The Darker Side of Trey Grey

by Tara Spears

  I fluffed a pillow, then lavished loudly in the clean flannel sheets while Justin laughed at my pleasure over something so simple. I loved clean sheets. It was one of my truly carnal pleasures.

  “Trey?”

  “Mm?” I turned my head and caught his pained expression. It immediately set me on edge. “What?” I shuffled up on my elbows, flipping my head, trying to get my hair out of my eyes.

  He rolled over and retrieved something from his nightstand.

  “Dr. Greene agreed these could be a good idea, but I don’t want to do anything that will freak you out.”

  He laid half a set of ankle to wrist cuffs on the bed. Just how kinky was Justin to have these?

  “You wouldn’t be cuffed to the bed, we’d be cuffed together. If you try to sleep walk, or have a nightmare... I can stop you before you do yourself harm.”

  I glanced to the corner where towels now covered the blood I had spilled. I turned back to him and offered my wrist.

  “I’m, um, usually okay with restraints, however Willie did handcuff me for awhile, just so you know.”

  The little shimmer of anger flashed through his eyes, as it always did over the mention of Willie. His face softened as he clicked the metal cuff on me, then the other on himself. Justin watched me while I concentrated on his face. We both waited for a reaction, some sort of repercussion from my past. But none came. I gave him the goofiest of smiles, sure my lack of response was due to the fact I trusted him, and knew he would never intentionally hurt me.

  Since they hadn’t caused a tsunami of side effects, I had to admit the handcuffs were actually a good idea. With a dulcet hum and the slightest of smiles, he closed his eyes and pulled my hand up, cuddling it against his chest.

  The cuffs had a leather strap long enough we could move around a bit, nonetheless, neither one of us slept well. Being tethered to each other created some challenges we would need to overcome. I had never known how many times I threw my arm over my face while I slept. Each time the handcuff clunked my head, I woke up. Not to mention, Justin had a tendency to sleep with his arm dangling over the side of the bed, and would tug me almost on top of him to get it there.

  I will say, constantly being wrenched awake prevented my nightmares from absconding with me. I didn’t have a single one... that I could recall anyway.

  Despite our volatile sleep, the next morning Justin appeared more at peace than he had over the last few days. As a result, I found myself relaxing into my own state of contentment. I knew it wasn’t a smart idea to become overly blissful. Even so, I shoved that happiness-crushing thought out of my head straightaway.

  After a breakfast of scrumptious Denver omelets— I could feel myself getting fatter already— we took a stroll around the yard, or, as Justin so adamantly corrected, grounds.

  He led me into his studio located in a restored milk parlor. It was the only part of the original barn that remained. The lower half consisted of concrete and round grey stone, while the upper half contained as much glass, as weathered whitewashed wood. It reminded me of a quaint old schoolhouse with a cupola along the crown of the steeply pitched roof.

  He had bypassed it before, telling me he’d show it to me another day. Today must be the day. As I stepped inside I noticed it was a menagerie of controlled chaos. Mismatched area rugs, smattered here and there with paint, covered the concrete floor. In one corner sat an Elizabethan style maroon chair, while a fruffy daybed lounged along one wall. An old dark wood desk occupied the area just inside the door, and several easels crouched in an odd display around the long narrow room.

  But what caught my attention more than anything were the paintings lining the wall to my left. They were exquisite depictions of tastefully done erotic scenes.

  I began a slow traversal down the wall where Justin’s finished work hung. I recognized Candy and Tammy in several, yet Kelly was absent, and I made the assumption she was too conscientious to model for him.

  I gestured to a painting of tiny shy Garret, from the cleaning crew, on his stomach with his backside exposed. His whole body was rosed, while his expression was one of coy degradation.

  “I couldn’t get him to stop blushing, so I painted him as he was.” Justin waved a dismissive hand at the painting as he shook his head in annoyance.

  “You’re really good. Have you thought about a showing?”

  He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. “I’ve thought about it, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten. My art is not exactly mainstream.” He let me go, moving back as I sidestepped an easel containing a blacked out canvas.

  “I don’t know about that. There are galleries that specialize in sensual art—” I stopped abruptly as my eyes landed on a pencil drawing of myself on the opposite wall.

  “Jesus Christ,” I muttered as my eyes traveled down the wall of smudged white pages. They were all me.

  “I drew them for me, and for you. No... no one else will ever see them,” Justin said hesitantly.

  My eyes were latched onto the sketch directly in front of me. It was disturbing to say the least. I was obviously in the throes of a nightmare, and I’d never seen myself that way. He had captured every nuance perfectly. Even the tears on my lashes, as I howled with my head back and my body curled protectively unto itself. My hands had a strangle hold on my dick— I trembled and glanced away for a moment gathering the strength I knew I would need before moving down the wall.

  Justin stood silently in the center of the room, chewing nervously on a thumbnail. I was sure he thought he had invaded my privacy, and maybe he had, however, I wasn’t seeing it that way.

  I lived this, yet I had never seen it from another’s point of view. I probably should have been ashamed, or even angry, but I found myself transfixed instead.

  He had captured the anguish and pain in raw, gritty perfection. And even though it was a man before me, the boy who suffered could be seen clearly in every limning. The very last drawing sat on his desk still attached to his sketch pad. He must have done it while I was in the hospital.

  I was settled on my knees, resting back on my feet, with my head bowed and knuckles grazing the stained carpet. The knife laid to my right, the blade smeared dark. It was pretty damn haunting. They all were.

  I turned to him, nothing less than awestruck at the way he had captured what lived inside of me. His eyes were glistening with unshed tears as he shook his head slowly.

  “The images... I can’t forget them until I draw them,” he whispered.

  I glanced back at the sketches. “Justin, you have to show them. They’re exquisite.”

  “What? No—”

  I nodded and turned back to him. He was shaking his head adamantly, the tears now zigzagging down his cheeks.

  “Yes.”

  He made his way to me, and wiped the dampness from my cheeks I hadn’t known was there, while I did the same to him.

  He cupped my face. “I can’t do that to you. I thought you might want to burn them, or destroy them someday. You know, as therapy.”

  I shook my head fervidly. “No! I want you to show them. They’re tragic, and beautiful, and horrible, and terrific.” I smiled sadly at him. “Like me. Can you paint them?”

  He gave me a cocky look before it slid away. He lowered his chin to his chest.

  “Trey—”

  “Just do it.” I grabbed the sides of his neck and shook him gently until he met my gaze. “Paint them, for me.”

  He looked at the wall and nodded slowly. “We could... you know... we could donate the proceeds...” he trailed off.

  Even though this had happened to me, and I would never be able to change it, I wasn’t ashamed. This was part of who I was. I thought about the boy, Tommy, and the idea that my pain and experiences could possibly help others began to warm me. It started as a flame deep down and in seconds turned into a fire across my skin. Not unlike the desire Justin had awakened inside me.

  I pointed towards his desk. “Paint that one first.” For reasons I co
uldn’t understand, I needed to see my suicide attempt in gory detail.

  He shook his head. “I still have one in my head I want to paint.”

  I hadn’t had a nightmare since the night I stabbed myself. Well, that Justin knew about anyway. I must have looked confused because he elaborated.

  “When you hit me, the look on your face... it’s still in my head.” He bit his lip as his face contorted. A second later, his hand came up and started plucking at his ear.

  “Shit.” I pulled him against me and stayed his hand. “You have no idea how sorry I am.”

  A garbled sound came out of him that resembled a sob, yet when he spoke his voice was steady, if half an octave higher. “Just... if you hit me again, aim lower...” He shivered as he took a shaky breath and I held him as tightly as I could. Obviously my hitting him had opened up a part of him he had managed to bury.

  He slowly relaxed against me while I tried to shift my self-wrought anger towards his father. I couldn’t seem to do it though. I knew eventually it would come to rest there, but for now it clung steadfastly to me.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, raising his head off my shoulder to look at me.

  “About what?”

  “The sketches— your sketches.”

  “Yes, I have never been more sure of anything.” I kissed his cheek. “Except you.”

  He smiled at that. “You know, this could be a fun project— I didn’t mean fun, I meant rewarding.” He paused and let his gaze run across the white pages. “If we do it right.”

  “Don’t pity me, save me,” I said causing Justin’s head to snap back to me.

  “Where’d that come from?”

  I shook my head, not sure myself. “I don’t know. It just came to me.”

  “It’s perfect.”

  I thought about it for a second and realized he was right. “It is, isn’t it?” I felt my mouth curve up, and he grinned back.

  It was a pitiful truth. That people seemed unwilling to see the abused, even when they were right in front of them, silently screaming for help. I knew, because everyone had done it to me, time and again.

  I could have been saved, yet no one ever saw me, no one ever heard my silent cries. Not even when the abuse was blatantly evident via visible bruising, or my shuffling, pain-enhanced gait.

  Justin was changing me. He was making me think, and my views on my own abuse were altering into something else, hopefully better— healthier. I supposed that’s why I had done what I did yesterday, with Tommy and his father. I just couldn’t look away anymore.

  We were aware our project was a small thing in an ocean of small things. Even so, we spent the rest of the day searching the internet for suitable charities, and possible galleries to contact. You wouldn’t think a project so macabre would be exciting, yet surprisingly it was.

  Justin mentioned it would take a few months to transform the sketches to paintings, and Kelly teased he would have them done in half the time because he was so drawn to the subject. No pun intended of course.

  While we looked into different charities, Justin began clicking the links to case studies, reading every word. Over the years I had read several books on the subject and done some online reading trying to find enlightenment. But I never found any. The articles Justin was reading were more of the same. Severely abused children seemed to go one of two ways. They either found a way to forgiveness, or they ended up dead by their own hand. I seemed to be trying to accomplish both at the same time.

  Justin sat back in his chair after the seventh or so page, and turned to me with a calculated expression.

  “You believe everything that happened to you is your fault, don’t you?” he asked in a rather delicate tone.

  I bowed my head, pulling on the seam of Justin’s jeans. “Dr. Greene is working with me on that.” I wasn’t ready to talk about this with Justin. Not yet. I didn’t feel he would understand.

  He laid his hand on my cheek, tracing my cheekbone with his thumb before sighing and heading to the kitchen. I stared at the success story on the monitor. I wanted to forgive myself if only for Justin. If I could stop the nightmares, then I could erase the anguish I saw on his face more often than not these days. I hit the back button.

  * * * * *

  “It took you long enough. Good riddance.” I sat on my heels looking at the druggie that had been my mom a long time ago. She had pretended to love me. Then Dad died and she didn’t have to pretend anymore.

  Fucking bitch had left me alone with Willie. I hugged myself tight. I stared at her while I tried to decide who to call first. Finally coming to a decision, I stood up and walked dazedly to the nightstand, retrieving the cordless phone. I dialed 911 as I headed back to my own room. I didn’t want to be in there with her.

  “911, state your emergency.”

  “My Mothers’ overdosed on heroin,” I told the woman operator as I sat down on the edge of my unmade bed.

  “What is your address?” I rattled it off for her. “An ambulance is on the way. How old are you? And are you alone in the house?”

  “Almost sixteen and other than my mother’s corpse, yes, I’m alone.” I am so alone.

  “She’s quit breathing?”

  “Yes, some time ago.”

  “Would you like me to instruct you on CPR?” she asked. I rolled my eyes and kept them on the white ceiling.

  “No, she’s long gone. I need to call my stepfather before the ambulance gets here.”

  The operator began to argue but I ended the call, quickly dialing Willie’s office before she could call back.

  “Carnel Architecture,” Sandra, his assistant, answered.

  “This is Trey, I need to talk to Willie.”

  “Hi Trey, how are you?” she said in her overly sweet tone.

  “Sandra, I need to talk to Willie, please.”

  “All right, hold on.” She put me on hold and Kim Carnes crooned; “She’s got Betty Da-avis eyes.”

  “Trey, buddy, what’s wrong?” Willie asked.

  “First off, I’ve never been your buddy, and secondly she’s dead. Ambulance is on the way.”

  He had the decency to inhale sharply at my news. “God, I’m on my way,” he said in a breathy, hurried tone then hung up. I ended the call and stared at the phone. He had actually sounded upset, which puzzled me. I guess when you’re married to someone for seven years you might get attached. Although I knew he had only married her to get me, and now he had me unconditionally.

  The phone peeled and I flung it from my hand as if it had suddenly come alive. I retrieved it from the floor, and answered. It was the 911 operator informing me I needed to stay on the line, and that the ambulance should be there in twenty minutes. Something about an accident blocking traffic on the bridge. I hung up, shoving the phone under my pillow. It rang immediately.

  I grabbed my blanket, and headed to the other side of the room to wait. As I passed my desk the small switchblade Willie had given me glistened. I palmed it then sat against the wall, pulling my knees up and hugging myself tight into the corner my desk provided. I covered my head with the blanket hoping to drown out the incessant ringing of the phone, but it didn’t help.

  I flipped the blade open and closed, open and closed. Willie had given it to me so I could protect myself when I worked the Ave. I carried it in my jacket pocket when I turned tricks, but I hadn’t needed it yet. The blade shot out. I thumbed it closed. It was unsteady in my hand, but upon closer inspection, I noticed my hand was what was unsteady. I was shaking, and it wasn’t hard for me to figure out why.

  I would be alone in the house with him. It had been building into an overpowering entity since I found her dead. Now that I had acknowledged it, I began to shake harder and sweat erupted across the surface of my skin. The blade tumbled to the floor between my feet, my hand unable to hold it any longer. I lowered my head onto my knees, trying to concentrate on breathing in and out.

  I heard the squeal of tires over the annoying ringing of the phone. My mouth dried o
ut, sticking to itself, as my stomach began to boil. He was home. The door slammed.

  “Trey?” he hollered, and I heard his keys hit the table by the door. “Why didn’t you answer the fucking phone? Hello?”

  I tried to swallow but my throat wasn’t working. I could hear him on the phone growing more and more agitated. I blinked, wiping the sweat out of my eyes, and focused on the knife resting between my feet.

  He couldn’t hurt me if I wasn’t here. If I was gone he couldn’t use me anymore. If... I picked up the blade, flipping it open. My hand shook and I fumbled the knife. I wiped my palm off on my jeans then grabbed the handle and held it tight. No more pain.

  I stared at the silver blade. No more pain. I laid it against my wrist and felt the edge split my skin. It was sharper than I thought. The door opened and crashed against the closet door making it rattle. I drew the blade across my wrist just as the blanket flew off me.

  “The fuck you will.” Willie seized my arm holding the knife, and I let my other one fly, my fist barely grazing his jaw. He dropped onto me and the knife sank into my side. I screamed just as the ambulance siren squalled into existence. Willie shoved me down, and my head hit the desk, hard.

  * * * * *

  “Ow!” I blinked into the bright golden light as I rubbed my head.

  “Are you fucking awake?”

  “Jesus, yes.” I was on the floor, wedged against the steel bed frame with my arm pulled tightly above me.

  “Damn it, Trey. Where the fuck you find this shit?” Justin leaned over the bed and wrenched something out of my clenched hand. “Actually— I know where you found that.”

  I glanced up and saw a thin blue thing with a small egg shaped end in his hand. It was Justin’s damn shower toy.

  “You’re the only person I know that can stab himself with a fucking sex toy.”

  “Ow!” I said again as my arm twisted over my head.