Through the Mirrorball

by Browatzke, Rob

  I let out a brief, hysterical laugh. “But again, it’s someone insane from my past, and you’re in danger because of it.”

  “We’ll get out,” he said. “We escaped Nathan. We can escape this guy. At least this time, we’re together.”

  “Let me see if I can get over to you. Maybe we can get out.”

  “Be careful.”

  I flopped again and laughed nervously, thinking how I must look like a fish out of water. I moved maybe half an inch. Maybe. Steven was a good four feet away. Strain. Flop. Strain. Flop. Jump. Flop. Strain.

  I was sore and sweating and had barely moved.

  “Can you get closer?”

  “I tried moving before. The chair is too heavy.”

  “Fuck! What are we going to do?” Strain. Flop. Jump.

  “Calm down, Alex. He’ll slip up. We’ll find a way.”

  “If only I had been able to call the police first. But he stopped me before I could.”

  “Do you still have the phone?”

  “He threw them both away.”

  “Fuck. Oh well, next plan.”

  “Maybe Aaron will call them.”

  “Aaron?”

  “He knows you’re missing. I called him when I found your phone. He is expecting me to call him back after I talk to the police.”

  Strain. Flop. Jump. Another half inch.

  “I love you, Steven.”

  “I love you, too. You know that.”

  A bit more. A bit more.

  “If we don’t get out of this . . .” I started.

  “We will,” he said.

  “I know, but if we don’t . . .”

  “There is no if.”

  “Just let me say it.”

  “Okay.”

  “If we don’t get out of this, I want you to know that I have never been so happy as when I was with you.” Another inch closer to Steven. His foot was just a couple feet away from my face.

  “Alex, shhhh. You don’t need to tell me stuff I know.”

  “But I . . .”

  “When we get out of this, I’m putting the ring back on.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Do you mean it though? I’m such a mess.”

  “You’re better now. It’s been days. You’ve hit rock bottom and you’re climbing back up, and I will be there every step of the way.”

  In spite of everything, I felt so happy and proud right then. It warmed me up, made me forget that I was flopping across the floor in a psychopath’s dark basement. Well, maybe not forget. But it distracted me. For a minute. And then back to the strain, flop, jump. Another half inch. All I had to do was get to Steven. If I could just touch him, just be in contact with him, we would figure this out.

  Another half inch . . .

  Chapter 47

  How long I struggled to get across the floor to Steven, I don’t know. I was nearly there, though. My eyes were adjusted to the dark, and there was just enough light coming through the one window for me to make out Steven’s face. His eyes were on me, never left me, and as he strained against his ropes, I jumped and flopped another half inch.

  And another.

  And then the door opened and the lights came on, and hope turned to bitter disappointment. I looked around quickly, as Mr. Howard stumbled down the stairs, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand. There had to be something that could help us. Boxes filled with junk were piled up against the walls. A ratty old couch. Some tools on a shelf. Yes, maybe if I could get there, but it was behind Steven, and I couldn’t even get to him.

  “Slithering across the floor like a worm,” Mr. Howard said, slurring his words. He had had more than one drink, that was for sure. The smell stuck to him, strong and overpowering, and sweet. I felt my body crave it, whiskey instead of gin, sure, but the same amazing oblivion.

  He lurched toward Steven, past me. Where was the gun? I couldn’t see it. Would he pass out? Would that be the chance we needed? “Here, faggot. Drink.” He pulled Steven’s head back by the hair and poured the whiskey into his mouth. Steven sputtered, choked, coughed.

  “And now you,” he said to me, and he knelt down next to me, and grabbed hold of my hair.

  I closed my lips tightly. I couldn’t drink. Yes, it had been thirsty work, but nothing compared to the work of being sober these past few days. I wouldn’t let him.

  “Drink!” he said.

  He squeezed my cheeks, forcing my lips open. I squirmed and flailed but he poured it over my mouth, warm and wet and strong. I felt it run down my throat and fill my chest, glowing, burning its way through me.

  He pushed me back to the floor and sat down on the couch, taking a long swig from the bottle. “You saw my wife,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. He had been watching. What had he seen? What did he know? And what did he want?

  “Yes.” He was calmer now than before. Maybe if I kept him talking . . .

  “That crazy cunt. Still there, in that house, waiting for her faggot son to come home. She’s fucking loony tunes, I’ll tell you that. But you know. You saw her. You went in.” He looked at me. “What did she give you? I saw you come out with something.”

  “His jacket.” There was no point in lying. Not anymore. Not about something like that.

  He took another drink. The bottle was three quarters gone. “A jacket. She didn’t even let me have that much when she kicked me out. Her and that old man of hers. The clothes on my back, that was it. Drove me out of my own home! Out of my job, at a company I had slaved away at for twenty years. Who the fuck do they think they are?”

  “I’m sorry that happened to you,” Steven said, and I knew he had the same thought as me. Keeping him talking gave us time.

  “Shut up. You’re not in this. Not really. Only because you matter to him. He needs to pay.” He drank down another gulp. “You hear that, Alex? You’re going to pay. You took Taylor, and then they took everything else. None of it was my fault, but I was the one who suffered.”

  “We can’t help what happened,” Steven said.

  “Shut your fucking faggot mouth. I told you, you’re not in this.” He reached behind him and pulled the gun out from the waistband of his pants. He took another drink. “Just stay quiet. You’ll die fast. Taylor died fast.” He closed his eyes and his head swayed a little. Was he falling asleep? Was he so drunk already that he was ready to pass out? His eyes popped open again. “It was the only masculine thing he ever did in his life. She made him soft. You made him queer. The world. It’s bad to be a man now. But he was a man then. For that one moment. He blew his fucking brains out. Just like I am going to do to you.” He waved the gun at Steven and I screamed out.

  “Oh, you too, Alex. You too. For sure, you too. But you’re going to watch him die first. You’re going to watch as the thing that matters to you goes away. Like I had to do. Not the queer son or the crazy cunt wife. But the life I had built for myself. It all went away. Now there’s this,” he said, waving the bottle of Jack, “and this,” he added, waving the gun. “And revenge. Always revenge.”

  “But you know it wasn’t my fault,” I said. “I didn’t do anything to Taylor.”

  “You did!” He lurched to his feet, and then slumped back into the cushions of the couch. “You did! She saw you together. She saw exactly what you were doing to him. She told me, and she knew how I would react. She had no one to blame for what happened. Of course I beat him fucking senseless. It’s wrong, and no son of mine . . .” He closed his eyes again. “No son of mine was going to be that way. ‘Better off dead,’ I told her. ‘Better off dead,’ I told him, as I was hitting him. ‘You’d be better off dead than a faggot,’ I said, and I hit him. And he agreed with me. I am his father. I am the law. He knew that.” He yawned. “He knew that . . .” His head hit his chest.

  Was he asleep? I looked at Steven, and he shook his head. Don’t take a chance, he was saying. Just wait it out, he was urging.

  But no. I couldn’t just do that. I had to try. Strain. J
ump. Flop. Closer to Steven. Closer to the couch. Closer. Closer. Closer.

  I kept my eyes on Mr. Howard, as I kept at it. I could feel Steven watching me, begging me with his look to just wait for the right chance. I refused to think about what would happen if I did get to him. How would it help? How would we escape? We would figure that out then. I just had to get to him. Just had to touch him. Strain. Jump. Flop.

  I rolled, and felt my leg bump into Mr. Howard’s foot. He stirred, made a sound. I froze. Would he wake? Was this it? I lifted my head as high as I could. I could see the gun in his open hand. If I could just get untied, I could take it. But no. Untied was easier said than done. The struggle across the floor was tightening the ropes that bound me.

  Strain. Jump. Flop.

  My eyes were on Steven. He was so close. So very close. Just a bit more straining, a bit more jumping, a bit more flopping. I’d be there. And then . . .

  And then what, Alex? I thought. So we were touching. We’d still be bound. We still couldn’t do anything. And any second, the father of my dead high school boyfriend would wake up and . . . No. I couldn’t think about what might happen. Only what I had to do.

  I landed too hard on my shoulder and couldn’t help but grunt.

  “Whaaaaa . . . ?”

  Mr. Howard sat upright and I felt the hope crumble in my chest.

  “Trying to escape?” He lurched to his feet, and took a giant swig of Jack. “You sad pathetic little faggot. There’s no escape.”

  He pointed the gun at Steven and fired.

  Chapter 48

  I screamed in disbelief as the kickback knocked Mr. Howard onto the couch. It was so fast—well, it was a bullet so of course it was fast—but it was still eerily slow motion. I saw him fall back in the couch even as I struggled toward Steven.

  The noise he made when the bullet hit him (in the chest? the shoulder? I couldn’t tell), I will never forget. It was a scream and a grunt and then a moan of indescribable pain. He jerked in the chair and the white T-shirt he always wore running was suddenly bright red.

  There was so much blood.

  Steven’s blood.

  “Steven!” I screamed out.

  In even slower motion, the chair fell over, taking him down to the floor, his mouth open, his face white, his shirt redder and redder and redder.

  I didn’t have to hear his breath gurgling out of him to know.

  Steven was dying.

  I saw him getting into his white Rabbit, in the parking lot so long ago. A year and a day ago, I guessed. I saw him running out of his house, a short while later, waving his fists in the air after I had accidentally backed into his car. I saw him across the table from me, smiling coyly, as we had dinner that night.

  Steven was dying.

  I saw him, in our special, secret spot by the river, where we sat and looked up at the clouds and told each other all our deepest longings. I saw him at Wonderland, at the Queen of Hearts show, where he leaned across the table and told me he loved me. I saw him in bed later that night, above me, in me, around me.

  Steven was dying.

  I saw him, beaten and broken and bruised, tied to that chair in Nathan’s dingy apartment. I saw the joy on his face when he saw me there, finally. I saw the relief on his face when Nathan lay there, shot and bleeding, and we were free.

  And now Steven lay there shot and bleeding.

  Steven was dying.

  I knew it.

  There was so much blood.

  I saw him in bed with Aaron and felt all that self-loathing and jealousy all over again. I saw the contempt on his face when he saw me at Dinah’s bachelorette party. I saw the disappointment in his face when I pulled out the cocaine in front of him. I saw the pride in his face when I threw it out.

  Steven was dying.

  I saw Steven, and in every image of every memory that flashed through my head, the good, the bad, the beautiful, the tragic, I saw his eyes, and his eyes never changed. They would see me seeing him, and they would glow, warm and rich and filled with love. I saw Steven loving me.

  And now I saw Steven dying.

  And there was nothing I could do.

  Chapter 49

  “He doesn’t die so pretty, does he?”

  Mr. Howard was standing over me, and a thick ball of Jack Daniel’s spit fell onto my face.

  “You sick fucking monster!” I tried to stand but couldn’t. “Steven!”

  “You want to say your good-byes?” He pulled my hair, dragged me over to Steven, threw my face onto his chest. His blood was warm and wet and sticky. And red, so very red.

  “I guess it doesn’t matter if you get it on you. You already have whatever is in it. Keep that fucking faggot blood off me, though.”

  “Shut up!” I looked up, but all I could see was the swell of his chest, heaving and red, and his chin, stubbled and perfect. “Steven, Steven, you’ll be okay.”

  “Alex . . .”

  His voice was barely audible.

  “Don’t worry, Alex. It won’t be long. He’ll die. And then you’ll die.”

  “Shut up!” I screamed, and I sat up, fierce and fast, and felt more than saw Steven’s blood go flying off my face.

  “What the . . .”

  I looked up, to see Mr. Howard wiping the blood off him.

  “Faggot!” He kicked me in the stomach and I doubled over. “You got his fucking faggot blood on me! Who knows what you gave me, you stupid piece of faggot shit? His diseased fucking blood.”

  “You stop it!”

  I looked up and saw Sheila standing there. How . . . Why . . .

  “What the fuck are you doing here, you stupid cunt?”

  “Stop it, Michael. Stop it right now.”

  “He got his faggot blood on me.”

  “Stop it!” She ran down the stairs. “Stop it!”

  “I warned you, bitch.” He took a step toward her, the gun in his hand.

  “That’s the same,” she said. “The same as Taylor’s blood. Stop it! This won’t happen again. I won’t let you kill another one.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “You beat him until he had no choice! You did it, Michael! You!”

  I saw his fist coming before she did. “Sheila!” I called out.

  “What’s happening?” Steven asked.

  Sheila shrieked as his fist hit her. She went stumbling backward, crashing into the shelves on the wall. “I should have killed you,” he said.

  “Please, stop!” I yelled.

  He spun on me, his eyes wide and wild. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten you,” he said. “This is all on you, Alex. All on you. Everything started to fall apart when you came along. With your filthy fag-gotry. You destroyed my life. You took my home, my job, my son . . .”

  “I didn’t! I did nothing! You did it! I loved your son, you twisted hateful bastard! You’re the piece of shit who beat him until he had no choice but to put a bullet through his own head!”

  “Shut up! It wasn’t me! You made him that way!” He raised the gun. I closed my eyes. This was it. “You! It was you! It was . . .”

  “No!”

  I opened my eyes in time to see Sheila take a few fast steps toward him, a board in her hand.

  “What . . .” he said, and turned to face her, and then . . .

  Thwack!

  He dropped to the floor.

  Thwack!

  She hit him again.

  And again. Thwack!

  And again. Thwack!

  And then she dropped to her knees, crying, blood streaming down her face.

  She was sobbing, heaving.

  “Sheila . . .”

  “What? Oh! Alex! Here, let me help you!”

  “No, please help Steven.”

  “What? Oh. Yes. Of course.” She got to her feet, wobbling a bit, then turned and headed up the stairs. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”

  “Alex . . .”

  “Don’t talk, Steven. She’s gone to get help.”


  Why hadn’t I gotten her to untie me first? Or the gun! What if he came to? What if...

  “Alex . . .”

  “What is it, Steven? Save your strength. Don’t talk.”

  “I love you . . .”

  “Don’t! Don’t you dare say good-bye.”

  “It’s dark.”

  Oh God, no. Please please please God. Let him be okay. I needed him. Why did I only know how much now when I was losing him?

  “They’re coming, Steven. Help is coming. Just hold on.” I could feel him shudder.

  “They’re coming.” Sheila came running back down the stairs. “They’re coming.”

  “The gun! Sheila! Please, get the gun!”

  She stopped at Michael’s body, looking down at it. The man who was once her husband. The man who had fathered her son. The man who had beaten them both. She leaned down, and rolled the body over to get at the gun.

  It was clear she didn’t need to, though. The impact of the board had smashed in his face.

  It was over.

  He was dead.

  Chapter 50

  “How?” I asked Sheila. “I don’t even.... How are you here?

  Why?”

  Tears fell from my face. Steven lay bleeding on the floor and I couldn’t hear the sirens that meant help was here. That Taylor’s dad had come lurching from the past, to take from me the man I loved. Again. First Taylor, now Steven.

  “How did you know?”

  “He sent me this,” she said, pulling a piece of paper from her pants pocket. She handed it to me. “It was in an envelope filled with pictures of you, and newspaper clippings from when that other man attacked you.”

  I opened the letter.

  “He sent this to you?”

  “Yes. I came to tell him to leave me alone. That I would go to the police. Over the years, he has sent me others. Drunken, hate-filled ramblings, but this, it was different. This time, I could tell he meant it. If I hadn’t come when I did . . .”

  “But you did.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Me too. Thank you.” Even if it was too late for Steven, I thought. He was still breathing though. So much blood. Where was the ambulance? Where were the police? “Thank you.”