REWRITE
THIS IS MY SKIN
(and it's thick. this is not your skin - yet you are still under it.)
names like pain cries
names like tombstones
names forgotten and reinvented
names forbidden or overused
- 11 -
The mirror shattered beneath his fist, shards of glass chiming to the bathroom floor like rain. Tommy stared at the place where his reflection used to be, tasting sand.
The shock of his knees hitting the ground made his head spin and he hissed in a breath between clenched teeth. The world swayed around him and he fell forward until his forehead was pressed against the cold tile, the bite of broken glass bringing no relief from the hot fog of his dreams.
"Please," he whimpered, eyes screwed shut. There was blood in his mouth, grit in his eyes, quicksand sucking at his heels, and he felt like he was falling into an abyss with no one but the dead to hear him scream.
Tommy wished that he could call out and hear Harley calling back. He imagined how she would run through to him, her long fingers stroking through his hair as she would pull him back from the crumbling edge. The brightness of her would bleach him clean, the sea salt of her touch would purge the rot from his wounds, anchoring him to her like the ocean floor. But she wasn't here. Harley had left to visit her mother, leaving the apartment feeling hollow.
It should have been you.
"Go away," Tommy groaned, his hands trembling. Something was scratching in the dark corners of the room, eyes watching him from the shadows. The air was filled with the stench of charred flesh.
It should have been you.
The festered faces of the dead were before him, eyes sunken, watching. The wind howled, carrying voices from long ago, and then there was a great crack. Tommy threw himself down onto the sand as the earth began to open up, collapsing under the weight of war never won. He could hear Manny calling his name and Tommy tried to reach him, grabbing at his hand but his grip was slack with blood and he could only watch as his best friend was swallowed by the gaping maw of the desert. He tried to dig, clawing at the sand with his bare hands but somehow it had hardened to cool tile.
His vision swam, the heat of the sun became cold and the shadows retreated. "Please help me," he whispered but they were gone now; there was no one left to listen. The dream done, Tommy drifted off into an uneasy sleep that was closer to death than he deserved.
It was the cold, not the sunlight, that woke Tommy the next morning. It took him a while to orientate himself, slumped as he was against the shower door. His hands ached and he stared down at them, the bruises, the bloody fingernails, and though he knew how he got them, he felt detached from the memory. Ignoring it, he got to his feet and stumbled into the shower, letting the cold sweat and old blood disappear down the drain.
The morning was passed by following his usual routine - a dance Tommy had learnt the steps to a long time ago. He gulped down a black coffee shot with whiskey without tasting it before dressing in his gym gear. He couldn't stomach the idea of having to face anybody so instead he jogged around the block, over and over, as many times as it took before he lost count and the cold burn of exercise blocked out everything else.
It was late afternoon when he got home, the heat in the day fading fast with the oncoming autumn. Tommy headed to the bathroom to splash some water on his face, when he saw the broken glass. It was uncomfortable recalling the night before, like prodding a wound, and so he switched off. Reverting to autopilot, he cleared away the mess, the sound of the glass hitting the bottom of the trashcan sounding very far away.
Looking back on it, Tommy probably got his habit of reverting to cleaning when stressed from his Ma. Whenever she and Pop had had a bad fight, the house would always stink of bleach the next day; when she would hug him goodnight, he would be able to smell it on her like a perfume. Now, when he poured it out onto the floor in great gulps, he got flashes of her murmuring to the ceiling, fixing her apron, smiling that plastic smile she had. When the bleach stung the cuts on his hands, his broken fingernails, he imagined her holding him tight; he scrubbed harder.
It was long into the night when he finished, every surface and floor scoured bitterly clean - but nothing had changed. He was just as dirty as he had been before. Some stains never come out.
He didn't sleep that night. Like a coward, Tommy couldn't face the long stretch of memory that taunted him when he closed his eyes and he was scared of what demons lay waiting in the shadows. Instead he finished unpacking his things, took his time finding each thing a place of its own. Everyone always assumed his neatness had been trained into him by the Marines, but he'd always been careful about where to put things. If a single toy had been found out of place by Pop, he'd never see it again.
When dawn finally came, Tommy stumbled over to the couch and threw himself down, panting like he'd just lost a fight. The apartment was so quiet. The curtains were drawn but a thin spear of morning light broke through and Tommy was mesmerised by the way the dust motes danced in it like fireflies. Beauty could be found anywhere, he thought.
Just then, his phone rang. Tommy flinched, hesitating for second before he recognised the ring tone. Lurching upwards, he grabbed at the phone like it was a rope thrown to a drowning sailor.
"Hello?" he gasped out.
"Honey, you okay?" Oh, fuck. Her voice shot light through the darkness of him like stained glass and he felt like he was choking on it, drowning. Unable to speak for a moment, he had to lean back and close his eyes, taking a deep breath. He could hear Harley waiting on the other end.
"Yeah, babe, I'm alright."
"You sure?" She sounded uncertain and for a single heartbeat Tommy was ready to let it all out, to say everything he was thinking - but she wasn't ready for it. Hell, he wasn't. So, he lied.
"I said I'm fine, babe. You good?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry I didn't call yesterday, I got caught up with mum." She sounded so sad, so tired, that it reaffirmed to Tommy that he couldn't be honest with her even if he wanted to: she was already dealing with so much, he couldn't add any more weight to the mantle on her shoulders.
"Harley, it's fine. Don't worry 'bout it."
"I know, it's just… she's really bad at the moment and everything's up in the air with having somewhere to stay. Listen, I know I was planning on coming back to yours tonight but I think I need to stay with her, is that okay?" Tommy's heart sunk, pictured having to lie awake for another night, finding things to stop him from falling asleep.
"Yeah, yeah," he ground out against the fear he felt at the things that haunted him at night, the voices and the eyes that always watched him. He couldn't be angry at Harley, he know he couldn't, but he couldn't stop the way his voice sharpened.
"Er, you sure? You don't sound like it." Her voice matched his and his skin prickled as if he sensed thunder in the air.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. It's fine."
"Are you seriously pissed at me right now?" Harley snapped, tone harsh. He could hear the temper in her voice, felt his own flare to match.
"No, I ain't pissed at you. Fuck sake, Harley, stop itchin' for a fight."
"You know what, Tommy? Whatever. Fucking whatever." There was no such thing as a dramatic hang up these days thanks to touch screens but the aggression with which Harley ended the call had Tommy dumbstruck. He went back over the conversation, imagined all the things he could have said. Baby, I had a nightmare. Baby, I'm scared. Baby, I love you. But he hadn't and he was left standing in the dark, alone again.
He couldn't stand it. He'd thought having a new apartment would mean a fresh start but it was him not the house that was haunted and he'd brought his demons with him. They were with him now, creeping around corners, ghosts on the stairs. It was too much, too much, so he grabbed his bag from his room and ran to the gym, unable to slow down enough to get into the car. When he arrived at the door, he adopted a strict poker face before heading inside, shoulders stiff.
"Morning!" Colt called from the office and Tommy nodded at him before heading to the changing rooms. The gym was quiet this early in the morning so he was able to claim the biggest punching bag in the place. He wrapped his frustration and fear around his knuckles like barbed fire, turning his weakness into a weapon the way he always did. The bag swung with each impact of his fists, the creak of the chain echoing around the hall which the other patrons tried to ignore. He was an animal, a beast, raging at the bars of his cage.
Hours passed but Tommy only stopped when he heard Colt calling him from the doorway. When he turned, he saw that they were the the last ones left, dusk beginning to settle like snow on the road outside.
"Tommy, I need to talk to you about Torrent." It took a moment before Tommy got his meaning and he recalled the face of the man in question, his fists clenching at his sides in anticipation. This was it, this is what he needed: something to funnel his energy, his anger.
"Look, Tommy - I'm not gonna put you down for the fight. I'm sorry, man, but I don't think you're... ready for it, what with your shoulder an' all. You'd be a sitting duck in the ring."
It was like a kick to the gut, the cherry on top of his already fucking shitty day. At first all he could do was blink at Colt, not believing what he was hearing. He was the best fighter in this dump, more than capable - and willing - to knock that Torrent punk on his ass. The only one there every damn day, he had been working hard to prove himself, but apparently it meant sweet fuck all.
"My shoulder's fine," he growled, interrupting whatever Colt was going to say next. The manager stopped and sighed, running his hand over his bald head, visibly uncomfortable. He didn't want to argue with Tommy but he couldn't back down on this. Any opponent would immediately target Tommy's injury and if something happened to his star fighter as a consequence, it'd be his fault.
"As your friend and as your manager, I can't let you participate in this fight until we get proper medical sign off that there is no risk. Maybe next time, okay?" It was the sorta shit you said to a kid who didn't get picked at soccer practice and it made Tommy's skin crawl. He went to argue but Colt didn't want to be on the receiving end of Tommy's ire so he quickly spun on his heel and headed back to his office, closing the door firmly behind him. The magnitude of his dismissal was almost obscene.
It was a thing of pride that kept Tommy rooted to the spot for as a long as he was, seething, silent. To leave was to admit defeat but he wouldn't beg for something he knew he wasn't going to get. So, shoulders tense and fists clenched, Tommy grabbed his stuff and left.
When he got back to the apartment, the first thing he did was pour himself a whiskey. He threw it back as he stood braced against the kitchen counter, staring hard at nothing. It went down too easy so he poured himself another and another until the burn of it hitting his throat was enough to break through the haze. After his third, he wandered through to the couch, whiskey bottle in hand, and slumped against the cushions, head tilted back.
His phone buzzed, startling him from the half-sleep he had fallen into, and he pulled it from his pocket. Harley's name flashed across the screen, the notification in the corner showing him that he'd already missed a number of calls. His thumb twitched as if to answer, but instead he just waited until her name disappeared. A moment later, the voicemail icon appeared and this time he let it play.
"Hi, Tommy, it's me. I'm sorry about earlier, for snapping at you, it was uncalled for. I'm just - look, are you okay? If something's happened, if you need to talk, I'm here. I'll always be here for you, Tommy."
He waited until the echo of her voice died before throwing his phone out of sight.
This chapter was rewritten on 15 May 2017. The quote for this chapter is from the poem collection Crush by Richard Siken.
xo