The Darker Side of Trey Grey

by Tara Spears

  “NO!” I said abruptly.

  He froze in mid-stride, giving me an uneasy look.

  “Sorry. Not that closet. Nothing out of that closet.” I rapped the wall behind me. “This one. You can use anything you want from this one. There should be clean towels on a table in the bathroom too.”

  He was rifling around in the closet as the microwave beeped again.

  “Oh, this should work.” He popped out with my down parka that I’ve never actually worn. “Do you think you can stay upright leaning against the wall?”

  “Yeah.”

  Maybe. The only way to find out was to try. He was incredibly strong and— without any help from me— had me in position in seconds with the coat between my back and the wall. It wasn’t even that uncomfortable.

  Tugging the blanket over me, he frowned. “Where’s your spare bedding?”

  “Gone.”

  “Thrown away?”

  “Yep.”

  He sighed dramatically, tapping a finger to his lips, while he looked around. He headed into the bathroom, and suddenly screeched like a girl seeing a spider. Either he really did see a spider, which happened from time to time in this old building, or more than likely he spotted my bloody shower. Tom and the EMT had only taken care of the bed because I needed it— and the chair... well, enough said on that.

  He returned with a towel and laid it across my lap then went about repositioned the blanket around me. The girly scream didn’t seem to warrant an explanation. He bustled over to the microwave, and re-heated both mugs. I was getting the impression he could be a little flighty, but I decided not to hold that against him considering who he was caring for.

  He retrieved both cups, and set the coffee bag to brewing then came over with the broth. He held onto it, looking down into its depths.

  “Would you... would you mind if I cleaned your shower while you ate?”

  I snorted a laugh and he immediately looked hurt.

  “Knock yourself out,” I said, and he slumped, relieved. “A little OCD?” I asked lifting my eyebrows, rather amused.

  “No, but people sometimes think that. If it had been mildew I wouldn’t have cared. Bodily fluids— I just can’t leave them, and blood is the worst. Oh, here, can you hold this?” He handed me the broth, and I wrapped my hands firmly around the mug.

  “Yeah, I can hold it.”

  “Sips, then let it settle. If you can eat half of that and hold it down, I’ll give you your coffee.”

  He tilted his head as he gazed at me. I took a sip of the chicken broth, and was surprised it actually tasted good.

  “Is that what happened? You’re OCD? It isn’t in my paperwork and should be if you are.” He indicated my... well, my whole body actually.

  I lowered the cup and nodded. “Yeah, I am, and I’ll admit a pretty bad one too.”

  He tipped his head again, smiling sympathetically. I took another sip of broth while he headed off to clean my shower, pulling a pair of rubber gloves out of a pocket I couldn’t even see.

  It actually felt good to admit that to someone who wouldn’t judge me for it. I glanced at the cup in my hands and realized I had swallowed more than half the yellow liquid. I lowered it to my lap, waiting to make sure my stomach was okay with the intrusion. While I waited I chuckled over the high pitched singing emanating from my bathroom.

  I couldn’t remember the name of the song, but it had to do with birds when you appear, and it’s one of those songs everyone knows. I found myself mouthing the words. It was a goofy song, yet echoing in my shower, while being sung by a joyous male nurse, seemed perfectly normal— not to mention entertaining as hell.

  My stomach started jumping around, and not because it was refusing my offering, thank God, but rather demanding more fuel. My body had always been forgiving, taking abuse and bouncing back with hardly a thought. I supposed that was one reason I had survived as long as I had.

  I sent down the last of the cooling broth, and leaned forward to place the empty mug on my nightstand. My body lurched forward and I didn’t have quite enough strength to stop the descent. Maybe I hadn’t started bouncing back quite yet. I managed to stay on the bed, and shuffled myself onto my side with my legs still over the edge.

  All of a sudden I really wanted a smoke. The desire came out of left field and I was surprised it hadn’t hit earlier, but possibly almost falling out of bed had been enough of a stress to demand nicotine.

  That was how Gale, the singing nurse, found me as he exited the bathroom slathering his hands and arms with gel sanitizer.

  “Trey, what happened? Were you being a bad boy trying to get up? You can’t do that yet.”

  He drew the blanket back and set me up against the wall again. This time with a tiny bit of help from me. The effort, however, left me breathing heavily.

  “Don’t do that again. You have to give your muscles some time to recover.”

  I shook my head at him. “I wasn’t trying to get up.” I pointed a wimpy finger to the mug. “Just setting that there.”

  He picked up the cup and grinned. “What a good patient! You drank it all. Do you still want your coffee?”

  “Yes.” Damn straight I wanted coffee. What kind of Washingtonian did he think I was? He headed over to retrieve it for me, while I pondered how we had become such a coffee addicted state. It wasn’t just the big cities. Even in little towns you could find an espresso stand every few blocks. It had to be Starbucks fault. I mean hell, there were three just around the campus.

  Gale handed me my re-warmed coffee. I stared at him over the lip of the cup trying to decide whether he would allow me to smoke. His eyes began widening.

  “What? Does the coffee taste wrong?” he asked nervously.

  I chuckled. “No, I’m sure its fine, thank you.” I took a sip to prove it. Even if it had tasted like oil I would have still drunk it. “Think I can talk you into breaking a few rules?”

  He pulled a stern expression, which didn’t fit his cherub face.

  “Open the windows and let me have a smoke.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course, silly. You’re not in a hospital.” He paused, looking confused. “Why am I breaking rules?”

  “Because it is strictly forbidden to smoke in the dorm,” I pointed out. Not that I gave a rat’s ass, but I obeyed the rule nonetheless. I felt this was an extenuating circumstance however.

  He waved my comment away, and went to open the windows.

  A few minutes later I was drawing the toxins into my lungs, sighing appreciatively as I exhaled. Smokers aren’t any different than drug addicts. Except that the substance we’re addicted to happened to be legal, which I found moronic if the truth be told. Had tobacco been an illegal substance, I never would have tried it.

  A few drags later the light headedness hit from too many days denied. It passed quickly, and I savored the last long drags knowing it would be many long hours before I could have another.

  When I squashed out the butt, Gale reached for the ashtray he had found in the same drawer as my can opener, and set it on the stand by the bed. He re-arranged me flat on my back then flipped me effortlessly onto my stomach.

  “I’ll be out of your hair after your massage,” he said as he stripped the blanket off, exposing every bit of my naked self. Not that I cared. My dignity had run away screaming, a long time ago.

  “Massage?” I asked rather dumbly. My muscles were atrophied so of course a massage made perfect sense. He started at my feet.

  “Yes, it will help loosen your muscles and improve circulation, not to mention release the toxins that have built up. Relax, everyone loves my massages. My wife thinks I should have been a massage therapist rather than a nurse. She doesn’t understand why I love my job so much.” He tisked and I smirked.

  I knew I had been right, and the wife just proved it. I wasn’t sure if accurately pinpointing a person’s sexuality was really a talent, but I had always been very good at it. I wasn’t even sure how I knew with such certainty, just little nu
ances I supposed, but I had been able to do it since grade school.

  His hands worked away, and I began to feel them on my skin. It was the first real thing I had felt, and I found myself sinking into the mattress as my muscles loosened and tingled. I didn’t even flinch when his fingers dug into my buttocks. I’ve had massages, but this was the first by a humming overzealous straight boy.

  When he went to flip me over, I was in a languid half-dozing state. He was good, and by the time he finished with my shins I was there again, floating.

  “Someone’s relaxed.”

  I opened my eyes a crack and saw him flip my dick between my legs with a finger. There was a small pool of urine nestled in the hollow by my hip bone. I was rather shocked to find I didn’t care, and just wanted him to get back to the massage.

  “Don’t worry.”

  I wasn’t. He snapped a glove on and cleaned me off with some wipes he produced from yet another unknown location.

  “The feeling will come back soon, maybe even today.” He threw both wipes and glove away then went back to digging his fabulous fingers into my hips while I went back to lala land.

  Over the next few days I grew stronger and every little accomplishment brought hearty praise from Gale. He really was overly positive and nothing bothered the guy. And I mean nothing.

  Not even when my bowels decided to work again, and I had wretched, embarrassing, diarrhea everywhere. He chatted with me as if we were having coffee, while I cringed, mortified, and very much wanting my shower and scrub brush.

  When he was done cleaning me, and everything around me, he set my cigarettes and ashtray on the stand then went off to open the windows. He busied himself making my soup and coffee, while I chain smoked through three cigarettes before I could breathe normally and quit shaking. I really appreciated his feigned indifference.

  The third day saw me wobbling with the help of a walker to the toilet. The fourth I could get up without assistance and shuffle, still with the walker, to the windows for a smoke, or the microwave to make coffee. I had to drink it leaning on the counter though, as I couldn’t carry the cup and walk at the same time.

  On the fifth day, as Gale worked through my physical therapy, stretching my legs to my chest and back down, he asked me, “How did you manage a private room?”

  “I pay for it. So far I’ve been able to keep it, but if they ever need the dorm space I’ll lose my privacy and gain a roommate.”

  He rotated my ankle. “I thought they gave you boys’ private rooms,” he said conversationally.

  So Gale knew I was gay, and I couldn’t help but wonder what had given me away. Straight boys, and most women for that matter, usually didn’t figure that out. I didn’t have any tells that I knew of.

  “No. They’re not as anal as the military.” I glanced at him and narrowed my eyes as he hummed quietly while he worked. “How did you know?” I finally asked.

  He stopped humming. “Simple, silly. You’re comfortable with me touching you everywhere. Straight guys tense and have a hard time relaxing. Even women relax faster.”

  I chuckled and refrained from telling him part of that was due to my profession.

  The mental health professional came on the ninth day. Gale had moved the appointment somehow, knowing I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone three days after the incident. And I hadn’t been. I felt more self-assured now though. Being mobile and able to use the bathroom had been a big step towards recovering my confidence.

  The therapist arrived just as Gale was leaving that morning. I was sitting on the bed in pajama bottoms and my maroon robe with my back against the wall, sipping a cup of coffee, when he came in. He was dressed in brown tweed and a bowtie, ghost white hair and gold rimmed spectacles. When you think therapist, a vision of this man would come sweeping into your mind. However, in reality, most therapists looked nothing like what you envisioned. They were rather an odd lot of quirky characters that all had one thing in common; they knew what was best for you.

  “Mr. Grey, nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Tolstay.” I shook his proffered hand. Gale had managed to secure another chair, on loan, from Tom and I indicated it to the Doc.

  “I am only here to assess you,” he said, dragging the chair closer. “If it is deemed you need a therapist, it probably won’t be me. Understand?” he asked, looking over his glasses. I nodded and he sat, withdrawing a pen from under his blazer. “I’m going to ask you some questions. I need you to answer them truthfully. Understand?”

  I nodded again.

  “What is your full name?”

  “Trey Grey.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “Student.” His eyebrows rose at this, and he lifted his pen from the pad of paper he was scribbling on.

  “Very well. What do you do for money?” he rephrased.

  “I have a full scholarship. When I need money I do odd jobs.”

  “What kind of jobs?”

  “Whatever anyone needs me to do.”

  His eyes closed, and he let out a small annoyed sigh. He was good. He knew I was skirting the question.

  “Doc, do you mind if I shorten this from two hours to a few minutes?”

  He tried to hide his smirk as he gestured to me with his hand. “By all means, Mr. Grey.”

  I nestled my coffee into my lap and launched off.

  “I’m a prostitute, I have been for... let’s just say awhile. Was I sexually abused as a child; yes. Do I want to talk about it; no. Was I physically abused as a child; yes. Do I want to talk about it; no. Was I mentally abused as a child; well, that goes without saying when the answer to the prior two questions is yes. Am I suicidal; not at the moment. Have I ever been suicidal; yes. Have I ever tried to take my own life; not intentionally. Am I happy; is anyone?” I lifted my cup to my lips and took a sip as I waited for him to finish his frantic scribbling. He leaned back and took off his glasses.

  “I take it you have been through this before?”

  “A few times.”

  “You’re not currently seeing a therapist?”

  “No.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “They all say the same thing then put me on medication.”

  “Are you taking medications now?”

  “No.”

  “May I ask why not?”

  I smiled at this. He knew I should be. “I don’t like them.”

  “That is beside the point, Mr. Grey. They are prescribed for a reason.”

  “I know. To help me cope. All they do is subdue me though. I feel like I’m no longer here.”

  He sighed heavily at this, having probably heard it a hundred times.

  “Do you engage in recreational drug use?”

  “No.” My answer had him raising an eyebrow. “Never,” I added. He hummed, and scrolled down a piece of paper with his finger.

  “The EMT commented you might be obsessive-compulsive. Are you?”

  “Yes.” I pulled my knees up.

  “What triggers the behavior?”

  “I’d rather not say.” I caught his eyes and held them. “If I don’t alter my routine I can control it.”

  “Obviously not or I wouldn’t be here, Trey.”

  First name, I had become a patient.

  “My last episode like this was four years ago, Doc. I think I have been doing quite well, honestly.”

  His brow furrowed at this. “Four years ago?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyebrows rose. “That is impressive. It still doesn’t mean you don’t need help.” He smiled at me. “At least for awhile.” He returned his glasses to his face and went back to writing on his pad for a minute while I took another sip of coffee.

  “All right, Trey,” he began as he put his pen into his pocket. “Normally I wouldn’t discuss this with you, but I can tell you’re intelligent, and I am sure you know what is coming. I will inform the school board you are not a danger to yourself or others, at-th
is-time, provided you see the therapist of my choosing, weekly, for eight weeks. If you miss even one appointment, even one, I will be forced to reverse my recommendation to the school. Understand?”

  I nodded. Eight appointments. Incredibly generous considering everything. I held out my hand. “Thank you, Dr. Tolstay.” He shook it then stood.

  “Don’t make me regret my decision, Mr. Grey. You should receive the appointment schedule in the mail within four days. If you don’t,” he withdrew a card from his inner breast pocket, “you call my office.”

  I accepted the card, “I will.”

  It wasn’t until the tenth day that I could shower without Gale listening on the other side of the shower curtain. I lost the walker and gained a cane that day too.

  It was two full weeks after my incident before I had enough strength to attend a short list of classes. I ignored the confab my appearance created, not really giving a shit what people were whispering. I did, however, notice Taylor in my econ class staring at me rather appalled. I guess he believed me now.

  As promised, four days after Dr. Tolstay’s visit my therapy assignment arrived and made me groan. Thursdays at four o’clock in Bellevue. How fucked up was that? Right in the middle of rush hour, which around here lasted hours and was a vehicular game of Russian roulette. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. My favorite Mexican restaurant was just a few blocks from Dr. Greene’s office. Therapy then Mexican, it sounded like a winner of an evening to me.

  Chapter Eight

  Thursday rolled in like a quiet storm. I didn’t see it coming until the thunder boomed. Monday had been Gale’s last day, and we had celebrated with coffee and the best apple turnovers in Seattle at the Sunrise Cafe down the street. He cried when he left, and I almost did too. Not over his departure, although I did like him even if he was a pansy, but because I would be alone again.

  My libido had been non-existent since my incident. I hadn’t had any desire to walk the Ave, and my nightmares had mostly been PG rated, thus the need to scour had become a distant memory. Even my scabs had healed to shadows under his tutelary.

  I knew, with a certain horrible foreboding, it was only a matter of time now. Somehow Gale’s twice a day visits had kept my monster mostly locked away, and he seemed to have held the key. Now that key was firmly back in my hand.