Luka watched the door close behind Susan, then he turned and made his way to the couch. He was exhausted, but then, when wasn't he any more? How could doing nothing all day be so fatiguing?
He had lied to Susan. He wasn't doing well. Oh, he was doing better; but he could hardly be doing worse then when he'd arrived in Chicago almost 4 months before, now could he? But 'well'? 'Well' was still a long ways away.
He still went to counseling with DeRaad, only once a week now, for all the good it did. He just didn't have much to tell him anymore. He had discussed all he could ever bear to discuss about Matenda. There was more, there was much more, but he could not talk about it. He could never talk about it, even knowing that talking was still the surest path to recovery.
How could he tell DeRaad about the guilt, the shame ... the feelings that seemed to be worsening over time rather than getting better? The feelings that he knew had their roots in experiences that dated from long before he'd ever gone to Africa. The feelings that made him fight to control the shudders when anyone touched him. That made him know, with utter certainty, the truth of his words to Susan, "But if you're hoping for more ... it isn't going to happen."
He had tried to make excuses to himself for his lack of interest. He had a dozen excuses, all of them entirely reasonable. He was still not well physically ... too tired most of the time to even think about sex, let alone want it. And he was still taking the ARVs. Until he was sure he was safe (not that he wouldn't use protection anyway, of course), he wouldn't risk it. And if he was to have a relationship ... with anyone ... he would have to tell her about the possible exposure, let her make an educated decision - and that was something he just couldn't do. Once he'd had his 6 month test, and was in the clear, he'd think about it then.
And his leg. Susan had never seen his leg. It was not pretty. He wasn't yet comfortable with having people see it. He needed more time to get comfortable again himself with his new body image before he let other people see him again, not only the horribly scarred leg, but the lesser scars that peppered the rest of his body.
And it wasn't as if it had been so long ... not really. Only a few months, and he'd been sick for much of that time. He'd been celibate for far longer than that many times in his life.
And there was just too much he still felt he couldn't tell her ... tell anyone. Relationships didn't work when people had secrets. Until he could be open with her ... with himself ... he couldn't have a relationship.
Still, Luka knew that those were all excuses. None of them explained the feeling of shame .. of dirtiness, when he touched his own body in the shower, the queasiness when he even thought about being with someone again ... or the far more powerful nausea on the occasional mornings when he woke to find that his body had found its own release as he'd slept.
No ... he couldn't be with Susan. He couldn't be with anyone. Not now. Maybe not ever. And if he couldn't ... well, he had been celibate before. And it wasn't as if the idea bothered him now. It had been difficult at other times, but not now.
Danijela of course had been his first. He'd been young when they had married, but not as young as all that. Most of his friends had had 'experience,' and he'd had to endure their good natured teasing when he told him that he and Danijela were going to wait until they were married - until she was old enough to marry him. They'd offered to fix him up with girls who would provide him with 'experience,' ("You don't want to go to Danijela on your wedding night all embarrassed and awkward, do you?") some for money, some just for the fun of it. But Luka had refused. He couldn't imagine doing such a thing to Danijela - if she was going to wait for him, he would wait for her. And to have sex with someone he didn't love ... he just couldn't picture such a thing. When the day had finally arrived, and the night, he hadn't been awkward or embarrassed at all, and neither had she. He and Danijela had learned together ... and it had been perfect.
For 5 beautiful years there had been only Danijela. Then there had been no-one. For the first few years after losing her, Luka again couldn't imagine being with anyone else. He couldn't imagine loving anyone else, and, after the perfect bond he had had with Danijela, the idea of sex without love seemed even more appalling than it had been before. He could wait. He would wait.
After a few years his friends again began to urge him to date again. "You can't grieve forever, Luka. Danijela wouldn't want that." So Luka had tried to date. There had been one woman he'd seen for a few months, Eva. That had been good, they had gotten along well, had even slept together a few times, but then her family had emigrated to Germany to escape their memories of the war. And there had been a few others. All of them had pushed Luka into bed too quickly, leaving him feeling vaguely dirty and ashamed ... the sex had not been good, and he had ended the relationships quickly.
Then he had come to America. Again, for the first few years he had been alone. He'd moved around too much, been too shy and uncomfortable with the language to get to know people, to develop any relationships. And while he could have picked up women in bars (it was no secret to him that women found him attractive, more than a few had tried to pick him up), that wasn't what he wanted. Being alone was better than meaningless sex with strangers.
And then, he'd come to Chicago, come to County and he had met Carol. He had known almost immediately, that, for the first time in 10 years, he'd found a woman he could love; a woman he wanted to be with. He had courted her patiently for months, never getting more, never wanting more than a kiss. Knowing that waiting would make the relationship right, would make it happen. But it hadn't happened. Suddenly she was gone, to find her true love, her soul mate.
And Abby. She too had pushed him into bed rather quickly, perhaps a bit more quickly than he was ready for. But, maybe because he was older now, more mature, or perhaps because he had begun to learn that you couldn't wait ... you didn't have to wait, the relationship had worked. Oh, it wasn't perfect (obviously not ... it too had ended ...), they hadn't always communicated well ... but they had been a good match sexually; and they had gotten along. No, he probably hadn't loved her, certainly not like he had loved Danijela, like he could have loved Carol had she allowed him to, but he had cared for her, and she for him. When it had fallen apart, it had been a shock. To this day, he still didn't quite know what had happened.
Then had been Nicole. Another woman he had cared for ... at least until he'd learned that she had just been using him to get what she wanted from him. The relationship had been brief, but good while it lasted.
And then ... suddenly everything had changed. He had suddenly changed. Caring ... feelings ... none of that seemed to matter to him anymore. How many had there been? A few dozen? Fifty? Maybe more. One night stands. A quick half hour in his car, or hers, or an empty room in the ER. Brief relationships. Married women. Prostitutes. He'd forgotten most of their names. Some, he'd never even known their names. Oh, none had been unwilling, but none had been people to him ... women. He hadn't cared about any of them. They had just been bodies. A source of pleasure ... of his own physical pleasure, or of power - the power of knowing that he could give them pleasure.
They had just been bodies to him. When the moment was done, they were all forgotten ... they all blended together in his memory now ... he couldn't even begin to think how many there had been, couldn't picture any of their faces, any of their bodies. Even Gillian. He could just about remember Gillian's face, but not her body. How had they felt when it was done? When he had left them for his next conquest? Had they felt ashamed? Dirty?
They had been just bodies. Not people. Just as he had been. To Them. In Matenda. A way to demonstrate their power. He could have been anyone. He knew that none of them remembered his face, his body.
He did deserve what had happened to him. He had earned it. Just a small payback for the pain he had caused to so many others ... in so many ways. Ashamed. Dirty. They would have felt that way, of course. How could they not? How could a woman not feel that way after having been used? How could he ever not feel that way, after having been used. After having used so many others. Having hurt so many others. In so many ways.
