Survivor Stories

by J P Barnaby

  He was sick of the expectations, the pain driving a knife into his soul. Only one thing would help him not to think, not to feel. His brother spent half his life drunk because Bren didn’t have responsibilities or a noose around his neck. Fuck that.

  Patrick turned the keys in the ignition and turned the truck toward the liquor store.

  Ten

  SINCE THE liquor store closed early on Sundays, Anthony decided to pick up dinner before close, grab a book, and read. He’d continue with the last Harry Potter because it reminded him of his afternoon with Bren. As much as people liked Harry, Anthony identified more with Neville, who started out invisible and ended up instrumental in Voldemort’s destruction. Anthony didn’t need to save the world, but he’d love to learn how to take off that invisibility cloak.

  Then he thought about the one person who didn’t see him as invisible and picked up his laptop. God, he loved the memory of lying back against Bren’s chest. He’d never had that before. Of course, he couldn’t make a big deal out of it. Guys didn’t do that, right?

  You look cute when you’re sleeping.

  Yeah, that would do it—casual, but enough to let Bren know he was thinking about their time together. He didn’t even know what was going on with them, but this shit was exhausting.

  The last slice of pizza sat like a challenge on the cardboard circle at the end of his make-shift bed. He reached for it, and a pain in his stomach stopped him short. Tomorrow, when Patrick got in to the store, he’d ask if he could put a couple of things in the cooler downstairs since he didn’t have a refrigerator up there. That way he could save the other half of a pizza, a little money, and his skinny jeans.

  His computer dinged with a new message from Bren.

  Come over later and you can sleep with me.

  A smile spread slowly across his lips, and Anthony clicked the Reply button. Before he could type the first word, he heard the sound of shattering glass from the store below. Anthony waited a heartbeat, listening hard. Maybe he’d imagined it. He set the book on the sleeping bag and held his breath. Then he heard it again. The bed shifted, and he was on his feet reaching for his shoes when he remembered what Patrick had said about confronting intruders downstairs. Anthony had promised he would stay upstairs and call the police, but if Patrick was down there with his girlfriend again, he didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. If he called the police, they might ask things about him. At seventeen, they wouldn’t give him much choice about calling his parents. He’d only been in Detroit for a couple weeks, but he felt comfortable.

  Another crash, closer to the stairs, and Anthony picked up the portable phone he’d promised to keep with him. It took just a minute to throw on his shoes, and he opened the door to the apartment with silent fingers. The stairs didn’t creak as Anthony made his way down them, but he feared someone might hear him breathing, harsh and heavy. It sounded so loud in his ears. If he had to keep creeping down these fucking stairs, he’d have a heart attack.

  His feet whispered against the linoleum when he reached the bottom. He looked around the small space, lit only by what came from the overstock room across the short hallway. The miniature bottles of scotch, rum, and gin lined up like little solders on the shelves all around him. He wished for a wand so he could summon them into a tiny liquid army. Anthony nearly screamed when a bottle whizzed past the entrance to the room and exploded against the opposite wall.

  “I hate this fucking place,” a hoarse voice cried, so full of pain that it made Anthony ache. He straightened and walked out of the room as his fear dissipated. He recognized the voice, and the pain. Patrick stood in the middle of the sales floor, hefting a fifth of Absolut from the display next to him. His aim went wild and the bottle crashed against the front of the cooler. Anthony couldn’t believe the glass door didn’t crack.

  He navigated the war zone of glass fragments, puddles of alcohol, and a Kahlúa display lying on its side across the aisle. Coffee grounds and mud-colored mess splattered the surrounding stock.

  “Patrick.” He tried to make his voice soft so he didn’t startle his boss, but it didn’t work. Another vodka bottle crashed to the floor as Patrick spun, overbalanced, and toppled to the floor, the knees of his jeans missing the shattered glass by inches. He squinted up and it took a long moment for recognition.

  “Hey, kid, what are you doing down here?” With the slur, Anthony had a hard time understanding him.

  “Keeping you from destroying stuff. What are you doing?”

  Patrick’s face darkened, and he glared around at the bottles and cans as if they’d offended him. He tried to stand but stumbled and landed with his back against the base of the counter.

  “I hate this place.”

  “I got that. You were yelling it,” Anthony reminded him.

  “I was?”

  “Yes, when you sent a bottle screaming past my head and it exploded against the wall.”

  Patrick’s expression changed in an instant from anger to horror. He grabbed Anthony’s arm and started checking him for injuries.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. You were saying, about hating this place,” Anthony prompted and knelt so they were at eye level. Patrick’s eyes cleared a little and he took a breath.

  Patrick slumped back. “I had a life in Ohio. I went to college, had a great job, and a great little place. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my dad and brother, but for the first time since Mom died, I’d found some place I belonged. You know?”

  Anthony nodded, and Patrick kept talking, his words clearer with focus.

  “Bren was going to take care of the store. Dad had someone to pass it down to. Everyone was happy.” Patrick’s eyes took on a faraway look, and Anthony’s stomach clenched. His heart skipped in that way it did before anyone said anything about what really happened to Aaron. He didn’t want to hear, but couldn’t turn away.

  “What happened?” he whispered.

  “Fourth of July weekend two years ago, a guy came in with a gun. He robbed the place. My dad and brother were working. I watched the surveillance tapes. They both had their hands up and they weren’t anywhere near the guy. It wasn’t like they were trying to stop him, but he… he shot them both.” Patrick grabbed a half-empty bottle of Jack from the floor and took a swig from it, then he indicated a place on the floor in the middle of the open sales area.

  “They went down right there. My dad bled out, and my brother had to watch it happen. It took about fifteen minutes for another customer to come in and call the police, but by then, my dad was already dead.”

  Anthony put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder.

  “That’s a horrible thing to live with.” He didn’t say how sorry he was because he fucking hated when people told him that about Aaron. They didn’t understand sorry. Anthony, he understood sorry.

  “I came home and my brother was a fucking mess. He’s still a fucking mess. But they had me and Kevin come in here, step over the blood, and tell them if anything was missing. Tell them how much the guy took from the cash register. Who fucking cares?”

  Anthony didn’t say anything. He agreed. The amount of money the guy took wouldn’t make up for what Patrick’s family had suffered.

  “I wanted to sell it, but Bren… I needed to give him time to adjust, to see if he’d be up to taking it back. That was two years ago. Two years and nothing has changed. I’m going to be tied to this place for the rest of my fucking life. Bren can’t come here, but he also can’t let it go. This place meant everything to my dad, especially after Mom died.” Patrick’s voice was ragged; a hard edge of pain sharpened his words.

  “How did your mother die?”

  “Cancer.”

  “My grandma died of cancer a couple years ago. It’s not pretty.”

  “Nope,” Patrick said, popping the p.

  Silence stretched between them for a long time, during which Anthony looked up and down the aisles, assessing the damage. Aside from the display on its side, mostly it appeared Patric
k had just been chucking bottles around.

  “Why did you run away, Anthony? I mean, I know about your brother, but why leave?”

  Patrick’s voice was so soft, it barely registered in Anthony’s range of hearing, but once he did, he couldn’t unhear it. Patrick had told him his damage, so it was Anthony’s turn to step up to the plate. He stood and wandered down the big wine aisle to grab a broom and dustpan from hangers on the wall of the overstock room. When he returned less than sixty seconds later, Patrick had slouched even more down the counter. If he could have found something to rest his head on, Anthony figured Patrick would have already passed out. Not many guys would still be conscious after half a bottle of Jack.

  Anthony began sweeping up the coffee grounds and shards of glass from the display. “When I was a kid, about ten, I think I’d just started fifth grade, that’s when Aaron was attacked. He was sixteen and probably the coolest person I knew then. Well, except for Allen, our middle brother. He was fourteen then.” It helped not to look at Patrick as the words spewed from him like sewer filth. “Aaron was kidnapped. My mom never really explained anything to me, but over the years I picked up bits and pieces. He’d been tortured and raped.”

  “Anthony—” Patrick started, but Anthony cut him off. If he didn’t get it out now, while Patrick’s defenses were down and he was only half listening, Anthony would never be able to tell the whole story.

  “I remember he was like a completely different person when he came home. In the span of a few weeks, we went from a happy family to not a family at all. Aaron used to wake up screaming all the time and it scared me, so my parents moved Allen and me into rooms in the basement so we couldn’t hear Aaron. But we couldn’t hear anything else either. I was just a kid and scared all the time down there, of the dark, of mice, of a fucking monster in my closet. Because by then, I knew there were monsters. One of them had hurt Aaron.” He kicked an empty beer case toward the back wall. “Anyway, I hated it. My life was so fucked up. School was a nightmare, and my parents were so focused on Aaron, they didn’t have time for me. Then when I was fourteen, Allen went off to college and I was all alone down there. Earlier this year, Aaron moved out too. He found someone to love. He and Spencer are good for each other, I guess.”

  “Your brother is gay?”

  “Yeah. I am too.” Anthony looked for any kind of disgust or hatred in Patrick’s face, but found nothing but compassion. It was nothing like coming out to Chase. He finally let out the breath he’d been holding on to with everything he had. Patrick must have known about Bren too.

  “Okay, so why did you leave?”

  “For months before graduation, my parents kept telling me that I had to go to college, but high school was so awful, I didn’t want to. They said even Aaron went to college. Perfect fucking Aaron.”

  “I still don’t see—”

  “The night before I left, I went to a party with some people from school and Chase. He was my best friend. And it was… It….” The tears finally fell, and Anthony wiped them away with an angry swipe of his T-shirt.

  “Come here,” Patrick whispered. Anthony propped the broom against the shelves and took a few steps toward Patrick, who grabbed Anthony’s hand and pulled him down onto the floor next to him. Startled, Anthony tried to struggle, but Patrick just put an arm around him in kind of a half-straight guy hug. God, it was amazing. So fucking amazing. He took advantage of Patrick’s blood alcohol level and rested his head on the man’s broad shoulder.

  “It was so awful. We were in the bedroom and it was great and we were finally together the way I’d always wanted. I… I sucked him off, but then he got really mean.”

  “Did he hurt you?” Patrick’s arm tightened around him, and he felt safe for the first time in nearly a decade.

  “Not like that. He called me a fag and then told everyone at the party I’d blown him. When I got home, I was shaking. I got on the Xbox and Jay started talking to me. He invited me to Detroit. That was at like three in the morning. By eleven, I was on the road. I don’t even know what happened.”

  “Do you want to go back? I’m sure your parents would help with the car.”

  The reluctance in Patrick’s voice surprised Anthony, and he shook his head. “No. I’ve been happier the last two weeks than I have been in a long time. I mean, I have to be really careful with money and make my own way, but it feels like someone took a really heavy chain off my neck.” Anthony whispered the words into the darkness, finally able to say it.

  “I know how that chain feels.”

  They sat like that for a bit, just sharing the weight of their lives. Patrick smelled like sweat and booze, but he wasn’t alone anymore. Cars passed outside the plate-glass window and Anthony was fine letting the world go by. He was comfortable and happy. Until Patrick started to slide farther down the counter, his head drooping onto Anthony’s cheek.

  “Okay, you’re too big for me to get up the stairs. I’m going to go get the mattress and bring it down here. We can sleep in the stockroom.” Anthony stood up, hating the loss of Patrick’s warmth.

  “No, I should just go home.”

  “There is no way I’m letting you drive. You drank at least half a fifth of Jack, and you can’t even keep your eyes open. And I can’t drive you because I don’t know where you live. You’re in no condition to give directions. Just sit here. If you pass out, don’t fall on the floor. I’ll be right back.”

  Patrick made an undecipherable sound that Anthony took for agreement. He pushed Patrick upright once more and sprinted for the stairs. It took a few minutes for him to figure out how to disconnect the pump attached to the inflatable mattress, but eventually he got both mattress and pump downstairs into the back room. He unplugged the small radio sitting on the scotch shelf and shoved the plug for the pump into the socket. The steady hum of the pump drowned out even the compressors in the cooler, but after the amount of liquor Patrick had, he’d probably sleep through an earthquake. Anthony just hoped he hadn’t started yet.

  Patrick’s eyes drooped and then shot open again as Anthony came back up the aisle.

  “Okay, come on, let’s get you back on the mattress.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “You’ve been taking care of me for weeks now. Let me return the favor.”

  “I… okay.” Patrick sank farther, and Anthony bent his knees, locked his arms under Patrick’s, and helped lift him off the floor. Their bodies aligned, hips, chests, and legs, and Anthony felt it everywhere. He tried not to think about his straight boss pressed against him, but his seventeen-year-old body had a mind of its own.

  “Okay, one step and then… the next… good.” Anthony grunted as he ignored the need in his dick; a need that thinking of Bren only made worse. Anthony had stopped by for another movie the Friday before, but they hadn’t fucked around again. It made him edgy.

  Anthony half carried, half dragged his drunk boss down an aisle not big enough for two grown men. They stumbled near the margarita mix. A bottle crashed to the floor when Patrick grabbed the shelf for support. Anthony had to turn them sideways when he reached the coolers, and Patrick crowded against him. He turned his head away from the stench of Patrick’s booze breath, but the friction of their bodies rubbing as he slid them through the doorway more than made up for the smell of Jack Daniels mixed with what smelled like wet dog and maybe even the ass of a dead rhino.

  The wind left his lungs when his feet slid on the wet floor and his back slammed against the side of the cooler. Patrick’s hard body pressed against him, and it took a second in the dizzying tumble of arms and legs slammed against the wall to notice Patrick’s hips moving against him.

  They broke apart at the sound of a shrill ring in Patrick’s back pocket. Since his hands were already there, Anthony plucked a cell phone from the left side and held it up. Patrick didn’t even look at it, he just swiped his finger across the front and screamed into it.

  “No, Bren!” He slammed his finger onto every pixel around the sma
rtphone’s surface without actually hitting the End button. Anthony pressed it for him and slid the cell phone into his own pocket. It killed him to hear the pain in Patrick’s voice, especially directed at Bren. But he could only take care of one of them at a time.

  The cell phone provided a perfect distraction, and he hobbled the few remaining steps into the stockroom and lowered Patrick less than gracefully onto the mattress. Kneeling at the bottom of the mattress, he grabbed first one leather dress shoe and then the other and popped them off. He let them fall near a full case of Smirnoff. His breath caught when he saw Patrick reach for his belt.

  “You do have something on under your jeans right?”

  “Yeah. I think I have an undershirt on too. Does it bother you?”

  “No, I guess not, but I have to sleep there too, so don’t get naked. You are my boss.”

  Patrick succeeded in unbuckling his belt and opening the front of his jeans but lost the battle trying to get them down. Anthony pulled on his arm and got him to sit up in an awkward position perched on the side of the inflated bed. The shirt came off easily enough when Patrick decided to lift his arms over his head. He complained about the room spinning after the shirt lay on the floor. Anthony grabbed the waistband of Patrick’s jeans and told him to lift up, which he managed.

  Anthony pulled off his own shoes and jeans, leaving the T-shirt to cover at least part of his underwear. He went around to the other side of the mattress but came back when he noticed Patrick still sitting up on the side.

  “Come on, lie down so we can get some sleep,” Anthony whispered, though there was no one anywhere in the store to hear him. He pushed back on the man’s shoulder, and he fell backward, lengthwise across the bed.

  “Well, that didn’t work as well as I’d hoped,” he grumbled. “Come on, man, help me out. Turn toward the pillows.” He grabbed Patrick’s shoulders and manhandled him onto one of the bare pillows. Then Anthony lifted Patrick’s feet from the floor in his twisted position.