LJ Idol Season 9, Week 13: Open Fricken Topic
James sat down on the curb in front of his apartment complex, curling his arms over his knees and burying his face in the crook of his elbow. His shoulders shook, though no tears slipped down his cheeks. Instead, he forced himself to breathe in deeply. One breath. Two breaths. Three.
The knot in his stomach began to unravel, the lump in his throat dissolving. Mark would calm down in a few more hours. If he gave it time...
“James?”
“Kenji?” James gasped, lifting his head from his arms. His eyes scanned the street wildly, focusing on everything and nothing at once.
No one was there.
This time, James couldn’t hold back his tears as they began to roll down his face. He could feel them splatter onto his arms, onto his ripped jeans as he sobbed, shoulders heaving in ways they hadn’t since the first time he lay cowering inside Mark’s apartment, waiting for that first fist to connect with his chin.
Mark had been sure not to leave visible bruises since then. James remembered the apologies, the begging for forgiveness, the pleas for another chance, for James to stay, and now --
Now he could never leave.
***
“How have things been at home?” Dr. Vizzano asked, leaning back in her seat. She steepled her fingers together, her eyes focused on James intently. “You haven’t mentioned Kenji or your father, the last two times you were here.”
James kept his face expressionless and turned his head away from her. “Things’ve been...alright,” he murmured, clearing his throat. “Could be worse.”
“Did Mark find out about Kenji?” Dr. Vizzano asked. “I know you were concerned about that, last time you were here.”
James tensed, pulled one leg up onto the small leather loveseat and hugged it to his chest. “Not...necessarily,” James said, trying to keep his voice even. He could feel tears sting at his eyes, but he ignored them as he continued to avoid glancing at his therapist. “He knows that I have a --” Friend? Was Kenji even his friend, anymore? “--a friend, but not who Kenji is, or what --” James’s voice cracked, causing him to clear his throat again and swallow back tears. “-- what Kenji meant to me.”
Dr. Vizzano nodded, lowering her hands and resting them on top of the arms of her chair, turning her eyes upwards towards the ceiling in thought. “How did Mark react?” she asked finally, returning her gaze to James’s.
“He said I couldn’t ever see Kenji again,” James answered. He rubbed his shoulder absently where Mark had grabbed him when the demand had been made, just days ago. “But...”
“But?” Dr. Vizzano prompted, raising an eyebrow.
“I haven’t -- I haven’t seen Kenji in weeks,” James finished, his voice barely above a whisper. He rested his chin on his knee, looking anywhere but at Dr. Vizzano. “So it’s not like it matters, anyway, right?”
Dr. Vizzano didn’t have a response.
***
“Who’s number is this?”
James tensed, his whole body going cold as Mark’s voice reverberated throughout the kitchen. His fingers tightened around the handle of a knife as he held it mid-air above an onion. James’s eyes stung, watering without his consent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied, his tongue feeling far too large for his mouth. He glanced at Mark over his shoulder, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible. “What number?”
“This six-five-one number,” Mark said, his hand wrapped tightly around James’s phone. His blue eyes narrowed at James, his lips forming a thin line as he waited for James’s response.
James swallowed, wishing his tongue would go back to normal size as it stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I don’t recognize it,” he said, wiping away the tears rolling down his cheek as he turned back to the task at hand. He frowned to himself, hoping that Mark couldn’t hear the pounding of his heart. “Must be a wrong number.”
“You dialed it. Multiple times,” Mark continued. James could feel Mark’s breath against his neck, could feel Mark’s presence inch closer and closer to him. “Who were you trying to call?”
“No one,” James said, his voice growing shrill despite himself. He cleared his throat, wiping away his tears yet again as he finished slicing up the onion and pushed the pieces aside. “I told you, I don’t recognize the number.”
“It wasn’t that ‘friend’ of yours, was it?” Mark hissed, placing his hand on top of James’s. He wrenched the knife free of James’s hand, pulling the smaller man away from the counter and forcing James to face him. “The same one I told you to stop talking to?”
“I haven’t -- I wouldn’t --” James rambled. Mark twisted his wrist, and James cried out in pain. He tried to back away from Mark, but Mark had him pinned against the kitchen counter, the counter digging into his back mercilessly. “That’s not him,” he breathed, finally. “I haven’t -- spoken to him in weeks.”
“You honestly expect me to believe that?” Mark spat, his grip tightening around James’s wrist. James could feel Mark’s fingers dig into the soft ligaments, the pain flaring as Mark continued to twist James’s hand in unnatural directions. “Like hell you haven’t talked to him, James. You called this number just yesterday! Just tell me the goddamned truth!”
“It’s my sister’s number!” James managed, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Mark’s eyes widened, his expression relaxing. “I swear, I haven’t spoken to Kenji in --”
“Kenji?” Mark asked, raising an eyebrow. He let go of James’s wrist and moved away from him, giving James room to breathe. “Why’s that name sound familiar?”
James felt as though ice water had been dumped down the back of his shirt. He shifted on his feet, pressing himself against the counter in an effort to move away from Mark. The gears could be seen turning in Mark’s mind, his eyes distant, if only for a moment.
And then it clicked.
“Your shrink?” Mark shrieked, disgust registering on his face. He slammed both hands onto the counter before him and keeping James in place. “You’ve been ‘talking’ to your shrink?”
“I -- what? No! I wouldn’t --” Stars sprang in front of his eyes as Mark slapped him across the face. He could even taste blood as his tongue throbbed with pain.
“I thought I told you to stop going to therapy, James,” Mark said, his words now strangely calm. “Are you telling me that you’re still going?”
James’s lip quivered, and he lifted a hand slowly to his cheek. Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them away as he forced himself to look into Mark’s icy eyes. “I stopped going to Kenji,” he answered, licking his lips. “He’s no longer my therapist.”
The fire building in Mark’s eyes did nothing to warm the ice in James’s blood.
***
Sunlight filtered through the blinds, alerting James that several hours had passed since he let consciousness slip away from him. He lay on the bed, unwilling to move as Mark’s assault also registered, the pain in everything ramping up with every muscle spasm. James groaned, his throat sore and protesting the passage of air through it.
“I’m going to work,” Mark said, his voice distant. “I’ll be back later, and we can talk about this friend of yours, okay?”
“Okay,” James croaked, hoping his voice had been loud enough for Mark to hear him. He rolled over onto his stomach, an involuntary sob escaping him with the movement. As if the pain weren’t enough, he could hear the apologies in Mark’s voice, the sweet nothings he’d whisper in James’s ear later, the gifts, the flowers.
He hated flowers. He hated this whole cycle, this constant, never ending barrage of pain and mental warfare. Slowly, James pulled himself out of the bed and didn’t dare look down at his arms and legs. Tried to ignore the edges of the bruises lacing his skin. Instead, he made his way into the kitchen. Walked past the knives. And eventually, he stood in front of the sink.
James bent forward, his ribs protesting with the movement. He pulled the trash can out from under the sink and fumbled through the trash. His phone had been buried under something James didn’t dare try to identify, its screen cracked but not so badly that he couldn’t unlock the phone. With shaky fingers, James typed a message -- one to Kenji.
Please help me get out of here. He hit send before slipping the phone in his pocket and putting the trashcan back where it belonged.
He prayed that this time, he’d get a response, unlike all of the others.
The knot in his stomach began to unravel, the lump in his throat dissolving. Mark would calm down in a few more hours. If he gave it time...
“James?”
“Kenji?” James gasped, lifting his head from his arms. His eyes scanned the street wildly, focusing on everything and nothing at once.
No one was there.
This time, James couldn’t hold back his tears as they began to roll down his face. He could feel them splatter onto his arms, onto his ripped jeans as he sobbed, shoulders heaving in ways they hadn’t since the first time he lay cowering inside Mark’s apartment, waiting for that first fist to connect with his chin.
Mark had been sure not to leave visible bruises since then. James remembered the apologies, the begging for forgiveness, the pleas for another chance, for James to stay, and now --
Now he could never leave.
***
“How have things been at home?” Dr. Vizzano asked, leaning back in her seat. She steepled her fingers together, her eyes focused on James intently. “You haven’t mentioned Kenji or your father, the last two times you were here.”
James kept his face expressionless and turned his head away from her. “Things’ve been...alright,” he murmured, clearing his throat. “Could be worse.”
“Did Mark find out about Kenji?” Dr. Vizzano asked. “I know you were concerned about that, last time you were here.”
James tensed, pulled one leg up onto the small leather loveseat and hugged it to his chest. “Not...necessarily,” James said, trying to keep his voice even. He could feel tears sting at his eyes, but he ignored them as he continued to avoid glancing at his therapist. “He knows that I have a --” Friend? Was Kenji even his friend, anymore? “--a friend, but not who Kenji is, or what --” James’s voice cracked, causing him to clear his throat again and swallow back tears. “-- what Kenji meant to me.”
Dr. Vizzano nodded, lowering her hands and resting them on top of the arms of her chair, turning her eyes upwards towards the ceiling in thought. “How did Mark react?” she asked finally, returning her gaze to James’s.
“He said I couldn’t ever see Kenji again,” James answered. He rubbed his shoulder absently where Mark had grabbed him when the demand had been made, just days ago. “But...”
“But?” Dr. Vizzano prompted, raising an eyebrow.
“I haven’t -- I haven’t seen Kenji in weeks,” James finished, his voice barely above a whisper. He rested his chin on his knee, looking anywhere but at Dr. Vizzano. “So it’s not like it matters, anyway, right?”
Dr. Vizzano didn’t have a response.
***
“Who’s number is this?”
James tensed, his whole body going cold as Mark’s voice reverberated throughout the kitchen. His fingers tightened around the handle of a knife as he held it mid-air above an onion. James’s eyes stung, watering without his consent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied, his tongue feeling far too large for his mouth. He glanced at Mark over his shoulder, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible. “What number?”
“This six-five-one number,” Mark said, his hand wrapped tightly around James’s phone. His blue eyes narrowed at James, his lips forming a thin line as he waited for James’s response.
James swallowed, wishing his tongue would go back to normal size as it stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I don’t recognize it,” he said, wiping away the tears rolling down his cheek as he turned back to the task at hand. He frowned to himself, hoping that Mark couldn’t hear the pounding of his heart. “Must be a wrong number.”
“You dialed it. Multiple times,” Mark continued. James could feel Mark’s breath against his neck, could feel Mark’s presence inch closer and closer to him. “Who were you trying to call?”
“No one,” James said, his voice growing shrill despite himself. He cleared his throat, wiping away his tears yet again as he finished slicing up the onion and pushed the pieces aside. “I told you, I don’t recognize the number.”
“It wasn’t that ‘friend’ of yours, was it?” Mark hissed, placing his hand on top of James’s. He wrenched the knife free of James’s hand, pulling the smaller man away from the counter and forcing James to face him. “The same one I told you to stop talking to?”
“I haven’t -- I wouldn’t --” James rambled. Mark twisted his wrist, and James cried out in pain. He tried to back away from Mark, but Mark had him pinned against the kitchen counter, the counter digging into his back mercilessly. “That’s not him,” he breathed, finally. “I haven’t -- spoken to him in weeks.”
“You honestly expect me to believe that?” Mark spat, his grip tightening around James’s wrist. James could feel Mark’s fingers dig into the soft ligaments, the pain flaring as Mark continued to twist James’s hand in unnatural directions. “Like hell you haven’t talked to him, James. You called this number just yesterday! Just tell me the goddamned truth!”
“It’s my sister’s number!” James managed, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Mark’s eyes widened, his expression relaxing. “I swear, I haven’t spoken to Kenji in --”
“Kenji?” Mark asked, raising an eyebrow. He let go of James’s wrist and moved away from him, giving James room to breathe. “Why’s that name sound familiar?”
James felt as though ice water had been dumped down the back of his shirt. He shifted on his feet, pressing himself against the counter in an effort to move away from Mark. The gears could be seen turning in Mark’s mind, his eyes distant, if only for a moment.
And then it clicked.
“Your shrink?” Mark shrieked, disgust registering on his face. He slammed both hands onto the counter before him and keeping James in place. “You’ve been ‘talking’ to your shrink?”
“I -- what? No! I wouldn’t --” Stars sprang in front of his eyes as Mark slapped him across the face. He could even taste blood as his tongue throbbed with pain.
“I thought I told you to stop going to therapy, James,” Mark said, his words now strangely calm. “Are you telling me that you’re still going?”
James’s lip quivered, and he lifted a hand slowly to his cheek. Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them away as he forced himself to look into Mark’s icy eyes. “I stopped going to Kenji,” he answered, licking his lips. “He’s no longer my therapist.”
The fire building in Mark’s eyes did nothing to warm the ice in James’s blood.
***
Sunlight filtered through the blinds, alerting James that several hours had passed since he let consciousness slip away from him. He lay on the bed, unwilling to move as Mark’s assault also registered, the pain in everything ramping up with every muscle spasm. James groaned, his throat sore and protesting the passage of air through it.
“I’m going to work,” Mark said, his voice distant. “I’ll be back later, and we can talk about this friend of yours, okay?”
“Okay,” James croaked, hoping his voice had been loud enough for Mark to hear him. He rolled over onto his stomach, an involuntary sob escaping him with the movement. As if the pain weren’t enough, he could hear the apologies in Mark’s voice, the sweet nothings he’d whisper in James’s ear later, the gifts, the flowers.
He hated flowers. He hated this whole cycle, this constant, never ending barrage of pain and mental warfare. Slowly, James pulled himself out of the bed and didn’t dare look down at his arms and legs. Tried to ignore the edges of the bruises lacing his skin. Instead, he made his way into the kitchen. Walked past the knives. And eventually, he stood in front of the sink.
James bent forward, his ribs protesting with the movement. He pulled the trash can out from under the sink and fumbled through the trash. His phone had been buried under something James didn’t dare try to identify, its screen cracked but not so badly that he couldn’t unlock the phone. With shaky fingers, James typed a message -- one to Kenji.
Please help me get out of here. He hit send before slipping the phone in his pocket and putting the trashcan back where it belonged.
He prayed that this time, he’d get a response, unlike all of the others.