Page 10

William

I’d been taking my anxiety medication on an as-needed basis, but recently that method hadn’t been as effective as in the past. If I called Dr. Stein, she’d tell me what I already knew but didn’t want to hear. That I was only treating one symptom of a bigger issue.

She’d urge me to get treatment for my dysthymia, which had obviously returned. I’d ignored her professional opinion when she cautioned me about what could happen if I didn’t keep up with my maintenance treatment. I didn’t keep up with it because sometimes it didn’t seem fair to be self-content, after all the things I’d done. Sometimes not suffering for it all felt too much like forgetting.

She would also want me in her office, and once there, she’d want to know what changes had interfered with the carefully cultivated structure of my life.

I’d then have to tell her about Ryan, or lie, which would be pointless. Then I’d have to sit there while she took the scenic route to getting me to realize this situation wasn’t ideal. That it wasn’t good for either of us—myself or Ryan.

I’d never admit that, because despite how it looked—and sometimes felt—Ryan was the best thing to happen to me in too many years to count.

So rather than address the depression wreaking havoc on my sleeping pattern, I found things to keep me busy in the small hours of the night.

Setting the clippers on the bathroom sink, I drew in close to the mirror, brushing a hand over my scalp to clear away the loose bits of hair. Making it to my barber didn’t seem possible at the moment, neither was having him come to me. Doing it myself would have to do. It was a struggle, but I managed to take it down to a light-caesar while avoiding bald spots in the process. Clearing away the stubble along my cheeks was much easier. Ryan lucked out. He never had to shave, and the wilder his hair got, the more gorgeous he looked.

I took my time sweeping up the mess before taking another hot shower for something else to do. With that done, I slipped into a pair of loose basketball shorts and a t-shirt, grabbed a cold beer and stepped onto my balcony. We were at that sweet spot of fall where nights were cool but not yet unbearable. The chilled air felt good against my overheated skin. I welcomed it as I slouched in one of the chairs.

The baggy legs of my shorts slid down to my hips when I propped my feet up on the railing. I hadn’t put on any underwear, so my scars were visible. Taking a swig of my beer, I counted each jagged line, then ran the cold neck of the bottle over them, leaving behind the condensation.

I repeated the process on both thighs, getting lost in the old habit when the sound of movement caught my attention. I craned my head around in time to see Ryan step through the sliding door, homing in on my scars when he stopped near my shoulder. His hair stuck up in various directions, and the circles under his eyes were darker than I’d ever seen them.

The bottle nearly slipped from my hand, and my legs shook with the need to slam them shut. Instead of closing them, I took a steadying breath and spread them wider.

Maybe it was the silent yearning to let someone in that made me do it. Maybe I wanted him to see me. If only a little bit. Or maybe I needed him to know I’d been suffering a long time too.

“I…” I didn’t know what else to say, what else to do as I sat there more naked and exposed than I’d ever been. Would this scare him? Disgust him? Give him ideas? I felt uneasy. Repulsed by my own audacity.

We both breathed raggedly, and the railing vibrated when my shaking became a full body thing. More than ever I needed him to understand me, to take the seat next to me and hold my hand. It wasn’t his job to, though. I wasn’t his problem. Fundamentally I knew that, but it still felt like he’d slid a blade between my ribs when he turned and walked away.

I dropped my feet to the floor, doubling over and dry heaving as the bottle slipped from my fingers and shattered.

I needed to scream but couldn’t. I needed to hit something, but couldn’t do that either. Ryan had to come first, and losing my shit would only further destabilize what he’d hopefully come to see as a safe place.

What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, though. I could do all those things without letting him hear me. I’d lock my door and scream into my pillow until my voice gave out, punch the mattress. Anything . I just needed to let some of this pain go.

Pushing my way past the curtains to get into my room, I skittered to a stop at the sight of Ryan perched on the edge of my bed. He stared at the wall in front of him, back straight, knees touching, fists planted against his tensed thighs.

Releasing a shuddering breath, I sat on the opposite end, keeping my eyes trained on the wall as well. The bedside lamp was bright enough to see clearly by, but dim enough to give my demons the illusion of privacy. But the truth was, none of that mattered. We could’ve been shrouded in darkness and I’d still feel just as exposed as I had on the balcony. The hem of my shorts were already at my knees, but I tugged on them anyway.

He’d stayed. He hadn’t run away. What did that mean? I didn’t give myself time to second guess. If he was here, it meant he wanted something from me. I could only think of one thing.

“I was abducted when I was a kid,” I whispered. My mother had cautioned me about a lot of things growing up. Gangs, guns, drugs, what the color of my skin would mean in this world… She’d never once mentioned human trafficking. “I still can’t walk past a park without freezing up. It’s one of the reasons I bought this place. The nearest park is fifteen blocks away.”

Ryan didn’t run for the door. Didn’t flinch at my confession. Did he already know? Did I have survivor’s remorse written all over me?

Either way, I took it as permission to continue. “Luckily, I was… rescued before anything too traumatic happened to me.” A phantom throbbing started up between my thighs, a painful reminder that my true trauma began once I returned home.

“I started cutting freshman year of high school. The deeper I cut, the quieter the inner voices got. It’s like they’d redirect their attention to surviving my physical pain, instead of doing what they did best—inflicting mental and emotional pain on me. My head would go so quiet.

“The coping mechanism took on a life of its own, though, and when my mother found out, she got us both into therapy. Therapy saved my life.” From the corner of my eye I watched as Ryan loosened the tight hold he had on himself. He flattened his palms over his thighs, and relaxed his shoulders. I did the same, my mental binds slackening now that I’d purged some of the poison.

“My mother was right. The more she worries, the more I distance myself.” Now he knew I’d listened in on them in the kitchen. I didn’t care. This moment was bigger than my eavesdropping. “I can’t bring my pain to her. It triggers her guilt, no matter how much she tries to hide it. I know all about guilt.” I gave a mirthless laugh. “Some mornings I’d wake up feeling guilty to be alive. They don’t tell you about how hard it is to come back to your regular life. They don’t tell you that you’ll never be the same. That you’ll never look at people the same. Everyone becomes a stranger, even the people you already knew.” I wanted to say more on that topic but couldn’t. Some truths—and lies—could never be exposed. I’d accepted that in some ways I’d always be a coward.

“Most people look at me and see someone driven and ambitious. Someone who’s accomplished so much at such a young age. They don’t know most days I have to claw my way out of bed. They don’t understand that professional and financial success doesn’t equate to happiness, or confidence, or having it all figured out,” I rasped, my gaze still glued to the wall. “They don’t get that sometimes it simply means you’ve found the one thing that makes you want to hang on for just a little while longer. Sometimes life is a series of holding on. Most would assume music is what keeps me going. That hasn’t been the case since before…” I stopped there. Any more would’ve been too much.

“I won’t say I understand how you feel or what you’re going through, but you’re not alone, Ryan. With me, you’re not alone.”

My shoulders sagged as exhaustion hit, and I finally turned toward him. Ryan faced me too now, his eyes soft and free of judgment. He stood, and I thought he’d leave, that he’d had enough for one night. I wouldn’t have been upset by it. He’d given me an ear to talk to, he’d sat a few feet away from my pain and listened. It was more than enough.

I’d been about to whisper goodnight, but then with jerky, hesitant movements—as though his heart and mind were engaged in battle—he pulled his shirt over his head. I couldn’t swallow past my devastation.

Ryan inched closer to my side of the bed before sitting down again, facing me. Scar tissue formed a map across his skin. Some of the old wounds were about an inch or two wide, others were longer and meaner looking, like someone had attacked him with the intention to kill. My hand shook with the need to touch them, and my mouth trembled with the need to apologize for them.

Deep crimson flooded his cheeks then spread to his ears and neck.

“Breathe, Ryan,” I whispered. “Breathe.” I took my own advice.

His shoulders twitched a few times, as though he wanted to turn around, but couldn’t fight past self-preservation instinct. I somehow knew the worst was yet to come.

When he did turn, I bit my cheek to stop a gasp from escaping. The skin along his spine looked gnarled and melted, like someone had taken a blow torch to it. My breath fanned across his flesh as I leaned in. I had no idea what my intentions were, but I pulled back when he arched away from me.

Ryan hurried to slip his shirt back on before facing me. He searched my face with suspicion. Did he think I’d pity him?

Every bone in my body felt brittle. I ached for him. I wanted to trade places with him. But I’d never pity him.

I’d shown him my wounds, and he’d found the courage to share his in return. It made me feel less alone. It was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for me, and I did my best not to appear broken by it.

“Can I hug you?” I questioned whether my intent was to console him, or to have him comfort me. Whether I wanted to soothe the little boy in me, or the one within him.

He shook his head, and I sucked in an audible breath.

“Do it again,” I breathed, and he shook his head again. I studied the movement, committing it to memory. The way his hair moved, the way his brow scrunched like my request confused him. “It feels like you’re talking to me,” I explained. It was the smallest gesture but it meant something to me. “Why won’t you talk to me?” I could hardly keep my eyes open now. “I just want you to talk to me. Or yell at me. I don’t care.” Or maybe I did care, because there was a certain level of safety in his silence. Who knew what he’d say if he put words to his anger.

Ryan swallowed, looking sadder than I’d ever seen him before. I asked a question knowing if he answered it I’d be shattered and unable to hide it. I had to know, though. I had to know how deep his well of pain went. Had to know the moment he felt broken by it.

“How…” I licked my lips and tried again. “H-how old were you when you stopped speaking?”

He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, his leg bouncing. Ryan closed his eyes for a second, then began to count using his fingers, over and over again. Once he was sure he had the number correct, he held up both hands. One had five fingers lifted, the other just one. Six. I was not okay.

The room began to spin, and I fisted the blanket to keep from falling onto the floor. I blinked past the moisture building in my eyes. Ryan watched me with wide-eyed concern. The fact he remembered that far back broke my heart. I wanted to ask what caused it, wanted to know the moment it happened, but I was terrified of making him relive whatever it was. Terrified of making him remember, if he’d forgotten. I would’ve given anything to forget my pain, even a little bit of it. “I’m s-so sorry.”

He pointed to the head of the bed, then more urgently when I continued to sit there.

I snapped out of it, hauling myself closer to the headboard before curling onto my side. He motioned for me to roll over. I did so on auto-pilot, too far gone to care why. His harsh breathing filled the room, and then he pushed a pillow up against my back. Before I could figure out what was going on, I felt the pressure of his body against it. We laid back-to-back with the pillow between us, keeping his body from touching mine. I didn’t know where the sound of his breaths began and mine ended, but after the surprise wore off, gratitude followed.

I fell asleep with my fist lodged between my teeth, praying it stayed there throughout the night, that no secrets slipped free.

I woke up later that morning to find the space empty of him. A sketch of himself blindfolded on what appeared to be the deck of a ship rested on the pillow. I assumed it was the ship he and the others were brought here on. Below it he’d written: I didn’t see anything.

I blew out a breath. Whether it was true or not, he’d made it clear he had nothing to say about it. I’d let Davidson know.

Ryan didn’t come out of his room, and I didn’t bother him. We went through a lot last night. I respected his need for solitude. I heard his television going, heard the same scenes playing over and over as if he were rewinding his favorite parts, so I knew he was okay. Or alive, at least.

I’d skipped breakfast, choosing to get some cleaning and laundry done instead. Truth was I didn’t have an appetite, and forcing myself to eat lunch turned out to be an epic fail. Opening the trash can to dump the sandwich I’d ordered, I almost dropped the whole thing on the floor. I pushed harder on the pedal, watching the lid open wider. Strips of cotton rested on top of trash. Strips of a bedsheet to be exact.

I set my plate and fork on the counter behind me, then reached in to pick up Ryan’s chains.

I whispered a thank you toward the ceiling. If God was up there, I hoped he heard me. Alone and feeling safe to smile, I did so. A small thing that eventually took over my whole face.

That night I woke up to a pillow against my back again, and the weight of Ryan leaning against it. His first night without his chains. It couldn’t have been easy for him.

His scent surrounded me, making it hard to go back to sleep. I stayed up for way longer than I should have just breathing it in. Before drifting off again, I noticed my phone on my nightstand. It had been next to me on the bed. He’d rested it there before claiming his spot. His spot. How quickly I began to think of it as that.

By the fourth night he’d backed the length of one leg against mine. By the fifth, the pillow was gone.