Email to Doug and JP
John sits in front of the desk. His knee jiggles up and down so much it hits the wood above it, chafing though the thin hospital-scrub type pants they made him wear. (No strings, no belts, all elastic all the way, and they always slide down his slender hips. He hates them.) His fingertips drum against the surface next to the keyboard. He can't help but fidget -- yeah, he gets exercise and everything, they make them do that, but he's not allowed to have his lighters right now and that's the hardest part. His fingernails are chewed down worse than JP's ever get.
It feels like he's in prison. He knows he's not. But there is separation from friends and family, and schedules, and routines, and rules, and therapy, and rooms locked up at night, and people watching him all the fucking time, that it may as well be.
He knows he agreed to this. It's just really hard. It really sucks. And he really wants out.
But he knows he's not ready. They know he's not ready. And he's not getting out as soon as he thought he would.
At least he's allowed to send an email now.
And he'd better fucking hurry up, before he loses his time and privilege. He's stared at the computer screen for too fucking long.
He just doesn't know what to say. How does he tell his husbands? How does he tell them he's fucked up far more than any of them thought? That it's not as easily fixable as he thought it be, even with all the profession help in the world? How does he ask them whether or not they've decided to wait for him, or if they've forgotten him, or worse, if they've found someone else to be with now. (It's his greatest fear, that his absence has made them realise he's not the man for either of them, that they get along just fine -- better, even -- without him. That he's not worth waiting for. He's almost expecting it.)
He hears a warning called out, "Five minutes, Allerdyce."
"Yeah, yeah!" he answers back.
He sighs to himself, clicks the mouse, and places his fingertips ever so lightly against the keyboard.
And he finally begins typing.
To: Ramsey, Doug; Beaubier, Jean-Paul
From: Allerdyce, John
Hey.
So, I get to send an email on this approved account. I think they read it before it makes it to you. Your replies probably will be too. Just saying.
So. Yeah. I have no fucking idea what to say. Things are going all right, I guess. Prob not as good as they should be by this point. I don't know when I'll get to come home. But, I'm trying, okay? Please remember that. I'll make it home to you as fast as I can. I'm talking about the things they want me to talk about, I'm doing the exercises they want me to do, I'm doing it all by the book. I'm hoping it all works. It fucking better, and soon.
How're you guys? Everything okay with work? The shelter? The university? All the hot sex you get to have without me?
I don't really know what's going on out there. I hope you're safe, I hope you're doing well. You're both always on my mind.
Gotta go. But, please know: miss you, and love you.
--John.
He clicks send and knows it won't get to them right away. Hopefully by morning. Hopefully someone informed them it was really him, or they might not believe it was. Who knew. He just wanted to hear something back from them, even if he wasn't sure when he'd be able to check for responses, or when he would be able to reply. Maybe this whole thing would pass by with no incident and he'd just have to go back to trying to get better.
He just didn't know, nothing about anything right now, but he wished he did.
It feels like he's in prison. He knows he's not. But there is separation from friends and family, and schedules, and routines, and rules, and therapy, and rooms locked up at night, and people watching him all the fucking time, that it may as well be.
He knows he agreed to this. It's just really hard. It really sucks. And he really wants out.
But he knows he's not ready. They know he's not ready. And he's not getting out as soon as he thought he would.
At least he's allowed to send an email now.
And he'd better fucking hurry up, before he loses his time and privilege. He's stared at the computer screen for too fucking long.
He just doesn't know what to say. How does he tell his husbands? How does he tell them he's fucked up far more than any of them thought? That it's not as easily fixable as he thought it be, even with all the profession help in the world? How does he ask them whether or not they've decided to wait for him, or if they've forgotten him, or worse, if they've found someone else to be with now. (It's his greatest fear, that his absence has made them realise he's not the man for either of them, that they get along just fine -- better, even -- without him. That he's not worth waiting for. He's almost expecting it.)
He hears a warning called out, "Five minutes, Allerdyce."
"Yeah, yeah!" he answers back.
He sighs to himself, clicks the mouse, and places his fingertips ever so lightly against the keyboard.
And he finally begins typing.
To: Ramsey, Doug; Beaubier, Jean-Paul
From: Allerdyce, John
Hey.
So, I get to send an email on this approved account. I think they read it before it makes it to you. Your replies probably will be too. Just saying.
So. Yeah. I have no fucking idea what to say. Things are going all right, I guess. Prob not as good as they should be by this point. I don't know when I'll get to come home. But, I'm trying, okay? Please remember that. I'll make it home to you as fast as I can. I'm talking about the things they want me to talk about, I'm doing the exercises they want me to do, I'm doing it all by the book. I'm hoping it all works. It fucking better, and soon.
How're you guys? Everything okay with work? The shelter? The university? All the hot sex you get to have without me?
I don't really know what's going on out there. I hope you're safe, I hope you're doing well. You're both always on my mind.
Gotta go. But, please know: miss you, and love you.
--John.
He clicks send and knows it won't get to them right away. Hopefully by morning. Hopefully someone informed them it was really him, or they might not believe it was. Who knew. He just wanted to hear something back from them, even if he wasn't sure when he'd be able to check for responses, or when he would be able to reply. Maybe this whole thing would pass by with no incident and he'd just have to go back to trying to get better.
He just didn't know, nothing about anything right now, but he wished he did.