Chapter Thirty-Six: Aftermath
The only music on the ride home was my mother's one sided arguments at the invisible enemy. Threats to call every single lawyer friend she's ever crossed paths with in her thirty-eight years of life; including the lawyer that handles the family estate. And I keep thinking this fruitless endeavor means nothing. As a Catholic school, a private institution, they can do, nearly, whatever they want- the only court that matters is the one of public opinion. And the public, of the only red-borough in all of New York City, would swoop to the defense of Saint Sebastian's Academy; even praise them for keeping the school and Church pure of infection.
I curl my hands into fists while mom digs through her bag trying to find her elusive cellphone- while driving.
I don't care about being expelled.
Or even being made an example of- what not to do, who not to be. I've never been the kind of student SSA wanted roaming the halls. The only thing I offered was the check my parents wrote at the beginning of the school year; and six thousand dollars a year bought my right to exist with the rest of the Staten Island elite. But I hated that place the moment I walked through the double doors and my first greeting came from the blank, dead, stare from Jesus hanging on the cross. I've begged to be released from that prison- pleas that fell on the deaf ears of my parents who thought they knew what was best.
I can see my mother lamenting her choices as she punches her bag into the back of the car in frustration and shoots off curses in her native tongue- so fast I can't even register the filth as it leaves her lips.
"We're calling your father when we get-"
"No!" I shout. "Don't call him."
My stomach lurches at the thought of getting him involved, right now. She sighs aggressively, and I don't blame her for wanting to include him, but I can't even fathom having to explain every, little, detail. I can't even wrap my head around the fact that I've been backed into a corner with no escape. I have to come out to him whether I want to or not. And thought pierces my head like a bullet in my skull- and the headache that forms doubles my vision and sends bile up my throat.
I puke burning hot liquid the moment the car comes to a stop and I open the door. My mother too engrossed in her rage to even notice- which I'm fine with, because I can do without the extra layer of embarrassment- and she springs from the car to the house. I lean back in my seat, wipe my sick with the back of my sleeve, and stare out the window- at the closed garage door with the dent in the center from one of my mother's mishaps. And I think how could it be possible life was easier when she was drunk, and dad was non-existent, and I was abusing drugs and alcohol to hide the fact I'm gay.
A toxic laugh boils in my throat.
I can't even register everything happening. What terrible, torrential, road did I choose?
No, I didn't choose this. It was thrusted upon me with complete disregard. And I have no fucking control any more of the outcomes-
Another thought tries to poke through. And I press both fists to my eyes to rid myself of the pressure migraine splitting my mind in two. Everything's too fucking loud. And I just need it to be quiet for a minute. I feel like I've been dragged under water. The noises from suburbia in the mid afternoon sound muffled- far. Static against my ears. But a cool breeze seeps through the open door, tickles my skin, and offers some oxygen in my lungs.
I want to be fucking sad about this; crawl into my bedroom, hide under the sheets, close the curtains and wallow until I melt into the fabric.
But white hot rage crashes like a wave; and I want to break someone or something in my fist. Punch a wall, or picture, have the glass cut my skin.
And when the undertow rips my stomach to shreds, I feel nothing. Neither sad, nor angry. No other emotion I could put into words. I exist and I know I exist. I have flesh that goosebumps when the wind slaps my face. I have bones that crack when I move because my posture is shit and I slouch in an attempt to hide from everything.
And I realize this new sensation both overwhelms and calms.
My chest no longer feels loose and frayed, like a million electrical wires trying to find purpose. And my stomach sits as still as a statue. But I'm waiting for that next crash of a wave. But the water just keeps receding further and further into the horizon. And it's only a matter of time before it rushes back with all the force of tsunami-
No. Fuck this.
I get out of the car.
What am I actually concerned about right now? I'm getting expelled? Or forced out of this school. Why does this bother me?
I walk inside. Let the messenger bag with the school logo slip off my shoulders and crash to the floor.
No, this doesn't bother me. I'm not bothered about getting kicked out- I've been doing everything to get that outcome. Smoking in the boys bathroom. Showing up to homeroom still drunk. I jumped Sephiroth knowing the consequences. Written damning essays. Cursing out nuns.
I follow my mother's quaking voice to the kitchen, where she paces back and forth; she's speaking German but I don't understand the inflections or tones.
Maybe it's the fact I'm not getting kicked out for anything I actually did, but for a story told from a liar's foul mouth. But the implications were finally the last straw.
I glide to the sliding glass doors which offer a view of Reno's massive home. The windows peak over the fence my father built like two sinister black eyes.
No, I'm not upset I'm more than likely getting kicked out- junior year to boot- and will have to start over in a different school. With different people. And my previous excitement at the thought of going to Tifa's school died when she walked out my side entrance, into the arms of Rude, and refused to speak to me again. Rightfully so, but fuck that still hurts.
No. No. What I'm feeling isn't anger towards injustice. Or the worriment of the unknown next steps. Or the crushing sadness of my secrets willfully exposed to the world. No.
I feel the tidal wave. And it's blind fear. For someone else; who I have fallen in love with at entirely too young of an age to understand the consequences of that intensity. But I felt it the second we met we were connected. Like we knew each other in a past life- or in an alternate universe. He could read my mind with a look, and I could do the same with just the way he flicked his eyes in my direction. And I fell for him the moment our lips met. Maybe even before. And I sewed our futures together in the fabric in my mind-
And now there's a possibility, in that house, all those hopes and dreams are being ripped and torn into
Nothing.
I can't let that happen.
Fuck, I'm about to do something real dumb.
I rip the sliding door open and charge outside, my mother yelling after me "where the fuck- what the fuck are you doing!?" But I don't bother answering because she's a million miles away, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and I am here. On a one way street, with no fucking plan. And try to gather as much momentum in my stiff legs- when was the last time I ran an actual lap?- and run for the fence, weakened from the times Reno climbed over to see me. Weak and flimsy. And I hear the crack of wood splintering my shoe makes contact in the middle and I grab the edge-
Use whatever upper body strength God gave me birth to hurl myself up and over the fence-
And this shit must be higher than any other fence I've taken while running from cops through backyards of strangers houses. Because my arms yell similar expletives as my mother. And my lungs, blackened and covered in tar, laugh as I literally just toss my body over the other side…
I think about the first time Reno did this- how graceful he looked when he landed hard on his ankle. His long limbs with sculpted muscles tightening when he braced for impact.
And-I'm too distracted by just the image of him, that I flounder like a dying fish and slam to ground, on my shoulder, with a loud thud I swear alerts the whole fucking neighborhood to my epic failure.
I roll on my side to the tune of my own deranged laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of what I am doing. I hear my mother shouting at me from the other side. But I'm still under water so nothing she says makes sense. Just her last "What the fuck!" echoing behind her as she leaves- I'm guessing so she can grab the car and sprint to the other side of the street. To...stop me? Nah, she'll never make it. I gather my bruised bones and ego- make a mental note to get back in the gym with Barret- and dust myself off.
I have never been on this side of the yard. No grass in sight. The entire length covered by stone pavers; and I notice the once large tree that had been rooted in the center most of my life has been completely eradicated and replaced with a ridiculous pool that takes up most of the yard. There's a white gazebo on the other end surrounded by bushes and small concentrated sections of blossoming flowers. Unlike my yard, rusted old furniture left to the elements are non-existent. This place screams luxury.
But I refocus. He also has a sliding door that leads into his house. The lights are on and I try that first.
Acknowledge that I have about zero game plan.
I dig into my pocket, thankful I kept my phone there and it isn't shattered from my landing. I call my house number knowing my mother won't be home, probably circling the block right now- and hope the voicemail box isn't full. At least if these people try to, I don't know, murder me…
I pause.
Recall the broken threads of a story Reno told me at the beach. His father's retaliation to the news of his sexuality. History repeats itself, now...what am I walking into?
And if that was supposed to deter me, it doesn't. I continue to the sliding door and to my surprise, it's not locked. Idiots. Clearly new to the scene.
I quietly make my way through the ornate monster of southern indulgence. Keeping my ears cautiously opened for any sounds of hurt, pain...Something that grips me and chills my body to the core. The mud room I traverse through offers nothing, still too far outside the comfort of the home, but I make my way to the glowing light of a kitchen. I can hear the muffled voices grow and I swallow my wavering fear away; try to find strength somewhere in this broken image of a boy. I'm just a boy-
I emerge into the sterile kitchen which glistens and shines unnaturally. Like no one has cooked a single meal in this place. A staged home. Something you see in a catalog. Everything new from the modern black appliances that line the walls- a refrigerator with only a calendar...no pictures of family, no drawings from their toddler son-
"Hello," a small voice sends my soul to hell for a second and I snap my head towards the owner. A tiny human. With the same auburn hair as his father, though with darker hues of brown, and bright blue eyes that are a dead ringer for his older brother that they startle me. I wonder if Reno looked like him as a kid. Small. Adorably innocent. He stands up in his seat, with a peanut sandwich in his hands and all over his chunky baby face. He seems completely unfazed by the intruder in his house, disheveled blonde hair that clings to my forehead from beads of sweat, and a wrinkled uniform that I'm sure has some fresh wear and tear from the encounter with pavers. His smile bright, wide, forcing his eyes to close.
"Uh, hey, P-Pheonix," I say, and he giggles.
"Who are you?" He tilts his head to the side, chewing his sandwich with his mouth open. He's never seen me before. He's just...looking at me like this is a completely normal occurrence. And I count this as a second strike against his parents. Unlocked doors? No stranger danger?
"I'm a friend of your brother…" I arch an eyebrow, waiting for...something...for him to scream for help. But he just nods his head and continues to eat his sandwich. "Do you know where he is?"
He shrugs, "Daddy and Reno were fighting. And uh-" He points to the ceiling, "I think they went upstairs or" he points to the floor, "Downstairs."
"You're a great help," I roll my eyes- though who's the asshole interrogating a five year old. "I'm just gonna take a look around, cool stuff?" He nods and goes back to eating his sandwich. I leave him at the kitchen table, unsafely standing in his chair staring at a coloring book, and continue to make my way through the house.
A labyrinth. I feel like I'm in a never ending hallway that breaks into entirely too large rooms that have no other purpose but to give off the illusion of grandeur. And I thought my house was a farce. A perfectly constructed mask to hide the ugly on the inside. But my house has cracks in the foundations and holes in the wall. And destroyed furniture that we've left to the elements, and I can't think of a better place to fully represent how fucked up the Strifes are on the inside- once you look past the mowed lawn and stunning stained glass door. But at least we own it- now. This, the library with rows of books, the family room without the TV, the other family room with the grand piano. Everything muted. Dark. Wood paneling and neutral curtains. Fake flowers and plastic plants. No pictures of a family. None of Reno, at least. No wedding photos. I pass a portrait in one of the rooms of what looked like a larger family- maybe his father's.
But I'm not really trying to focus on the lack of character- or soul- in this house. I'm trying to listen for chaos.
I'm met with silence like the deepest part of space.
And I can't find a fucking staircase anywhere.
And my resolve begins to weaken the longer I roam these empty halls. The tsunami in my stomach rumbles- ready to make landfall. I can't find him...any remnant of him. I wonder all the things they have done to him in the past; if this is a repeat. What if it's worse? What if he can't call out for help to deaf ears? He told me how he blacked out the first time; my whole body starts to tense with primal fear. Nausea swirls. And I know my mother is either circling the block, or trying to figure out exactly which house I ran into; and I'm racing against the clock. If she rings the bell and pulls me out, it's over. Really over.
But if I find him, then what?
I come up to a foyer that's about the size of my parent's master bedroom. Two large white double doors leading to the front yard and desolate street. Another entrance across from me and what looks like an art room littered with portraits. I finally find the gold bannister staircase that leads to the upper portion of the house. I strain my ears for any sounds of distress- but I met with the howl of the wind rattling the glass. I think of calling out to him, but my throat tightens at the thought of hearing my raspy voice echoing back to me- and all that would alert his parents to the stranger in their house.
Well, not a stranger actually.
I'm about to make my way to the staircase when the house shaking captures my attention.
Frantic footsteps charging up stairs. Boom boom boom. Like small explosions.
A door flying open- followed by two other sets of feet in pursuit. From the art room, objects crashing to the floor. Shattering glass. The sounds enclose around me-
And Reno emerges from the room, skidding to a stop when he sees me- face flushed, broken, bloodied. Red liquid gathering in his mouth, falling from bruised lips. His knuckles cut with scratches from returned punches. He's sweating, breathing as if his lungs are about to collapse. His uniform completely destroyed. Stained and covered in rips and tears. He lost his tie at some point, but I notice the red ring forming around his neck like a noose.
He narrows his blue eyes directly at me. "Cloud?" He hisses, "What the fuck-"
I don't hear him finish his sentence, I snap my eyes over his shoulder to the image of his vengeful father emerging from the darkness. And he must have seen the way my eyes go wide, because he swings around in time to dodge his father's extending arm. His bare teeth glowing, salivating with rage. But Reno backs up, colliding into an unfortunate end table decorated with fake orchids and a picture of a modest scenery, sending both to the floor in a chorus of destruction.
His father raises his fist but halts any movements when he catches my form in the corner of his bloodshot eyes. A satisfying tear of blood rolls down the wrinkles of his face from an open wound near his temple. His glasses missing now; his lids puffed and rimmed a vermillion red. Trembling blues that attempt to register my existence in his perfect home. Clicks, like from the hooves of a horse, advance from behind me. And I turn, to see a tall, regal woman, dressed in a black turtleneck and black slacks. Strawberry blonde hair pulled back into a bun so tight, it stretches her facial features into an unnatural form. Her almond shaped eyes narrow, almost completely white, with a hint of baby blue. Like something out of Village of the Damned. Her thin lips pinched shut with a visible frown.
She regards me with the tightening of her lids, then looks at her husband who brings his fist intended for his son back to his side.
"Who's this?" She snaps.
"The boy our son got himself entangled with," Don drawls.
Not liking being spoken to like I don't fucking exist, I turn back to the woman and offer her a two finger salute. "Hi-ya, I'm Cloud Strife…"
She recoils, "A Strife?" Her sours like my last name tasted foul on her tongue.
"What are you doing in my house?" he growls, giving me his full attention. His breathing slowly returns to an even state as he adjusts his suit jacket and attempts to create an illusion, like he wasn't just about to hit his son.
And I roll the question through my head. The sweat making the phone in my hand slick as it continues to, hopefully, record anything. What am I doing here? I felt drawn like a moth to a burning fire. My legs moved as if carried by another force completely. My brain focused on a single task- find Reno.
Well I found him- cut up and trying to hide the tremble rocking his body. His hands in his pockets now; and I can see the outline of the straight razor as his fingers enclose around the handle. I blink back to his father, who waits impatiently for my explanation. Fist clenched. The leather sole of his shoe tapping like rain on the roof.
I stumbled in here without a plan and now I have three sets of eyes all a different shade of blue glued to me. But the only color that matters flickers like lightning.
"Reno."
He offers me a side glare- splitting his attention between me and his father. His taut lips, like a perfect straight line, twitch when I call for him. "You can leave…" I find myself saying and he arches an eyebrow at me. "Just walk out the door. We can talk to someone about getting you emancipated-"
His father roars with laughter; his voice like the static of radio. "He's seventeen-years-old. He can not be emancipated unless the motion is filed in conjunction with another court case." Don's false smile shrivels away. "And if he tries to leave, I'll report him as a runaway and he'll be dragged back here whether he likes it or not."
"Not if I call CPS and report you for child abuse," I hiss. "He told me what you did to him."
"I can discipline my son any way I see fit."
"So breaking his arm in two places and then lying to the doctors about the nature of his injuries is discipline in Tennessee?"
"Yes," he confirms; throwing a look at his son-who's been stunningly quiet to the point it unnerves me, "if only he learned that lesson the first time."
"And now, he's bleeding, running away from you…"
"Yes. In my home in which you are currently trespassing," he crosses his arms over his chest.
I bite the inside of my lip. Donald Sinclair regards me with little patience- and I'm running out of time before this escalates. Reno's mother huffs to my left, hands locked on her hips as she stares daggers at her husband. Or maybe that's the botox pulling at the corners of her eyes.
"I'll tell everyone." My simple response. Only thing I could come up with. "I'll tell my parents. My neighbors. All my friends. I'll tell everyone what you are doing to your son. My best friends' have parents who are social workers and uncles who are police officers. I'll tell the one teacher at our school who gives a shit. I'll tell everyone and anyone."
"Who are they going to believe?" his father shakes his head, taking his eyes off me to look at his brick wall of a wife. "A respected lawyer, friends with the borough president himself, or you?" The way he enunciates you like it sums up all my faults. Just the simple inflection should tell the world how unreliable I am. "Go ahead. Tell them what you saw today. No one will believe the likes of you over me. There's nothing you can do, boy. So, run on home to your drunk mother."
The way his words slither through his tongue like a rattle snake's warning dance freezes my lips shut. I take them in. Look over at Reno, his right arm trembles; hand still in the pocket gripping onto the blade. And there's the same glower expression with murder in his eyes as in the bathroom, when he had Yazoo on the floor and the cold metal on his cheek. My stomach drops.
I came here for him...
So, I swallow my fear, stand tall. Point my glare at his father. "Yeah, you got me, sir. People may not believe just me but," I raise the phone from behind my back, showing the time of the call ticking up- which I inward take a breath of relief that the message machine didn't cut off. "I mean, good thing my mom sucks at answering the phone and it's been recording this whole time."
Don's smirk crashes and burns. Jaw clenched tight. He looks between the three people in the room. First his son, their silent exchange so tense you could see the smoke of frustration rise around them. Then to his wife, who crosses her arms over her chest, and shoots her husband a disappointed frown. Then me. My phone which still records. The gears turning behind his eyes. Trying to see just how much pull he has-
"That won't hold up in court," he counters flatly, but I anticipate he expects my next response.
"Sure," I shrug, "Court of public opinion is more damaging to a potential congressman, eh? Our last borough president lost his reelection after his grandson wrecked his car around a pole, drunk. Another guy lost when his daughter was caught one too many times with drugs in her system. Children really do a good job of fucking up your political career, right?"
"I'll block it-"
"My godfather is the editor of the Staten Island Advance," I bring the phone behind my back, still allowing it to record for as long as it can, "A democrat and huge critic of President Shinra. Imagine the scandal?" My lips twitch, overwhelmed with warmth from the control I suddenly wield. "Close friend of B.P Shinra and congress hopeful, Donald Sinclair, accused of child abuse. Or something along those lines. And even though Staten Island has some warped opinions, I'm pretty sure most would draw the line there."
The house falls quiet. My heart slamming against my ribcage becomes the only sound I can hear. A lump gathers in my throat. Part of me can't believe I stood up to him; this small man with hate and disgust tainted in his eyes. And the other part doesn't believe he's going to let me walk out of this house, with Reno. I look at his nameless mother, she stares blankly at her husband. No soul. Reno described her lacking any kind of emotion; and I note at no point did she even acknowledge the existence of her older son. Not even a flinch at the wounds on his face. The blood in his mouth. No argument when her husband admitted to his vulgar discipline techniques.
I realize they have engaged in their own muted conversation. And I get the sense the tides are starting to turn.
I run my tongue over my teeth to unhook my jaw. One more plea. "Just let him leave."
All three flick their eyes to me. And I continue, tentatively closing the gap between Reno and I, and never taking my eyes off the predator before me.
"Is it really worth the trouble?" I hate saying it like this; talking down about Reno like he doesn't exist in this room with us. But my last effort. My grand finale. "You sent him away once, right? It didn't work. You can't...change him. And I can argue that there's nothing that needs to be changed because he's perfect in every single way. And him being gay should not even be on your radar of things that needs to be fixed. But I'll just be wasting my breath, because all you care about is your political career and your image."
I pause and cringe at the despicable face he makes- a slight nod of agreement. And I can't see Reno because I'm focused on his father, but I can feel his muscles relax next to me. "So," I show him I shut the phone, ending the recording, "Just let him walk out. Leave him alone...let him live his life the way he wants and he's choices won't affect you or your future campaign, anymore."
I don't wait for his response and turn to face Reno completely. His shoulders deflated, but his eyes still wild and unpredictable. "Reno…" I whisper softly and he moves his glassy blues to me. And if we weren't in front of these people, I would pull him into a hug he would never vocalize he needed. "I told you...if you ever needed to run away…"
I extend my hand. And I still don't know if they will let him walk out that door. And if they do...how long before they call the boys with the white jackets to drag him away. And the thought evaporates the power I felt push my words from my mouth. But I feel his fingers glide across my palm. And interlock with mine. I'm absorbed into his gaze. His face still tense, but his eyes relax. And I wish I could heal the cut on his lip. And the bruise forming under his eye. And all the internal wounds he has never processed since he was outed. I know I'm afraid, and from how he squeezes my hand he's terrified.
I came here for him. I'm leaving with him and we'll face the consequences together.
We both look at his father, still engaged in his silent standoff with his unmoving wife.
"Right so," I start backing up towards the door with a willing Reno. His parents shoot us tense, emotionless, expressions but make no threats to stop us. "We're just gonna mosey home now…"
I open the door. The sun pours into the stuffy foyer illuminating the dust particles that fall around us like snow. The street devoid of life, the neighbors homes dark, but the natural light shines against the budding green trees and reflects over the black tar street. Smells like freshly cut grass and roses. Like new beginnings. One more foot out the door and we can start to put the pieces of our broken lives back together.
"Reno," the stern voice calls out. I squeeze his hand as he throws a hateful look at his father. "You walk out that door and you are no longer welcomed back. You are dead to this family."
A daunting pause. He doesn't move- and I'm worried he might change his mind. Walking out of ones family can not be easy. I've said it in passing. In empty threats. But the reality...this is the only world he's ever known. Those mannequin faces the only source of love he'd experience. Cold. Unforgiving. And while I am begging him with my own eyes, I would...understand if he couldn't bring himself to walk into the warmth of the outside. To the warmth of my home. To my own unstable teenage love.
But Reno shrugs, "I've been dead to this family for a year. What else is new?" He takes the first step out, dragging me with him, not waiting for his parents to retort. And the door closes on the Sinclairs unblinking, unflinching, forms.
We walk down the desolate street, hand in hand, gripping tightly until I feel the circulation cut off. My heart is still in a panicked state, but I swallow any harsh breaths that threaten to give away my current state.
Once we make it to the corner, out of the sight of his parent's home. He comes to a dead stop, rips his hand from mine. And before I have a chance to register what he's doing, he starts a half-assed assault on my shoulder while expletives spill carelessly from his mouth.
" . ?!" he shouts, with every syllable accented with his southern drawl.
"Woah!" I grab his wrist to halt his weak attack and pull him a step closer. He's taller, looks down into my eyes; half misguided rage and half a well of tears that he swallows back. "I'm not insane. I wasn't going to let you get hurt."
"So, you just break into my house? What if my dad pulled out his fucking gun, yo!"
"Like he would shoot me?" I scoff with a nervous laugh, but Reno doesn't share in my amusement.
"Yeah, he fucking would," he bites and unhooks my hand from his wrist. "And you call me short-sighted."
He turns to spit some of the gathering blood from his mouth, wiping it away with the back of his hand. In the waning light, shadows cast from underneath the tree we stand below, I see the bruise begin to form. And everything in me stalls. I instinctively reach my hand to cup his wounded cheek, almost expecting him to slap my limb away. But he surprises me with just a tense look. One I struggle to read with all the conflict etched along the lines of his face as he leans into my touch. Out in the open. No use hiding when the world knows of our apparent transgressions.
"Are yo-"
"Don't ask me dumb questions," he growls, "of course I'm not."
"I'm sorry," I let my hand begin to fall, gliding calloused fingers along the smoothness of his skin, but he captures my wrist against freezing us in that position.
"Sorry for what?" His tone softens, "Gotta stop apologizing for shit that ain't your fault."
There's a crack in his voice. One he tries to hide with a wounded cough, like his words slice through his throat as tiny razor blades. And I twist my hand from his grasp and immediately replace my affection with both arms around his neck, pulling him as close as his body allows. I can feel the exposed skin of his chest through my button down, and he's both warm and freezing as the wind washes over us. He doesn't move at first. Doesn't return the hug. I squeeze him because he doesn't feel real to me. Like there's still a possibility he'll be ripped from my arms and cease to exist. The thought is unbearable.
Then he moves; his face into my hair where he takes a sharp breath and then his arms envelope my body; his firm hands pushing on my back and somehow we manage to get closer. And like our bodies are molded to one another. I can't tell where I begin and he ends. The curvatures like roads that intersect and collide. I don't know which one of us shakes. Or if it's his knees that feel like they are about to give out, or mine. I think one of us has a sob locked in their chest- or both.
Suddenly the reality that I've kept in the back of my mind begins to bring itself to the forefront.
Everything has changed within the span of almost two weeks. And nothing will ever be the same. We can't go back- be it to school, or the closet. Reno can't even go back home. A thought that punctures and he squeezes tighter as if he could read my mind. I'm sure questions plague him which he has yet to vocalize. What's next? Where will he go? And the answer becomes obvious to me, but that could be wishful thinking.
A car door closing puts a cap on my erupting thoughts. We drop our tangled limbs and move away- instinct- and look at the source of the noise. My mother's white SUV parked across the street and her stomping towards us with her eyes focused directly at me.
"What the hell, Cloud Strife?!" She shrieks, throwing her hands in the air, "You can't just run into people's backyards that hate us, what if that asshole had a gun?"
I'm rattled. "I don't know!? Get shot and die, the fuck!"
"That's not the right answer," she fumes while shaking her head incredulously. Then she spots Reno, next to me, and her face drops. Her furious gray eyes move around his face; first confused, as if she tries to remember if he had these wounds on his face when we left Heidegger's office. Then wide, eyebrows raised to the sky, as the realization dawns on her.
"Oh no," her voice soft as a feather that hardly has enough energy to reach our ears. She takes a hesitant step, examining the cut and bruise on his face, and he flinches when she reaches her hands to get a better look. "What did they do to you?"
Reno doesn't answer. Curls his lips in and forces his eyes to look away. He's vulnerable; in a way I've never seen. Not even in the beginning of our relationship when his past trauma would leak into the bedroom while we tried to explore our bodies. He's fragile. And it frightens me to see someone so strong, who I've admired for his strength in the face of adversity, begins to unravel from just a kind touch from a mother.
"Come on," my mother's voice is stern, commanding. "Let's go."
"Where?" I question, not entirely sure what her intentions are; and I grab Reno's hand again as a firm stance that where I go, he goes.
Her eyes flick to our joined fingers in a flash and she simply responds. "Home."
Claudia wastes no time when we enter the house. She's furious and on a mission, as if the attack had happened to her own son. The message machine blinks one single message in red lights. I told her the contents of that message should be the phone call I made and she holds off on touching it until she can make one important phone call- to someone who could help Reno. She didn't even ask him what happened. But I guess the answer to the unasked question echoed across our faces; and a new problem to the even growing list presented itself.
"So, Cloud," she begins, her voice trembling as she digs into her bag once again for the missing cell phone she can't ever seem to find. "Why don't you get Reno some clothes so he can get comfortable?"
Reno and I exchange a look, and his lips waver into a smirk. A crack of normalcy during this chaos gives me hesitant hope. But his eyes are throbbing with pain from holding everything inside. There's a weight I can feel, heavy between us, and I know he needs some kind of release. Too proud to break down unlike me.
"Have at it," I urge him, returning a smile that feels forced, "Just don't take any of the five hundred black band shirts I own."
"Right, take all five hundred for myself, got it." He forces a chuckle; but it's all fake. He thanks me for not pushing him with a rapid blink, that steals some beats of my heart, and he heads upstairs. Allowing a flash of how utterly destroyed he feels across his broken face.
I follow my mother into the kitchen as she dumps the rest of the contents in her ridiculous Valentino purse.
"Who are you calling?" I ask just as she grabs her phone and flips it open.
"A friend who might be able to give us some advice on how to handle," she gestures frantically, "this whole shit."
"How do you know?" I grimace.
She halts, her thumb over the call button and eyes glued to the device. She drags her teeth across her bottom lip- and I know when I do that I'm racking my brain through a tragic memory. I don't know much about my mother's past. Only that she got pregnant too young with me and had to drop out of college, marry my father, and move into this house originally owned by opa. I deduced that her alcoholism and drug abuse began before my existence, and maybe I've followed a similar path as hers. But from the way her eyes seem to disappear, there's so much more to her story I've haven't even cracked open.
Then she looks directly at me. Our eyes meet- and this time when I read her, she has too many things she wants to say to me. But she smiles. "This, unfortunately, ain't my first rodeo." She looks back to the phone, "I've had my own run-ins with controlling men."
And I know the image of her father pops in her head as she pushes the call button. "Go," she waves me off, "go make sure he's okay…"
We both know, he's not.
And I know he struggles with showing emotions; I've gotten glimpse like puzzle pieces throughout the six months we've been together-
Six months. Feels longer. So much happened in just half a year. And this next chapter just seems riddled with too much conflict to be healthy. But I trudged upstairs, because clearly mom needs to have a private "adult" conversation with a mysterious person- a lawyer perhaps. Maybe an old friend who's helped her in the past? A time she needed to flee her own home..
The door to my room is half ajar when I reach the top of the stairs, and I creep in to the tune of the shower running- and I'm glad he feels comfortable enough to help himself to whatever amenities my house has to offer. I let a hopeful thought plant in my brain, that he should be comfortable because he'll be staying here for a while- but pause...at the selfishness of that hope. And how devastating the reality must be for him; if his only option for shelter is his off-on boyfriend…
I glide along the wall and stop by the bathroom, steam leaking from the crack in the door. I'm reminded of the first night we became one; as the clock struck midnight and 2004 gave way to 2005. And just like then, when he slipped into the privacy of the blue tiled room, he curses at an unseen enemy. Only this time every inhale he takes sputters and every exhale is a "fuck" that echoes above the crashing water.
I want to hold him.
Feed him well intentioned lies- that it's all over. He's safe.
But letting our guard now during these crucial moments could be detrimental. I pull myself away from the door, giving him at least some privacy, and change out of my own uniform that sticks to my body. My muscles burn and I realize I've been clenching my jaw this whole time, my shoulders up to my neck. My left arm screams in pain and I see the pinpricks of blood on skin from the impact on pavers. And I should be thanking whatever guardian angel got stuck with my case I didn't break my fucking arm, again.
I put on a pair of black ripped jeans and black long sleeve; thinking I can blend into the shadows and hide from the rest of the world. I just want to vanish for a bit- float through the lifestream completely detached from reality. Shut my brain off. Go to sleep for six years and wake up to nothing.
A cough from behind me pulls me from that fantasy as quickly as I entered. And I turn to Reno, leaning against the threshold, wearing my black sweats and white top. His hair still wet as he runs his fingers through the dripping locks of red.
"So, these are mine forever," he gestures to the pants without looking at me. "Cause I ain't got any boxers and I ain't wearing yours." He keeps his eyes on the floor, his humor disrupted by the pain etched along his iris'.
He's trying to bury his emotions with sarcasm and I'm not sure how to navigate these uncharted territories. And I know all the questions I want to ask mean nothing right now.
"You...think I'm skeeved by your dick all up in my pants?" I deadpan, "...considering where your dick has been…"
A twitch along his lips, but his voice still sounds miles away. "Point taken…" he folds his arms against his chest; his eyes look a million miles away, reliving some other tragic event. I take a seat on my bed, hoping silently he'll join me. But he's frozen stone; like a statue, leaning up against the threshold. "What's your mom doing?"
"I think she's making phone calls. Maybe a lawyer or something."
An acidic chuckle. "Yeah...what's that gonna do?"
His tone renders me silent and I pinch my lips shut. I don't have any words to help. Not hopeful exclamations. He's lived this life for seventeen years; he knows his parents better than I could ever want to. And while I know my mother can be vicious when it comes to protecting her own, for far too long I've only seen her as the lush who could barely pull herself from her bed to melt into a couch. Only conscious to jump to my defense, deserved or not. I know she's trying to help him because of me; because she definitely saw the way we kissed under the stars, and she knows from how I grabbed his hand, I'd sooner run away than leave him to wolves. How long will this umbrella she has over him last? When his father shows up with his own set of legal, threatening to take me down.
But...can't think about the future possibilities. All roads untraveled. All that matters is the present. The right now. Him staring into the corner struggling to to keep his face from showing every bit of hurt that throbs in his chest.
"Hey," I call out. He makes eye contact, though carefully. "What can I do to...help then?"
His frown softens as he scans my face. And he looks so closed off, so distant, I can't read him. And it makes me feel like I'm in the woods, navigating a minefield; one wrong step. He grunts, though, and joins me on the bed. His muscles shifting, bones cracking, as lowers himself close to me. Our legs meet; and under normal circumstances, I would have enjoyed the sparks that erupt when we touch.
Reno's eyes linger on the open closet; swallowing back words that he tastes on his tongue.
A dejected sigh shatters the silence. "This is the first time my dad's talked to me in nine months, you know." He tears his eyes away and stares at the bruises along his knuckles. "When my arm healed, he drove us up to New York to leave me and the car with Rude. Twelve hours, non stop. He found .christian propaganda channel to play the entire fucking ride. Over and over again. Just to really push the knife in and twist." He shakes his head with a devastating smile. "Then he dropped me off. We were standing outside the car and he handed me the keys. It was so bizarre; just a silent deal we made during the ride that I never agreed to. And then, right before he got into the cab to go back to the airport, he looked at me and said what a disappointment you turned out to be." He rests his head against his knuckles. "That was the last thing he said to me before today."
The words echo Heidegger. How many times can he hear such a lie before it takes root. Becomes a truth.
"When we got home," he continued, "he told me they were sending me away. This school for 'troubled boys.' down near Memphis. I'm an 'embarrassment' trying to 'ruin' him. He worked too fucking hard to get this fucking far just to have me destroy this family. And if I refuse to fall in line then I have no purpose" He mocks his father. His face curved with revulsion. "Then he mentioned your name and I…"
His voice trails off, lifts his head to look at his trembling hands, "I don't know what he started to say, but he never finished. I punched him in the face once I heard your name come out of his mouth." A shake of his head, "I threw the first punch so...he can say anything he wants and they'll take me away. He can send me to whatever hell he has planned and leave me to rot…"
I knew the situation was bad- dire even. But I mistook his resilience as control. Foolishly, I told myself he had a handle on this and...eleven months would be simple to navigate. The promises he made effortlessly. Now. Weeks later from that conversation in his car, where he begged me not to leave, that he would figure it all out. He could have it all- me and the luxury that comes with being a lawyer's son. And I believed in his assurances.
Now he sits on my bed, unsure of where he will be able to rest his head going forward.
"I can't go back," he whispers. His voice seizes though, as if all the sorrow that crushes his soul threatens to overflow, and he hides his broken eyes behind his lids as he tries to breathe his way through every quaking rumble of tears. And there are a million meanings behind his statement. Can't go back home. Can't go back to Tennessee to be subjected to more abuse. He can't go back for survival. He can't go back...because his parents don't want him.
I reach out to him, running my fingers over the red bruise around his neck- pushing away the image of how he received such a mark. He shivers under my touch, but doesn't stop me from pulling him against me. His head on my shoulder as my arms entangle him. He shakes within the safety of my embrace, but still refuses the pleasure of releasing his tears from the back of his eyes. So I just hold him. Rubbing the muscles on his arms that must burn from attacking all his enemies.
I have a chorus of words I wish to rain on him.
He will never go back to that place of hate; because his place is here.
And we will find a way to keep the monsters at bay. No one will hurt him again, not if I can help it. But I already anticipate his pessimistic counter arguments; because at the end of day, while short-sighted, he's pragmatic. While I'm a romantic without logic.
So I wash away all the cliches. Rest my head on his, and sing a poem I came across during my own dark days- hoping these stolen words will bring him comfort as they did for me:
"Tomorrow will be better
for tomorrow comes out of the lake."
