BLOOD
He looked down, looked at his arm, looked at the slowly seeping trickle of blood covering his arm. He watched it spread. He looked at the bit of glass in his hand; it looked innocuous, innocent and yet...he let out the breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. He felt... better; he felt...released; free for the moment from the thoughts that permanently haunted him; sometimes only the background to the charade his life had become, sometimes overwhelming him, pushing him towards this new escape route. For a few seconds more he watched the blood spreading across his arm before carefully easing his arm back through the broken windscreen of the car that had hidden him from the view of Cain and Debbie, standing close together, bickering, on the far side of the garage.
"Aaghh!" He exclaimed suddenly, jamming his arm hard against the jagged glass of the broken windscreen, wincing as the pain, the real pain, bit into the cut already there. Quickly pulling back his arm, he cradled it against his body, feeling the stickiness as his blood oozed between his fingers.
"Oi! What've you done now!" demanded Cain, turning at his cry. "You're getting dead careless these days, you!" He pushed between the jumble of cars until he reached Aaron, dragging his arm away from his body, away from his bloodied, protective fingers, until he could see the excoriated flesh that hid the deeper cut.
"Here, run it under the cold tap," he instructed, leading Aaron towards the single tap above the sink; turning it on; holding his arm as the water crashed, cascaded onto the torn skin.
Aaron gritted his teeth; the cold was numbing, taking away the pain. He didn't want that, he didn't want the pain to go, to leave him hurting. But the grip on his arm was forceful, he couldn't pull away, couldn't tell Cain to stop, that he wanted to hurt, to bleed, to feel the pain in his arm crushing, obliterating the pain in his mind.
"Pass us the first aid kit, Debs," called Cain over his shoulder, lessening his grip just a little.
Lessening his grip just enough to allow Aaron to try to move his arm from under the traitorous water; to reclaim the pain he needed; the pain that soothed him.
"Hold still," he snapped, turning sharply back to glare at Aaron. "You'll need a plaster or something to cover this." He reached for a roll of paper towelling, only slightly oily; discarding the first few turns; he pulled off a strip and handed it to Aaron. "Dry it off a bit while I look out a plaster," he said, "but don't let it get stuck to the cuts."
Aaron glared at him but said nothing as he considered, for a split second, defying Cain, letting the blue paper cling to the blood-sticky cuts. But the returning glare from the dark eyes made him hesitate; his hand hovering, set to clamp down hard onto his arm, he thought better of it, only dabbing ineffectually at the drips of pink water at the edge of the deep grazes on his arm.
Mesmerised, he watched the blood begin to ooze again; he could see the cut he had made, the deeper wound half hidden amongst the criss-cross of grazes. He could see his blood thicker, richer, slowly surfacing. He sighed; he could watch it all day, watch it slowly seeping out of him; he would be fine then, he would feel calm then, as he did now; the raging torment that had plagued him since...since - no! he couldn't think about that now! Not when the blood, his blood, was working its magic.
"Hold your arm up in the air, you idiot," exclaimed Cain, returning to his side. "I don't want your blood dripping everywhere!"
"It's alright, I haven't got anything," snarled Aaron.
"I didn't mean that," replied Cain sharply, "now hold still." He took the damp tissue from Aaron's hand and with surprising gentleness soaked up the blood that had returned and stuck two large plasters over the wounds.
"Take a break for five," said Cain. "Go on, outside; get some fresh air, I'll bring you a coffee out."
Aaron looked at Cain; since when did he offer to make the coffee? Saying nothing though, he made his way past the cars taking up almost all the space. Turning sharply at the door, he made his way to the far side of the building; at least here he could lean against the wall and avoid seeing...he bit his lip. He could avert his eyes from places, from people, that reminded him; it was just the pictures in his head that he couldn't escape. He began to pick disconsolately at the plaster; imagining the satisfaction ripping it off would give him. But not now, not yet; he didn't need it just yet.
Cain found him a few minutes later; saying nothing, he silently handed him the mug of coffee.
"Don't be long," said Cain eventually, eyeing him steadily. He had known he would find him on this, the far side of the garage, where he couldn't see Dale Head. It hadn't escaped Cain's notice that Aaron rarely worked on cars at the front of the garage these days; it was always inside the garage, or he pulled the cars well over to the side, tucking himself as far from the opposite building as possible, always shielding his view, averting his eyes. He was okay though...considering. Giving him one last glance, Cain walked back into the garage.
Aaron watched Cain go, glad to be alone for a few minutes, glad Cain suspected nothing; he couldn't - he had been careful. He could bear him knowing; any of them knowing. He could imagine them now, trying to stop him; taking away this crutch, this support; not understanding how much he needed it, how much better it made him feel. Not understanding anything.
He gazed down into the dark liquid in the mug; it was hot against his hands but not hot enough that he couldn't force his hands to remain clenched tightly round the mug. He caught sight of the scar on his hand; the first scar. It was healing now; healing before too many people asked too many questions. But it had been a revelation to him; a release, an escape from the thoughts and memories that tormented his every waking moment and filled his sleep with nightmares. It was just a cut; collateral damage as he vented his rage and frustration in Carl's house, deep enough that he hardly noticed the pain through his fury. It was only afterwards, alone, squeezing his hand, his grip tightening, increasing the pain that he felt his mind empty, felt the demons fleeing as the blessed pain took over, as the blood began to ooze. He felt breathless, exhilarated; afterwards, when he stopped pressing he felt healed.
It hadn't lasted though, the euphoria; it had melted away, letting the haunting images flood into his mind once again. Flood into his mind when all he wanted to do was to forget. Yet he couldn't forget entirely; there had been good times, he wanted those memories, he needed those memories; it was only the end, what he did, that he wanted to forget, to obliterate. To undo.
He drank the last of his coffee in one swift gulp, tipping the final drops onto the ground. Pulling down the sleeve of his overalls, covering the plasters, covering temptation, he walked back into the garage, his eyes all the while to the ground; averted.
He tried to keep busy; tried to fill his mind with cars and engines and oil and grease. It worked; for a few minutes, until some treacherous thought, some stray memory suddenly was there, in the forefront of his mind, filling his head, filling his eyes with tears. Tears hastily brushed away. Most of the time, during the day, at work, out, he could fight the need to cut, could bear to postpone the relief it could give. But sometimes, just sometimes, like today, pulling the glass from the shattered windscreen, it had been too easy; too hard to resist the temptation. He had roughly pushed a shard against his arm, piercing his skin, pushing harder, ripping his flesh, finding peace.
Returning to the garage, meeting Cain's questioning glance with a quick, reassuring half smile, he slipped thick gloves on his hands, picked up his tools and returned to the windscreen pulling carefully at the remaining glass; yet there was no need, he was fine now, there was no need for anything else, for no other cutting. Yet.
He sang under his breath, his tuneless whisper joining in with the song on the radio. The ghost of a smile touching his lips.
...
The bathroom at Wishing Well Cottage verged on the edge of primitive. The old enamel bath was chipped and stained although cleaned to within an inch of its life by Lisa. He didn't care; the hot water ran in a copious torrent from the shower and the lock on the door was sturdy. It was the mirror he avoided; the mirror that was large enough to show him the scars, fiery red lines, that were now dotted over his body. He stood naked, ready to step under the water, taking care not to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror or to look down at his nakedness and see the reminders of his distress.
Stepping into the bath, the water cascaded down; hot, not hot enough though. Part of him was glad he was safe from that. He stood for a moment, his eyes closed, letting the water hit his face before reaching for the bar of soap. He could avert his eyes from the scars upon himself, not looking; but drawing the soap across his body, his fingers betrayed him, skimming over the scars, feeling them proud against the smooth, taut skin of his body. He knew where they were without looking; remembered each nightmare, each waking or sleeping moment of overwhelming pain when he thought his head was going to explode with grief, with the enormity of what he had done; with the word 'murderer' crashing through his consciousness, tormenting him, repeating itself like a mantra engraved on his soul.
It was then he cut; the physical pain an antidote to the pain in his mind that was pulling him closer to madness. The relief was immediate; the focus shifted as the seething cauldron of his mind calmed.
Covering his body with soap, his fingers found each scar; there were two on his arm, discreet enough to provoke no awkward questions, cut early on when the briefest, sharpest pain satisfied his need. His fingers trailed down his body, sliding over his hips evoking memories of other hands that had touched him, taken him; he had been flawless then and they had been beautiful; their young muscular bodies entwined in their love; their lust.
The scar that now seared jaggedly across his hip was still new, still healing, a mess of raised flesh; a messy cut leaving a messy scar that he cherished. Adam had almost caught him then; seconds earlier and he would have done; it would have been over. He had come to find him, to drag him for a pint, they had laughed and joked, been larking around at the garage as he finished the job he was working on then washed his hands. If he had been a few seconds earlier he might have seen him, his overalls gaping apart, his clothes held out of the way as he pushed the blade against his skin and ripped, harshly, urgently through his flesh.; Aaron remembered hurriedly dropping the Stanley knife behind the toolbox beside him, dropping it quietly onto an old rag tossed there and all the while he stood talking, sharing a joke, agreeing to go for that pint he could feel the blood, hidden by the thick dark material of his overalls, dripping down his legs. Every time he was amazed at the difference it made; how good he could feel, how normal he could feel. Afterwards.
He slipped back to his room with just a towel slung low around his hips. It was little more than a box room, barely big enough for a bed hard against the wall, a small chair and a chest of drawers for his few possessions; but it was his own space, his own empty space; he could shut the door on them all; on the fussing and constant questioning. How was he feeling? Was he alright? Did he want something to eat? T o drink? To go to the pub; to go to his mum's? He could shut the door on them. Shutting the door was fine except that it left him alone with his thoughts.
He dropped the towel to the floor and quickly pulled on a pair of boxers then slid under the cover of the small single bed. Feeling under the pillows, he found what he was searching for; the fine wire entwined around his fingers, he pulled out an iPod. Jackson's iPod. Jackson's iPod that still had his choice of music secreted within it. He fitted the ear pieces snugly into place and pressed it on. He shouldn't, he knew he shouldn't; it was a mistake, it was always a mistake but it was a scab that he couldn't help but pick until his soul bled, until the memories flooded mercilessly through his mind, until the tears flowed silently from his eyes.
The nights were always the worst; the long dark hours when he couldn't sleep; when the last two years played in a loop behind his eyes, a macabre film that always, always repeated the same scenes, which always stopped at the same point. That wasn't going to let him forget, ever, that he had poured poison into the mouth of the man he loved. That he had let that toxic substance flood the mouth, the throat, the body of the man he had made love to. Fucked. Killed.
His eyes were tight shut yet he couldn't shut the pictures out; couldn't stop the film playing, the feelings engulf him, crushing the breath from him. Moving, he curled into a ball, pressed his fists tight into his eyes, trying to stop the tears that pricked mercilessly behind his eyelids.
His breath came quickly, in rasping, anguished gasps; his body curled in on itself, he felt as though every bone, every muscle was on fire; he felt sick although he knew there was precious little in his stomach to be sick with, it didn't stop the nausea washing over him in waves.
His head was pounding; throbbing in time to the increased beat of his heart, he could feel sweat beginning to trickle down his face, his body; he knew the bed would soon be drenched with that sweat.
He was shaking now; sobbing silently; tears unheeded rolling down his cheeks. Almost in slow motion the pulled the iPod from his ears, dropping it as he slid his hand under the pillow again. It was too close; he shouldn't keep it there, temptation too hard to resist yet he couldn't bear for it to be further away, out of reach.
He eased the knife out; even in the semi darkness of the room, he could see the blade glinting; he could see the blade quivering as his hand shook in dread, in anticipation, in need of the relief he knew was within his grasp.
The knife moved towards his body; it was as if he had nothing to do with it; as if it moved of its own volition; slowly, relentlessly. Part of him pulled back; shied away from it; from what he knew was coming. He could feel a force physically pulling his hand back to safety; a greater one, more needy, pushing it on. Black despair engulfed him, took over his world.
The blade rested against his skin now, his hand, his whole body shaking as he began to press...
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
The sharp voice cracked the silence of the room; freezing all movement.
"I'm asking you Aaron; what the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Rigid in the bed; his thoughts tumbling even as his body was unable to move. He hadn't heard the door, or any sound except his own tortured breathing. No one could be with him; not the one person he wanted more than anyone... and yet that voice...
"Jackson" he whispered.
"Well who were you expecting?" the voice asked, more gently now. "Clyde?"
"Jackson, what? how?" he began to move now, to stretch, to twist in the bed.
"No! Don't turn round!" said Jackson quickly. "Keep your eyes closed."
"But I killed you! Murdered you!" sobbed Aaron, his voice catching. "How can you be here?"
"How could I not be here for you when you gave me such a gift?" Jackson replied. "You did what I asked; you set me free. But do you think I would have gone if I had thought for one moment I would leave you like this? No more, Aaron, this has to stop; you must put the knife down now."
Stretching out his arm, he let the knife drop over the edge of the bed, heard it land with a dull thud on the floor.
"I'm whole again Aaron, healed," Jackson whispered. "I can move again; walk, dance, make love. Fuck." The smile sounded clearly in his voice.
"Show me," Aaron whispered into the darkness.
He could smell him; such a warm, familiar smell. He felt his arms slide around him; felt himself held again, felt Jackson's hands touch him again, felt his breath on his cheek, felt the soft, tickling hair of his beard as his hands cupped Jackson's face while their lips closed on each other and gently they kissed.
"No more, Aaron; promise me," Jackson said quietly as at last their lips pulled apart. His fingers glided over Aaron's arm, tracing the outline of a scar.
"I can't..." began Aaron, anguish in his tone, until his words were quickly stifled by Jackson's finger on his lips.
"Promise me," he repeated. "Promise me you will live and love and bleed no more for me. And understand that you gave me a gift so great..." his words trailed away in a breath as they kissed again
Jackson let his hands stray over Aaron's body, this time feeling only its perfections. Moving together in a familiar dance well remembered, finding their way after so long apart they explored each other, delighted in each other; touching, tasting, teasing, filling each other until tangled together, their bodies exploded, united.
Peaceful at last, Aaron slept in his lover's arms.
...
It was still dark as Aaron jerked suddenly awake; sitting up in the bed, instinctively his hands reached out for Jackson, finding only emptiness. He had been there; they had made love again. It had been real.
Moving sharply, his winced as a stabbing pain gripped his side. Tentatively his fingers moved towards the pain, meeting the stickiness of semi-congealed blood on his skin.
Gritting his teeth, he twisted to turn on the dim bedside light, illuminating the glistening red blood clotted and congealed now on his body. Reaching down, he felt for the knife.
It wasn't where he expected it to be; he had dropped it at the side of the bed, yet his searching fingers, spread wide, feeling the floor, couldn't find it.
Awkwardly he moved from the bed and stood, unsure what he meant to do. He saw it then; he couldn't miss it then, on the far side of the room, as far away from him as possible in the small room. It lay accusingly, waiting for him, on a small chest of drawers; the knife rested on a newspaper. Holding his side, he took the few steps that brought him to the knife. To the newspaper that he had no memory of seeing before.
A picture caught his eye; a dog, almost familiar, almost guiding his glance to a place on the page, a telephone number. He read it over and over, his heart suddenly thumping painfully in his chest.
Almost in a dream, he found his mobile in his jacket pocket and keyed in the number.
Despite the hour, late or early, it only rung twice before his call was answered.
Tears flowed freely down his face.
"My name's Aaron, I've just cut myself again," he took a deep breath. "Can you help me?"