, bleeding all over the place (you don’t dare to think: dying, because Justin is not dying, that’s not what’s going to happen). The truth is, you’ve always loathed violence (that’s something you have daddy dearest to thank for) and if you weren’t so scared already, that thought would freak you out.
Suddenly everything is silent, except for the muffled sounds of music coming from the ballroom, and you’re all alone in the parking lot, only you and Justin, lying on the cold cement with his eyes closed, completely still, and for one excruciatingly long moment you are certain that he’s not breathing anymore. (But then you find the weak thread of his pulse, barely present under your fingers, but present nonetheless, and you can breathe once again, too.)
There’s a pool of blood on the concrete floor - almost too dark in the pale, artificial light to be real, but the slightly sweet, sickening smell in the air is unmistakable and you think you’re going to be sick. Trying to overcome the nausea, you focus on stopping the flow of blood, but your hands pressing the white silk scarf against his wound are red and that’s all you can see, as if your world has narrowed down to just this one color. Your own blood is humming loudly in your ears, and suddenly you get the feeling that whatever you do, it might be not enough, because Justin looks too pale, almost translucent, and you can see the little blue veins pulsing faintly under his too-cold skin.
You don’t remember calling 911, hell, you don’t even remember pulling the cellphone out of your pocket, but you figure you must have, because the ambulance is here, and someone is dragging you away from Justin, so you just stand there, in the distance, unable to move, unable to talk, unable to think, lost in a haze, while they put an orthopedic collar around his neck and then lift him from the ground without effort, his body limp like a broken rag doll.
You did it. This is all your doing. You pushed and pushed, until you pushed fucking Chris Hobbs over the edge. (You were always told that you go too far, push too hard, but you never cared to listen - this is the never-ending story of your life. Except now someone else has to pay for this.)
The burning sensation in the pit of your stomach returns, so you take deep breaths, trying to stop the nausea, and you think that one of the paramedics asks you if you are all right, but you really can’t be sure; his words come as if through a thick wall made of glass. You are both hypersensitive and strangely numb at the same time - your hands hurt and you realize that you’re clenching your fingers around the scarf covered with blood stains, which look like strange red flowers blooming on the silk. You can smell blood in the air and you can feel its slightly metallic taste on your tongue, you can hear your own heartbeat and your blood coursing through your veins, yet you seem to be completely cut off from everything that is happening around you.
The hospital is silent and white - this is the first thing you remember clearly. They take Justin straight to the OR, shouting things you don’t understand, but you recognize the tone. It sounds like long hours in the waiting room, and red, swollen eyes, and silent conversations in the past tense. You sit in an empty hallway, staring at a wall painted that sickening, ugly shade of white which reminds you of all the nights from your childhood when you needed stitches and ended up in emergency room. The walls there were the same hideous color. You close your eyes for a moment and then you pull the cellphone out of your pocket to call Michael. The call goes straight to voicemail and then you remember that Mikey and the doctor were supposed to take off for Portland. (It’s too late, you think, not entirely sure what you really mean.)
Your throat tightens and your eyes suddenly sting so badly that the world around you starts to blur. (It’s not much of a difference, everything is still white and sterile, sort of like you feel on the inside - emotionless and blank.) For the first time in years you don’t know where to go from here, so you just sink back into your chair, feeling the blood-stained scarf, hanging around your neck under the black shirt, burn into your skin. (Wearing it is like doing penance for something there’s no absolution from. Not ever. And no repentance in the world can change that.)
You need coffee (in fact, you need whisky, a whole bottle of Jim Beam, preferably, but that’s not something the hospital cafeteria has to offer), so you slowly stand up and go down to the first floor. The hospital hallways all look the same - long, white, completely barren and almost completely empty. The only people sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chairs seem exhausted, resigned and prepared for the worst. (You are not.) By the stairs, you pass the chapel, and even if the thought of going inside crosses your mind for the briefest of moments, you ignore it and just move on. There’s nothing inside but stale air smelling of old incense.
The coffee is strong, black and tart, and even if it doesn’t wash the bitter taste out of your mouth, at least it helps you clear your mind a little bit. You think of all the phone calls that need to be made, and you’re not sure if you’re able to make them. (If Mikey was here, he would take care of it, he would take care of everything, including you, but he’s on a plane to Portland, and this is your personal nightmare. Except you can’t just wake up.) Your hands shake almost imperceptibly when you once again pull the cellphone out of your pocket and scroll down to find Taylor, J. in your contacts. Your voice is hoarse and quiet when you start to speak, the words get stuck on the tip of your tongue, but when they finally push through, there’s only dead silence on the other end of the line, followed by characteristic low tone when Jennifer Taylor hangs up without uttering even one single word. You know she will be here as soon as it’s humanly possible. For now, there’s only you in the long empty hallway, only you and your fear which is not going to leave. And yet, there’s still hope, somewhere deep inside of you, that by the time Jennifer gets to the hospital, Justin will be out of the surgery and there will be no reason to fear anymore.
You’re still all by yourself when the doctor comes out of the OR to tell you in a professional voice devoid of any emotion that there was nothing they could do, that the injuries were too severe and he lost too much blood, that they are sorry for your loss. For a moment you just wait for the world to stop, but it doesn’t. It keeps on going, dragging you along, and doesn’t care to ask if you want to stay in the time when Justin wasn’t dead. The doctor offers you a sad, apologetic smile that was for sure rehearsed in front of a mirror for hours, and the next moment you are left in the hallway all alone once again, feeling numb and empty, and as if you are to blame. You know you are, but - with your lungs and throat burning like fire with every rise and fall of your chest - you still think breathing should be a little bit easier.
Except it isn’t.