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Through the Mirrorball

Page 6

by Browatzke, Rob


  “You spray-painted my door again, you little shit. Why? Just to fuck with my head? There wasn’t any money in it for you this time.”

  “Look, dude, I haven’t been anywhere near your shit-hole apartment.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “Why would I lie? I have better things to do than waste time with you two.”

  Before, when cornered, he’d showed such bravado. This time, his repeated denial had me doubting myself. Maybe it wasn’t him. But if not, who? “But you called us faggots just now,” I said, “just like you wrote on my door.”

  “You’re this upset over a stupid word on your door? Jesus Christ, you’re pathetic. It’s just a word, and we are.”

  “What?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We are what?”

  “Faggots,” Allan said. “It’s just a word, it can’t hurt you.”

  Could this sketchy kid actually be making some sense? I fell back onto the couch, and Brandon sat down next to me. Allan stood there, sneering at us, rubbing the back of his head where I’d driven it into the ground.

  “It’s just a word,” he said. “Now get the fuck out of here before I call the cops on you.”

  Brandon pulled me toward the door. As I went by Allan, I yanked myself free and took him by the shoulders. “Do you swear it wasn’t you?”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Just promise me. Please.”

  He looked at me, and almost, his face seemed to soften. “It wasn’t me.” I believed him. “Go.”

  Brandon pulled me out into the hall and we were both looking back at Allan as he closed the door on us. If it wasn’t Allan, then who could it have been?

  Chapter 19

  We walked down the hall in silence, and out in the lounge, James was dancing onstage. The room was busier, but I barely noticed. “Do you want to stay for a drink?” Brandon asked.

  “You know, I actually don’t.” I was amazed, but it was true.

  Brandon looked crestfallen though. “Oh, not because I’m not enjoying hanging out. I just don’t want a drink, for the first time in a long time.”

  “That’s good,” he said, with a smile, and he squeezed my hand. “Let me take you home then.”

  We didn’t say much in the car on the way back to my place from Boyz. What was there to say? The afternoon had been a waste really, and the graffiti on my door (faggot faggot faggot) was still a mystery. Who could have done it, and why? Maybe it was just a harmless prank. Maybe it was just a word, like Allan said.

  I remembered a time when I used to say it was just a word too. That was me putting on a brave face to Dinah, to the world. I was made of steel, and their hate couldn’t hurt me. But it always did, deep down, and last year, when Nathan paid Allan to write it on my door, it all came back. Even if it was just a word, who said words didn’t have power? Faggot. Nigger. Cunt. Retard. Words I couldn’t even think without flinching on the inside. Words had power. Words hurt.

  But why would anyone want to hurt me when I was already so ripped apart?

  “What are you thinking?” Brandon asked, pulling me out of my head again.

  I smiled at him. “Right now, thinking that even if it wasn’t Allan, even if I still have no idea who put it there, I’m glad it made me call you. Thank you, Brandon, for everything today. You’re a good friend.”

  He pulled up outside my apartment building. “I love you, Alex,” he said. “We all love you.”

  I could feel the tears welling up inside me again. “Do you wanna come up?”

  “I should really get ready for work,” he said.

  “Oh, okay.” I slumped a bit. Suddenly, I didn’t want to be in that apartment by myself. I knew I’d cave. I knew I’d call the Caterpillar.

  “Are you okay, Alex?”

  I let out a deep breath. “I will be.” I leaned over and hugged him, and then quickly got out of the car before I started to cry. I didn’t look back as I heard Brandon drive off. My hands shook as I took out my keys. I could barely get them into the lock.

  I would go upstairs. I would see it on my door. Faggot faggot faggot. I would be alone. I would know those words surrounded me. I would sit there on my couch with my phone in my hand and those words leaping from the wall into my brain. I would be alone, but I would call him. He would come over, and I would be happy and high and free, and I would hate myself. But I would be free.

  Suddenly, I heard the squealing of brakes behind me, and I turned to see Brandon pulling a U-turn and peeling back up to the curb. He got out and smiled. “I called in sick. I think I need some Alex time.”

  A fat tear rolled down my cheek. This was a much better high, and even without the Caterpillar, right then I felt free.

  We ordered in pizza. We watched bad movies. We laughed.

  I missed laughing. I hadn’t laughed with a friend in so long.

  I forgot about Nathan, and Allan, and Steven, and Aaron. I forgot about the Caterpillar and his flowing cocaine. I forgot about the Hole and its empty sex. I forgot about faggot.

  I glanced over at the clock and it was after midnight. The night had flown by. “Wow, it’s late,” I said.

  “Not for a bartender,” Brandon said, and I was suddenly very aware of those Brandon dimples. He was lounging on the couch, and his shirt was up, and I could catch a hint of those Brandon abs. “But it’s a work night for you,” he went on. “I should go.” He stood up, and my heart lurched.

  “Don’t,” I said, and I stood up to meet him, grabbing him by his hand, our faces inches apart.

  “Alex, I . . .”

  His breath was sweet and warm, and his lips were dry as I pressed mine against his. Our lips quivered against each other, but as I opened my mouth to invite him in more, he pushed me away.

  “No, Alex, this isn’t smart.”

  “It feels good.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “What’s wrong then? We’re both single, we’re both hot.”

  “Alex, you know this isn’t a good idea.”

  I took his hand and put it on my dick, and flexed my hard-on for him. “It feels like a good idea.”

  “It’s not though. I should go.”

  He grabbed his jacket off the chair and put it on. “Don’t go!”

  “Alex . . .”

  “Just stay, please. We don’t need to fuck. I . . . I just don’t want to be by myself tonight.”

  He looked at me and I looked back, and I could feel the desperation and the urgency and the patheticness leaking from my eyes into his. He took off his jacket. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “I just don’t want to sleep alone.” I felt more naked with that admission than I would have been from any sex anyway.

  Brandon was seeing every part of me that I had tried to keep hidden. And as we sat back down on the couch, as I curled up next to him and he put his arm around me, I felt a warmth spread through me.

  Not just free. I was happy.

  Chapter 20

  I don’t know when Brandon left, but when I woke up, I was alone. The clock read quarter after four, and I didn’t even remember falling asleep. Flashes of what could have happened between me and Brandon filled my head as I left the couch and crawled into bed. There were a couple hours before I had to get up for work still, and even if I’d been sober the night before, I needed my beauty sleep.

  My head had no sooner hit the pillow than I woke again, or at least, the waking you do inside a dream. It was slow motion, Brandon behind the bar, all abs and ass and dimpled smile, unleashing his charm on every unsuspecting boy who walked up. All the while, he held eye contact tight with me, as the boys crawled over the bar, almost literally climbing him like he was a pole. (And what a pole, I thought, as the boys peeled off his undies and he stood there, naked and glorious like the dawn.)

  “I thought you loved me,” Steven said, appearing to my right.

  “I thought you loved me,” Aaron said, appearing to my left.

  There was a tap on my sho
ulder and I turned around. It was the Caterpillar, holding out a Baggie of cocaine. “I thought you loved this.” I reached out for the coke.

  “Decision made then,” Aaron said, walking away.

  “Hope it makes you happy,” Steven said, walking away.

  “That was easy,” the Caterpillar said, disappearing off into the crowd, passing by Jesse and Colton and Dinah, all of whom stared at me with colorless eyes.

  “You don’t need that, Alex.” It was Brandon, and he reached over my shoulder as I turned around and took the drugs away. But he didn’t throw them out, he poured it out on the bar, and his bevy of boys flocked to it, and he expanded into immensity behind them, so that each ab was the size of my head, and the chiseled spaces between them were canyons that the boys, all coked up and energetic now, disappeared into.

  “Pathetic.”

  I turned around, but no one was there, just eyeless, faceless people in a crowd.

  “Who said that?”

  “Me.”

  “Where are you?”

  I spun around in a circle, but it was just the eyeless and the faceless all around me. Brandon and the bar were gone and as far as I could see were mutant freaks with no eyes and sewn-together lips.

  “Faggot.”

  “Come out!”

  “You came out. All you faggots. Faggot. Faggot. Faggot.”

  “Stop it!”

  I ran into the crowd, trying to follow the sound of the voice. Suddenly, I was on the edge of a cliff, barely stopping myself from going over. As I skidded to a halt, pebbles fell down to where surf broke on giant rocks.

  “You’re so pathetic, you might as well jump.”

  I turned around and out of the crowd of mutants on the cliff emerged Nathan, his blond hair mussed and his face covered in blood just like when he was lying on the floor. He reached out for me. “You won’t be needing this.” He took the gun from my hand.

  “What do you want, Nathan?”

  “What I’ve always wanted, faggot. To see you pay.”

  “I didn’t do anything to you! It wasn’t me!”

  “You’re all the same. You. My dad. His friends. Your precious little fiancé. Taylor.”

  “Why are you so obsessed with us?”

  “Because you’re all sick, and it’s my job to end you.” He stepped toward me. “One at a time!” He pushed me off the cliff and as I fell toward the rocks below, he leaned over the cliff, his face inflating like Brandon’s abs, and he laughed and he laughed and the blood dripped down . . .

  And I woke up.

  Chapter 21

  Nathan.

  The clock read seven. I was late getting up for work, but they were somewhat getting used to that. I hurried to shower and shave and dress, but all the while, I couldn’t shake the dream.

  Nathan.

  We had known each other all our lives. We’d been in kindergarten together. His family lived across the street from mine for five years. We played together every day growing up. We were almost like brothers. But then adolescence kicked in and things were different. I was different. I definitely looked at him differently.

  At night, his was the face in my head when I’d furtively jerk off, and the teenage shame at jerking off was exacerbated by the surety that it wasn’t supposed to be a guy’s face in my head. Especially not my best friend’s.

  Nathan.

  We were both fifteen. We were alone in his room, studying. We had to look something up on the computer.

  “Want to watch some porn?” he asked me. “My parents don’t have anything blocked.”

  I just nodded. I didn’t know what else to say.

  A few clicks later, and the screen was full of tits, and the girl was fingering herself. Nathan’s eyes were locked on the screen. My eyes kept darting from the computer to his crotch, and the more he rubbed himself, the more I watched him. I was rock hard, and my best friend was beautiful and blond and slim and smooth and I could tell he was just as hard. My hand was suddenly on his thigh.

  “Dude, what are you doing?” He jerked away as I jumped to my feet. “What are you, some kind of faggot? Get out of my room!”

  I ran from his house, and behind me, I could hear him still calling, “Faggot! Faggot! Faggot!”

  That was before Taylor. After I met Taylor, everything was different. First love. When I touched Taylor, Taylor touched me back. And everything was wonderful, and the looks that Nathan would give me at school, the way he would shove us or call us faggot, it didn’t matter, and once we stopped reacting, he stopped. But when Taylor’s dad found out, Taylor’s dad’s “Faggot! Faggot! Faggot!” was way, way worse than anything Nathan had ever said.

  After Taylor killed himself, I never spoke to Nathan again, and after high school ended, I never thought of Nathan again. Until the night I found Steven. Nathan had stalked me, kidnapped the man I loved, held him hostage, and led me on a wild chase to get Steven back. And he would have killed both of us if I hadn’t broken free and shot him with his own gun.

  Nathan. He was in jail, and not getting out anytime soon. He couldn’t have had anything to do with this newest graffiti. Maybe I just needed to forget about it. Maybe I just needed to get it painted over (again! Mr. Carroll would love me!). It was just a word, after all.

  Taylor dying. That hurt.

  Steven getting kidnapped and tortured. That hurt.

  Seeing Steven with Aaron. That hurt.

  Losing all my friends. Sitting at home by myself. Drowning in booze and blow and nameless boys. That hurt.

  Faggot? It’s just a word.

  Chapter 22

  I called Mr. Carroll from work. He was easily one of the best landlords I’d ever met, and he promised to have the wall and door painted over before I got home. I wouldn’t let it affect me.

  I texted Brandon, too, thanking him for being a friend, and adding that as hot as he was, I was glad he had stopped things from progressing. He’d hit on me before, but he was right. We were friends. And sex couldn’t fill the void any more than drugs or booze.

  Besides, what good were two bottoms together? Not that I was a total bottom, but lately, I couldn’t bring myself to top. Getting fucked hard, that’s the only way I got off.

  I was well into my day, and completely focused on the pile of paperwork in front of me, when my phone rang. It was Colton: Brandon told me what happened. Are you okay?

  I wanted to text back more. I wanted to say I was sorry for what I’d done, what I’d said. To say I was sorry for being an all-around mess. To say ignoring them for all these months was a beyond douchey thing to do.

  All I wrote was, yes.

  And then, thanks.

  And then, how are you?

  And then, I miss you. Colton, I’m sorry for being such a screwup.

  Whoa, slow down there. We’re good.

  Tell Jesse.

  Tell Jesse yourself. We’re good, you and me. You and him, that’s another story. You hurt him, Alex. You hurt all of us, but really, you hurt him.

  I know. I’m sorry.

  Sorry’s just a word, he wrote back.

  True, I thought. Just like faggot. Words didn’t mean anything. How could I show them that I meant it? What big gesture did I need to make?

  It’s the best I can do right now.

  It’s a start, and like I said it’s good enough for me.

  I stared at the phone, hoping he had more to say, hoping he knew the magic words I needed to say to fix everything. But it sat there. And I sat there watching it, and the minutes passed, and then it was home time, and there were no magic answers.

  I was just one sorry faggot.

  But, on the way home, I realized I was one sorry faggot who had gone a full day without cocaine or alcohol, and maybe that wasn’t much of an accomplishment for a lot of people, but it was for me. And I wanted to share it with someone.

  And that someone was Steven.

  It was still Steven. All the random dick in me, kissing Brandon, even all the sexcapades with Aaron and th
e twins months ago, none of that meant anything. I loved Steven.

  I’m going to call him, I decided. Maybe not tonight, but soon.

  I parked and headed into my building. Mr. Carroll was in the lobby.

  “I got it done,” he said. “Do you know when it happened?”

  “It had to have been Saturday night. It wasn’t there Friday but Walter told me about it yesterday morning.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “My friend Brandon and I went and asked the freak who did it last time. He said it wasn’t him, and I believed him. I am hoping it was just a random homophobic prick.”

  “Lots out there,” Mr. C said, “and it seems like it’s getting worse.”

  “It sure does, thanks for taking care of it for me.” As we talked, I headed toward the mailboxes and unlocked mine.

  “Anytime, it’s my job, after all.”

  “I owe you.”

  “Your friend Jesse available yet?”

  I laughed. “No, they’re still together. They do do thirds, though.”

  He smiled. “I don’t. Thanks anyway.”

  As I waited for the elevator, I flipped through the pile of mail. Bill. Flyer. Flyer. Occupant.

  “Oh my God.”

  I slumped against the wall, and dropped everything I was holding. Who . . . How . . . Why . . .

  “What is it?”

  It was happening again. Something wicked my way was coming, and in my hand was proof.

  A picture of Taylor, my beautiful, beautiful Taylor. And scrawled across it,

  “No, no, no, no, no.” I ripped the picture into pieces and threw them as far away from me as I could, then I collapsed onto the floor and cried.

  Chapter 23

  He was sixteen going on seventeen when we met. His family had just moved and he was behind in class, and our teacher had asked me to help him with his math homework. Later, I wondered if Mrs. Whiting had known. We were both pretty obviously gay, and maybe she thought that was a way to make it easier on us.

  Our first kiss was magic. Well, not our first kiss. Our first kiss, we were both laughing so hard, it didn’t really work out. Our next kiss though, just moments later, when he looked at me with those big puppy-dog brown eyes, when I brushed away that big bang of his that always flopped over his face, it was pure magic. And I fell in love with him the moment our lips met.

 

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