I do care.
Yes, Tony was a motherfucker but christ - look at him now. Six foot four and 10 stone - the weakness and weight loss inevitable when you're being fed through a tube for half a year. But mostly it's the struggle - watching this formerly cunning, daring, charismatic alpha male reduced to an alternately sobbing, raging mess half the time ... but more and more these days, like when he snaps at you and makes demands, you get glimpses of the old Tony, which is both amazing and also a bit annoying. One did hope he would come back all the way, of course ... only with maybe a slightly different personality.
Still, watching, and even participating in his progress has been pretty fucking mind blowing to say the least; exhilarating, even. I'm imagining it's what it's like to raise a child - only in that case, the stumblings over language and making sense of basic things is understandable. In Tony's, it's just sad. And for that reason I guess I understand why Michelle and Sid have stopped coming - they who loved him like family - cuz in a way it's unbearable to watch, too fucking upsetting to not, for example, be recognized, for him to remember zero - nothing - of the many things once shared.
Still though, it makes my blood boil. Ya, I wasn't Tony's closest mate but he was a friend and any idiot can see he's in desperate need of support and connection. And since when do you abandon loved ones when they're desperate ?
Good thing is, the doctors say he has a better than average chance of coming back most, if not all of the way, but they stress that they can't guarantee anything and so don't wanna raise expectations too much. In Tony's favor is that he's young and strong, despite the beating he's taken, and more importantly, is highly intelligent, which we're told means his brain would have had maybe twice the usage of the average 17 year old's, and therefore, like a strong muscle versus an atrophied one, has a far greater chance of self repair.
I'm horny sometimes - that's suddenly come roaring back, which is just torture, cuz what good does it do me when my cock doesn't work ? Yes, I've tried - Sid, that's his name, the supposed best mate who hasn't visited in weeks, slipped me a girly mag when I last saw him, at my request - something called Asian Fanny Fun which wouldn't have been my first choice but that was all he had, and ... it's done nothing for me.
It's tricky, cuz I have so little private time, but I managed to rub myself a bit - it's awkward, the fine motor skills are miles off, and after five depressingly unresponsive minutes I finally gave up and won't be trying that again, thank you. Who wants his own impotence confirmed ?
I even asked the doc one time, while the nurse was right there, just blurted it - one advantage to being mental is that people don't hold it against you when you're rude or blunt, almost like having Tourette's, so I just came out with it - when can I fuck again ?
"We'll see," was his lameass response, exactly as I expected, so I pressed him further.
"Why can't my dick get hard ?"
He looks at me, all professional.
"It should come, in time, Tony."
I look from him, to the nurse, and back again, unable to help myself.
"So I'll come, in time, then ? Come lots ?"
The doc sighs like I've annoyed him. Good. I hope I have. Yes, the bastard did my surgeries, but he rarely visits, has a shit bedside manner, and also never does any of the dirtiest work - only the nurses do - they see me every day round the clock for six long months, dealing with my moods and spastic fits and arse wipings, all as he struts round getting all the glory and the credit.
That, and the fact that the bastard can fuck whenever he wants makes me hate him.
"How often do you fuck, Maxxie ?"
I can only reply with a surprised laugh.
"Christ, Tone - you are definitely recovering, mate."
"Answer the question - how often ?"
"What business is it of yours ?"
"I just wanna know. I'm frustrated, cuz I can't get it up and I'm afraid it'll last forever."
"Tony, you're still recovering - give it some time."
His face turns beet red.
"I haven't fucked in six months ! How long have YOU ever gone without ?"
"All right ! Calm down for fuck's sake! Did you talk to the doctor ?"
"Yes! Fucking bastard won't tell me!"
"Christ, Tone, it's not like he's trying to keep it from you. You're still recovering for fuck's sake. Every day I see more of the old Tony, so I can't imagine it'll be all that much longer. I swear."
He peers in at me.
"Who'll fuck me, though? What girl's gonna wanna be with a vegetable ?"
"Fuck, will you stop with the melodramatic shit ? You're not a goddamn vegetable !"
It's then that he starts crying. Christ, it's awful.
"I can't even toss off. My hands are like flippers, still. They're no use to me."
I touch his arm.
"It'll be alright, Tone. You're making amazing progress - they tell me all the time. You're getting outta here in two days, mate."
He blubbers on.
"What girl'll fuck me ?"
It's so fucking awful. I try to lighten the mood.
"Come on, Tone. You're tall, you're dead good looking. There'll be loads of girls." I smile, to signify that what I'm about to say is a joke, as before the accident, Tony used to ride me endlessly about the gay thing, and I would sometimes tease back, however ... it backfires. "But if not, then I suppose there's always me."
He looks, face red and wet.
"Fuck you, faggot !" he snaps, then shrieks. "Get outta here ! Get the fuck outta here !"
Great. Terrific.
Within the week, he calls.
"Where the fuck've you been ! ? Abandoning me like all the rest of my so-called mates ?"
"Fuck, Tony, I wanted to give you some space to get home and settle in, 'kay? Effy's been filling me in on everything in the meantime. Plus, you raged at me last time I saw you so I didn't think-"
"-Fuck that shit. Get over here. I can't piss. Hurry up," he adds, and hangs up.
When I arrive, I learn right away he's not kidding. They've taken to having him wear pajama bottoms because of the elastic waistband, as it's basically impossible for him to manage a zipper ... but today he's rebelled and worn frigging button fly jeans, this boy with the motor skills of an infant, and won't let Effy near him.
"Stupid shit," I mutter, reaching to pop them open. "How'd you even get these on?"
"None o' your business," he says, and takes himself out for a long, long piss, as I stand aside and turn my head, giving him his privacy.
"Alright," he finally says, "do me up, and don't fucking try anything, gayboy."
Boy, is Tony back.
But then, that's the thing, because oftentimes, he's not. All through the spring, in fact, it's fucking Jekyll and Hyde, when you never know one day to the next, sometimes one minute to the next, which Tony you're getting. It'll be wide eyed happy boy, really sweet and full of hope over the progress he's making at therapy, and then a second later he'll snarl something so belittling and nasty it makes your toes curl. Then ... he'll burst out sobbing for no reason – over the rain, over the grass ... or ... whenever a bus goes by he'll flinch hard and grab your hand so tight it turns blue, or ... he'll suddenly blurt out loud that he loves you, or later on ... that he's thinking of suicide, or ... that he's dying to taste his own come, or ... that he's Oedipus and might just murder his father ... or, right in front of my mum, that he still can't get it up. And then they'll be times when he'll recite, verbatim, some exceedingly long and difficult passage from fucking Beowulf, or Twelfth Night or Nabokov, or he'll blather on about the intricate details of the third law of quantum physics, or ... he'll recount some filthy, complicated, but perfectly executed three part side splitting joke, or ... it'll be endless graphic quiz time over my sex life – and don't think he's kidding - he's dead fucking serious – he demands answers.
All in all, it's like hanging with a mixture of Stephen Hawking, Jeffrey Dahmer and a perverted, horned out Rain Man.
By summer, the pattern becomes that Tony, in all his forms, is at my place three days a week, as both our mums are working part time, it's too much for Effy to handle on her own, and since it's summer, I'm off, except for dance class, so I can walk him to therapy.
After one such class, I'm eagerly snogging the new hot boy as we make our way up the lift of my building. With everything that's happened, it's been over a month and I'm in screaming dire need of cock. The lift door pops open and we scurry along, giggling and stopping every few feet to snog and grope, and as we round the corner towards my flat which I know to be, for once, blissfully empty ... there, slumped against my door, sits Tony, face pinched in anguish.
I drop to him.
"What happened ?"
Is he hurt? Sick? Or maybe his mum? Effy ?
"What is it, Tone ?"
It's Tuesday – he's supposed to be home. How did he even find his way here ?
His lip quivers.
"I got lost."
He grabs my hand, and turns his face into my neck, sobbing.
"Where do I fucking live ?"
I'm at about 92% verbal, which they say is much better than could reasonably be expected, considering that the hematoma thing still isn't entirely gone, and may or may not decide to disappear.
I have physiotherapy three times a week, as my motor skills are still maddeningly inadequate – I'm at about 60% there, with my hands for some reason lagging far behind, which, despite the fact that they tell me I'm doing amazing, frustrates and infuriates me no end – people are still, for example, having to cut up my food, not only because I can't handle a knife (the one time I tried I nearly lopped off my thumb), but because everything I eat has to either be thrown in the blender or made tiny cuz my bloody swallow reflex is iffy, which let me tell you is something fucking frightening. Twice, in fact, Maxxie's had to do the fucking Heimlich maneuver to dislodge shit from my throat cuz I was fucking choking, as everyone watched, horrified, scared out of their minds, possibly even more than me. Terrifying, and at the same time, incredibly embarrassing, and also, lame. The latter because, after all this time, after all the fucking endless pain and struggle and work both I and the nurses and therapists and my mum and Effy and Maxxie and everyone's put into this Herculean effort to revive me from the near dead ... to have it all go to waste because I choke on a fucking piece of toast would just be ...
Sigh.
At home, laying round my room in my pants feeling depressed, suddenly out of the blue Michelle's at the front door, looking hot, I have to say, in a small red top and tight jeans.
It's a bit weird, especially since my mum is standing in the doorway being rude to her for never coming round, which is true, and maybe shitty and inexcusable, but still, it's embarrassing having your mum defend you like that - like you're a kid. So ... I cut in and invite her up, thinking ... god knows what I was thinking.
I'd just heard, mind you, that she, my supposed girlfriend, has been on an actual date with Sid, my oh-so best friend, which hurts for any number of reasons, not the least of which being that it signifies these people are moving on, past me, but at the same time ... as with most things on bad days such as these, I sort of can't be all that bothered.
We sit down on opposite sides of the bed, saying nothing. It's awkward, obviously. After a minute she asks me what I remember about "us". I tell her that I actually try not to think about us ... when what I really want to say is, even if I could remember more than I do, which is very little ... what exactly would be the bloody point ? You've moved on, haven't you?
I do at times have these little snippets of memory, in truth, these flashes that hit me out of nowhere, of her and I doing mundane shit - walking to class, watching stupid shows on telly, eating chips. We seem happy enough. You'd think, though, as sex starved a creature as I am these days, that I'd be feeding on memories of fucking this hot girl's brains out, as I apparently quite often did, but in my memory banks there is, sadly, nothing of the kind.
It's like it's all a rumour, in a way - my life. A myth. There was once a very tall boy whom everyone fancied, who was the Top Man wherever he went. Ya, he was a prick, but he was so beloved it didn't matter. He was bright, and gifted, and had a blazingly fantastic future ahead of him, and in the meantime was a sexual dynamo of legendary status.
What a joke.
So anyway, I'm facing away from her, and she seems upset, and then suddenly without warning she whips off her top and unclips her bra, for fuck's sake, the excuse being that I used to tell her all the time that one of her tits was bigger than the other. (Fuck, what a colossal arsehole I was.) And then she fucking asks me to look.
I know what she's doing - obviously trying to shock my memory into being, but I mean ... talk about awkward ! I turn quickly, then away and tell her she's fine. I'm not about to sit here evaluating her tits ... but she won't fucking leave it. She crawls up from behind and whispers in my ear asking "what we're going to do about it", and then before I know it, we're kissing and she pushes me down on the bed and climbs up, and for a minute I think it's gonna work - for the first time in 8 solid months I feel a sort of semi-tingle down there, especially when she asks me if I want it, I mean, fuck! I flip her and we're kissing like mad now, and I'm nervous and excited and fumbling with her zipper ... however my dull, dull hands once again fail me and I can't get the bloody thing down, not even close, so she flips me back, in frustration I'm sure, and completely takes over, sliding her hand directly into my pants and starts stroking something fierce and ... I mean, I know it's supposed to feel good; what she's doing, it's supposed to feel absolutely amazing; the girl's clearly determined this is going to happen, which in itself is scorching ... and I do feel like I want it, genuinely looking forward to it, in fact ... but of course ... the gods are not at all on my side in matters carnal, and so after some effort ... she gives up ... and there I'm left staring at the ceiling, humiliated. I actually hear myself apologize - like it's my fault, and then out of nowhere she slaps me, and starts yelling.
"Why can't you get better for me ? What were you doing in the middle of the road ? You idiot !"
Which, really, is so wholly inappropriate and uncalled for, it's sorta ridiculous.
My mum, bless her, hears this exchange, barges in and orders the girl from the house, and I'm not sorry, but at the same time, her coming by did do something for me. I mean, otherwise, I might still have harboured some stray hope, some distant belief that there maybe was a chance we could get back together, and also ... that I maybe wasn't hopelessly impotent.
"She did what ?"
I can't fucking believe my ears.
"Whatever, Maxxie. I don't wanna focus on it, okay ?"
"Just tell me what she did."
"She just ... she tried to bring me round, manually, like, and it didn't fucking work. And then she got mad and slapped me and yelled at me for being an idiot with the bus."
I'm livid.
"Why would she do such a thing ?"
He shrugs. He's maddeningly okay about this.
"What does it matter ? She's with Sid now. Sid's fuckin' her. They don't, neither of them, wanna be seen with idiot-boy, so-"
"-You arsehole !" I snap. "You're not an idiot ! And it's not you, anyway ! It's them ! They're absolutely showing what they're made of, that's what this is about !"
"You're the one who told me what a cunt I was back then, Max – can you blame them ?"
"Yes I can fucking blame them !" I shout. "Are you kidding ? All day long I can blame them ! And yes, you were cunt at times, but you don't fucking abandon your friends like this !"
He shouts back.
"But I'm not who I was, Max ! I'm not who they remember ! I probably never will be !"
"How many times do I have to tell you, you're in recovery for fuck's sake !"
"I can't even get it up ! I'm actually starting to believe it'll never happen ! Sid at least can fuck her !"
I snap.
"Chelle's an idiot for going with Sid !"
He stops.
"Huh ? Why ? You said he was a decent enough kid."
I stop. Fueled in no small part by my growing revulsion and disgust with Sid, with both of them for what they've done, I've become very protective of Tony.
Yes, it's been difficult, to say the least, being his nursemaid at times, being on the receiving end of ragings and fits and vitriol, but there's also been a huge unexpected up side - the privilege of witnessing the bloody story of the century; watching as, bit by bit, a boy wills himself, just through heart, soul and sheer balls, back from two months in comatic limbo, along the way relearning absolutely everything from scratch, including things as primal as eating, shitting, and recognizing one's own family.
Believe me, it is not an experience that leaves you unmoved or unchanged, nor without a sense of awe at the person going through it. If the accident has irreparably altered his life, it's certainly done mine, as well, in many ways, ... including, it has to be admitted, that, much as I've fought it, I've unfortunately developed quite strong feelings for Tony ... affection, fondness, maybe even a harmless crush ...
I won't, of course, let on, which should prove easy, since I've become rather expert at masking my affections for straightboys, when I've had them. Still, while I don't want him suspecting anything, I go ahead and say it, cuz it's true. Also, he's made me promise that no matter what, I won't bullshit him.
"Tone, listen to me. Even in recovery, you're worth ten of him."