- Author
- 01/12/2016
- 4,334 Words
- 10,346 Views
- 44 Comments
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
A to Z - 48. Chapter 48 Scars
Warnings for this chapter include disturbing flashbacks, descriptions of sexual assault.
Questions and issues raised in this chapter or any other chapter can be discussed at the A to Z story thread here: http://www.gayauthors.org/forums/topic/40860-a-to-z/
March 3
A letter from the school came to the Stevenson’s house yesterday, addressed to the ‘Parent or Guardian of Andrew Stevenson.’ Monica made a big deal of getting it, like it was some big milestone in my childhood. I felt really apprehensive. Letters home from the school were never a good thing in Carlsberg. They almost always pissed Dad off.
This time, the news wasn’t good at all, either.
The letter notified us that for the next ten days starting Monday, my gym class will be in the pool. Swimming. I was directed to bring appropriate swim stuff, and so on. When Zander heard about it, he looked really happy – at least, until he saw the sick look on my face. He stopped talking about how I’d soon be doing laps with him and stuff like that, and the conversation around the dinner table went quiet. Now everyone looked at me.
Shit.
“What’s the matter, Andy?” Monica asked, concerned.
“I don’t want to do it,” I said, shortly. “I hate swimming.”
“Why not?” asked Zander, looking perhaps a little hurt.
I tried to explain. When I thought about it later, I was amazed at how I could talk about this with everyone there. “Sorry, Zander. I’m really bad at swimming. I can barely keep my head above water. And I really, really don’t like people to see me. I don’t want people to see my back. The scars, you know?”
“Oh,” he said in a small voice. Then he looked thoughtful.
“Couldn’t you go in the pool wearing a t-shirt or something?” Monica asked.
“No,” Zander responded quickly. “They won’t let you do that. Something about dyes or soap in the cloth, I think. Anyway, I know people who tried and were told not to.”
“Well, I think we ought to be able to work around the problem,” Mr. Stevenson spoke up, looking at me. “I can call the principal tomorrow, and ask her to let you out of the requirement.”
But I could tell Zander had something else in mind, though he wasn’t saying anything.
I thought that I was getting enough exercise without swimming lessons. Kaz has been making me try to run sprints between periods of slower running in the mornings. He wants to see how long I can go my fastest before my lungs and legs give out. I won’t say that I’m not grateful for his coaching and encouragement, because I am. I know I’m getting stronger, but it makes me so tired.
Dr. O’Shea also gave me a workout this week. Not like the running Kaz is making me do. But she stopped letting me slide so easily when we hit on something that made me uncomfortable. Okay, it’s honesty time. She made me talk about Dad and Uncle Ray. I’d had another really bad dream about them on Monday night, my first in a while. Although Zander had been there for comfort, it was still a rotten nightmare, and I hated waking up with my heart pounding.
It did not feel good to talk about Dad and Uncle Ray. I tensed up the instant she brought them up.
“You told me that you dream about your Uncle Ray and your Dad. Can you talk some more about those dreams?”
I made the mistake of shrugging, instead of just flat out refusing to talk.
“There’s a reason you keep having those dreams. Why do you think that is?”
I shrugged again.
“What happened when your mother left? Can you describe for me what went on?”
This was safer, at least a little. I gave her as much as I could recall about the fighting, yelling, the breaking of dishes and furniture; the sounds of all-out parental warfare going on outside my bedroom door. Dad always blamed this on me, telling me the arguments were all my fault, that I was the one who caused them. But he never told me exactly what the fights were about. I described the eerie silence of the house the day after mom left. Dad wasn’t just grumpy. His temper was on a hair trigger, and he didn’t hesitate to hit me hard to let me know when I’d crossed whatever line he’d drawn. And very soon, he was always drunk.
I was a little boy. I was petrified. I didn’t know where mom had gone, but Dad made sure I knew that I’d sent her away.
My monologue got harder and harder to sustain when I described the time that came a month or two after mom disappeared. Dr. O’Shea just sat there in her chair, listening intently. She gave me very little encouragement. She just waited through the silences, expecting me to go on.
“And then Uncle Ray came to stay with us for a while,” I said, ending one of these pauses.
“Where did he stay? In what room?” she probed.
“In the guest room. The room next to mine.” I was getting very tense about this.
“What did he do while he stayed with you and your father?”
That was a poser. I went to school, trying to pretend that nothing was amiss, not wanting to go back to my tyrant of a father or his creepy brother. And what did he do while I was gone?
“I don’t know.”
“And when you came home from school, what did your uncle do with you? Was he there to watch you while your father was at work?”
Oh boy. “Yeah, he watched me. Like a cat watching a mouse it’s about to eat.” Too late, I realized I’d spoken aloud.
“Were you afraid of him?”
I nodded.
“Did your uncle molest you?”
I stared into space. No words could come. A great black chasm, swirling with fear and misery and shame opened up before me. Memories of terrible black nights, shadows stealing across my bedroom, and the stink of lust and fear eddied up out of the hole in my mind. Echoes of the pain I experienced sounded in its depths; Uncle Ray’s evil whispers and threats added their notes to the onrushing cacophony. Vainly, I tried to push all that back into its hole.
I teetered on the brink of panic and despair. I’d been there before, but never confronted it so plainly. I trembled. But even as my mind tried to deal with an undeniable reality, I felt another reality anchoring me to solid ground. Zander loved me. Why, I couldn’t guess, but he said he loved me, and remembering that one thing, and hanging onto it, made it possible to hold onto the present while looking at my past.
Finally, I said in a whisper, eyes still locked on the carpet, “Yes. He did that.”
There. I said it. I admitted it. It hadn’t been a dream. It hadn’t been a terrible vision or a nightmare. It had happened.
“What did he do to you?” Dr. O’Shea pushed a little more.
Deep breath. Face the abyss. I was still safe. “He…forced…he…he stuck his thing in me.”
Silence. “You mean he raped you?”
More silence. “He…held me down…he tore off my pants…and then he rammed it up into me…” Suddenly, I realized there were tears on my face. My nose was clogged, and I had to sniff.
Dr. O’Shea didn’t offer empty, soothing words. She waited.
I gathered myself together again. “It hurt. God, it hurt so bad,” I said, remembering the searing, nearly blinding pain of getting torn open. There had been blood, afterwards. I’d been so ashamed. “When I tried to get out from under him, he hit me; when I tried to scream, he shoved my face down into the pillow until I couldn’t breathe…and when he was done…when he finished, he told me that he’d slice open my throat if I said anything to anyone.”
“Did your father suspect anything?” She didn’t let up at all.
“I don’t know,” I said, dully, “he was usually drunk by the time supper was over. I doubt he knew anything while it was going on.”
“What does ‘while it was going on’ mean? Did your uncle attack you more than once?”
I did not want to remember this. But she had asked, and I didn’t want to lie or duck it, either. I nodded. “He was at our house for a month. Uncle Ray…came to my room…a lot of times. For a month.” I paused to breathe again. “Once I tried to lock my door, but he just jimmied it open somehow. Another time, I tried blocking the door with a chair or something, but Uncle Ray just busted the door in. He cut his hand open on a splinter of wood, I remember. That really pissed him off. But whenever I did something like that, or tried to put up a fight, he’d just make sure to hurt me worse after.”
“Did you ever tell your father what was happening?” Again, the questioning, flat, without emotion.
“Once. Only once. When I tried, Dad blew up at me, called me a shitty little liar, and whipped me so bad I didn’t go to school the next day. I didn’t say anything after that.”
Dr. O’Shea’s professional mask dropped a little. “Oh, Andy,” she said simply, “I’m so sorry.” I looked up to find her handing me a box of tissues. I guess I was kind of a mess. She gave me a long time to recover.
“I can’t imagine how you must have felt,” she went on, “but maybe you can tell me what you feel now. Today.”
“I feel like shit,” I said sharply, “what do you expect me to feel?”
“Just that? Only shitty?” she asked in that tone I had learned meant that she was suggesting I needed to think a little more.
I managed to stop sniffling and tried to think about what she was asking. Moments passed, and Dr. O’Shea waited patiently, as she always did when I wanted to chew over an answer. I’d had a long time to think about this. Eight years. All summer, all pretty much on my own. “When I think about it, I feel…empty inside. Sometimes I feel dirty, like I’ll never be clean. Sometimes I feel like I’m broken, and I can’t be fixed. I feel completely alone. Totally helpless. And scared. Really scared.”
I was on a roll. Suddenly, I could tell someone about it. About how it was like to be me.
“Do you feel like that all the time?” She wouldn’t stop asking questions.
“I used to. I felt like that all the time. Every day. Even when I knew Dad was dead, and I was on the road. But not anymore. Not since…” I stopped, and I actually smiled. “Not since walking into Blackburn. Not since…Zander.”
“How does Zander make you feel?”
I didn’t hesitate to answer. “He makes me feel loved. Like I finally belong. With him, I feel like there’s really a place for me in the world. He and his family have been so good to me. They give me so much, and…and I…” I faltered. “…and I don’t deserve it.”
“What don’t you deserve?”
That line of discussion went on for a long time. How do I know I don’t deserve to be loved? Who told me so? Whose choice is it to love? To give? To receive? Basically, Dr. O’Shea wore me down. By the end our time, I was exhausted.
But the funny thing is, even though I felt drained at the end of our session, I also felt a lot better when I got into the car. Like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. But I needed time to think.
Zander noticed how quiet I was for past few days, and he didn’t push. Have I mentioned how wonderful a boyfriend he is? Thursday’s meeting Dr. O’Shea’s office was nearly as tough. She went right back to the deserving question and made me think hard about my answers. Why don’t I deserve Zander? What do I deserve instead if I don’t? Did I deserve to be raped? To be beaten by a drunken father? To live homeless, and on the run? To be cared for? To be accepted? To be loved? What parts of my life were mine to choose? Which parts weren’t? What choices do I have now? I’m still dizzy with all the questions, even a whole day after.
But maybe, I’m beginning to see some of the point of all this talk. Do I really have a choice to be happy? I wonder.
March 5
I took Zander out on a real date Saturday night. Okay, it was a pretty tame outing, but I still smile, thinking about it. I still have some cash from my summer stash, so I asked him out to eat at the diner downtown. I wanted to do something nice with him, and maybe give Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson some time to themselves, too.
We ended up walking into town, slowly, and then eating and talking and eating some more for a long time. We talked about music over our giant hamburgers; I’m just getting used to the idea that I can listen to music that I choose – that I like. There wasn’t any music in the house in Carlsberg and very little to speak of at the Whitley farm, either. At first, Zander tried to get me to listen to his stuff, but I’m beginning to prefer some of the country tunes I’ve found. We finished our fries arguing about whether country music is all just a formula for sad songs, or something like that.
I noticed my plate was completely empty.
“Hey you want this?” Zander held out a long quartered pickle that had come as part of our orders. I’d eaten mine a long time ago.
I took it from him and inserted it in my mouth, savoring the salty, sour flavor. There were times last summer that I would have killed for the chance to eat something like that – hell, anything at all.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” Zander said, changing the subject. His face suddenly looked really serious. “There was this guy at the last meet. You probably saw him at regionals. Tall, thin, African American. Really good. Well, he was flirting with me for almost the whole time I was there last week.”
I felt sick. What was he telling me? Was Zander telling me that we were all done? That he wanted someone else? I realized he was still speaking.
“He actually hit on me practically from the minute I got to the pool. I think he was trying to distract me or something. Nothing I said could make him go away.” He paused. “I got so mad that I kind of outed myself to the guy. I told him to stop ‘cause my boyfriend wouldn’t like it.” He grinned.
I got really quiet – I didn’t like the idea of anyone flirting with Zander.
“You okay? You’re not saying anything,” he prompted.
“I just wish I could have been there with you, Zander.” I sighed. “Maybe I’m jealous of the other guy, what’s his name, Greg? Isn’t he the big competition from last month’s meet? He’s hot.” I thought about Zander together with the big dark boy. They’d look good together. A great couple. I glanced up at Zander sadly. “You weren’t really interested, were you?”
Zander reached across the table and covered my hand with his. The gesture was perfectly natural, but I was so aware of his hand on mine at that moment. “Are you kidding, Andy? The only boy who interests me is sitting right here at this table.”
I blushed. I love it when he says things like that. “I’m sorry, Zander. I know I’m just jealous and insecure.”
He snorted. “Wait until some guy hits on you. I’ll show you jealousy.”
Someone hitting on me? Like that would ever happen.
I insisted on paying – Zander wanted to split the bill, but I wasn’t going to let him get anywhere near the little piece of paper with the total on it – and we walked out into the chilly dark Saturday night. We wandered vaguely in the direction of the ice rink; Zander said it would be open for skating still. Our feet strayed into the riverside park, and we followed the darkened, icy road that wandered through the deserted picnic shelters and swing sets. The bright lights from the skating rink glared distantly through the bare tree branches.
Suddenly, Zander stopped.
“It was here,” he said.
I looked around in the darkness, curious.
“Right here, I think,” he repeated, “that’s where I saw you for the first time. You were sitting on a tree branch over the creek,” he continued, pointing toward the silent, icy waters, “and the morning sun was shining on your hair and shoulders.” He stopped.
I remembered that morning.
“You were the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen, and I wanted you from the moment I saw you,” Zander spoke quietly. He took my hand, and turned me toward him and kissed me softly, gently. I couldn’t think of anything else but kissing him back. The kiss deepened rapidly. We got lost in each other. Nothing mattered – not the cold, not the stray snowflakes blowing around – nothing except the fantastic feeling of Zander’s mouth on mine, his lips open to my tongue, and mine to his.
And when we finally had to stop in order to breathe, Zander pulled me close. “I’m yours, completely. You know that, don’t you? Don’t ever worry that I’ll fall for some other guy. Because that’s not going to happen.”
We wound up skating for a little while and walking the long walk home, happily being together. It was a wonderful first date.
We got home and talked with Monica and Mr. Stevenson – it’s going to be impossible to call him ‘Garrett’ – for a little while, and then went up to bed.
We’ve been spending most nights in my bedroom, but tonight, I wanted to stay in Zander’s.
“Sure thing,” he said casually when I asked him about it, “and I have something for you, anyway.” I looked at him, puzzled. “It’s a surprise. A good one, I hope.”
A few minutes later, dressed in my old basketball shorts and t-shirt, I joined Zander in his room. He handed me a pair of brightly colored shorts. “Board shorts,” he said briefly, “I got them for you when we went clothes shopping. You’ll need them for swimming on Monday.”
“But I thought they’d let me out of that,” I just about whined.
Zander grinned. “I thought of something better. You know how we get to the gym early when we run?”
I nodded.
“Well, I convinced coach to come in early and let me teach you swimming privately. Just you and me.”
My jaw dropped. Zander must have thought I was angry, because he hurried to explain.
“I mean, coach comes in early, anyway, and besides I have my Water Safety Instructor’s certificate, and I teach swimming and lifeguard all summer, and…”
“You want to teach me to swim? One on one?” I asked him, interrupting.
“Yeah,” he said sheepishly, “I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind so much…if it were me. Coach will be nearby, but he won’t be, you know, right there.”
“And does coach know why you want to do this?” I was okay with my secrets being out to Zander and the family, and maybe even to Kaz and Terry, but outside of that tight little circle, I would feel really exposed.
“Kind of. He knows you have a physical problem that makes it really embarrassing for you to do swimming with everyone else,” Zander said quickly. “But if dad had gone to the principal asking for you to get out of swimming, he would have known that, anyhow,” he reasoned. “Besides, this way, you get credit for the unit, and you keep up with the class.”
“Oh. I didn’t think of it that way.” I held the shorts in my hand.
Zander got into bed, while I stood there, uncertainly. I realized that Zander had made a good plan. He’d been looking out for me, again. I was going to have to keep working on trust. If I really trusted Zander, I wouldn’t be worried about this. If I really trusted Zander with who I am, and what I am, then this shouldn’t be a big deal. If the kisses we shared meant anything, I know I should be able to trust him. Hell, we sleep in each other’s beds every night, why should I care if I have to go swimming with him?
Zander lay there in bed, waiting for me, looking a little confused. I decided it was time. Time to be more open to him, more trusting. I set the board shorts down. It was time for another barrier to fall. In the little pool of light thrown by the bedside lamp, I pulled off my t-shirt and dropped it at my feet.
Zander’s eyes went wide. “What are you doing?” he whispered.
I got into bed with him and faced him. “I’m trusting you. Trusting you with what my body looks like. With me,” I said, looking deep into his eyes. “If I have to do it Monday, I want to start now, so the sight of me doesn’t make you sick.”
“Make me sick? Is that what you think?” Zander asked, wonderingly. His eyes went all soft, somehow. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out a hand. He ran his fingers slowly down my arm, and I shivered at the delicate touch. I held my breath when they moved back up along the curve of my bicep and along the outline of my collarbone. When his fingers traced the line down the center of my chest, I had to close my eyes.
“You’re beautiful. Incredible,” I heard Zander whisper. His touch lingered just below my belly button, hesitating at my waistband. I realized that maybe - maybe - I wasn’t afraid of what Zander might do. If he wanted it, maybe I could let him go anywhere he chose. If it happened, I wouldn’t stop him. My cock quivered, and my heart thudded loudly inside my ribcage. “So beautiful,” he repeated.
And then Zander closed the distance between us and gave me another mind-blowing kiss. I felt his arms encircle me and draw me in closer. I felt his fingers run over my naked back, caressing every scar, every mark, every bump left over from a life I’d left behind.
My skin tingled with the new sensation his long, artist’s fingers made on my flesh. I shivered at his gentle caress, an electricity running the length of my body. I couldn’t help curving my body into him. My response to his kisses became hotter, more urgent. We kissed feverishly, my fingers running through his hair, his hands all over my shoulders and spine. But when Zander’s touch strayed close to my waistline again, he stopped and pulled back. Both of us panted a little from the intensity of our kissing.
“You just don’t know how seriously good-looking you are,” he whispered hoarsely, brushing a stray hair back away from my face. His eyes were almost black, his face serious. “No matter what you say, no matter what happened, I’m always going to tell you that. Because it’s a fact.”
Hearing Zander say it with such conviction made me believe it. Almost.
He tugged a little on my shoulder. “Roll onto your stomach a second, okay?”
I lay flat, cradling my head on my arms. I didn’t have long to wonder what Zander was doing. He climbed on top of me, straddling my thighs. I felt his fingers trail down my spine again. Then I felt his lips touch my left shoulder. Then he planted another kiss a little farther down. Then another over to the right.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Kissing your scars,” Zander replied softly. “They’re part of you. That makes them part of me, too.” He kept kissing my back, lower and lower. He went on, “And I love you. All of you – including every mark on your back.” Zander punctuated each word with a kiss. I felt him trace a long scar over my lower back with his right thumb. He shifted down and kissed that, too. And when he breathed on the hollow of my spine where it disappeared into my shorts, my whole frame trembled.
He sat up. I heard the rustling of cloth. Zander lay back down and stretched out his full length on top of me. He’d taken off his shirt. Now I could feel the warmth of his silken skin on mine. And I could feel his shaft through my shorts, hard as stone, lying perfectly in my cleft. While it made me tremble, I didn't want him to move, either.
“You’re beautiful, Andy, and I love you,” Zander breathed into my ear. “I know you’re not ready for more than this, and…and maybe I’m not, either. But this feels so good and right…”
I twisted my head around and kissed him slowly, intensely. I reached an arm back to hold him to me, to let the heat of our skin meld us together. Zander was right. This was good. Perfect. We kissed like that for a while – softly, sensuously, almost delicately. Afraid to disturb the pure peace of that moment.
I think we dozed that way, eventually. But when I woke, we were again in our familiar, warm tangle, with Zander spooned up behind me, and his arms around me. But this time, his lips brushed my bare shoulder, and his hand slumbered idly on my bare chest.
Today might be Sunday, but last night had to be heaven.
Please leave a review. I value your comments and remarks, and they are all welcome.
-
73
-
25
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Recommended Comments
Chapter Comments
-
Newsletter
Sign UpSign Up and get an occasional Newsletter. Fill out your profile with favorite genres and say yes to genre news to get the monthly update for your favorite genres.