A red tainted Silence (8 page)

Finally, the hour was coming to a close. My descent into the sweetest of agonies was almost over. “Okay, my friends, this final poem is dedicated to the handsome boy in the AC-DC t-shirt sitting alone back there.” He waved at me. “Hi, Brandon. Good to see you.” You’d think I was drinking liquor, I felt so intoxicated. I couldn’t believe what I did next. “Hi, Nicholas,” I called back. “Good to see you, too. Very good.” The audience laughed and my face heated. I hadn’t meant it to come out so full of ... longing.

“Feeling better?” He lifted his hand and touched it, then his head.

All eyes moved to me. I mimicked him, touching my hand and head. “Much. Thanks.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that,” he said, the huskiness in his voice unmistakable. The audience crowed, and I felt like melting on the spot. This I hadn’t imagined happening when I followed him here. My face was on fire, as was my body. One of the clerks brought me another Coke, and I guzzled it in a futile attempt to cool off.

Then he began his last poem. A love poem, of course, which the audience took to quite spiritedly. As I watched him, I realized I envied him, how he stood on the stage so open and carefree, so assured about who he was, his sexuality, his acceptance by his friends. I would never feel that way about myself, and knew it. That evening in the bookstore was the closest I ever got.

Oh, God. I needed to go to the bathroom, bad. Bad.

A Red-Tainted Silence

41

I crossed my legs and prayed and thought about fat men in Speedos. This time, it didn’t work.

Finally, it was over. His friends burst forward with applause and rose to congratulate him, and I knew then I had to run and find the bathroom, quick, so I could talk to him. I ran to the bathroom and made it to an empty stall. A few painful minutes later (it is kinda difficult peeing with a hard-on), but feeling much, much better, and with my libido a bit more tamed, I splashed water on my face, dried it, and left the bathroom, looking for Nicholas.

To my surprise, the crowd had thinned out considerably. I guessed I’d been in there longer than I’d thought. I looked around, panic setting in again as I didn’t see Nicholas. I pushed my way through the people still talking and whirled around, looking about frantically. I spied the girl from up front as she was walking out the front door.

“Wait!” I called out, but she didn’t hear me. I ran through the room and stopped her.

“Wait, where’d Nicholas go?”

She turned to me in surprise. “Where did you go? He thought you bolted.”

“I --” My face flushed. “I just went to the bathroom. He’s gone?” She gave me a sympathetic smile and rolled her eyes. “I told him you weren’t upset.

You didn’t look freaked out to me.”

“He thought I was freaked out? Why?”

“Well, he was afraid he’d embarrassed you, by messing with you like that.” She smiled.

“He really likes you and thought he’d screwed up and scared you off.” I shook my head, rubbing my hand over my face. “No, no no no, I wasn’t embarrassed.

I was just full of Coke. Where did he go, do you know?” She hesitated, shrugged, then pulled me aside. “If you hurry, you can probably catch him. He’s walking home.”

“Home? He lives around here?”

She grimaced. “No, he lives over on Essex. Essex Haven.” I stared at her in surprise. I knew the place. “The shelter? Why is he living there?”

“His parents moved to Utah, his roommate moved out on him, and he had nowhere else to go.” She frowned. “He wouldn’t tell his parents what happened and moved in there.”

“That’s a mile from here, though.”

“His car broke down, so he’s walking, and he wouldn’t let me take him. Go on and catch him. He was kinda upset when he left, but I bet you run faster than he can walk.” I nodded, then said, “Thanks. What’s your name?”

“Karen.”

“Thanks, Karen.” I turned around and took off, heading down the street after Nicholas.

42 Carolyn Gray

* * * * *

Essex Street. One of the worst areas in the city, the kind of place mostly full of broken-down homes, empty businesses, gangs wars, all that stuff you see on Cops. That would explain a lot of things, I thought as I jogged down the street. Why I couldn’t find him, why he was so elusive. The guy was practically homeless. Shit, that sucked. Things really weren’t so good after all for Nicholas Kilmain, it seemed.

I should’ve taken my car, but I wasn’t thinking. All I had running through my mind was Find Nicholas. Dammit, why had he thought I’d bolted? He had to have figured out how and why I’d found him at The Book Shed. He’d known my reaction to him; it was so bloody obvious.

He’d heard me play his song.

My pace slowed as my side started to hurt. I guessed I was still recovering from the flu.

A souped-up car with two guys blaring harsh music passed me by, then hooked a left down the street. This area of town made me nervous, and as I turned the corner, I started to understand just how isolated I was. Then, down the street I saw the car at the head of an alley, and empty.

I heard a scream.

Nicholas.

I ran, the pain in my side forgotten, my own vulnerability pushed aside. I had nothing but my fists and my anger to wield against whoever was hurting Nicholas. I passed the car and another scream rent the air, then a voice, his voice, begging, “No, please don’t ... don’t.

Don’t hurt me ...” Laughter filled the silence, the sound of scuffling and tearing.

“Hold still, you little shit.”

“No.”

“Grab his arms.” Then, “Shit, he bit me! He fuckin’ bit me!” Another scream, then sobbing. I’d never felt so alone, never felt so out of place and defenseless, but they were hurting him. I had to stop them. Walking away never crossed my mind, but I did slow down. Running into the scene unprepared would just end up making me a part of it instead of the one in control.

As I drew closer, I finally saw them -- two men, holding Nicholas down. The bigger one, to my confusion, looked vaguely familiar to me ... I paused as he turned his head and laughed at something his buddy said, and icy-hot shock coursed through me.

It was the guy from the high school play, the guy who played Joseph. Older, bigger --

fatter -- but it was him.

And his intention for Nicholas was clear as, with horrifying ease, he flipped Nicholas onto his stomach and, using a knife, cut off Nick’s leather pants despite his struggles.

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43

Panic flew through me. I looked around, frantic, sickened to my stomach. This couldn’t be happening. I heard another scream, and it hit me then exactly what had just happened.

“Fuck, no,” I whispered, horrified, then shook myself into action. A two-by-four found its way into my hand. I moved to the edge of my hiding place, where I could see but not be seen yet -- except Nick’s gaze locked with mine as his attacker’s assault shoved his face over and over again into the dirt.

The wild hope in his eyes at seeing me gave me the strength I needed. Roaring at the top of my lungs, I burst from my hiding place. Pulling on all my fear and hatred and disgust for what they were doing to Nicholas, I raised the board back and, just as Nick’s rapist turned his head and his cackling friend looked up, smashed the board across the back of his head.

“Shit!” the other guy yelled. “Who the fuck are you?” My momentum carried me further than I expected, but I skidded to a stop and turned to face him. For a moment I thought he’d run, but I guess a skinny teenage kid in tennis shoes held no threat. He’d underestimated me, of course. I had an older brother who wasn’t always kind to me. I knew how to fight.

He stood and charged, hitting me full in the stomach. We stumbled back and I hit the ground, hard, the breath swooshing out of me. I thought I was going to be sick. I couldn’t breathe, but I wasn’t about to end up on the bottom and at his mercy. I prayed the other guy was still out. As we struggled, I saw him lying still on the ground.

But so was Nicholas.

The guy’s fist found my face. The shock of the pain exploded through my head. I’d never felt such agony. But he’d made me mad, and as he pulled back to hit me again, I curled up my own fist and went for his balls with all my strength.

He screamed, much to my satisfaction, even louder than Nicholas had. I pushed him off me and stood and kicked him, then fell on his shoulders and pinned him back, pushing my face into his. “Don’t ever touch him again, or I’ll kill you. Both of you,” I said, then spit on him. He collapsed and didn’t move.

I pushed myself off of him and, pulling my ripped and filthy shirt off, stumbled toward Nicholas. He lay on his side, his pale bare legs pulled up to his chest, his blue eyes wide with pain and humiliation.

“Nicholas, Nicholas, oh, shit,” I said, reaching for him, then pulling back, unsure if I should try to touch him. But he pushed himself off the ground and fell sobbing into the safety of my arms. I wrapped myself around him, holding on to him as tight as I could, ignoring my body’s protest as my own injuries made themselves known, horribly conscious that I was too late to protect him from what had happened.

“I’m so sorry, so sorry,” I whispered into his ear, kissing him on the crown of his head, his forehead, his tear- and dirt-stained cheeks. “I should’ve gotten here sooner. I should’ve driven my car.”

44 Carolyn Gray

His hands clawed into my bare back as he sobbed. Behind me, his two attackers were starting to moan.

“We’ve got to get out of here, Nicholas. Come on, can you stand?” I didn’t wait for an answer, but pulled him to his feet, keeping care to look away from his nakedness. I helped him lean against a trashcan. He was shaking so hard he could barely stand. I gave him my shirt, indicating how he should use it. His pale face flushed with embarrassment as he did so, then hurled the offending shirt away. Guess I’d owe Jonathan a t-shirt. I pulled off my shorts, grateful I’d worn boxers and helped him put the shorts on.

Or tried. They didn’t fit. I was too damn skinny.

“They don’t fit,” he said, despair lacing his voice.

“Dammit,” I said. Then, not hesitating, I pulled off my boxers, pulled on my shorts, and helped him on with the boxers, which, thankfully, stretched enough to fit. He leaned into me and I started to lead him away.

“Wait, my wallet,” he said.

I let go of him and picked up what was left of his leather pants, fishing in the pockets, and pulled out a set of keys, a whole bunch of change, his wallet -- and one of Jenny’s flyers.

I stuffed everything except for the flyer in my pockets, then wrapped my arm around him again.

We hurried away from the scene, Nicholas leaning on me so much I was almost carrying him. When we reached their car, I looked inside and cussed -- I’d hoped the keys would still be inside, but they weren’t. “Come on, they’re waking up and might try to follow,” I said, then turned back down the street.

“Where are we going?”

“To my parents’ house.”

He stopped. “No, I can’t --”

I tugged on him. “Yes, you can. My mom will understand. I told her all about you.” He looked at me then, hurt and confused, but didn’t argue. We made quite a pair, I thought -- stumbling, filthy, bleeding, me half dressed, him in boxers. I wished a cop would drive by. Of course that didn’t happen.

We turned the corner just as we heard the souped-up engine start. “Shit,” I said, and I felt Nicholas curl into himself.

“They’re coming back!” he said, panicking.

I grimaced. “Come on. We’d better hide.”

I looked up at the abandoned apartment building we were in front of and decided it would have to do. Half-carrying him up the steps, I tested the door and, surprise, found it unlocked. Boxes, old furniture, pure junk littered the floor. I pushed my way inside and pulled Nicholas after me.

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45

I closed the door and, letting Nicholas go, pushed all the junk I could in front of it, blocking it as best I could by shoving a half-broken chair under the handle. Hopefully if they tried the handle, they’d think it was locked.

It was hot and dark inside, and musty, and it stank, but we’d be safe now. Taking Nicholas by the hand, I gently pulled him up the steps. We climbed one flight, then two, before I found an open door to an apartment in the front of the building. Using my shoulder, I pushed my way inside, grimacing at the mess. But there were windows where I could see out on the street below, and maybe we could open one and cool off.

Night was rapidly falling, and the streetlights were flickering on. We both heard the souped-up engine idling right outside our hiding place. Yeah, they were searching for us, all right. Looking around, I found some relatively clean cardboard and put it on the floor by one of the windows, which was open a crack. Then I found some old, rank sofa cushions, half torn, no doubt by rats and I didn’t want to know what else. I grimaced, but propped them against the wall. I sat down then and leaned against the cushions

“Come here and sit down, Nicholas. Come on.”

He came to me and slowly eased down, his breath hitching from the pain. I knew he hurt all over, and it would only get worse. The streetlight bathed his pale face, and my heart about broke, seeing the fear and pain there as he looked numbly out onto the street.

Outside, the car doors opened.

“They’re getting out,” he said, his voice small and trembling. Gone was the commanding stage performer, his confidence, his presence that had so wowed me, replaced by a desperate young man trembling with unrelieved fear. I didn’t want to think the Nicholas Kilmain I’d seen on that stage was an illusion and this was his reality. I couldn’t bear the thought that he lived in constant fear for his safety, for maybe even his life. All because he was openly gay, and most people in the world weren’t like his friends at the bookstore.

I remembered my earlier envy and felt sick -- I had a strong feeling he’d been through this before.

I wanted to reach for him, but was scared to. He seemed to be slipping into someplace I didn’t know how to keep him from. But then I reached out anyway, taking his hand in mine.

He hardly noticed as my fingers curled around his. I brushed a damp lock of hair away from his face, biting my lip at the evidence of ill treatment at the hands of those thugs. My own injuries meant nothing to me.