Work Text:
I had lived here for about five, almost six years, by the time we met. It was cold, snowing, ice covering the streets and I had to leave for work almost ten minutes before I usually did so I could take it slow as I walked, since I couldn’t afford to take the bus. I worked in the cornershop; this was during one of my episodes, when everything felt impossible, and the hyenas that had been haunting me ever since the monastery was a little closer than before, and the door of light felt unreachable.
I had been working for hours on hours, because I always took up extra shifts whenever possible to be able to pay for rent, when I saw you. There was dried blood on your white button-down, your hair was a mess, and you had dark circles under your eyes. I had been sleeping on my chair, in a position that would leave unnecessarily many knots in my back, and I could hear my heartbeat in my ears the moment you woke me up. I was so scared that I had fucked up. I apologised, over and over- Brother Elijah always told me to apologise when I had done something bad, and I suppose it was a good thing, that he had taught me that- but you only laughed, and it was such a beautiful sound, that I couldn’t help but laugh, too. It felt so good to laugh again, after weeks of weeks, months of months, of trying to shut everything out, to stop the nightmares that followed me, that I was startled by the sound of my own voice.
“It’s okay,” you said, and I noticed every mole and freckle in your face, already memorising them as a sense of comfort of familiarity. I remember thinking you had a funny accent, only realising its Australian after the second time we met.
I covered my mouth, when I laughed, and sometimes when I smiled, too. Mostly because Father J (I could never remember if his name was Joseph or Jonathan, and his face when I said the wrong name was enough to wipe the smile of my face) always used to tell me that I smiled too much, or my laugh sounded weird, and whenever I would look in a mirror I would see his hand on my shoulder, telling me to be quiet. And so I stopped smiling, stopped laughing, and only talked when one of the brothers or Father J talked to me first. “Lando, why won’t you smile anymore?” Brother Elijah would say, and I would apologise, because he always told me to, when I did something he didn’t like. “You have such a beautiful smile, Lando,” he would say, and I would feel happier for the rest of the day.
The second time we met, I decided I needed to say something, because I was scared you would get bored of me if I didn’t. “No blood this time?” I asked. It was a week or two after the first time we met- I didn’t have a very good sense of time, because all I was focused on was the hyenas barking and growling behind me as I ran, but they had gotten further away since we met, like you had somehow made it easier to run from them; it was one of the reasons why I wanted you to keep coming back, and it made me feel so selfish, thinking like that.
Either way, you laughed, looking down at your own chest, almost as if you were surprised that I had even remembered you (how could I ever forget a face like yours?) and I wondered what was so appealing about me that brought you back? What made you go to this particular shop instead of the one two blocks away, where everything was a little cheaper because the owner wasn’t a piece of shit? But selfishly, I decided not to say anything, because I liked your little visits, and hoped that if you kept coming back, eventually the hyenas would be far enough away that I could maybe even take a rest.
It took a few weeks, a month maybe, and at least five frozen pizzas, before we became what I want to call friends. You had put the frozen cardboard box on the conveyor belt, and I wouldn’t have been able to tell you were nervous if it weren’t for the vulnerability of your voice, as you asked, “Do you want to hang out? I live in the apartments across the road-” (that’s when I realised there was a reason you went to this particular shop) “-if you want. Of course, you don’t have to-”
I felt awkward, because those were the most words a single person had said to me in months, and so I laughed, and wiped a tear from my eye. I’m not sure if I cried because of the laughter, or because I felt so happy to finally feel accepted, maybe even wanted, or because I agreed to something I knew I could never have. “I’d love to,” I said, anyway, and I didn’t cover my mouth because I didn’t dare disappoint you.
The first time you invited me over, I had been home all day, in my rented apartment that I shared with a bunch of college students. I didn’t have my own bathroom, only a small two-room apartment, and the whole corridor of other two-room apartments, shared one bathroom. I showered by lunch, since most other people who lived there were in classes then, and I was so worried about meeting you, so anxious that it could be the last time you ever talked to me, that I took the bag of blades and alcohol wipes and bandages from where I had taped it under the sink and cut my arm. I angled the blade, so that when I pressed down and it sliced my skin open, there would be a loose bit, and then on the second cut, I would slice it off. By then, blood was already running down my arm and into the drain (I didn’t dare to cut myself outside of the shower, since I might miss blood when I cleaned it and I didn’t want any of the stundents to see it).
After I finished showering, I wiped the cuts clean with alcohol wipes (I tried not to wince, because it was pain I deserved and had created for myself) and I bandaged the cuts, wrapped it a few extra layers so that it wouldn’t bleed through when I was at your place, because the last thing I wanted was to mess up what I had managed to find in you.
I walked to your flat, because I still couldn’t afford the bus, and my hands were shaking so badly that I had to hide them in my pockets, and later when you invited me inside, I blamed it on the cold, and you offered me an extra sweatshirt. I declined, mostly because it was a lie, but also because I felt I didn’t deserve your kindness, and a little because I wouldn’t want to give it back. Through the day, we talked, sat on your couch that was far too small for two people (our knees touched, and I tried so hard to focus on the words coming out of your mouth, but the warmth that radiated from the touch was too much, and I often lost myself thinking about what a future with you would look like, and then brutally remind myself that only normal people, people with normal childhoods and parents and friends and girlfriends could have those things, and forced myself to listen to you).
By the end of the day, you ordered pizza and I felt guilty because I couldn’t help you pay for it. We had to freeze a lot of it, because I couldn’t get myself to eat more than one slice, and you ate half the pizza alone, and I could tell you were worried. But I shrugged it off and told you I had already eaten lunch, when the truth was that I hadn’t eaten since a bowl of cereal the previous morning.
We hung out a few more times, almost every day for a week or two, always at your place, since I didn’t want you to see the mess of mine, and then you offered to move in together. “No offence, Oscar, but it’s not exactly made for two people,” I said, gesturing around us, at the sofa that we had a handful of knee-touching moments and shitty movie nights. “We can make it work. We can fit a second bed,” you said, and I knew it was true because all my bed was was a mattress on the floor with a heavy weight blanket that I had managed to save up to and a pillow. “Okay,” I said, then, “are you sure?” and I had never seen such a determined look in your eyes before, and it made me feel wanted for the first time since the monastery and Brother Elijah, and I was so scared that I was going to fail you.
I also felt guilty, because you always talked about your childhood and kindergarten with your friends (who I had met then. I didn’t like them as much as I liked you, and I didn’t quite get their humour, or the inside jokes, but I’ve always been good at alternating between different personalities depending on who I talked to, so I had no trouble getting along with them, either) but I was never able to tell you anything about myself, about how I grew up, or what I’ve done before. Mostly because I wasn’t sure what you would do if you knew about Father J and Brother Elijah and the other brothers, but also because I knew I had done wrong. Someone like you should never have to put up with one like me, and so when one of my episodes got worse, I would distance myself from you, and take up extra hours at work and extra shifts, and make sure we worked at different times, so that you wouldn’t have to see me when my back hurt the most, and I could barely walk without crying out in pain.
In the nights, I still had nightmares; about Brother Elijah and Father J, and when I laughed too much, or didn’t understand what Brother Thomas would teach in class, they would yell at me. They taught me how to pray, and what to pray for, and when I told them I didn’t believe in anything, that I didn’t know how to believe, they would beat me up, and make me pray more often, until I lied that I could feel the presence of God. I still pray, sometimes. Not because I believe in God, but because it helps me find peace, when the nightmares are really bad. Praying was one of the few times the brothers weren’t angry with me, and I could finally rest. You asked me once, if I’m a believer, and I said, “No,” because it’s the truth. I never believed (if there was a God, what did I do to upset Him? Why would he do this to me?) and I never will. But you never asked for more, more of anything, so I never provided you with it, because I thought that you didn’t want to know, that you only wanted what I was with you, which I was grateful for, because I didn’t want to remember the brothers or Father J or the monastery, and I didn’t want my past to define me.
I had taped another plastic bag under the sink, filled with blades and alcohol wipes and bandages, and you never said anything about it, so I assumed you hadn’t found it. During the nights, and sometimes when you were at work and I wasn’t, I would sit in the shower, in only boxers and sometimes nothing at all, and I would study every curve of my body- every patch of skin that never healed right, and pick at scars that I had made myself (and the one under my eye, that I caught you staring at sometimes), and I would look in the mirror from behind, to try and catch a glimpse of what remained of Father J’s belt, after I had smiled too much, or had forgotten his name, or simply had not done something good enough. But I also don’t think you were as oblivious as you might have seemed, because from time to time, you would ask me things, implying that you wanted to know me, the real me, all of me. And every time one of your questions hit too close for comfort, I would turn around, and pretend I hadn’t heard you, and you would change your mind and not ask about it.
Sometimes, I wish I never would have kept you coming back, because I feel like I’ve dragged you into this mess I call a life, where every day, no matter how much you made me laugh, or what stupid show we watch on the telly (spooning, your arm around my waist) the hyenas came closer, and my legs were starting to give out, and every limb of my body felt heavier and heavier with every passing hours, even though I barely ate enough to keep myself alive. But, I was doing better with you than I had in the previous five years, and I had less episodes, and I felt like I might be okay; that I might make it past thirty, if I was lucky, and maybe had I even worked myself up to deserve a friend like you (although I wished it could have been more, I knew it would never happen, because I couldn’t limit you to a life with me).
It was during another episode, where I just barely got through day by day, and I was working so much the only times I saw you was when I got to bed late at night, and you were already fast asleep in your boxers and T-shirt, and your hair was a mess that I desperately wanted to run my fingers through, but knew that sensation wasn’t for someone like me, that I started thinking: maybe I don’t have to make it past thirty, like I always told myself I would? That maybe, that door of light, that the hyenas was chasing me to, could be closer than it was? And so, one night- you were asleep, wrapped up in a thin blanket, snoring softly (your snores was one of the only sounds that could lull me to sleep)- I decided I needn’t suffer anymore, that my life wasn’t worth living, no matter how much I loved you; no matter how hard I had allowed myself to fall for you, and I quietly walked to the bathroom, locked the door and took the bag from under the sink and sat down in the shower.
I started like I usually did: some small cuts on my arms, where I dug the tip of the blade into the skin, pressing down as hard as I could until my hands shook, and then dragged it slowly across my arm. The skin split in two, and blood oozed out. The blade went through the styrofoam, and into the subcutaneous tissue, and beans of fat bubbled up from the cuts. Sometimes I poke them out, but then, I let them be, and tried to think about the pros and cons of killing myself. Some of the pros consisted of: no more nightmares, no more suffering (unless I went to Hell), no more bothering or disappointing you, and, finally, no more life (the thing that had been fucking me over for as long as I could remember). The cons list was slightly shorter, being able to think of only one reason: you would find me, in our shower, where we had lived together, and you would see what I really was (and then, I realised, you would see what I really was, and you would understand why I did what I did, and you wouldn’t be able to come up with a single reason why I should have stayed).
I wonder now, what life would have looked like, if I had told you about it, everything: the monastery, Father J, Brother Elijah, my life on the streets after I got out, the cutting, and the continuous feeling of a need to escape and need for pain; the way I wouldn’t have been able to get through a week, even when my episodes weren’t that bad, without the cutting, even if it was less that it was during a bad episode, where I couldn’t walk because I had cut my thighs and shins too deep, or the old bruises ached, or the migraines kicked in, or when I couldn’t get out of bed- not even to the bathroom to cut myself, and the times where I questioned how long I would be there; how long I would be able to put up with it, and how long I could force myself to forget, only to remember again when night fell over the city.
Some of those questions are answered now. For example: whether or not I would make it to thirty: no, but I almost made it to twenty-five, which was more than I ever thought I would, when I got there at nineteen, and I realised that I never would have made it this far without you. And, most importantly, that you made me the happiest I’ve been in my whole life; and you, who made me realise, that I don’t need to run from things anymore, but am allowed to give in, and for once, find peace within myself, and I finally reached the door of light, and the hyenas became quiet, and I could finally rest.