On the Edge of Wakefulness, Part 2

Chapter 2

Hell.

Wetness.

In the depth of sleep, he became aware of an oily wetness all around him. He soon realized he was in the penthouse shower, naked, sitting in a thick pool of blood. With a shudder and a gasp of shock, he pushed himself back onto the tiles and stared at the blood, knowing it was his. He grew aware that blood covered his body, running down his arms, his legs, and his chest. He tasted it in his mouth.

The spirit said, "The blood is your pain, your memories, your sadness, your devastation. Do not be afraid of it. Let it cover you and dry out so you can be free."

"'Do not be afraid'? LOOK AT ME!" Todd scrambled to get up, but slipped in the oozy liquid, smack onto his bottom. At that he started to cry, "What is this...what is this...don't you think I've had enough?! Why can't you let me sleep in peace? Why can't you leave me alone?"

"Listen to me, Angel."

He tried to, he really did. Her voice was always so musical, always winding its way to him, bundling him with notes. How he tried to hang onto that symphony of love, to no avail. The momentary relief he got from hearing her would vanish as soon as she stopped talking. As soon as she stopped touching him with her song of hope and promise.

"I am not doing this to you," she crooned. "I don't control the pictures. You do."

"I don't want to feel any of this. WHY DO I HAVE TO FEEL IT?! Please make it go away!"

"Feeling the pain will lead to you forgiving yourself. And once you do, you will be able to leave Hell."

Todd rolled his head back against the wall, "No...no...I will never leave. Hell is eternal." With a sudden awareness, he stopped talking and searched the space he was in, then looked at the spirit whose gauzy image floated in front of him. "The boy...what happened to the boy?" he asked, worried.

"You've banished him."

"I didn't - the boy is probably dead. Slaughtered like a turkey on Thanksgiving. Like a lamb. A sweet lamb. Mary's lamb." Todd chortled bitterly. "Yeah. Mary's little lamb is on Peter's fucking dinner table. Got jam, almighty spirit?" His voice softened. Weakened.

The spirit flitted in front of him, her unnatural, woodsy beauty making Todd's heart ache.

...and you are so beautiful...

Tim had said that and it made him cry. "Beautiful doesn't apply to me. I'm ugly, my past is ugly. I have no spirit. I'm empty." He started to sink into the pooling blood, now a pond of thick stickiness. It grew deeper by the second and the next thing he knew, he was thigh-deep in it and he was trying to crawl out, his nails scraping the dirt. "You have to help me," he rasped. "He's pulling me down."

"Feel the pain and move forward, or cover it up and sink back into the pit of Hell with Satan. He is becoming stronger. You have to fight him. You are more POWERFUL than you know."

Todd looked into the eyes of the spirit and softly said, "I'm sorry. I can't do it, I can't pull myself out of this." He finally stopped his fighting, stopped trying to crawl out of the hole, and felt himself slip into the sludge, knowing who would be awaiting him at the bottom. Knowing he was making his way back to Satan.

Tim sat on the chair near Todd's bed, making notes in his chart, periodically looking at his patient who had burrowed deep under the covers. Eleven in the morning and he showed no interest in engaging with the day. Nearly a week had passed since he had released the tsunami of hurt that had been building up over the months and now he was indeed feeling the grief of his nightmarish childhood. The depression was intense and gripping.

But that night wasn't just about the release of sadness. More disconcerting to the doctor was Todd's revelation of a potent sexuality he did not share with the outside world. The attempted seduction of the doctor confirmed more secrets which only meant a much more complex history of abuse. More memories might be coming…

I know the rules. I know what I have to do. I can do so many things to you… and you… can do them to me. I have always been able to do this.

Those words. Those agonizing words. Once the doctor had been sure his patient was resting comfortably that night, he had driven the long twisting road to his rented cottage. He could not stop seeing the clash of opposites within Todd. A fragile physicality that broke through a strong body. A frightened but inflamed virgin that lurked beneath an aggressive whore. The skill with which he moved… and the childlike devastation at being rejected. And of course, the thread of guilt on his face as he recounted his sad supplication to Coach Sam Rappaport.

Madness.

Tim had been so glad to see his friend's car in the driveway. Shane Lansing, the internist at Llanview General. A new lover… but already so comfortable they'd traded keys. He practically ran inside the house. He showered… got in bed... and made love to Shane. No, they didn't make love. Tim fucked him, fucked him hard and furiously. And when he was done, he wept for the awful night he'd had.

A kind and gentle voice reached him. "What is it, Graham… what's wrong?"

He was able to rein it in… breathe in the delicious male scent… grasp his lover's body tight into his… said in between kisses, "My heart is broken… for a boy. A child. Jesus, I'm in pieces."

"I don't know how you do what you do. It's why I stick to appendectomies."

Tim chuckled through the last of cleansing tears. His friend asked, "What happened, sweetheart?"

"A revelation my patient didn't even know he made." They were quiet. Tim had ethics. He couldn't share. He couldn't share even if his patient died.

But his friend said, "You have the right to consult another doctor, you know. I hold his secrets inviolable, too. Talk to me."

The early morning sun broke through the slit in between the heavy drapes. Tim said in a soft voice as if the secret could be kept even more so, "He propositioned me. He undressed and said he wouldn't tell anyone what we would do. He was in a hypersexual state. He was either in the past or in a state of disassociation."

"Hmm."

"This is a man who has special restrictions on his file… orderlies cannot touch his genitals during baths because he loses connection and gets violent… so a hand-held shower head is used in the tub, liquid soap. He can barely handle safe kinds of touching. The man is celibate. Married a couple of years… but never consummated the marriage. And yet… he was offering me sex."

"Is he gay?"

"He was severely abused by an adopted father, sexually. Beginning at age seven."

"Holy hell… but you didn't answer my question."

"No way to tell. It's a mess. He's a mess. His sexual orientation is completely lost in the profoundly confused messaging forced on him. It might take years to sort out what he really is. If it matters." Tim thought about it. "I have to work out a timeline. He has gaps, big thick amnesiac gaps." A long period of quiet followed. The two huddled beneath the covers.

"Did he explain why he propositioned you?"

"He was worried I wouldn't come see him anymore — fear of abandonment. He offered himself as a payment of sorts." Tim paused a moment, his voice softening, almost sounding as if he were talking to himself. "He cannot be touched yet he got undressed for me. Said I could do whatever I wanted. Had I been a different man… a low one… Jesus… it scared me, terrified me, for HIM. The damage that could have come about from that-"

A strong passionate kiss interrupted Tim. "I adore you, Graham," the doctor said, "… he's lucky to have you."

Tim caressed his lover's face. "So tell me, consulting one, why would he do that?"

The fellow doctor sniffed and sat up, resting on the pillows. Black hair mussed. Crossed his well-defined arms. His handsome rugged face crinkled in deep thought. Tim grinned at his professional stance.

"Crazy control," the doctor decided. "That's what his celibacy is about. It's not that he doesn't want sex but rather that he's mad about having it on his own terms. Maybe the wife was too forward? Demanding? It's a complete reaction to being sexually assaulted when young." He turned and looked hard at Tim, "Don't forget, the seduction might have been a test. See if you took him up on it at all. Might have kicked you in the balls had you gone for his bluff."

Funny, Tim hadn't thought about that. Made sense. The strong come-on might have been a dare. Just try it. The consulting lover grew more thoughtful. "Could be, too, that he expected you to abuse him so he decided to take it into his own hands." He paused. "Literally? Did he...?"

"He did that, yes."

A gorgeous mischievous grin, turning a serious thing into a lighter thing. He scooted back into the covers. Shared dark medical-doctor humor. Whispered in Tim's ear, "Was he big?"

Tim laughed at the dark humor that only doctors could understand… "You bad boy. I adore YOU. And… well… if you're asking..."

The doctor laughed prettily heartily and lay his head on Tim's shoulder. "Control, darling. He has mad control over his body…final violent say over who gets to touch it."

Serious again. "Of course, no question… that's why he burns himself. Why he took out his own stitches-"

"Ouch."

"Understatement. All to prove he has final violent say—" He stopped. Shook his head. "Jesus. The orderly reported those exact words."

"What?"

"He wrote that the patient said… 'everything is at my say.' Not the first time he's said that. Yeah, of course. Goes without saying. So this… was more of the same."

"And there you go."

"He is the ever-vigilant gatekeeper of his body." More quiet… "He propositioned an older man once, a mentor of his, he told me. And he hinted that he once propositioned his father… showing that he could self-pleasure. Propositioning an abuser. Bet that wasn't the only time he did that. Why does an abused child proposition his abuser? Perhaps more than once?"

A few moments of sad silence. Grave reality in Shane's voice. "Same reason a person might lie still or stop fighting when getting raped. Related maybe to Stockholm syndrome… or… or to alleviate the pain of rape. To get it over with. Might have been a win/win… he becomes the keeper of his body, and the father comes fast and leaves him alone."

"Meaning... he might have become a participant in his own sexual abuse."

The doctor sighed…"Yeah, Graham… mad… control." One final question that never got answered. "Timothy… why this patient? Certainly you've seen this before? In your business? Why does he get to you?" Shane smiled a little, a gentle smile. "Are you in love with him?"

Tim smiled back, "No, not in love. He … just gets to me."

Tim sucked on his pen as he contemplated everything that happened so far and eyed his patient. Mad control. The whore was a desperate grab at control of his own sexual abuse. And once again… that show was not developed between the ages of seven and nine. No way. That expression HAD to come later. And THAT meant far greater abuse than Todd had so far recalled. Or admitted. Heartbreaking. Frightening.

Yeah, in the attempted seduction, he revealed truths he most likely had no conscious awareness of.

And now… poor kid was feeling the pain of all his shit. A necessary step in his recovery, sure, but damn it… Tim wished he could make the dark tour better. Unfortunately, the medication adjustment could take weeks to become effective. He made notes to make yet another change.

"Bad day?" The doctor asked.

Todd nodded, barely noticeable.

"Tell me what helps, kiddo. Do you notice a difference with the medication at all?"

Todd shook his head, again, nearly imperceptible.

"Maybe we can up the dosage. What about visitors? I think I saw some improvement with Viki, at least I thought so."

Todd didn't respond, only burying his face into his pillow and pulling the blankets tighter around him. Tim rubbed his chin, thinking. "I know it's hard to garner the energy to talk," he said. "I know that, but I want you to try, ok?"

Todd kept his eyes closed, opening them only for a moment at a time. Tim pushed. "Can you tell me what you're feeling, tell me what you're thinking about, right now?"

Barely glancing at his doctor, he wanted to describe the sick feeling he felt in his stomach, in his chest. The weakness. But he couldn't. The words stuck in his throat. Getting caught up with pictures in his head. That poor boy. Small body. Never a match for Peter. Silky hair that was kept short. A memory danced in front of him, kicking up its heels.

"He'll never pull your hair again! NEVER!" his mother had barked.

Still holding those sharp scissors, Bitsy bounced around to the front of the little stool on which Todd sat, dropping to her knees. He wasn't sure how old he was. He thought maybe six or seven.

"Do you understand me?" she asked in a too-loud voice. "Do you?"

He had nodded his head and smiled at her, a little blood on his lip. He had just had one milk tooth knocked out of his mouth by Peter and a small patch of hair yanked off his scalp. Arms hurt from the bruising. His mother stood up and went back to her manic shearing of his golden locks.

"I'm cutting it off! He'll never do this...never...never..." She had started crying when she was done and held him awkwardly to her. He could feel her kissing his head as she said how sorry she was, his eyes focusing on the hair on the floor. He glanced down at himself, seeing countless hairs covering him.

Like Peter's smell and his violence.

Swallowing, Todd then opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. Then he tried again, in the faintest of voices. "Hair. She cut it...so..." Todd grew quiet. He'll never do this...never...never. Bitsy had tried to help. He thought about his long hair, now. How he grew it long in defiance of Peter. Towards the end of his senior year in high school.

Go ahead, pull it. Yank it out of my head. So I can kill you.

"Who cut whose hair?"

"Mama...my hair," he whispered. He kept his eyes closed because the light that managed to come into the room hurt his eyes and gave him a touch of a headache.

"Your mother cut your hair? Was that okay with you?" Tim leaned forward so he could better hear his patient talk.

"Short...so he couldn't..."

"Couldn't what?"

"G-grab it. So Peter couldn't grab it."

Tim sighed. "She cut it so he couldn't hurt you with it. That's something. She tried to protect you. She loved you, kiddo."

"I guess." Tears welled in his eyes and slipped out. "I hurt, Tim... inside... and... I ... can't move..."

"I know. Grief's a funny thing. Sometimes you have no energy; other times, you have too much. You don't know what to do with it."

"You lied to me..."

Tim looked at Todd with a furrowed brow, "I did? How did I lie to you?"

"You said...this would end."

"It will. I promise. What you can do in the meantime is visualization exercises… imagine that happy place. That beach or the park with your daughter. You also have to express yourself. Write in your journal, talk to me, to others. That's releasing the pain and then it will go away. Not completely, but enough for you to live healthier. Freer. You will get there."

Todd closed his eyes again. Sunk into the sheets. Bullshit, he thought, I am damned to suffer eternally because I'm in Hell and Hell is eternal.

Tim then said, "Todd, you've been living with your past as a viable, breathing thing. A monster under the bed, so to speak. Over time, it's grown bigger, it's become more of a burden to you. Each day, more and more, you've adjusted your thoughts, your emotions, your daily doings, all to accommodate the growing monster. Well, guess what? The monster's gotten too big to be hidden. By telling your secrets, you've pulled the monster out from under your bed. Now you just need to kick it out the door."

Todd looked at Tim, listening. Kicking the monster. Expressing the pain. He was seeing something different than before, this is true. Mama tried to save me. Tried to protect me. Like with the plane. Offering a way out.

"Monsters...plural."

"There's more than one? Taking up all that space? Hardly any room for you, then." Tim smiled while Todd gave him a slight nod. "Well, that means there's even more kicking to do."

Todd was quiet a few long moments. Tim didn't push, just sat patiently. Todd let go of his tight hold on the blanket to scratch his cheek. He finally said, "Airplanes… hanging in that boy's room..."

Round and round you go.

"What boy?" Tim asked. With that, tears trickled down Todd's cheeks. Trying to control the crying, he breathed and wiped at his eyes. Crying was good, actually. Better than not. The deeper depression had no crying.

After a bit, Todd sat up slowly. Looked over at the night table, sniffling, letting out hard breaths. He then picked up his journal and, with a tentative hand, gave it to Tim.

"You want me to read it?" he asked.

Todd nodded and Tim took the book. Todd then pulled his knees up, leaning his back against the headboard. Watching. Studying Tim's face as he read the latest entry to himself, eyes moving along the words.

My room - that room - my mother bought me a red airplane. A toy. She hung it on the ceiling fan. Said I could watch it fly - would turn on the fan - pulling the string. Pull it. Yank on it. Too hard sometimes. She would say "Pretend you're in it!" The plane flies around in a circle. I picture myself inside of it. Like she said. Inside. Escaping. I would be so good. I could fly over mountain tops and into valleys. I could roll over and not fall out. I could land on water and not drown. I would be far away. He could not catch me. Nobody could stop me. Nobody would yank that fucking chain to stop the flying. Nobody would break me. It was red. I liked red. Liked the Red Baron. Killed the shit out of tons of Allied pilots. Shot down the GOOD guys. An enemy, but he WAS mean as fuck and he was smart. Don't shut him off. Don't pull on that string...don't let him just hang there to be shot down. I used to watch it when it just hung there. Would watch it by the light of a night light. While Dad...while Peter...yanked at me. The plane was always still when he did that. Stuck. Just fucking hanging there - helpless and doomed. Waiting to be shot down. Dad finally did that. Shot him down. Stood up and ripped the plane off that fan right in front of me. Broke it to pieces. By hitting me with it. I could feel it rupturing, splitting apart. The pieces landing around me. I remember later, picking up some bits of plastic left over and eating them. Chewing on that red plastic. Swallowing the bits - they cut my throat. She tried to save me. She loved me. She failed me.

When Tim was done, he had tears running down his own cheeks. He rubbed his face and sat quiet for a while, the two men holding each other's sorrowful gazes. The doctor then closed the book and handed it back to Todd, saying, "I'm sorry. I am so so sorry about that special plane and what it meant to you. It makes me sad and angry to read this. Your eating the plastic was your grasping at hope...your dreams of escaping. You hoped your mother would save you. Somebody. Anybody. They all failed you. Coaches, teachers, friends, other family. Everyone failed you."

Tim looked away and then looked back at his patient. "You can fly now, Todd. Nothing's stopping you. That plane...it'll always be a part of you. You're free. You're letting out this pain...you're letting yourself feel it. You can only go forward, but...it's up to you. You wanna fly? Or do you want to be stuck?"

"I don't know how to fly. I don't know where to go from here." Todd's voice was soft, defeated.

"You start to take back pieces of your life. When you're ready, let's get you together with Starr, with Blair. Continue to talk to Viki, Téa. Sam. Even Kevin and Jed. Start looking at your business again. Take small steps."

"I'm afraid."

"What are you afraid of?"

"This pain. It's...destroying me."

"It feels that way, I know, but by releasing it, talking about it, expressing it, its power will be lessened. It's a matter of deflating the monsters. Making them smaller. Every time you cry, every time you write, every time you tell someone what's on your mind, you kill more of the monster. You fly further away from your pain. You're the Red Baron, Todd. Mean as fuck, but smart. Flying."

Todd put his head down on his raised knees. Thinking of the airplane, thinking how he wanted relief from the monster. Or monsters. Plural. He didn't quite get Tim's analogy. He felt the monsters were just as viable, just as alive as before.

Make me dead. Let me step out of my body again. Please, for the love of all that's holy, let me not fucking FEEL anymore.

"Why don't you let Martin help you get dressed, huh? You've been lying around for days now. And...I haven't even bugged you about it."

Todd shrugged.

"It's okay - you need to feel this grief. But let's have you move a little. The water'll feel good."

Todd opened his eyes and looked toward the bathroom. So far away. Miles away. He might get lost on his way there. Lost in the loops of the carpet. He didn't say anything.

"Um...speaking of small steps to get back to your life, Téa called this morning. She'd like to see you. Is that alright?"

At first it seemed he hadn't heard. He looked up though, after some moments, with an expression of trepidation, confusion even. "Why? I only hurt her when I see her."

"Small steps. She's your wife. Start dealing with her. Tell her about that little boy. The one in your heart."

The patient and the doctor gazed at each other, trying to understand the incomprehensible, the unexplainable.

Save me from Hell. Show me something good.

Téa stood in the doorway to the recreation room and watched Todd, her insides in knots. He was sitting quietly on a sofa, his legs folded beneath him, just staring out the large windows, at the gloomy light. The sun was blocked by low clouds. Although his body language screamed of depression, his outward appearance spoke of a gentle attention to himself: his hair was neatly pulled back into a ponytail and his emerging goatee was carefully trimmed. She wondered if he was responsible for that or not. He wore a pair of light-colored blue-jeans with a long-sleeved, forest green, knit sweater. He wasn't as covered up as he'd been. They kind of matched in their dress, she in jeans, too, with a black sweater infused with green threads. She'd have teased him at one time about it.

He was however frighteningly still.

A leather-bound journal lay next to him with a pen neatly on top of it. Clearly, he hadn't touched it. There were a few other patients in the room, each one engaged in various projects and activities. The television was on and something in black and white was playing. When Téa looked closer, it was an old comedy from the fifties. Colorless fantasy.

Tim edged into a place next to Téa.

"He's in a deep depression," he noted softly. She turned to him, a face full of compassion and worry. "But see, he needs to be. He hasn't allowed this kind of intense heartache to come through and it's part of his underlying problems."

"Is it okay I'm here?" She didn't want to upset Todd anymore than he already was.

"I think so," Tim answered. "I know the other night was pretty harsh. I know he was a little rough with you."

"I should be honest…"

"I saw it all, Téa."

"Everything?"

"Yeah. I gave you your five minutes. He stopped the sexual touching just as I was about to step in. Overall, though, he did something pretty promising, I think."

"What?"

"He trusted you enough to engage physically with you. Téa, touching is very risky for him, as you know. He's terrified of it and yet… he tried with you. I want to think it was actually a forward step, rather than just more of the same. How did you feel?"

Téa watched Todd. How he hadn't moved an inch in the five minutes she'd been standing at the door. "I was afraid for him," she said. "He was so hurt. He was… desperate for something. And actually, I thought he stopped because he didn't get whatever it was he wanted from me. I felt… like I let him down in some way."

"Makes sense. But no… you were there in a shifting moment. You were fine. And damn brave." Tim smiled. "I think he knows that, too. It's why he did any of it. He was confident in your ability to handle him."

Téa considered the doctor's words. She didn't know what to think. Too much history, too many confusing incidents between them to judge why he did things, or why he didn't. "Do I just go up to him? I don't want to shock him."

"He knows you're coming. He's been waiting for you."

At hearing that, Téa felt a rush of longing for those few times where their life together had a chance of success. When they used to sit together and play a game, a silly board game. When they would laugh at private jokes and shoot pictures of each other with his camera. When they would sit across from each other at his desk at the Sun, consulting on the libel laws so he could get as close to the legal line without paying a cent for defamation of character. Too few such moments, but precious. Especially seeing him now. That life seemed a world away.

Nodding to Tim, she walked slowly toward Todd. When she got closer to him, she cleared her throat as a warning to him. He turned to her and the anguish there on his face was indeed captivating. Furrowed brows, lips full but drawn into a slight frown. He closed his eyes a moment longer than a blink. Then quickly glanced away. He adjusted himself on the couch, seemingly to make room for her.

That boy, that broken, bloodied, murdered boy. He'll dirty Téa.

"Can I sit next you?" Téa asked.

He nodded, the slightest of motions. With the back of his hand he slowly grazed his mouth, then pulled back his hair, forgetting it was already in a ponytail. Made Téa think someone other than himself had groomed him, then.

"Is… uh…Tim around?" His voice was raspy, his words deliberate.

"Yeah," Téa said softly, sitting on the couch, searching for Tim on his behalf. "He was just with me at the door. Oh, there he is, over at that table in the back. Looks like he's working on something. You need him?"

"No." Todd didn't bother to turn around, acting like he had barely the energy to breathe. The two sat in an awkward silence a few minutes.

"I missed you this week," Téa offered. "I was hoping to spend some time with you. Tim said you weren't up to visitors."

Todd's eyes narrowed in perplexity and then he turned to study her, his eyes staying on hers only a second or two before dipping to her mouth. Moving to the necklace with the wedding ring. "I don't understand that," he mumbled. "I wasn't very nice to you… the last time. Uh...I hurt you… I think. It's kind of foggy. D-did...did..." He stopped and took a breath, staring at his hands. Palms up.

We all killed that little boy. Each one of us took a shot at him.

"Go ahead… what is it? Did you what?" Téa unconsciously wrung her hands together in stress. She wasn't going to finish his sentence. She wanted him to talk but… god, it seemed like torture to him. She wished she could offer something more than just words. His raw agony was killing her. Cutting her worse than he'd ever cut himself. Beyond her control, she huffed, "Todd…"

"Did I hit you? I keep thinking I hit you… back at the penthouse." He had balled his hand into a fist.

"No! Of course not. You didn't hit me, you didn't hurt me. Nothing like that."

"I keep seeing it."

"I promise you. You didn't. Do you hear me? Can you tell me you understand you didn't hit me?"

A whispered okay was all she got.

The quiet continued with Téa alternating her view from Todd to other people to the walls. To Tim. Todd maintained his eyes on the windows. He then touched the notebook in between them, picking up the pen and playing with it. He put it down and it slid off the book onto the back of the couch. He made no effort to retrieve it. The stillness again. He hardly blinked.

"Todd?"

He didn't answer. His gaze did shift down to the carpet.

I knew you would get lost. I saw you walk away from me and I knew. I don't want to feel this anymore. I want to NOT feel.

"Can I hold your hand?" she asked.

She bit her lip, anticipating either silence or plain rejection. Like before. How violent his rejection of her had been. Her pleas to connect… had seemed to repulse him. God… why was she even here? What made her think he'd even want to be touched by her? Unlike Tim and his ever present hopefulness, she believed their physical engagement at the Penthouse had been an aberration. She did not think it had been forward movement. He acted like an animal… not in a criminal way, but rather… a person outside of society's norms. He acted as if she herself was a stranger, something utterly unfamiliar to him. And at the end… he stopped, not because of any consciousness or morality or forward movement. No, he stopped because she did not affect him.

So yes, the idea of holding his hand seemed almost… preposterous. Ridiculous. But it was something they had a long time ago. Small moments in between the hellish ones. A grasp of their hands. To her surprise, he spread his fingers out. Eyes frozen on them. Again, palm up.

Hands. That poor boy. What his hands had been taught to do. His hands. My hands. Touch me… show me something to hold onto.

Téa reached across the notebook, reached across the divide between them. She slowly placed her hand on top his. Warmish skin barely touching. His fingers instinctively closed on hers and he caught her eyes.

"I have nothing to give you," he whispered.

"I don't want anything from you. I want you to take from me, whatever you need. I left you once before. I'm not going to do it again."

"You don't have to say these things. You need to be away from me. I'm not any good. I'm dangerous. I'll hurt you. It's not that safe."

"You think you'll hurt me?"

"Yeah. I'm in a bad place right now… it's scary… monsters in the room. If I think they're near me, I'll kick 'em. I hate this room." Téa sighed with sadness. She didn't quite understand what he was referring to. She ached to learn. She glanced over at Tim who still looked immersed in something. She looked back at Todd, his eyes half-closing. Sleepy. Whispered, "I don't want to kick you."

"What room? What monsters?"

"I don't know. I don't know if I can say it."

"Todd, I'm not going to run. Take from me. I have so much to give – you can't hurt me."

"I'm tired." He remained in that silence again for more endless minutes. But then, he said slowly, "It's some kind of… blackness… a dark muddy room. And… the monster… isn't a monster. It's a dead boy."

He exhaled like he'd been holding it in for a long time. He probably had. Téa squeezed his hand and he looked at their intertwined fingers again.

Téa bit her lip, worried now. It took all her energy to not hug him, to not pull him into her. She hadn't noticed Tim looking over at them.

"Who's...the dead boy?" Téa asked, hesitantly. Her tone was gentle. Easy.

He didn't answer her right away, moving his hand a bit, testing her hold on him. It wasn't too strong. He could get out of her grip easily. After a few moments, he whispered, "He's blond, seven years old. He liked planes. Liked flying… would think about it all the time."

Téa firmed her hold on his hand. Without thinking, she leaned forward to hear him better because he spoke so softly and in doing so, she naturally reached her other hand and rested it on his shoulder. Shockingly, he tilted his head and rubbed against her hand there. Eyes closed.

"He was murdered," he whispered. "In another room, far, far, away. He's here with me. It's so gross – maggots and worms have bloated him. He's rotting. I don't like being with it – it suffocates me. But I can't just leave it either. I need to bury him." Tears slipped down his cheeks. "I wish he wasn't dead. It's so unfair..."

It started to dawn on Téa who the little boy was, an inkling of it. She squeezed his hand once more, tightening her grip. She fought tears coming to her. She didn't want to stop touching him to wipe her face.

He turned to her, and there on her face, he saw how beautiful she was… those dark eyes, that amazing empathy on her face. Lines in between her brows. Her gaze moved from his own eyes to his mouth to his chin… all over. Like she was trying to take in his whole being. He felt something like… realness. Like there was something to look at, at all. He licked tears that had reached his lips.

"It's okay," he said, "it's my problem. You didn't kill him."

I don't know - maybe she did. We all did. Watched him bleed out and did nothing. Watched him rot away and did nothing.

"How did he die, amor?"

Amor… love… amor… love…

"Lots of ways. Beaten, stabbed, shot, cut. Mostly cut. There's always blood. It's very bloody. A real fuckin' mess. He was so innocent, Téa. He never did anything to hurt anybody."

To hear him say her name comforted her. Offered a pittance of relief for his sanity. He knew who he was talking to.

"I was so scared all the time. I knew that boy was dying...everyday. I tried to breathe for him. I tried to not think about his heart stopping, about the blood draining from him."

"You can't stop those things...you were so little, Todd," Téa said. "You were a baby." She couldn't help it anymore. She cried with him. She could not stop the tears from coming. She moved her hand from his shoulder to his cheek, holding him with the palm of her hand. She had to turn to do it. She was almost facing him now… one hand on his, her other on his warm face. Reaching across that space between them.

"A baby...yeah...I was...wasn't I? I was… it's me, that little boy… it's me."

"I know...it's not fair...it's not fair what he did to you..."

Tim had left the table and was leaning on a post, listening in and watching their exchange. He couldn't believe that Todd was so freely sharing with Téa. On the other hand, he was so consumed with grief that it had no place to go anymore. Like a swollen river. Wanting to keep on course, heading to the ocean, but flooding the lands all the way down. His utter sadness just overflowed.

Todd cried softly, "That boy used to know how to love things and people. He even loved Peter - he used to sit there and want to be like him. God...that stupid...stupid boy..." He pressed against her hand. Grunted softly. He wanted to lay on her, he did. He felt that compulsion to rub himself all over her, to feel her. He didn't. He inched his body a little bit closer to her, hoping the cutting pain that was running through him would end. It didn't.

"No, he wasn't stupid," Téa said affirmatively. "He was a child. Peter was his father - all children love their parents no matter what they do."

Todd felt her innocence. He could hear it in her voice. He could smell it. Innocence to him smelled like soap. Téa smelled that way – clean and pure. Michelle had smelled like that. Suddenly, the decaying, rotting body of the little boy he saw in front of him interfered and he separated himself from Téa, not wanting to dirty her. Pulling away, pulling his hand out of hers, pulling away from her other hand on his cheek, he slid to the other side of the sofa.

Téa worried she had done something wrong. "Oh no, what's the matter?"

He wiped his face with his sleeve, took a breath. "You don't know how much this hurts...I can't describe it to you." He raised his sleeve and looked at the cuts on his arm. "This was nothing." He raised his other sleeve, sliding it over the removable wrap that covered the more severe cuts. He took it off and stared at them. Téa had to look away. She couldn't bear the sight of them.

"This doesn't even come close to what I feel now. And Tim tells me this is good. I'm supposed to feel like this. I'd rather feel the physical pain, Téa. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she squeaked out, through her own tears.

"Oh, please don't cry anymore. It doesn't help. Believe me, I know. I've been doing enough crying to last a lifetime."

"Please let me get close to you. Let me try to comfort you - even if it's just a little. Please?"

He looked across at her with torment in his eyes. Hopeless comfort she was offering. He wanted her so much to do it - he wanted to kiss her. He didn't know why. He had nothing to offer her, as he had explained. Nothing. And yet the feelings remained. Pecking at him. He shrugged his shoulder and she moved the notebook away. Moved it to the other side of her. They gazed at each other. She moved closer to him. Closer. Closer. She was soon close enough for him to feel her heat. She carefully put her arm around his shoulders and he lifted the one closest to her as if he didn't want her to touch him. He was almost cringing. He closed his eyes. He was holding his breath.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to hold you," she said. He relaxed after a moment, accepting her affection. Accepting her expression of love. Something undeserved. He sighed, breathing again.

That boy, though - look at him. How can we bury him? Lilacs - cover him with lilacs and sprays of pine - with the woods to shelter him, to protect him.

Todd let himself relax into Téa's embrace. He felt her in the crook of his neck, felt her caress him that way. He felt like a child. A baby in her arms. Heard the spirit say, Let yourself feel her love. He closed his eyes and moved his head slowly against her, a return movement. He tried to lose himself in her touching of him. Trying to feel it. Trying to understand it. Trying to remember what being loved felt like. Was this it? Was it always this soft and this quiet and warm? He opened his eyes and turned slightly, trying to see her. She raised her head slightly. Gazing back.

Ever so slowly, ever so delicately, he moved his face closer to hers and lightly pressed his lips on hers. Not kissing, just feeling her.

Know this. Feel this. Remember this.

He pulled away though, his face crinkling in pain, controlling a desire to cry again. "I have nothing, Téa, for you. I'm so far away..."

She slid even closer to him, their sides flush against the other. She wanted to assure him but knew how delicate a tightrope she was on. Too aggressive and he'd get scared, too timid and he'd worry he hurt her. She said, "It's okay...like I told you...you take what you need. I am here for you. You call me any time...I'll come. Whenever. You want to touch me, you can. You want me to touch you, I will. You just want me around… I'll be here. I won't talk - I won't touch you. Take what you need. I won't ask anything back. Ever. It's a gift."

He shook with suppressed tears, with bottled-up hurt. He turned to her again. He did want to feel her, to feel that warmth she gave off so easily. He wanted to be squeezed so tightly by her that he couldn't breathe. Suffocate me. He wanted to die, wrapped up in gentleness and love. Let me die like that.

"Tighter," he said.

She tightened her hold of him, grasping onto him, their bodies close, and he sighed at that. He rubbed his head against hers again and put his mouth on hers again. Not kissing, just feeling her lips. Their noses touched.

"Hold me tighter," he whispered against her mouth and then rested his head on hers. And Téa held him with everything she had. Using all her strength. Squeezing him to her. Pressed until she thought she would burst from the pain of it.

With a shivery voice, Todd simply said, "Like that. Just like that."

You can fly now, Todd. Or you can be stuck. So which will it be?

The cell phone twittered in the pocket of Phillip Manning as he drove his black Lexus back into Llanview from his cottage on the outskirts of town.

"This better be who I think it is," he spat into the phone.

"And if it's not?"

The voice sounded familiar but Phillip wasn't sure. "Who the fuck is this?"

"Don't be so testy, Manning. Wanna know some information on your girl from Fayetteville?"

Phillip glanced at the mouthpiece of the cellular, surprised at hearing this one. It was Daniel Logan, his contact from the police station.

"The bones," Phillip growled. "You got the report on who they belong to?"

"Yeah."

Logan was calling from his office at the police station in West Virginia. His eyes scanned the report as he spoke. Checking his watch, he knew his family was safely out of the state by now. Thank God his partner was out of town on business for the time being. Not that it would be a worry because only Logan ever spoke to Phillip Manning. But one never knew.

"Well?"

"Like I told you before," Logan said. "Parts belong to a female in her early 20's. Our artist, in conjunction with the forensic guy, sketched a photo of what the poor girl would have looked like. Surprise, surprise… it's Chant. Your girl. We just closed the file."

"Oh yes...goddamn brilliant. HA!" Phillip let out a whoop of a laugh. It was done, but for that final witness. The missing third witness.

"Hey, send me a copy of the fucking report. I want to see that bitch's face."

"Sure. No problem. Where do I send it?"

Phillip gave him a post office box address in Chicago. His mail was forwarded from there to an empty office where one of his people picked it up and forwarded to yet another post office box in the next town from Llanview. Relatively untraceable. Not full-proof but close. As Phillip blew down the boulevard, clicking off the cell phone, he had only one thing on his mind. That the Mole was taking too long on completing his job. That he was going to have to start taking care of business with Jedediah Chant himself.

Once Logan hung up the phone on his end, he took a breath and looked at the report and what it really said: Skeletal Subject: Male, early 50's. He sincerely hoped the lie about Michelle being found would work. Vince, Logan's partner was another Manning employee at the Fayetteville station was the only problem. Hopefully, he wouldn't blow the whistle on Logan's lie. Facing that, Logan accepted the fact that he had just taken the biggest risk of his entire life. All for a beautiful, freckled woman he barely knew.

To be continued….