Surviving the Merge

by C P Harris

  “So... so wha... what are you saying?” I stammered. This must’ve been what dying truly felt like.

  “I think you know.”

  “No. No. He—he couldn’t do some... something like that back then. You would have known. And... and... besides the technical aspect of it... he’s not... capable of doing something like that. He wouldn’t,” I said with conviction. I waited for him to admit the truth, but he just watched me wearily.

  The walls were closing in along the edges of my vision. I folded in half, panting, resting my hands on my knees for support.

  Damon attempted to stand, grabbing the sides of his head, moaning in pain.

  Julie pressed on his shoulder to keep him seated. “You’re trying to fight him, and the medication makes it nearly impossible. It’s okay. Relax and let it happen. Don’t worry. Justin’s safe here.”

  He flopped onto the sofa. His eyes melted from spitting, unadulterated anger, to remorse, pain, and worst of all—guilt. The same guilt I’d been seeing in his gaze for weeks now. The moments of distance and unexplained brooding now all made sense.

  “You…?” My blood felt both prickling cold and piping hot as it rushed through my veins.

  “Yes. It was me,” Blake said.

  “So this is what you’ve been hiding? Why didn’t you tell me? You knew it would come out eventually. Why would you do this? Why did you keep this from me? How…” I trailed off.

  Blake inched to the edge of his seat, his hands gripped his knees. He hesitated to stand. He looked lost. “I did it to save you. You were lacking so much because of him. Damon wasn’t good for you. I knew doing this would send you away from me too, but it was a price I was willing to pay.

  “He was sick with the flu; I saw my only opportunity. It wasn’t the best plan. I knew Damon wouldn’t allow you to leave. I was counting on you not believing him. Counting on your belief that I wouldn't do something like that.”

  He swallowed audibly, and I dropped my stare to my shoes. Because I refused to allow his eyes brimmed with tears, to affect me. I’d never seen Blake cry, and the fact that it had the potential to move me, even now, pissed me off. I should hate him. Why wouldn’t my heart allow me that?

  Be patient, I told myself.

  “How was I to know it would precipitate your rape? It would have destroyed me as well, if I didn’t need to keep it together for you. As far as me waiting it out since Damon’s return... I didn’t want to lose you.”

  “You mean you didn’t want to lose me to him!”

  “That’s not true,” he rushed to say. “I always put you first.”

  “Do you?” I asked. Against my will, my eyes found his.

  He opened and closed his mouth, unable to find his words.

  A foggy memory from my hospital bed came back. “It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault...” Blake had chanted those words over and over, but it meant nothing to me at the time. I figured he was blaming himself for not preventing my rape in some way. I’m a fucking fool.

  “And then when I made up my mind to start this process, I knew saying something would derail things. Possibly put an end to it. I needed us to get further along—I hoped we would get further along before it had to come out. Because what happens in this room means more than merely me and Damon becoming united.

  “It means you discovering yourself, taking chances. It means you learning how to live a full life. If I was to be no more after that, then so be it. At least you would be able to stand against Damon without me.” His tears ran unchecked, and I trembled and burned from the onslaught of emotions: anger, hurt, betrayal, and grief for what we just lost.

  “Telling you after the rape was impossible. You tried to kill yourself days later. Damon was losing his mind, unable to control the shift. We were flailing back and forth like fish out of water. In that hospital room, when you opened your eyes and saw me, and then you saw signs that Damon was about to enter, you grabbed my hand and begged me to stay. Me. I felt Damon's devastation. He was so torn. But I got to stay. When was I supposed to tell you what I’d done, Justin?”

  “I’ve been fine for years now. You could have told me,” I said.

  Blake stood then, with a pleading look on his face and prayer hands pressed to his chin. In reality, we were mere feet apart, but an ocean flowed between us. “No one would’ve benefited from the truth at that point.”

  The piercing agony from his revelation felt foreign. Like the tip of a blade entering me from behind. My lover in charge of the push. The betrayal ran bone-deep. The caving of my chest produced shallow breaths. My heart constricted in a vice grip that crushed without mercy.

  And while the rain ran parallel to my tears, I thought, I won’t recover from this; I will wither and crumble and die. There would be nothing left of me. I was sure of it.

  Damon, I could have forgiven. An unspoken acceptance of imperfection colored the lens that I viewed Damon through. I could have gotten past almost anything from him.

  But Blake? Blake was my safe haven. My quiet place. My one sure thing. Home.

  What will I do now?

  Dragging my feeble limbs over to the couch, I lowered myself on shaky legs, holding on to the arm for support. Elbows to my knees, holding my head in my hands.

  “Justin―”

  “Don’t come looking for me. Do not call me.” I raised my head, drilling him with my gaze. “You wanted me to be strong enough to survive what something like this would do to me? Aware that there is more to life than my weakness and codependency?” My lip curled with derision. “Well, we’re about to put my strength to the test.”

  “Justin, please.” He reached for me, and I snapped.

  “Don’t touch me! You don’t get to lay a hand on me ever again.” My body vibrated with fury at his nerve.

  “Blake, I think you should go,” Julie said softly and without condemnation.

  You could even say it was said with love and understanding. What could she possibly understand about this? You should be on my side! I mentally shouted at her.

  “I’ll make sure he gets home safely,” she said to him.

  He looked hopeful, and it brought me great pleasure to snuff out any ounce of joy he may have harbored. “I won’t be coming back to the condo,” I said, my voice colder than a winter night. Sadly, the pleasure his pain gave me was short-lived. I had to look away before my defenses were breached. Seemed like fury slipped through my hands just as fast as it came. I much preferred it over the feelings of sympathy for him. Why couldn’t my mind make up its... mind? Or was it my heart that needed to get on board?

  Julie escorted him out. They talked for a moment, but I couldn’t make out what was said past the roaring of my blood.

  Coming close, she perched next to me and took me in her arms. “Oh, Justin.”

  The dam broke.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Raining and pouring were not interchangeable. A vast difference disconnected the two. The sounds of its impact seduced opposing responses from your emotions. Rain encased you in a peace that eluded reality. Raindrops were sweet. You could even call them romantic. But when it poured, it felt like something diabolical had been unleashed. With the pouring came the thunder. If you were unlucky, lightning would arc across your dark skies. The racing of a pulse that produced a worry that, even behind your locked windows and doors, you were not safe.

  It poured outside that night. I love when it pours.

  Several days and nights had passed since my world sank below the surface. I sat on the balcony of the apartment intended to set me free, but more and more, it felt like the undertaker that would surely bury me. Cold, dark, and suffocating.

  How many times could you break a thing before it was deemed irreparable? I wondered.

  Did it depend on the circumstances of the break? How did I determine the gravity of what was broken in me?

  The excruciating hurt I’d once felt, simultaneously, everywhere within me, became isolated to the place behind my breastbone. Where the heart
lived.

  I’d always thought the sternum functioned to protect the important parts tucked behind it. But there was no bone nor cage—rib or other—that could stand against the kind of pain that so violently plagued me. Someone should have warned me.

  The rest of me was now numb, which made me acutely aware of the daggered sensations within that poorly protected place. The place where I could still feel.

  With every breath, the fire threatened to incinerate my lungs. So I’d been breathing less.

  And the less I thought, the less it hurt. So I focused on being thoughtless.

  The sick, rolling nausea in the pit of my belly, I could do nothing about. It had its claws in me since that night. The night I refused to think of because I was committed to thinking less.

  Sighing heavily, I asked, “What are you doing here?” The quiet stretched like a rubberband, ending when it reached its breaking point.

  “Blake called me. He asked me to make sure you were okay,” Sam said from behind me.

  She sounded unsure. Nervous that maybe I didn’t want her here. “I tried calling first, but your phone must be off. Or dead. I kept getting the voicemail.” She moved closer. “I picked up a bag of stuff he packed for you. I got us some food too. And some essentials like towels, soap, shampoo… I figured you hadn’t gotten around to getting that stuff yet...”

  She trailed off. Walking through the opened doors of the terrace, coming to a stop in front of me. “You have me on your visitors list, so they sent me up. Your door was unlocked. So, here I am.” She raised her voice to be heard over the storm.

  She watched me like I was something to be handled with care. I took pity on her. “How much do you know?” I looked past her and into the downpour.

  “A lot. Not nearly enough.” As tenderly as she could, she said, “You look like shit, sweetie. Kind of... smell like it too.”

  My laughter started out small. Faint. Seen but unheard. It grew, approaching hysteria. This worried Sam, but she tried to hide it by letting loose a nervous chuckle.

  Something still standing broke within me, my heart wrenched. Sam caught me in her arms. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” She rubbed my back. “Let’s get you cleaned up and fed.”

  I showered and managed to eat some of the food that Sam brought over. My stomach couldn’t take much more. She’d brought me drunken noodles from my favorite Thai restaurant. Blake had thought of everything, and it enraged me. I didn’t want him taking care of me.

  Other than the bed, the only furniture in the apartment was the table and chairs that came with the balcony. So that’s where we established ourselves, staring into the night. As much of the night that the rain allowed us to see. The storm pelted the front end of the cemented terrace, but we remained dry from our spot close to the door. A shame, really.

  “Where are you going?” I asked as Sam got up and rushed into the apartment.

  “You’ll see,” she yelled over her shoulder.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes. A moment later, I heard… “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…” Sam shuffled anxiously from foot to foot, a small cake in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. I blew out the candles and wished for her sake that I could be more excited. But in truth, remembering my birthday only aided in making me inexplicably sadder.

  “Blake might have mentioned your birthday, and it’s midnight. I thought maybe you could find a little joy in spite of everything.” She shrugged awkwardly. “Stupid idea, I suppose.”

  Her vulnerability moved me. “No, it wasn’t a stupid idea.” Taking both items from her and setting them on the table, I took her hand in mine. I kissed her knuckles and pulled her onto my lap. “It means a lot to me that you tried. I’m glad you’re here. I... needed this. I needed a friend.”

  With her arms wrapped around my neck, she leaned forward, placing a kiss on my cheek.

  “That’s what friends are for.” She brushed my hair back with her hand. “You’re stuck with me. You should’ve run when you had the chance,” she teased.

  Her features began to swim in my vision. “Please don’t cry,” she begged. “Your tears make me violent.” She caught a runaway tear with her thumb, wiping it on her shirt. “You bring out the protective instinct in people, you know.”

  My grunt carried a dose of loathing. “Always needing to be saved.” The knowledge made me bitter; it made me feel weak.

  She held my chin. “With all that you’ve been through, your eyes still hold an openness. A wonder. So what if you're the damsel in distress that comic books are built on.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ll be your superhero, baby.”

  “Really, Sam?” I asked with mock exasperation.

  “You’re not weak.” She read my mind. “I want to protect your light because it’d be a shame to see it dim.”

  I ran my thumbs under her eyes and wiped the moisture on my shirt. “Let’s go inside.”

  I sat on the bedroom floor, allowing Sam to braid my hair. It made her feel useful.

  “Jesus, your hair is long. You’re like a mix between Tinkerbell and Rapunzel. You’re... Tink-Punzel!”

  It nearly touched my waist. “Is that an insult?”

  “Nah. We can’t all be mysterious, hulking, Latin sensations like your husbands. You’re just as alluring, but in a more,” she searched for the right word, “ethereal way.” She blabbered on. “He’s all sin and bad-things-ah-coming. You give off a pure and unattainable vibe. I can see how you would make someone want to dirty you up.”

  That brought a memory to the surface. “Everything in me wants to wreck you,” Damon had said to me not so long ago.

  “This is the longest I’ve ever let it get. I need to cut it.”

  “I used to do hair. Went to cosmetology school and all. I can trim it for you.”

  “My mom used to braid my hair.” Nostalgia settled over me. “She wanted me to get a haircut. Said it grew too fast and was too thick to manage. It took forever to blow-dry it. Still does.”

  Sam finished up and then scooted around me on her knees, settling cross-legged in front of me. “Why didn’t you want to cut it?” Her face scrunched up. “I wouldn’t think most boys would want to bother with their hair.” She paused in adjusting her top. “Oh wait, was it the whole being-gay thing?” She whispered like we weren’t the only ones in the room.

  “I have my mother's hair. She wore hers long; I wanted to do the same. I was a bit obsessed with my mother.” I laughed, fighting back tears. “It was torture for her. Taking care of hers and mine. But she did it.” My voice lowered. “She passed away when I was fourteen. Bone cancer. I’ll never cut it off completely.”

  “I wouldn’t let you. It’s otherworldly.” She shimmied closer until our knees touched. Her lips thinned suddenly. She wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if she should.

  “Just say it,” I told her.

  She hesitated. “He didn’t look any better than you do. In case you had been wondering.”

  “No, I hadn’t.” Yes, I had.

  She gave nothing away as to whether she believed me or not. “What about your dad?

  Were you two close?”

  “Not as close, but yeah, close enough. That’s where I get my love of basketball from. He set up a hoop at the end of the driveway. We would play for hours. When he wasn’t working, that was. He worked a lot. We spent less time with each other after Mom got sick. And after she died, I couldn’t reach him. It’s like he died right along with her.”

  Noticing the time, I got up and pulled her with me. “Let’s go to bed. I actually feel like I could sleep―”

  “I call dibs on being the big spoon!” She launched onto the bed, bouncing and laughing.

  I smiled down at her, feeling a shift take place somewhere inside me. A repair of sorts. Miniscule, but a work in progress all the same.

  I’d lost something I loved. But looking at Sam, it became abundantly clear that love had also been gained.

  After we woke up, I got ready fo
r the drive to Chadwick. Sam wanted to accompany me, but I needed to take the first step alone. I’d been a rescue puppy all of my adult life. Someone had always fought my battles and slayed my dragons. I wouldn’t allow her to fill that void now.

  Sweat built on my brow as I approached the exit for Chadwick. I hadn’t ventured back since we moved to the city. So many memories here, good and bad, and I hoped I was ready to face them.

  This side of Chadwick was considered middle-class when we moved in. Mom’s life insurance payout was the only reason Dad could afford to move us here.

  I’d gone to a few different schools while living there but switched to Chadwick High School my junior year. Chadwick High took a more alternative approach to their way of thinking. Dad thought it would be a better fit for me, having come from places where my sexual orientation and preferred extracurricular left me a target for bullying. It stood on the county line, where the middle and working-class met. I discovered Damon there—or rather, he found me.

  Riding through the neighborhood now, I realized not much had changed. The streets were tree-lined and quiet, except for the occasional dog barking in the distance. Other than that, the sprinkler systems were the only thing showing any signs of life. Chadwick wasn’t a white-picket-fence type of community. At least not mostly.

  Homes there reserved their square footage for the front yard. Pushed back from the road, showing off rolling manicured lawns and driveways so long and curving you needed GPS to maneuver through them. Dainty sidewalks, just wide enough for the aerobic fanatics to take their morning power walks with their equally dainty dogs trailing alongside them.

  The homes were an eclectic mix of Colonials, Victorians, white Antebellums, and such. They all complimented each other, though. As if each design and placement was thought out long before the first street sign was hung or the first brick laid.

  If you drove fifteen blocks north, made a right at the fork in front of Mr. Mallory’s Dry Cleaning, and headed east for another five or so blocks, the scenery shifted immensely.