Surviving the Merge

by C P Harris

  “First take this.” She handed over the painting. “I wrapped it so it wouldn’t get wet.”

  I rested the large canvas against the wall in the entryway, then scurried to fetch a shirt and sweats from the bedroom. “These will be a little big, but it’ll do.” I handed them over and left her to change in the bathroom.

  I sat on the edge of the couch, uncovering the portrait. My fingers faltered halfway through when the top half was exposed. “Sam... this is amazing,” I said in awe.

  She flopped down next to me, helping to tear off the rest of the brown papering. “It took me so long because I wanted it to be perfect.”

  “I assumed you were busy,” I said, only half invested in what she was saying.

  Sam snorted. “I’m never too busy for you, you idiot.”

  She’d made an exact replica of the picture. Damon standing in Ash’s yard, one hand on his hip in a superhero pose, and Benji sitting in the palm of his other. Damon’s smile was proud and brilliant. Benji sat with his hands clasped together, his twig legs splayed, laughing with delight. His thick black curls almost covered his magnificent green eyes, and he clutched a brown stuffed bear in between his hands. The shot was taken a few weeks before he died.

  “I took the liberty of making it a sunny day. I hope you’re okay with that.”

  It was dreary and gray in the original. In Sam’s portrait, the environment around them reflected their happiness. The sky a tranquil blue, the grass a gemstone green. “I’m more than okay with it.” I reached out to touch Damon’s dark eyes but pulled my hand back. He looked at peace.

  “Where are you going to put it?” Sam asked.

  My eyes flitted to the wall above the fireplace, but his ashes already occupied the mantel. Placing the picture above it would make it feel like a shrine. Putting it in the bedroom would force him to have to see it, even when he didn’t want to.

  I walked to the wall between the entryway and the living room. I replaced the abstract painting that hung there with Benji’s.

  “I’m going to get my stuff out of the dryer and head over to Max’s. Do you mind if I keep this on, though? I’m going to get wet again walking there.”

  “You’re leaving? Why? I haven’t seen you since—”

  “Yesterday. You saw me yesterday and the day before that. And I spent the night, the night before that. And we talk on the phone—every day.” She patted my cheek. “You just don’t want to be alone when Damon shows up and sees this.” She nodded to the painting. “Unfortunately for you, one night of having to hear you being tortured to death by tongue and dick was enough for me.” She sauntered off to the laundry room, leaving me alone with my embarrassment. I’d forgotten she was asleep in the other room that night.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The setting of the sun blazed a brilliant orange across the darkening sky. I stood in between the open sliding doors, watching the rain pummel down. The trees swayed as if ducking for cover from the rage of the torrent. The rhythmic whooshing sound of their leaves brushing kept me calm. The smell of wet soil and heat stirred my blood, and the sudden clap of thunder served as a precursor for Damon’s arrival. I thought it absolutely fitting.

  I had turned all the lights out in the house, possibly in an effort to delay him seeing what I’d done. Or maybe so I could observe, unnoticed, Sam and Max cooking in his kitchen. They chatted animatedly with an excited Pluto running about, while I waited in my prison of doubt—petrified.

  The front door opened and closed, and with my back to him, I listened as he hung his jacket and slipped out of his wet shoes. I grew nauseous and gnawed at the corner of my bottom lip. His sharp intake of breath made my knees weak.

  I waited, and waited, and waited some more. Both patient for his response and anxious to get it over with.

  “What is it that you want from me tonight, Justin?” He was calm but not happily so.

  He’d taken to calling me Justin, at times. Made it harder for me to know who I was dealing with. I didn’t like it. I wanted to be his “Just.” I stepped inside, closing the doors. “What do you mean?”

  He pointed to the portrait.

  “Sam made it,” was all I could say. He stood there, so far from me, looking dark and dangerous. His onyx eyes bleak and chilled, my own personal black storm. Far more frightful than the storm that raged at my back. The sudden clap of thunder held nothing on him.

  “She did an amazing job. I’ll have to thank her.” His voice lacked emotion. He was distancing himself from the situation. From me. From Benji. From even himself.

  “Don’t do that, Damon. Don’t run from what you don’t want to feel.”

  “So that’s what you want. You want to talk. Tell me, Justin, are you my therapist, too? Maybe I should be splitting Julie’s fees with you.” His cock swelled along his leg in the tight confines of his black slacks. A sign of his approaching anger. His anger toward me.

  “I’m your…” I trailed off.

  Damon turned his head to the side and put a hand to his ear, as if saying I can’t hear you. “You’re my what? Were you about to say husband? Surely, you weren't.”

  I was. “Your partner. I’m... your partner.”

  “Oh, my ‘partner.’ Sounds so sexy.” Heavy sarcasm dripped from every syllable.

  As if to demonstrate just how sexy he thought it was, he softened right before my eyes, then turned and ascended the stairs. That gutted me. It took me back to that night we’d tried Julie’s experiment. It threatened to reverse all the work I’d done on my insecurities. To how I viewed love. Progress was a fickle thing.

  I’d never used the word malevolent to describe Damon before, but I could see a hidden part of him that didn’t go untouched by Emilia’s malign influence.

  “Stop!” I shouted, trembling where I stood. He faced me, making a show of looking at his watch, feigning boredom. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” I asked. “You will not turn your back on me.” I stalked toward him, and he met me at the bottom of the landing. “I have done everything in my power to support you. I’ve cried for you, suffered unthinkable things for you—because of you. At your own fucking hands, even. I’ve bled for you!” Heat rose up my neck.

  “You’re not the only one—”

  “Shut up! Shut your goddamn mouth. How old are you, Damon?” No answer. “Your life is passing you by. My life is passing me by. I want you. I want you with a recklessness that can’t be put into words. But you know what? I can survive without you.” I watched as his face paled. “I did something nice for you. It came from a place of love, and you walked in here and pissed all over it. All because you were scared,” I hissed. He looked away from me.

  “You’ve got two choices tonight. You man up and tell me what about that beautiful picture terrified you enough to inflict pain on me, or you put your shit back on and get the fuck out of my house.” I shoved past him and flew upstairs.

  It didn’t surprise me to find Damon gone after I’d gotten out of the shower. I was surprised, however, when a little after one in the morning, the bedroom door opened, and Damon filled the doorway. I sat up, staring at him, unwilling to be the first one to break. When it seemed like he wouldn’t, I untangled myself from the sheets, pushing my hair out of my face. “Damon—”

  “Put something on and meet me in the living room. Please.”

  Pulling on underwear and piling my hair on top of my head, I walked barefoot and soundlessly into the living area. I observed him undetected, staring at the mantel deep in thought, I cleared my throat. He shook himself from his brooding and tried to muster what I guessed to be a smile. It fell somewhere between utter exhaustion and sheer grief.

  He wore a tank top and sweats. When he left earlier, he had on a suit. Wherever he’d come from, it was done in a hurry. Maybe before he could talk himself out of it.

  I thought about asking him if he needed distance. He usually did when talking about his past. But I decided against it. Not wanting to give him the choice. For the moment, I perch
ed on the arm of the sofa, about ten feet away from him and the fireplace, and waited.

  “You were right. I was horror struck when I came in to find that picture hanging on the wall. I didn’t have the best day at work, my mood already foul. Then I walk in, and the first thing I see is my brother, whom I haven’t seen in sixteen years. In less than a handful of seconds, I’m forced to deal with my work upset, my shock, my fright, flashbacks of that smile, and then the death of it. Trying to process all of this in such a short span of time was... difficult.

  “My mind is sick, Justin. It doesn’t work like yours or everyone else's. I can’t flow through that many spectrums of emotions so fast. I’m not used to it. I handled anger and could maybe cruise through a few other things, but what was required of me earlier? That was Blake’s job.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Do you?” he asked doubtfully. He searched my eyes for the answer.

  He hadn’t moved a muscle since he started speaking, but he communicated a lot through his stare. I wished he could see himself right now. How beautifully flawed he appeared. How vulnerable.

  “Every time I get comfortable with one step in this process, when I start to think, yeah, I can do this, you or Julie throw a curveball at me. Why can’t I be allowed to relax in my progress for even a little while before I’m forced to face something new?”

  “I was only trying to help, that’s all. I could have presented it to you differently. I’m sorry about that, but I think you underestimate what you’re capable of. Don’t allow your fear to control you—”

  “You are not my therapist, Justin!” he snapped.

  Effectively shutting me up. And I got it. I could almost hear the sound of something clicking into place in my head. I asked the question I should have asked from the beginning. “What do you need from me?”

  He ran his hand down his mouth. “I need you to ask me if I’m okay with something that affects me this deeply before you go ahead and do it. You say the painting was a surprise. You, doing something nice. Well, I call bullshit. That painting was your way of pushing me to your next level of my recovery.”

  “If I would’ve asked you about bringing Benji’s remains here, what would you have said—”

  “No.” His answer was immediate. “At first. You might have had to ask me again. We might’ve had to compromise on me going to him instead of bringing him so permanently to me. Which might have meant that it took me two months to get to where I am today instead of one month. But it needed to be my choice. It’s my recovery. I don’t want to start resenting you.”

  “It’s not only your recovery, Damon.” I exhaled and conceded, “but you’re right. I should’ve asked. I’ll do so moving forward.”

  He nodded, running a feather-light touch across the name etched into the urn. The silence stretched on, to the point of discomfort. His shoulders grew more tense by the second. He was working his way up to something. Never had I expected what came next.

  “I killed her,” he whispered. “My mother. I killed her.”

  Sucker-punched to the gut. That’s what those words made me feel. The air expelled from my lungs in one great silent heave. Sliding slowly from the arm of the couch until my rear hit the cushions, I worked on regaining my composure as Damon powered on.

  “After discovering Benji on the floor, I went straight for her room. Operating on autopilot, I’d shut down my mind. I knew she was alive. That kind of malignant evil never contemplates suicide.

  “She lay across her bed, soaked in his blood, drinking gin straight from the bottle.”

  He came to rest on his knees in front of me, preparing to confess his sins, and wanting to see every nuance of my reaction to his recounting. If he believed he would see judgement or condemnation, he didn’t know me well at all.

  “She started ranting at me. So drunk, I could barely make out her words. One thing I heard loud and clear, ‘It’s all your fault, and if I wasn’t so tired from cutting that little bastard up, I’d get rid of you as well.’ By my fault, she meant her sorry life. And even in that moment, at that age, I knew I wasn’t to blame for that. What was my fault, though, was the fact that my baby brother was spread all over the living room floor. That was all my fault.”

  Damon held a hand up, stalling my argument.

  “I knew what she was. Knew her capabilities. And I wanted a break anyway. I wanted to go to the game with my friend; I had missed so many having to take care of Benji. Ash too because he never went without me. We both just wanted to be boys. Even when the alarm bells were blaring in my head, when I nearly got sick the further away from the house I walked. I went anyway.

  “Ashton knew it too. He kept looking back, even when the house was no longer in sight. He thinks I don’t know that it still haunts him. That he still punishes himself for what happened because to move on would feel like a betrayal to me and my constant suffering. What kind of friend am I? I have yet to release him from his pain.”

  “You need to first release yourself, Damon.” I reached up to touch his face, but he turned away from me. He didn’t turn back until I dropped my hand into my lap.

  “‘The little fucker wouldn’t stop screaming, I should’ve started with his tongue,’” Damon repeated the words etched into his memory.

  I beat back the bile that rose up my esophagus. If she was still alive, I’d murder her myself.

  “What kind of mother does that to her own child?” he asked, desperate for an answer.

  “Not a good one, baby. Not a good one.” I wanted to hold him. My palms began to burn. I’d been digging my blunt nails into them. Angry crescent moons formed on the tender flesh.

  Damon’s eyes flitted to mine, and they held a wild coldness that sent a chill through me.

  His voice dropped an octave, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “I got on top of her and unleashed all my pain. After I beat her face in, beyond recognition, I could still see her chest rising and falling as she grappled for air. I took off my belt, wrapped it around her throat, looped the other end around the railing of the canopy bed, and I pulled. I watched, mere inches from her disfigured face, as she struggled, with the small bit of life she had left, to live.”

  Spittle flew as he spoke, landing on my bare chest, rolling down his chin. He looked monstrous, but I held his stare and refused to flinch.

  “I can still remember the smell of piss and alcohol reeking from her. Some days I can still see and feel her blood running down my fingers to my wrists. I suffocated her long after the life left her one remaining functional eye. I regretted it right after. Not because I didn’t want her dead but because it was over too soon. I should have made her suffer longer. If I could have saved her, brought her back, so I could do it again, I would have.” He took a deep breath and worked his jaw.

  We sat there in the stillness. Laying eyes on one another. I waited for a clue as to what he needed from me. Damon waited for something as well. I didn’t know what. His dark eyes hadn’t warmed any, and his breathing became frantic. “Damon, please…” Let me hold you.

  “Do you... think it was wrong?” he asked.

  His eyes softened, and I watched the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallowed audibly. He appeared so childlike, and I could no longer hold myself back from him.

  Resting both hands on either side of his neck, I peered at him intently. “It couldn’t be more right. The bitch deserved it. I’ll never let you lose a night of sleep worrying about which side of righteousness you were on.” I stroked his pulse with my thumb. “I’ll never judge you. I’ll only ever love you. Fuck her, Damon. Fuck. Her.” I unconsciously squeezed, blocking his airway in my intensity. Damon relaxed a fraction, essentially placing himself in my hands.

  Wait. “I thought she shot and killed herself?” I asked, perplexed.

  Damon opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He hesitated with some decision. His gaze browsed the room before dropping to his fidgeting hands. I ran my fingers from his jaw into his hair and made a fist, pulling
his head up. I searched his eyes while whispering, “Your secrets are safe with me. I would die before I betrayed you. You know that. Tell me.”

  Damon’s fingers gripped my thighs, the pressure so severe he would leave marks behind. The hairs on the back of my neck raised, and my warm skin beaded all over. Whatever was to be revealed, he didn’t take telling me lightly.

  “When Ash found me over Benjamin in the living room, he went in search of Emilia. When he found her badly beaten and with my belt still around her neck... he removed the belt, retrieved the revolver used to kill Travis from the floor. He wrapped her hand around the hilt, placed the barrel under her chin, and pulled the trigger.” It wasn’t just his secret needing to be safeguarded now.

  “He was protecting you. The shot covered up any signs of what you did to her, making it appear like the bullet had done it?”

  “Yes, and with all things considered, no one investigated anything to the contrary.”

  “God. Does Paula know?”

  He shrugged. “Ash ran and got her right after. She came in, called the cops, and told us not to say anything. That she would do the talking. I don’t remember anything past someone trying to remove me from Benji’s body. We’ve never spoken about that day since.”

  “Good. I’m glad she’s dead. For what she did to you and to Benji. You did the right thing, Damon.” He averted his gaze, and I pulled his hair tighter until he returned it to me. “You did the right thing. She doesn’t deserve your misery. Please, baby,” I begged, my eyes began to burn. “Believe me. Let it go. Take away her power.”

  He inched closer, going to his haunches and resting his head in my lap. His arms snaked around my waist. I touched every part of him. Anything I could reach. I whispered to him as he fell apart, “I’m proud of you, you’re loved, and you’re worthy.” I told him that he’d saved me, and I would in turn save him. We would face what came next together, and if he needed to be weak, I’d be strong enough for the both of us. “I’m not leaving. I’ll never leave,” I swore. “It’s not your fault.”