Walking out of his apartment and down the stairs was worse than death. The fear turned the pain in Vin's spine into fish hooks that attached him to his front door. He stood there a moment, staring at the door, wondering what they were thinking when they pried the lock and stole into his home, into his life. Did they know then what they were going to do to him? Or did it just occur to them when they found him - -.
His hand closed around his keys hard enough to hurt and his body shook. It's not my fault. It wasn't like I was planning on them breaking in. It's not my fault. Please God let me just take back yesterday afternoon and you can take whatever else you want...
He closed the door and locked it then clung to the dark wooden banister that led from his apartment at the top of the stairs and took one step down. His right knee hurt - everything hurt, but the pain in his knee surprised him. He hadn't noticed it before. It hurt to bend his knee to make the stairs, but he did it. One stair at a time, every nerve in his body on alert for any sound, any movement. But no one and nothing stirred and he got to the small lobby without incident.
Opening the front door into the glaring noon day sun, Vin stopped a moment to remember where his truck was. He took a breath of the hot, motionless air. Everything looked different, an unfamiliar shade of familiar colors. Mechanical music fluttered past him from the festival and the streets were deserted. If he could just get to his truck, he'd be safe. If he could just get to his truck and get to Chris's house, he'd be safe.
His feet in his sneakers felt heavy on the hot concrete, and the pain in his body made him walk slower and more stiffly than he wanted to. His truck was around behind the building, not far, but too far to suit him and the fear that sat on his shoulder, whispering lies into his ear that they were there, behind every door and window, waiting, watching. And the windows and doors they weren't behind hid the others, the people who would be able to tell just by looking at him that he'd been -
The sound of a gas lawn mower spinning to life startled him, sending the shock waves of pain rippling outward from his spine. He had to stop and rest one hand against the building to wait for it to subside. If anybody saw him now, they'd know. They'd just know. Just from looking at him. Would Chris know? Just from looking at him? Would he have to tell Chris anything or would he just know? Vin couldn't decide if he wanted Chris to ever know or not. Then why the hell was he driving himself to Chris's house?
When the pain eased, Vin straightened up and continued his slow hobble to his truck. He didn't see anyone, and hoped no one saw him. He almost expected his old blue Ford to have been vandalized - by them - but it sat just as he'd left it yesterday after work. Unlocking and opening the door was easy, getting into the truck was another matter entirely. Every muscle he needed to climb in - and some he'd never been aware were involved in the process - were in agony. He had to pull himself in painfully and slowly, and set himself carefully into the seat. He slammed the door shut and locked it, and relaxed - however minutely - for the first time since - since - -
Just say it stupid. Just say what it was they did to you. You can't even say it, can you? You can't even say what it was you let them do to you.
So then he whispered the word, gripping the steering wheel hard in both hands and staring at it till it blurred. He said the word and still couldn't believe that it applied to him. But there was no other word that came close to the pain and fear and humiliation he was smothering in now.
Maybe Chris would know just by looking at him and Vin wouldn't have to say a thing. And either Chris would be so disgusted he'd turn Vin right out of his house, or he'd be so concerned that he'd step right in and take over, giving Vin the chance to finally feel safe.
Either way, he'd know in twenty minutes.
Chris lived in an old house on a few acres of land on the outskirts of the city. Vin drove slow, tense, minding the speed limit exactly, taking the turns cautiously. Everything was still that same strange hue and he didn't want to accidentally run a red light or run down some poor person on their way to the festival. Even so, he nearly went past the driveway and left a few inches of rubber on the black top when he screeched to a stop, belatedly looking in his mirror to see if it was safe. Since no one plowed into him, he guessed it was.
No car or truck sat in the driveway though; he'd come all this way and Chris wasn't home. He had to be back soon though. He'd be expecting Vin to call him back. He had to come home soon.
Vin parked in the driveway. He thought at first that he'd wait in his truck, but people driving past the house could see him - and if they could see him, he knew they could tell. He didn't want anybody looking at him. He opened the truck door and those same shrieking muscles opposed him getting out of the truck. But he swung his legs out and made his body follow, then shut the door and made his way to the deck at the back of the house.
He'd just set himself down, slowly, painfully, on the top step of the deck when Cowboy - Chris and Mary's over-exuberant but ever watchful black lab - roared up to the sliding glass window, barking for all he was worth at the intruder. Vin had been expecting it though and his body didn't react to the sound. He cradled his head in his hands and closed his eyes. Chris was supposed to be home, he was supposed to help Vin, tell him what he was supposed to do now that his life was over.
Please Chris, come home. Please Chris. Vin's mind reverberated this. If Chris didn't come back - if Vin was left to sit out here alone and in pain, with an over-energized dog barking at him - he'd just shatter into a million million pieces. He could feel it starting around the edges of his vision and traveling down into his arms and legs and hands and feet. He'd come apart - literally come apart - and the pieces would never fit together exactly the way they'd been.
It seemed to take forever, but after only a few minutes, a vehicle pulled into the driveway and Vin heard Chris call out for him.
"Hey Vin! You around back?" But even if Vin had had the energy to answer him, he couldn't summon the words. "Hey, didn't you hear me?" Chris had followed his own voice into the yard. Then when Vin didn't answer, didn't lift his head, a more anxious question. "Vin - you okay?" Vin felt Chris sit next to him.
Don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me. Vin prayed. If you touch me I'll come all apart and it'll never go back together...
"Vin?" and Chris did touch him when Vin still didn't answer. He laid his hand gently on the middle of Vin's back. Instead of shattering though, Vin felt himself held together by that touch. He raised his head to look at Chris and was devastated by the look of horror he saw in his friend's face.
He knows, he can tell, he doesn't want me around...
"What the hell happened to you?" Chris demanded.
"Nothing." Vin's first spoken word in how long? Twelve hours? Eighteen? His throat was dry and hoarse from throwing up.
"Nothing? Vin you got two black eyes and a busted nose. What the hell happened?"
Vin stared at Chris a minute, trying to understand what he was saying. He'd never gotten a good look at his face in the broken mirror, and he'd avoided looking at himself in the truck mirrors. When Vin didn't answer, Chris decided:
"I'm taking you to the hospital."
"Don't wanna go to the hospital," Vin mumbled, turning his head down to cover his mouth with his hand. "Wanna throw up." This took Chris by surprise.
"Right now? "
Vin took his hand away long enough to snap " As soon as it's convenient. " Chris was on his feet in an instant, pulling Vin up by the arm and leading him to the glass sliding doors. The pain of being pulled and having to move made Vin stumble, but Chris's hand kept him on his feet and moving.
"Shut up Cowboy!" Chris shouted to the dog as he unlocked the doors and slammed them open. The lab was quiet but danced around them as Chris tried to gently - but quickly - guide Vin to the downstairs bathroom just off the kitchen. Vin let himself be guided, he kept his eyes closed as much as he could. It seemed to quiet the nausea. But once he was in the little half bath, and Chris raised the lid for him, he lost half of all the coffee he'd had that morning.
Chris stood close by, keeping Cowboy out of the way, actually frightened by the way Vin was throwing up. It came up violently, out his nose, splashing back onto Vin, as though some power greater than just his body's physical reactions had control of it. Vin choked and brought up more, till only bile came up, then nothing came up, and his body kept trying. Finally it stopped, but Vin didn't move off his knees in front of the toilet. He supported himself with both hands on the rim, panting deep short breaths that sounded like whimpers, shaking so hard Chris thought he might be in shock.
"Vin?" Chris crouched down to put his hand on Vin's back again. "I've got to get you to the hospital."
Vin didn't hear Chris. All he knew was that he was in a bathroom, on his knees, being sick, praying the pain would stop, and then someone touched him. He swung out blindly at the touch, lost his balance and fell sideways. His back hit the wall and this time it wasn't a knife that went through his spine but an axe. Instead of fists, his fingers splayed backward in pain, and he squeezed his eyes shut and opened his mouth but the air he needed for the scream he wanted to scream wasn't there. The pain just went on and on. Wave after wave, out his spine, down his arms, gradually lesser and lesser until finally he could take that breath of air, dragging the scream in with it.
When he was aware of his surroundings again, he saw that Chris had a grip on his arms, staring at him with a mixture of pure fear and concern. Vin still panted, afraid to move one muscle, tasting the coffee and bile as it burned up his esophagus.
"I'm taking you to the hospital," Chris said again, and Vin dared to shake his head.
"Take me to Nathan."
to be continued