A/N: As always thanks for the reviews, love yas!
Slowly, the sense of a dull throb in my back heightened, and wrenched me out of gray, heavy dreams, that drifted over my mind like thick, rain laden clouds across a barren, white sky. When I flicked my eyes open the crisscross metal bars above me blurred in and out of focus, between them patches of dull sky the color of dirty sneakers shown through. It took me a moment or two to remember where I was, but when I shifted the pebbles rough against my skin and the dampness of my clothes made it all come back again. Groaning, I sat up, various parts of my body screaming in pain. I guess I'm too old to sleep on gravel.
I tilted my head to the side, stretching my neck with a slight grimace, and glancing down at the reason I was out here. His thin form was curled in a fetal position, his hands clasped under his hands. It would have been cute had he not looked more like a homeless bum than my own brother, although at this point I probably didn't look so great myself. I ran my fingers through my hair, it was still wet and felt gritty. I rolled Christians' shoulder, crawling closer to him.
"Wake up sleeping beauty." I shook him a little harder and his eyes rolled to wakefulness, the lids heavy, the white part pink and laced with spidery veins. He muttered grumpily and waved his hand at me in a shooing gesture. "Christian get up, we need to go home." I reached over and stroked his close cut hair, the dirty blond greasy beneath my fingers.
"Why are we in a fucking playground?" He bit out, his voice still rough with hangover and sleep. He rolled onto his back and blinked up, grimacing, and he quickly shut his eyes. He was obviously battling with the consequences of his binge last night.
I was stuck between screaming at him and laughing at him, but I didn't do either. I couldn't when I studied his face and felt the pain reflected there. It was worn with his burdens, with his self-abuse. I drew him close to me, our chests together, the hair rough on his cheek scratching against mine.
"It's not important." I swallowed hard, wondering if I was saying the right thing, or if I was guilty of coddling him too much. Maybe he needed to hear the hard truth, maybe he needed to know how low he'd sank and how he'd dragged me after him through the thunder and downpour, to all those seedy, tough, places one of which saw me nearly knifed by a black guy with Tourettes syndrome.
"What's important is that I found you and you're okay." I added, helping him to his feet. But he's not okay Chris, he's so lost, he's so sadly lost. He swayed on his feet and I held his waist to steady him. His hands gripped my wrists for a moment and the dirty palms trailed over the muscles there before falling away.
"Thanks." He said with a shrug of his shoulders, his head hung a bit, his swollen eyes refusing to meet mine. For a moment, I saw our mother in front of me as I steadied her from falling, her frame impossibly thin and weightless in my hands, her unkempt, stringy, dirty-blond hair sticking around her face and tangling over her shoulders, clumped with dried vomit, her face streaked with old tears, the hands that touched my arms shaky and picked with scabs and open sores. I let go and took a step back, my feet crunching against the gravel as I tried to shake that image away. When I blinked back at him, it was my brother again, her haunting apparition replaced by the depressing reality that they really were not so different. Christians' eyes left his toes and finally met mine, and the despair in them made me feel sick, as unspoken words in their murky depths pleaded with me: Save me.
"Come on Christy, we need to go." I said lowly, taking his hand as though he was still a child I was leading across the street.
We ducked under the bars of the jungle-gym dome and slowly picked our way across the playground, the tiny wet stones finally giving away to slick grass, and then to the sidewalk. Nearby my car hugged the curb and I lead Christian to it, almost surprised that it was still there and hadn't been broken into and done away with.
We both ducked into the car and he was quiet as I started it, noticing the fat drops of rain that began to splat against the windshield. I pulled away and began the drive back to our house where Christians' detention monitor lay sliced in the middle of the bed. I wondered if he was thinking about it or if he even cared. When I glanced over at him he didn't seem to be thinking about anything. His chin was propped in his hand, his head bobbing with sleep as his eyes focused and unfocused on things that passed by through the window and rain.
When we got back, I knew I'd have to call his probation officer Burchill and explain. He'd have to go into court before the judge and see what his latest bad judgment call had earned him and hopefully it wasn't a jumpsuit with a number across the back and free room and board at the pen, with a roomie named Bubba. My brother didn't need a stint in jail or prison, perhaps they'd just extended his probation. Maybe I could do some talking, I'd at least try. What he really needed was counseling or better yet mandated A.A. meetings…although court ordered recovery wouldn't work unless he finally made up his mind that he really wanted to stop all of this.
My heart sank, wondering if he would ever be ready to face his fears and give up the substance which comforted him, which pulled him away from the things in life that he feared to face: namely being alone, missing his Adam, feeling as though part of him had died that day as well. He'd never really said such things to me but his eyes told of them when they weren't clouded with liquor, and I knew because I felt those things when Matt was gone, as though someone had hollowed out my insides and left only a shell.
Even after the years had passed by and left the stamp of lines on my face, the extra weight that comes with the slowing metabolism that marks middle age, hair growing thinner than I'd like it--I still had my moments when his absence in my life came crashing down hard into me, like a freight train barreling into my chest and stealing my breath away. But unlike Christian, I realize that the losses in life cannot define you. They can't rule you, and loved ones would not wish those things upon the ones they leave behind.
"Chris?"
His voice was gruff and distracted me from my thoughts. I glanced at him as he straightened in his seat and stared severely ahead through the streaked glass.
"Yeah?"
"Turn left up here, I wanna go somewhere." He swallowed hard, the click in his throat audible. "I…I want to see Adam." He whispered, his fingers brushing against the window.
I gripped the wheel harder. I knew what he meant but I wasn't sure if it was such a good idea, but I couldn't deny him what little contact he had left with our brother, his lover. I steered the car through drizzly streets, through downtown where dated brick buildings stood, a few of them restored, but most of them beaten by time, their front windows cracked and spray painted, For Sale or Condemned signs propped against the glass. Here and there was a fast food joint, looking misplaced among the old buildings. On one corner was the old theatre which still showed movies for a dollar, the marquee in the front had been lit and alive in its heyday, now the lights were always dim and the words of the movies playing were like gapped teeth, letters missing from the titles and hung askew. The last time I was inside the floor was coated with sticky sugar and popcorn, the seats threadbare and creaky, no one seemed to care anymore.
Across from that was the police station and I glanced at the weather streaked face of the building as we passed. A couple of black and whites were parked at the curb—against the yellow stripes right under the 'no parking' signs and a gaggle of pot bellied cops seemed to be trading laughs and ribbing one another over coffee. We bounced over the ragged railroad tracks that seemed to never get fixed, the fiends of tires and suspension of every vehicle that lurched over the crossing.
Just on the other side of the crossing I turned, Christian no longer had to tell me where to go. I knew the destination he spoke of. Soon the buildings melted away to a few houses here and there. The setting changed to a more rural scene with fields of dark mud and broken gray cornstalks protruding crookedly from the soil. The occasional fat crow unfurled his onyx wings to descend and peck at the dull ground, cocking his head, as though we needed such a dire omen to head us as we passed. I glanced back at him in my mirror; his avian form feathery and silhouetted against the sky which seemed dirty like paper smudged with pencil lead.
There, up on a hill like a petite guardian was a small white church, its steeple seeming like a severe spike against the stony sky. Across from the church was the cemetery, dull, cold, markers dotting the grass that was too short and scorched from the summer sun, brown and dead with only a few splotches of green here and there. I turned and drove through the gate, my tires moving over the worn tracks of mourners.
Towards the front the stones were old, the identities of the occupants beneath long ago wiped away and left as nothing more than smooth, black and white streaked surfaces, many of the stones cocked sideways or completely over, kicked and broken by time or by idiots who thought they were having fun desecrating the resting places of the dead. The further inwards we moved, the newer the stones became, shifting from tall, thin, wafer like markers to elaborate white towers, and then stout, polished black and tan ones. Family names became bold in their etching, old wreathes and dead pots of flowers served as macabre décor, faded tiny flags fluttered dully against the rain, claiming that those graves belonged to heroes.
Finally, I pulled to the side, spotting the small, sleek, head stone in the rain. It was nestled under the bald arms of a tired, knotty, oak. I had barely stopped the car when Christian spilled out, his feet stumbling as he weaved through the stones to that lone significant one. I slammed my door and sprinted after him, picking my way towards him, slowing as I approached. He fell to his knees, and crawled towards the glimmering black stone. I hung back a little, keeping my tearful eyes on him as he reached out to touch the cold, hard, surface and trace his fingertips over the engraved words. I heard his breath draw in a quick whimper-gasp, the sound eerie and ghostly like the howl of wind through bony trees.
"Adam!" The word was choked out, raw, ended with a sob that seemed to echo around us and pierced my heart like nails. The tears in my eyes spilled over and warmed my face with sadness. Quietly I sniffed, and brushed them away on the backs of my hands. "I miss you Addy." He cried, rubbing his hands over the tough, spiky grass that blanketed the earth and the casket beneath. His quivering fingers curled into the dead vegetation, pulling at it, ripping and clawing into the dirt. "I mi-mi-iss you so much!"
His words were deformed with choked sounds and he brought the clumps of grass and dirt to his face and cried into it, resting his forehead against the wet ground. His curled body shuddered with the pitiful sobs that racked him and my own tears fell harder, my heart seeming torn for him. To see him so broken I could barely stand it and I shuffled towards him, kneeling, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Christian--"
"Don't fucking touch me!" He roared, yanking away from me and stumbling up to his feet. He drew his hand across his eyes, smearing his face with black mud.
"I'm sorry." I offered meekly as my tears fell quietly.
"What do you know! What the fuck do you know!" He screamed at me, backing away and falling over another stone. He picked himself up quickly, stuttering and hiccupping with sobs.
"I didn't mean to bother you."
"Fuck you Chris! Just leave me alone! Quit trying to help me, quit trying to save me! You don't know a God damn thing! You—you act like you know me, like you know what I feel—you've forgotten how it feels Christopher, don't pretend like you fucking know! Matt died a long time ago, so quit acting like you know how it is to be in so much pain!"
He backed into the oak and I went after him, for what was a rare occasion my anger got the better of me and I pinned his shoulders to the tree, my eyes boring into his as images flashed through my mind that he would never know, and I began to tremble as Matts' gurgling breaths filled my mind.
My Matt, coughing, suffocating on his own blood that soaked through splotches on his clothing and ran from his mouth, his black-dyed hair soaked into ruby curls that laid sticky and hot against my arm as I held him. His body in my lap as it slowly lost function, the muscles sporadically twitching as he coughed and hacked, bubbles of blood gurgling up and over his lips. I tried to prop him up and it only made things worse, my cries frantic as the blood leaked out of him. He gasped and weakly wiped his lips clean, his breathes sounded pained and asthmatic, high pitched wheezes. I held him close and rocked him trying to tell both of us that the ambulance would be there soon and he'd be okay. By the time we were doused in blue and red lights, he was cold and breathless.
"Wha-what did you say?" I snarled at my brother, barely able to believe the words that he'd said.
I tried to calm myself, to remind myself that he was distraught and hung-over, that he didn't mean what he said—but all those haunting, nightmarish images, crashed into my conscious thought and wracked me with a searing hurt that was just as real today as it was nearly twenty years ago.
"You listen here, you son of a bitch! I think of Matt every day, and when I close my eyes to sleep most nights, I feel alone and helpless…" My voice drifted off into tears. "Completely the same as I felt that night in the alley. Christian, those images never blur, they never fade! Sometimes I wake up at night from horrible dreams drenched in sweat and I think it's his blood against my skin." My anger rises, pitching my voice louder, higher, as the rage at how he was taken from me—and from Christians' stupid declaration—and both of those things combined break through my usual self control. "Christian don't you ever, ever fucking tell me that I forgot!" I shout at him, my voice snarling and ringing through the emptiness. "I have never fucking forgot what those—those fucking scum did to him! I will never forget it if I live to be a hundred and fucking one!"
He whimpered, and I let go of his shoulders, taking a step back and dragging in deep breathes to try and gain some calmness again.
"Leave me alone, Christopher." He growled, rubbing his shoulder. "Just leave me the hell alone!"
"No Christian, I'm not going to give up on you!"
His hands balled into fists at his side as he wobbled towards me. I sniffed, bringing the collar of my shirt up to wipe my eyes and nose.
"There's nothing left to save." He growled, his brow creasing into a dark scowl, trails of tears running softly over his scruffy cheeks. "Just go!—Just fucking go and get away from me!" He shouted and cried, his fists suddenly raining down upon me.
I was taken off guard, and tumbled down. Christian fell on top of me, straddling my waist, one hand clutched my chin as the other fisted and connected with my face again and again. I closed my eyes tight and let him hit me, my anger fading away as each punch connected. His words had only made me sorry for him again, and sorry that I'd snapped at him, so I let him hit me, thinking that maybe I deserved it and that maybe letting him get his rage out would help. At last, gasping and tired, he rolled away from me and got up to his unsteady feet. I got to my knees and stood, cautiously watching him. He ran his eyes over me for a moment, wiped his nose, and then with slouched shoulders headed back towards the car without another word.
The ride home was completely silent, when we got home, no words were exchanged. He hid himself away in his room and I sank onto the couch, running my hands over my face and feeling the rising bruises beneath my fingers. With a sigh, I found my cell and called the Christians' probation officer to explain. She came over later that evening and fitted a new bracelet to his ankle and let him know just what his violation meant, and that he'd have another court date soon. Christian said nothing, as though it did not matter. He just sat in the stained, lumpy, recliner staring ahead at nothingness.
I followed Officer Burchill onto the porch and her hard eyes searched me. We shared a few words as I tried to explain about my brother, as I pleaded with her to speak with the judge because she did have some pull. She nodded, and promised me that she'd suggest an extended time on his house arrest plus mandatory A.A. meetings and counseling. I was so grateful that I hugged her, but she reminded me that these things didn't help unless the offender had the desire make a turn around, otherwise, it would just be a requirement that he would grudgingly fulfill in order to get that monitor off of his ankle.
I watched her leave and then disappeared back into the house. Christian was still in the same place we'd left him. I went into the bathroom and showered, finally getting the grime off of me. Even then the warm water did little to relax my taxed mind and take my thoughts away from my brother and the things he'd said, the things he'd did, the way he was and sinking further and further. The nozzle squeaked as I shut off the water, the rings on the shower curtain scraped against the rod as I shoved it back, the splitting tile floor was gritty beneath my bare feet.
I reached for a towel and dried quickly, only glancing briefly at my battered reflection in the steamy mirror. I tossed the towel in the laundry basket and went to my room, threw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, and returned back to the living room to flip on the news, only to mute it because it depressed me more. I glanced towards the kitchen. I thought about making something for us to eat but I wasn't really hungry, and I doubted Christian would acknowledge anything else I tried to do for him. I watched the silent t.v. as faces flashed across it. The weather man moved his hand over a map, predicting more rain and storms within the week.
I flinched when the t.v. screen was blocked from my view. Christian stood in front of me, his skinny frame leaning over me. His hands gripped my shoulders and he climbed into my lap and sat facing me. His hands ghosted softly over my face, taking in each bruise and mark that he'd made on me. His eyes glittered with tears as I nuzzled into his palm.
"Christy, it's okay." I whispered to him, but he shook his head.
"No, it's not okay." Wet runners leaked from his eyes. "I—I'm Mom! I'm just like her…I did this to you just like she used to, when you didn't even do anything wrong." He burst into tears and hid his face against my shoulder. I stroked his back, and he spoke against my ear, his words broken, but the sincerity in them real. I squeezed him closer, relief washing over me as it finally happened.
"I need fucking help Chris—I need to stop. I don't know how, but I need help, and I want it."
