In the Cold Light of the Morning - 1. Chapter 1

The grey sky hung low over the city, enveloping its inhabitants in a cloak of thick, rolling fog. Tristan Lacroix glided through the mist, seemingly oblivious to the droplets of water that clung to his skin and clothes. He moved quickly through the evening, not seeing the throngs of people milling about him, ignoring their angry outbursts as he bumped into them. To those who took notice of him, he stood out from the rest; he wasn’t hurrying toward anything, he appeared to be running away from something. From what, they could not say.

Without looking around, without any warning at all, he turned into a small, dark alleyway. Steam billowed out the back of a laundrette, choking him as he made his way to the far side. Fumbling about, he felt his fingers wrap around a rusted iron railing. He swung about, bounding up the fire escape of the old building. He continued criss-crossing upward until the heavy cloud of steam dissipated, melting into the endless veil of fog.

The stairway came to an abrupt end, but Tristan placed one foot on the railing and ran his fingers over the cracked stonework of the edifice until he found enough leverage to pull himself up. He pushed himself easily over the top of the building and onto the roof. As soon as he found his balance, the sense of urgency in his gait vanished. He slowly walked to the far side of the roof and looked out over into the darkness below. The fog obscured his view, but he didn’t need to see to know what lay below. He had spent many hours up here, in silent contemplation, staring out at the decay of the long abandoned factories and warehouses, watching as they waged a silent, futile war against the ravages of time. It was a long drop from the rooftop where he stood to the stone street below, littered with rusted, broken machinery and decrepit relics of another era. There was an eerily peaceful feeling here; even the din of the busy city behind seemed muted.

He stood, precariously close to the edge, and let his mind cycle through an endless stream of anamneses. He reflected back on past mistakes, past sorrows and on the things and people he had loved – and lost. He recalled the first time he had sat on this rooftop. It seemed like a lifetime ago, now. He tried to trace the precise sequence of events that had led him back to this cold and lonely rooftop, but try as he might, the memories would not coalesce. There was only the present; only the cold, the damp, the dark, the terrifying loneliness that consumed him. He tried to snatch fond memories out from that dark abyss, recalling fleeting moments of ecstasy – glorious moments that had shattered ego bounds and elevated him beyond any normal state of awareness. But once in his consciousness, they no longer seemed glorious, but cruel and mocking: reminders of how, in reaching for heights undreamt, he had fallen so very far.

He closed his eyes and felt his inner turmoil and angst begin fade away, leaving in its stead a peculiar sense of serenity. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of his heart beating against his chest; of his shallow, ragged breathing; of the cold dampness that enveloped him. He leaned out over the edge and braced himself, spreading his arms wide.

“Hey!” Deep within the confines of a tortured mind, the voice barely registered.

“Hey!” It was more urgent now.

He became vaguely aware of the voice, and then realized it was directed at him. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. He turned to face the speaker, and felt a laugh bubble up from deep within him. Fate would not let him escape that easily it would seem. The stranger, cloaked in shadow and fog watched in silence as Tristan laughed. He laughed until cramps bent him over double, and then he laughed some more. It was a mirthless laugh; a wheezing, pained, almost cruel sounding thing wrenched from utter, hopeless surrender.

Finally, as the stranger stood staring impassively, the laugh subsided and Tristan straightened himself. Just shy of 25, Tristan had once been considered strikingly handsome and even now many people thought him so – until they looked too closely, at least. His once proud, glittering grey eyes were now matte, staring out of hollow sockets limned with dark circles that had nothing to do with fatigue: the eyes of one who had fully accepted defeat.

“You want to come inside?” the stranger asked. His voice was barely audible across the rooftop, yet it carried a note of empathy, and of intrigue.

“Sure, why not,” Tristan said after a long silence. The boy nodded, and motioned for Tristan to follow. He hesitated a moment and looked back over his shoulder at the precipice. He thought about jumping, but he knew even as the thought ran through his head that he would not. He had missed that chance, now. The biological imperative to live – to perpetuate one’s existence, no matter how miserable – had returned. With a last wistful look over the edge, he turned in silence to follow the boy.

Julian woke with a start, his heart pounding. He looked over at his clock: it was only 4:23. Had he been insane, just offering his couch to a stranger? He wondered briefly if his apparently disturbed guest had ransacked his apartment before vanishing into the night. He thought it more likely that Tristan had simply left, but he decided to get up and check anyway. He quietly pushed open the door to his bedroom and tip-toed down the dark hall. There was a heap of blankets spread across the sofa, but after taking a closer look it was apparent that there was no body under them. But, Julian noticed, there was an extra pair of shoes by his door.

The kitchen, too, was unoccupied, so Julian carefully crept back down the hall to the bathroom. The door was ajar, and a soft light was emitting from the narrow opening. He turned to go back to bed, but something stopped him. He stood at the door and watched; he could see Tristan’s reflection in the mirror above the sink. Tristan sat in the deep bathtub, perfectly motionless, holding his legs to his chest. His chin rested on his knees; his face was stained with tears.

“It’s rude to spy on people, you know?” Tristan said, not turning his gaze.

“Uh...” Julian stammered, backing away from the door.

“Just come in and sit down.” Was that a tinge of amusement in his otherwise toneless voice?

Julian pushed the door open and took a seat on the toilet next to the bathtub. He seemed unsure as to what he should say, and settled for putting a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. He was surprised when he felt Tristan’s hand reach back to clasp his own. Reaching out with the other, he gently stroked Tristan’s face with one finger.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Tristan said at last.

“I couldn’t sleep. I don’t like sleeping alone...my thoughts catch up with me.”

“You don’t have to sleep alone.” Julian heard himself speak as though he were removed from his body. He didn’t know what had prompted him to say such a thing.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Tristan laughed, and this time it was a mirthful laugh. Julian found it almost strange to see hear such a delightful, gentle sound come out of the otherwise grave boy. “I think I might just take you up on that offer. Do you have a towel?”

“Uh, yeah, of course. Just give me a second.” When Julian returned, the laughter had faded from Tristan’s face, replaced with a distant, austere look. He stood, sopping wet, on the bath mat, completely unconcerned with the fact he was naked. Or perhaps he didn’t notice – either seemed equally plausible.

“Here’s a towel for you,” Julian said when it appeared Tristan hadn’t noticed him return.

“Thank you,” he replied absently. He dried himself off slowly, again not seeming to care if Julian watched or not. So he watched, transfixed. Tristan was beautiful – or rather, had been beautiful at one point. Now he just looked like a shell of a man, not even clinging to a pretence of pride. Julian could see every bone poking out beneath pale, almost translucent skin that seemed stretched almost to the point of tearing. His face had an immutable sadness etched into its contours; his eyes constantly stared past the physical, to places others’ sight could not reach. Track marks that he made no effort to conceal ran up his left arm.

Julian opened his mouth to say something – anything – but Tristan cut him off before he got the chance. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t need it.”

“I don’t pity you.” Even Julian couldn’t say if that was the truth. “You coming?”

Tristan fell still and there was a long silence. He looked at his reflection in the mirror then shut his eyes. Finally, just when it seemed no response was coming, he nodded once. Julian gently pulled the towel out of Tristan’s grasp and grabbed him by the hand, leading him down the hall to the bedroom. They exchanged not another word as they climbed into bed, but Julian noticed something as they lay side by side that he had not yet seen in Tristan: fear. He leaned over and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. A fleeting smile crossed Tristan’s lips as he closed his eyes.

Tristan watched the crowd in revulsion. They ranged in age from sixteen to sixty; some he’d seen before, others looked around nervously, wondering who might spot them here as they indulged their basest urges. He watched men cheat on their wives, wedding bands still on their finger. He watched broken men drown their sorrows and make crude passes at anyone who looked underage. He watched teenagers too young to drink try cocaine for the first time: boys damned to grow into the men who now ogled them. He watched them until he could stomach it no longer.

Pulling the cord tightly around his upper arm, he motioned for one of his co-workers to come near. “It’s there on the table,” he said, jerking his head toward the needle sitting on the table. He didn’t flinch as he felt the dull metal slip into his vein – even that pain was now part of the ritual. He closed his eyes for a moment as the cocaine hit him, and then jumped to his feet. The music changed; he took his place on the stage.

He hated stripping, almost as much as he hated drugs. But no matter how much it made his stomach churn, he knew that he was one of those poor wretches for which there was no alternative, no escape. He never looked them in the eyes when he danced – not any more at least. Every time he saw their lecherous stares he wanted to scream. Of course, it wasn’t their stares that bothered him –they reminded him of time when he could make heads turn wherever he went – but admitting that just made him want to weep. So he stared past them all, into his own private hell, and danced. He danced because it paid well and fed the addiction he knew would eventually kill him. When the song was over he grabbed his discarded costume and headed backstage.

“There is a request for you in one of the private rooms.” The slow, gravelly drawl of Jack, the club owner, mocked him. “Remember to be obedient...unless they want a naughty, naughty little boy.”

Tristan turned to stare at his boss and spat at his feet. He said nothing, but turned to head toward the private rooms. He didn’t care who saw him, he pulled out a dime bag and emptied it onto a small silver spoon. Steadying himself, he pushed aside the red beads and swayed into small, private booth. The official rule was ‘look, don’t touch’ but Tristan had worked there long enough to know that just meant touching was the real reason people paid small fortunes to rent these rooms.

“You must be Domino,” the man said, eyeing Tristan up and down.

“It’s your money, hun,” Tristan said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “I can be whatever you like.”

“Ohh,” he said with a great, thunderous wheeze. “She’s got some attitude. That’s good. I like my bitches to put up a fight. Makes ‘em all the more fun to break in.”

Tristan thought he was going to be sick as he felt fat, dirty fingers slid up his leg to cup his ass. Backing away from the man, he stepped up onto the table and tried to dance. The great, odious man in front of him, however, was not interested in watching him. He roughly grabbed Tristan by the waist and hauled him off the table, pushing him down between his legs. He fumbled with his zipper and pulled out his cock, pointing it at Tristan’s mouth. Tristan leaned forward and willed himself to open his mouth.

“Not that much fight, eh?” he laughed. “You cock-whores are all the same.”

Finally, Tristan had had enough. He reached out and grabbed the man’s sweaty testicles, squeezing as he pulled. The man roared in agony, but he surprised Tristan by not clutching his groin. Instead, he grabbed Tristan by the throat and effortlessly sent him crashing through the bead curtain onto a table on the other side. Pandemonium broke out in the dirty club, but all Tristan could see as he struggled to orient himself was the large man striding toward him. Tristan looked at him and laughed derisively. He knew who would win this fight.

Before he got within arm’s length of Tristan he was surrounded by three bouncers. He looked around in a fury, but even he seemed to realize there was only one way it could end. He screamed a long string of obscenities before storming out of the club, vowing never to return.

“What the hell was that?” Jack demanded. “You just cost me five hundred bucks!”

“So fire me, Jack,” Tristan said flatly. “I might be a stripper, a whore and a junkie but I still have some shred of pride left in there.”

Jack stared at him for a long time, apparently contemplating Tristan’s suggestion before finally spitting out: “Get up on that stage and start dancing.”

Tristan stood in silence, leafing through Julian’s physics assignment that had been sitting on the kitchen table. Julian watched him from his seat, wondering just what he was doing. He couldn’t possibly grasp what was written on the pages, yet he seemed engrossed in the material, reading each page carefully and slowly. Finally he finished reading through the problems and tossed the sheaf of paper back to Julian.

“There’s a mistake in problem number six,” he said.

“Oh, ok,” Julian replied, with a slight laugh.

“You don’t believe me?” Tristan asked, raising an eyebrow. “Your proof implicitly assumes a finite potential. It’s invalid for an infinite potential well.”

Impressed, and more than slightly surprised, Julian picked up his assignment and flipped to the problem in question. He read it, and re-read it several times.

“You’re right,” he said finally. “Forgive me Tristan, but I’m astounded.”

Tristan laughed bitterly. “I wasn’t always a junkie. Believe it not, I have a degree in mathematics. Not that it will do me any good now. I doubt I could remember half of what I learned. I’ve killed way too many brain cells.”

“Don’t take offense Tristan, but what happened to you? Most people wouldn’t even understand the questions in that assignment, let alone be able to pick out flaws in the answers. How did...”

“How did I fall so low?” he murmured quietly. “I got tired of constantly racing towards some ever-unreachable goal. As soon as I accomplished one thing, I just started toward another goal. Then I fell in love. And for a brief period, I was able to stop worrying about the future and just enjoy the moment. For a moment, I stopped dreaming and just lived.”

“What’s the dream now, Tristan?” Julian asked after a long silence.

“There is no dream now –– now there are only memories.”

Tristan froze. He stopped dancing in mid-song and fixed his eyes on the figure who had just walked into the club. The confused patrons started to mumble amongst themselves, and a few shouted obscenities at him. Tristan stood motionless on the stage, clad in nothing but a red g-string. Julian walked purposefully to the edge of the stage and sat down.

“How much do I have to pay to get you to start dancing?” he asked.

Tristan opened his mouth, but could find no words. Disconcerted, he grabbed his discarded clothing and practically ran off the stage into the back room. Jack started screaming at him, but he ignored him completely as he quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater. He started walking to the back door of the club.

“Hey, asshole!” Jack yelled. “If you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back.”

Tristan gave no acknowledgement as he slammed the door behind him. He lit a cigarette and walked out of the small alley onto the street. Julian was waiting for him, an unreadable look in his eyes.

“You want to go for a walk?” Julian asked.

“How did you find me?” Tristan demanded.

“I cashed your last paycheque for you, remember.” He started walking, and Tristan reluctantly followed him.

“Why?” Tristan asked after a while.

“Hmm, let me think,” Julian replied sarcastically.

“You slept in my bed every night for a month and then one morning I wake up and you’re just gone with no explanation.”

“If you came just to make me feel guilty, you’re wasting your time.”

“That wasn’t my intent, Tristan.”

“You want money? I don’t have much, but I can give you some on Friday.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Julian snapped. “I don’t want your money, Tristan.”

“Then why did you go to the trouble of coming here?”

“Because, Tristan, I was looking for you.”

“Why?” Tristan asked with a puzzled expression on his face.

“Wow, you are dense aren’t you.”

Tristan said nothing. They walked in silence for a few minutes before Julian came to a stop and turned to face Tristan.

“I came looking for you, because I missed you.”

Much to Julian’s surprise, tears welled up in the corner of Tristan’s eyes.

“No,” he said flatly.

“No?” Julian echoed.

“I like you Julian. You are very sweet, and you have been an unexpected light in a rather dark place. I do not believe I have ever said ‘thank you’ and for that I am sorry. But for once in my life, I’m going to be selfless. You may not believe me, but you will be better off for not being a part of my life. Goodbye, Julian.”

“Fine,” Julian said, looking into Tristan’s grey eyes. “Walk away from me if you like, and I promise I will not follow you. But don’t lie and say you’re doing it for me.”

Tristan opened his mouth to protest, but Julian kept on speaking.

“You’re doing it because you’re too afraid to try. You’ve created a self-fulfilling prophecy for yourself, Tristan. You’ve convinced yourself that your life is broken beyond repair, and yet you won’t take any action to fix it.”

“You don’t know the first thing about my life!” Tristan shouted. “Don’t try and – ”

“Come off it, Tristan. You’re in charge of your life. If you want to just lay down and die, be my guest. But if you want to try and pick up the pieces and put them back together, I’m offering to help you.”

Tristan stared quizzically at him for a long time before his lips curved up into a smile. It was the only time Julian had ever seen such a sincere smile on somber boy.

“You remind me of someone I used to know,” he said simply – sadly. “Someone I too often forget.”

Julian looked perfect, lying curled up in one corner of the bed. Tristan watched him wistfully from the window, and smiled. It was not a warm smile. Even though the darkness of night was fading fast, Tristan had not slept, could not. He thought about the previous night, and felt an uncontrollable anger well up inside of him. It had been perfect, and yet no matter how he willed himself to, he could not dispel the overwhelming sadness.

I love you, Tristan.

“I love you, too,” he murmured aloud to Julian’s sleeping body.

Pulling his eyes from his sleeping lover, Tristan walked quietly out of the bedroom. Clad in nothing but a pair of pajama pants, he unlocked the door to the fire escape and stepped out into the cold morning air. The air was still and quiet, the city still asleep, as he climbed to the rooftop. He distinctly felt the cold rod iron against his feet and the early morning dew on his face and chest.

“No dreams,” he murmured to the air. “Only memories.”

He stood in perfect stillness staring out at the city and the people below. He couldn’t say why, but it was a lonely sight; a terrifying sight. He stood there until his hair was wet with dew. He stood there, unmoving, until even he could no longer block out the cold. Looking out into the fading dark, he slowly buckled at the knees. As if slightly out of phase with his surroundings, he pushed himself back to his feet and climbed back down the fire escape into the apartment.

He dressed quickly, careful not wake Julian. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and placed them on the kitchen table. He picked up a pen and paper but when he went to write, his fingers would not move. He let them fall. He walked back to the bedroom, and let his eyes wander slowly over the sleeping body. Leaning down, he placed a soft kiss on Julian’s forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

He turned from Julian and, without looking back, walked out of the apartment and into the cold light of the morning.