When All the World Sleeps

by J. A. Rock

  The first time John had said, “Tell me about your parents,” Daniel had laughed.

  “You sound like the therapists in movies.”

  John had made it into a regular joke now. About halfway through each session, he would lean back, cross his legs, lace his hands around his knee, and say, very seriously, “Daniel. Tell me about your parents.”

  Therapy wasn’t what Daniel had expected it to be, mostly because John was so normal. He didn’t sound like the therapists from movies, most of the time. He laughed and made jokes and came in pissed off once in a while because he’d been having car trouble. That usually led to a discussion with Daniel about what car John should get when he finally bought a new one. Daniel didn’t know a ton about cars, and his knowledge mostly centered on the chemistry of hybrid vehicles, but he still liked these conversations. He often found that even when he came to John’s office tense and determined not to share anything, those first five minutes spent talking to John about stupid stuff usually relaxed him.

  But now they talked about Daniel’s parents every time. It scared Daniel because he never knew what he was going to spill. Sometimes he just told random anecdotes from his childhood. He half hoped John would get bored and end the conversation early. But sometimes, especially after they’d been talking awhile, Daniel found himself revealing things it hurt to talk about. He never had one of those sobbing breakdowns you saw in movies. But sometimes he got pissed off, or he reached a point where he knew if he kept talking, he’d lose it, so he shut up. He hadn’t totally shed his fear he was going to say something that would convince John he really was crazy.

  John didn’t pry, didn’t push. Just kept reminding Daniel that most adult neuroses were rooted in things that had happened during childhood. That it was important to work on finding triggers for Daniel’s sleepwalking episodes.

  So now John knew about Daniel painting the living room when he was a kid. About his dad pretending to punish him with his belt for Daniel’s mom’s sake, but really taking him to the garden to let him work until he was exhausted. John knew about the devil. Knew about a lot of the fights Daniel had had with Casey, who had been the first person to call him a freak. Knew about the times Casey had been sweet to him, too—assuring him he’d get better. Singing him a lullaby. Once she’d pretended to be a therapist and had tried to hypnotize Daniel, dangling a necklace over him while he lay on the floor, telling him he was getting very sleepy. Another time she’d tried to perform an exorcism.

  Telling stuff from his childhood got to Daniel sometimes, but mostly it was easy. He felt a disconnect from that life, from the person he had been before Kenny, and he could almost imagine he was telling someone else’s story. But trying to talk about his relationship with his family now was awful. Usually pissed Daniel off or shut him down. One time John had suggested Daniel talk to him as though John was his mother. Daniel had refused.

  “That’s totally a cliché.” Daniel had tried to laugh. “You’re better than that, John.”

  They also talked about sex, much to Daniel’s chagrin. About how Daniel had started to fuck guys while he was asleep after Marcus had broken up with him. About the wet dreams he used to have about Kenny Cooper. Apparently John had no fucking sense of privacy whatsoever. And apparently all those degrees didn’t make John particularly smart, because he once asked Daniel how he felt about Kenny Cooper now.

  “Well, he tried to kill me, and then I murdered him, so . . . yeah, the wet dreams are pretty much over.”

  They didn’t talk about pain or about how Bel was in charge of Daniel in the bedroom. Daniel didn’t care how confi-fucking-dential this was; he wasn’t going to talk about that.

  Therapy was confusing and weird and sometimes left Daniel feeling worse, not better, but he couldn’t deny he saw progress. John had taught him some grounding techniques to use when he felt panicked or empty. Breathing exercises, focusing on one particular object, saying aloud whatever was on his mind. All stuff Daniel had made fun of at first. But it did kind of help. He made lists now, too. He’d said hell no to journaling when John had suggested it, so John said maybe lists were a better option. He could list anything—how he was feeling, what he was going to do that day, things he was worried or happy or pissed about, stuff he saw written in the restroom stalls at the library. Daniel had tried it without much enthusiasm and found it sort of helped.

  But what helped Daniel even more than lists, more than sessions with John, was Bel. Bel’s belief in Daniel, his patience, his authority—fuck, Daniel would have done anything to make him proud. It would have been pathetic, except for the moments where it seemed like Bel felt the same about him. Bel wanted to please Daniel, wanted to give him what he needed, and occasionally Bel became the kid he still was—foolish and eager in his efforts to impress Daniel.

  Since the night in the orchard, Bel had been less cautious about hitting Daniel. They’d waded through the ivy outside the cabin to hunt for the aluminum paddle Daniel had thrown out there weeks ago. They’d finally found it, and Bel had made Daniel pick it up, carry it back to the cabin, kneel down, and hand it to him. He’d used it lightly, and Daniel had been turned on at first, begging him to use it harder. But Bel had stopped as soon as Daniel went soft from the pain, and they’d fucked instead.

  Daniel could tell it still bothered Bel the way Daniel simultaneously craved and hated pain. The balance was hard to find. Bel had found it in the orchard—a few whacks with a belt, some pinching and biting, and a rough fuck. But Daniel, inclined to push Bel the way he’d pushed Marcus, often didn’t even recognize the moment when he slipped into the place he feared. The place where the pain was too much, but a voice in his head was telling him he needed it, needed more of it if he was going to sleep. He didn’t want to be a coward, didn’t want to tell Bel to stop. Because pain could always be worse than this, like that night with Kenny, and Daniel had to be ready in case that happened again, had to know he wouldn’t break . . .

  He had to be strong.

  Bel usually recognized that moment, though, and Daniel was glad Bel was the one in charge. Because Bel could say they were stopping, and Daniel had to listen. Didn’t make him a coward.

  The one thing that was never a problem was rough sex. Bel seemed to love it just as much as Daniel, and it left Daniel plenty exhausted. Bel did some research and seemed to have a new idea every night for how to position Daniel. Sometimes he tied him up, and sometimes he made Daniel hold the position on his own. Bel never seemed interested in toys—plugs, clamps, gags. Anything in Daniel’s bag except for cuffs and locks seemed to confuse Bel. “The hell’s this?” he asked one night, holding up a large ring gag.

  “You gag me with it. Keeps my mouth open, and you put your cock through the ring.” Bel’s brows went together. “I don’t use it anymore,” Daniel added quickly. “Not since . . . but Marcus used to . . .”

  Bel tossed it aside. “What do I want with gagging you? I like hearin’ you.”

  Daniel still felt guilty about not being able to give Bel head. Wished he could do that for Bel, since Bel seemed willing to do anything for Daniel. Once of Bel’s favorite activities was teasing Daniel to the brink of orgasm and telling him if he moved or came, he’d be punished. But the bastard never played fair, never gave Daniel a break, just kept working him until there was nothing Daniel could do to hold back. The punishment was usually to do Bel’s dishes if they were at Bel’s house—and Daniel swore Bel kept them piled up just for him. Or, once when they were at the cabin, Daniel had to sit backward on Bel’s cock and use his ass to make Bel come, despite Daniel’s own post-orgasm exhaustion. And he’d had to listen to the extremely self-satisfied smirk in Bel’s voice each time he gave an order for Daniel to move faster, clench harder.

  It had been worth it, though, to hear Bel getting closer to coming, to hear him lose the smirk, lose control, start begging instead of ordering. Daniel had slept well that night. Now and then, when Daniel felt relaxed enough, he’d lick Bel’s cock, or suck on the head. But
he just couldn’t put Bel’s cock in his mouth. And Bel never asked him to.

  At the end of a month, Daniel was sleeping through most nights. When he did sleepwalk, Bel got up with him and helped him find his sketch pad and pencils. He had a huge folder of drawings now, which he stashed under the bed. During the day, Daniel felt more relaxed and focused. He didn’t wake up each morning with a sense of dread, wondering how he was going to fill all those hours. He was excited to wake up next to Bel, excited to fuck, excited to get online and look at pharmacy schools, like Ms. Davenport and John kept suggesting.

  What didn’t go away, though, was the anger. It didn’t come often, but when it did, there was nothing he could do, no way to stop it. It took over everything, and he imagined Clayton on the ground, Clayton screaming, begging. R.J. and Brock, all of them, dying while Daniel watched.

  He’d jerk out of those moments as if from a dream, sweating, panting, disoriented. The anger would diminish and leave him feeling alone, abandoned. Wanting.

  When Bel wasn’t working, they went into town a few times. Daniel practiced walking through Logan like he had as much right to be there as anybody. When Bel stopped to talk to somebody, he included Daniel in the conversation. And Daniel got used to participating, even if the other person was looking at him like he was a grizzly that Bel was walking on a chain. One time they were walking down Main, and Daniel saw Clayton, R.J., and Brock on the other side of the street. The guys were whispering and snickering, and Daniel could have thrown up on the spot. He was afraid for a different reason now—not so much of them, but of how much he wanted them gone. But Bel took his hand, squeezed it once, then let go.

  Got as much right to be here as you, Clayton.

  So stay the fuck away, if you know what’s good for you.

  But the fear didn’t lessen. It was as sharp and overwhelming as it had been that day in the gas station. Or that night in the field. He was afraid of what Clayton could do to him, but just as scared of what he was capable of doing to Clayton. He couldn’t keep on living like this. Something had to give.

  Moments like that made Daniel think more and more about leaving Logan. Going somewhere he wasn’t hated, yes, but more importantly, going someplace where there wasn’t anyone he wanted to hurt.

  But leaving Logan meant leaving Bel, and that hurt too much to think about right now. Something had to give. Daniel just didn’t want it to be him.

  * * *

  Daniel walked out of the library. The parking lot was empty except for his car and a rusty truck. Someone was sitting on the truck’s tailgate, but that barely registered with Daniel because he was too busy staring at his car.

  Blood, all over the hood and nose of his sedan.

  Smeared over the headlights.

  He panicked. Whose blood? I didn’t do anything, didn’t kill anyone. Whose blood is that? I didn’t do anything.

  He took a deep breath. He was tired. Not thinking straight. Not seeing straight. Maybe it was just paint. Or if it was blood, perhaps it belonged to an animal. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists briefly, then turned his attention to the guy on the truck. He already knew who it was.

  “What’d you do to my car?” Daniel demanded.

  Clayton slid off the tailgate. The red stuff was on his hands, his jeans, and his shoes. He walked toward Daniel, but Daniel didn’t back up.

  “Don’t you fuckin’ touch me!” Daniel ordered, as Clayton got closer.

  “I wouldn’t, faggot, not with a ten-foot pole. Bet you’d like me to, though, wouldn’t you? Want my cock in your mouth? It feels a lot like Kenny’s. Difference is, I’ll actually shoot.” Clayton was quieter than when he was with his buddies. No whooping. No laughing. Just that hollowness Daniel had seen the evening Clayton had come into the library. He wasn’t putting on a show. This was his hatred, the raw heart of his grief exposed only to Daniel.

  “Get out of here!” Daniel shouted. “You’re gonna fix my car, you fucker! You’re gonna pay to get it fixed.”

  The car wasn’t the real issue here, but shouting about the car was better than shouting about how fucking scared he was. Of the way his and Clayton’s hollownesses had matched once, before Bel. Of how Daniel was slowly leaving that behind, while Clayton sank deeper into it—and maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe they ought to both be sinking.

  He wanted it all to stop. He wanted to go back and start over and be a different Daniel Whitlock.

  Doesn’t even have to be a complete do-over.

  I’d go back to that day by the river and get in the water with Joe Belman.

  Because maybe if Daniel’d had Bel then, he would have turned out all right. Maybe he wouldn’t have ended up in a bar hitting on Kenny Cooper. Wouldn’t have ended up in a field tasting his own blood. Wouldn’t have bought a lighter at Harnee’s. Wouldn’t be standing in this parking lot today with someone who wanted him dead.

  He was a kid, idiot. You couldn’t have counted on a kid to rescue you. And you can’t now, either.

  Clayton looked at Daniel’s car, then turned back to Daniel, his face screwed up with puzzlement. “What are you on about, Whitlock? Nothin’ wrong with your car.”

  Daniel shook his head. Clayton was faking. There was blood all over the car and all over Clayton. Anyone could see.

  “The blood,” Daniel said, pointing. “The red stuff you put on my car, right there, all over the hood.”

  Clayton glanced at Daniel’s car again, then at Daniel. His expression was so bewildered that a familiar disquiet slunk through Daniel’s body. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “It’s all over you too, so quit your act.”

  Clayton looked down at himself. He laughed, the sound half-disbelieving, half-mocking. “You really are a lunatic. There’s nothing on your car. Or on me.” He straightened. “Crazy fucking Whitlock!”

  The fear wound around Daniel’s ribs, pulling tight, jerking him forward a step. For a second, he imagined the car as it should have been—clean from the rain two days ago. Nothing on it but a scratch from sideswiping a parked van years ago. And he imagined Clayton with nothing on his hands but dirt and tobacco stains, his clothes free of dark patches. What if that was how things really were? What if the blood was the part Daniel was imagining?

  “Yes there is,” he said slowly, refusing to let the fear choke him like it had in the gas station bathroom. “And you’re gonna fix it. That’s my property you fucked with. My property, you hear?”

  “You don’t have a right,” Clayton said, voice low, “to call anything yours.”

  He was so close, Daniel kept expecting him to make a move—to grab Daniel, or try to punch him. But Clayton kept his hands balled at his sides. And Daniel, who’d never been one to throw the first punch, found himself struggling not to beat the shit out of Clayton. Yes I do. I have things that are mine. Things you’ll never have. You don’t get to ruin those things for me anymore. “I’ll fix you,” he said, voice rising. “I’ll fix you myself. I’ll fix you good, you fuck!”

  Daniel’s stomach clenched as soon as the words were out. Of course Clayton would take them as a threat—they were—and if Clayton told the police what he’d said, the cops would probably figure Daniel was planning to murder Clayton.

  And maybe he was.

  He saw a flash of fear in Clayton’s expression, and that was enough. The anger was like a rush, and he let it come, this time. Like someone had finally given him permission. Like he’d given himself permission. Was this what he’d felt the night he’d burned down Kenny’s house? This righteous fucking fury that welled up from deep inside him? Something had to give. Somebody had to back down. But it wouldn’t be Daniel. Not this time. Not again.

  Clayton held up his hands, his red palms facing Daniel. “Better chain yourself back up, Whitlock. ’Fore you hurt someone.”

  No, Clayton. Maybe I ought to let myself free. Ain’t ever really hurt no one who didn’t deserve it.

  “I seen the setup you got out at Kamchee,” Clayton continue
d. “You’re either a more fucked-up fag than I thought—”

  “You shithole!”

  “—or else you’re at least smart enough to know you gotta be chained up like an animal.”

  “You were in my house? You crazy piece of shit— It was you. I knew it was you!” Daniel raised his fist and lunged. Clayton sidestepped.

  “You wanna hit me?” Clayton taunted.

  Daniel dropped his arm, breathing hard. No. Can’t hurt him. What would Bel say? Ms. Davenport? “More’n anything. You better watch I don’t forget I’m on parole.”

  Clayton grinned again. “That’s the spirit, Whitlock. What do you say we sort this out once and for all?”

  “Yeah, I’ll sort you out,” Daniel muttered. “I’ll sort you out, you fucker. What the fuck do you mean? Huh?”

  Clayton stared at him. He smelled like cigarettes and mustard. “A fair fight. Just us two. Bolton Farm. Behind that old barn that’s falling down.”

  Daniel grinned too, ugly, savage. He wasn’t afraid of Clayton right now. Just relieved. Because he’d had so many nightmares about this, about the people who wanted to hurt him and what it would be like when he finally had to face them. And here was the moment, and it was suddenly easy. He could fight Clayton McAllister and win. He could do fucking anything, because he was the bravest motherfucker in Logan, and because he’d finally gotten in the river with Bel. Even if he couldn’t fight for himself, he could fight for that.

  Shouldn’t, a voice warned. Even if you win, you’ll lose.

  Don’t care. Fucker was in my house. Messed up my car. Kept me out of my fucking town for way too long. He doesn’t get to touch anything else that’s mine. Doesn’t get my life.

  “Right now?” Daniel said.

  “Tomorrow. No weapons. We don’t tell anyone what we’re up to. You win, I leave you alone for good.”

  “And if you win?”

  Clayton’s grin faded. “If I win, Whitlock, you don’t show your face in Logan. Ever again. I don’t care what you have to do—quit your job, get your fuckin’ groceries delivered, jump off a bridge—whatever. If me or any of my buddies see you, we’ll finish the job we started, okay? It’ll be that cop’s head you find on your porch, right before we burn you to the ground!” He shoved Daniel’s chest, his palms leaving faint red prints on the fabric of Daniel’s shirt.