Page 5

William

As a boy I was prone to intrusive morbid thoughts. I’d see an old lady walking her dog, and out of nowhere visions of having my arm chewed off while I screamed bloody murder would overtake me. I’d fall down a rabbit hole of survival planning, thinking of ways to pry the dog off me, as the macabre scene took shape in my head. My insides would twist and turn imagining all the blood loss.

Picturing my future family was another favorite. Envisioning playing in the park with my kids—at least three, because I was an only child, a lonely child. Somehow, gazing at my children playing in the sandbox always ended with me throwing myself on top of them as gunfire erupted from somewhere close by. The random visions were detailed, down to their ages and the color of their hair, who would survive and who wouldn’t. Sometimes the visions would be of me looking up from my phone to see that they’d been taken. I’d end up mourning these make-believe children for the rest of the day. Maybe my psyche had been preparing me for the unimaginable nightmare to come.

There were dark periods throughout high school. Days when I couldn’t get out of bed, when fighting the bad voices became too tiresome. They’d tell me I wasn’t a good person, that I didn’t deserve the life I wanted, that I was a liar. I knew not to believe them. My mother and my therapist told me that. But sometimes it was hard not to listen to them. Not to trust they knew best.

For every negative statement the voices tossed at me, I came back with a positive one.

I am good.

I deserve to be happy.

I’m honest.

Some days the voices were stronger than me, though. Some days it seemed like their evil gave them strength, while my fight to push them back exhausted me. Sometimes I needed a moment to rest, to regroup and recharge. My weakness brought them joy, and in those moments, they pulverized me. Sometimes it took days—weeks even, to recover.

Through it all I had my instrument. I had music, and a stubborn determination to make things right. My resolve got me out of bed most days, and helped me to excel in school. It gave me purpose. A reason to fight, to survive, because what happened to me had to have been for something.

Jackknifing upright in bed, I slapped a palm over my mouth to catch my scream, gaze flying to my bedroom door. I wondered if there were any words shouted that I hadn’t intercepted. Words I wouldn’t want Ryan, or anyone else, to hear.

I lowered my hand, breathing hard, blinking into the dark room. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Last thing I remembered was cleaning up the pieces of glass Ryan missed, and scrubbing down the rest of the apartment while doing laundry and waiting for him to come out of his room. He hadn’t, so I’d made him a late lunch before coming to my room to think.

“Christ,” I muttered, taking in the sweat covering my arms and staining my tank. The bedding beneath me was soaked through with it too.

Rolling to my feet, I poked my head into the hall. The tray of waffles I’d left by his door was gone. I hoped he’d eaten it and not thrown it away.

The sun had set, and a check of my phone showed it was a little after nine. I’d be up for the rest of the night now. Davidson had called while I slept. I listened to his voice message asking for proof of life. I shot him a text letting him know me and Ryan were okay and asking if there’d been any progress on the investigation.

After changing the bed linen, I headed to the bathroom for a long, hot shower. I got the water running before contemplating the bottle of pills on the sink. I’d dug them out earlier, but ended up not taking them. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d needed to.

I popped one into my mouth now, swallowing it dry before shrugging out of my clothes and stepping under the hot spray. I leaned my head back, letting the water pour over my face while I waited for what felt like an hour for the medication to kick in. My limbs began to loosen as my anxiety melted away.

With some of my issues now moving to the back-burner of my brain, it left room for other needs that I’d neglected for some time. My blood began to warm, and it had nothing to do with the water temperature. I turned the lever to the right anyway, sighing when the coolness met my heated skin.

Bypassing my burgeoning erection, I soaped myself up, repeating the process before shampooing my hair. I stalled for as long as I could because the end result would be more powerful after a little self-deprivation.

With only my cock left to clean now, I did so with as much indifference as possible, biting my lip to hold in my moan.

I felt most at peace with myself during sex, but even that became affected when the dreams and voices became relentless.

By the time I dried off and slipped my shirt on, the ache of ignoring my arousal had become too much to bear. Gripping the edge of the sink and panting, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I took in the dullness of my normally vibrant green eyes, and the dark circles beneath them. When I could finally sleep again, I needed it to be good. That wouldn’t happen until I found release.

I slipped a hand down to grasp my hard length. I examined my crown, taut and shiny like stretched leather, my shaft a shade darker than my light brown complexion. The wetness at the slit shimmered under the overhead light. The heavy sack below my base drew in, as if to say this was happening with or without my cooperation.

Licking a landing strip up my palm, I lifted the hem of my shirt to my teeth, biting down before grabbing hold of myself. I closed my eyes as a low groan escaped me. Toes curling into the bath mat, I let my chin fall to my chest as I gave in to my need. Now that I’d committed to it, I couldn’t remember why I’d thought it was a bad idea to begin with. I could already feel the angst and uncertainty evaporating as my orgasm took shape, winding itself like a vortex at the base of my spine.

Swiping pre-cum from the head, I jerked off like I meant it now, ass cheeks clenched and unyielding. I pressed a hand against the mirror, my palm slipping across the surface as my biceps flexed, and the veins along my neck pushed against the skin.

Xavier’s hazel eyes flashed in my mind. I tried to hold on to it, tried to remember all the times we were together like this. The times when his hand replaced mine, when his body replaced this lonely experience. The image shifted, and suddenly cool black orbs bore down on me. So dark and cold, so bottomless, haunted and afraid.

I tried to stop it, attempted to shake my head clear, but all it did was fast forward the reel until a delicate beauty mark on a high, pinked cheekbone came into view. This felt wrong. It felt forbidden, and completely out of my hands.

The muscles in my back rippled, my calves burning as I rose onto my toes and held there, trembling. “Fuck,” I breathed around the cotton between my teeth. My jaw tensed and I came on a groan of excruciating pleasure.

Cum bathed my fingers and the porcelain sink, a rope of it splattering the faucet. I worked my cock even after it was spent, shivering through the overstimulation, my body bowing.

I let my shirt fall back into place, blinking several times before the bathroom came into focus, then took my time licking my hand clean. My mouth went slack and I met my blissed-out reflection in the mirror, any remnants of the man riddled with pain nowhere to be found.

Looking past myself, I noticed the bedroom door was ajar. Panic replaced satiation as I thought back on whether or not I’d closed it after peeking into the hall. Had I? I had , I was almost positive of it.

Snatching my towel up off the floor, I wrapped it around my hips and rushed into the room to close it.

“Damnit.” I tapped my forehead against the wood, then pushed away, hurrying to get cleaned up and dressed before stepping into the hall.

Ryan’s door was shut. I tiptoed over and rested my ear against it, hoping for some sign that he wasn’t awake. While I was concerned about the possibility of him having seen me jerk off, there were other things to be seen that worried me even more. I’d had a shirt on, but the front had been lifted to my mouth. Had that caused it to hike up enough to provide a partial view of my back? Even a small portion of it on display would’ve been too much.

I gazed down at my pant covered legs like I could see the skin of my inner thighs through them, wondering if from my doorway he would’ve been able to see them too. My legs were spread wide enough, but the scars—although raised—blended in with the color of my skin. I couldn’t even remember the excuse I’d given Xavier for them. Whatever it was, the pitying look on his face said he hadn’t believed me.

Thankfully the medication prevented me from spiraling into an overthinking frenzy. That would only hold until it wore off, though.

Grabbing a bottle of water from my mini-fridge, I settled into the chair on my bedroom balcony, sipping as the city lights and sounds kept me company. The air still smelled of petrichor, but the fog from earlier had evaporated.

I thought back on the note Ryan had written . Soree. I thought about how it oddly felt like he’d spoken to me for the first time. My heart ached with wanting him to speak to me again. I’d assumed his silence boiled down to a trust issue—which could still be true. I figured he’d eventually say something after getting used to me. I hadn’t once considered that maybe he just didn’t talk at all. That he’d lost his voice, in the literal or figurative sense, because of whatever trauma he’d gone through.

Now that my mind had made room for something other than guilt and misery, a bright idea came to me. I jumped up, nearly knocking over the small table holding my water in my mad dash back into the bedroom.

Entering the walk-in closet, I beelined for the back of it where my satchel hung on a hook. Flipping it open, I tugged free the pad of paper it held, then rifled around the inner pockets for a pen. I came away with a pencil. Good enough.

Back on the balcony, I kicked my feet up on the railing, pencil poised over a fresh sheet of paper, wondering what to say. I’d start by addressing his apology.

Don’t be sorry, I wrote, then put his version of the word in parentheses so he knew what I meant. Hopefully doing so wouldn’t offend him. I didn’t think he was stupid. Far from it.

I got back to my letter. I was the one who did something wrong. I paused, taking a deep breath before writing the last part. I shouldn’t have left you.

I wasn’t sure if he’d be able to read any of this, but I took a chance. Whatever he didn’t understand, I hoped he’d allow me to help him with.

I slipped the pad and pencil under his door, careful to be quiet about it in case he was asleep. Returning to my room again, I spent a couple more peaceful hours on the balcony, enjoying the late summer breeze. It was after midnight when I began to feel tired. A good tired, not a brain-in-overdrive tired. I looked forward to getting the best sleep I’d had all week.

Halfway to the bed I heard a rustling sound at the door. Ryan was on the other side of it shoving the note pad underneath. Shock overtook my body, locking me in place. Deep down I hadn’t believed I’d get a response, and definitely not this late. For all I knew I still hadn’t received a reply. Maybe he’d seen my note on the way to the bathroom and decided to return it unanswered.

Keeping quiet, I waited until he’d gotten it all the way through, and until I heard the faint click of his door closing, before crossing the room to scoop it up. A good chunk of the pad was missing, as though he’d torn out several pages after trying over and over again to get his reply right. Had he spent the last two hours on this?

My brows dipped at the single word on the paper.

Chikin.

“ Chikin, ” I whispered in confusion, my frown disappearing when the misspelled word sounded exactly as it would have spelled correctly. Chicken. But I tried to relate that back to what I’d written to him and couldn’t. Had he misread what I wrote?

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I turned the word over in my head, searching for some hidden meaning. Chikin. I perked up, remembering when I’d spoken to him through his door earlier, trying to lure him out. I’d babbled about my mother’s impending visit, asking if there was any food he liked in particular—as if he’d answer me. He hadn’t.

I read the word again and smiled. Chikin. Retrieving the pencil he’d returned, I began writing.

Chicken is the best. I spelt it properly. What else do you like? She can cook just about anything.

I snuck it under his door, feeling like a kid as I slid under the covers and turned my lamp off. The anticipation of hearing from him again made it impossible to fall asleep, so I’d still been wide awake when the rustling sound returned over an hour later.

There was only one sheet of paper attached to the backboard of the notepad now. I’d need to order a bulk supply, stat. With dizzying excitement, I read the short list he’d scribbled and could almost picture him doing so with the utmost focus and concentration.

There were a couple of things I noticed right away. He’d written within the lines this time, his words no longer bleeding above or below them. He’d also spelled chicken correctly. He learned fast.

Chicken.

Beens.

Ryss.

Potayto.

I hurried to my satchel again, praying I had another pad of paper in there. I carried them around constantly, as work inspiration tended to strike me at the most inconvenient times. I struck gold.

Too impatient to go back into the room, I wrote on top of my chest of drawers.

I like beans and rice too. Not a huge fan of potatoes, though. What’s your absolute favorite meal?

Sliding it under his door, I decided to give sleep a real try this time. It helped knowing I’d hopefully have something good to wake up to. I couldn’t blame the smile making my cheeks ache on the white pill I’d taken earlier that night. It was almost two in the morning. The effects of it would’ve worn off by now.