I'm Not From Earth - 9. Nine

Rover was falling again. Legs flailing and limbs twisting, he plunged down a deep abyss. He knew it would hurt when he reached the bottom. However, the most horrific thought that plagued him wasn't the thought of the actual pain he would feel when his body would crash into the dark floor of rock so many floors beneath, but the thought of the impossible task of scaling the walls of the hole he had fallen in order to get back out.

How would he accomplish such a feat? How could he face the task of saving himself by climbing up? He would be all alone, and it was too dark to see the crevices he could use as footholds and the juts in the rocks that he could use to hoist himself upward. What if the task defeated him, and he slipped from the wall halfway up and fell again?

Rover felt a sharp pain explode in the back of his head as the speed that possessed his body halted and he knew he was resting at the lowest point of the abyss. His body was broken. He was unable to get up. He wished he had wings to carry him away, but he knew that even if he was a bird, fatigue would have prevented him from mustering a single successful flap. A burning sensation filled his eyes, and he lifted a feeble hand upwards, defeated, staring at the pinpoint of light that was the exit that he would never get to.

He blinked once, and squinting, realized that the light was getting closer and closer. He frowned and then realized that it wasn't the exit that was sinking downwards to meet him but a globule of light that had descended from the heavens.

Rover stared in fascination as the light sank lower and lower, fluttering around his hand and near his cheek. Warmth radiated from its core, and Rover knew that it was here to help him. Though it was too small to carry him, its brightness bathed the surrounding walls with heavenly light, illuminating every staircase and rings of rock that Rover could grasp.

You can do this. Its voice filled Rover ears, soft and assuring, and he stared back at the light beside his face. It grew brighter and brighter, the voice in his ear chanting louder and louder, until energy rushed through his limbs and his head burst into a fireball of determination. With a nimbleness that was lost to him minutes ago, he leapt to his feet and approached the wall, the ball of light hovering shortly above, guiding him. Rover reached forward to plant a hand onto the nearest jut of rock, only to find that it was no longer there.

The walls around melted away, the light above grew still and separated into two lamps that hung beside Rover, and he was sitting up on a bed, the darkness mitigated, but still persisting in his vicinity.

Just a dream

“Where…” he mumbled to himself, raising a hand to rub his heavy brow. He peered around, his vision raking faded walls, shelves swallowed in heaps of CD’s, and chairs resting on laundry.

Rover shivered as a gust of wind shot through an open window to his left, chilling beads of sweat on his neck, and he paused, hearing soft and deep breathing.

He turned to his left, noticing a naked figure deep in sleep. His muscles shone in the dim light, and for a split second Rover could see green eyes staring back at him, but the moment passed and realization dawned on him. He realized that he was in Somerset’s room.

What time is it? Rover thought, and he rolled off the bed, searching for an alarm clock but finding none. His fingers crept absently to his side, and he suddenly remembered. He felt the area tenderly, pressing lightly and then pressing harder… and realized that there was no pain.

He stood up abruptly. A jolt of discomfort ran through the area, but nothing more. Perplexed, Rover walked out of the bedroom, searching for the washroom, and when he had, flicked on the light and shed his shirt, squinting in the mirror.

The corner of his lip was split, and faint smudges of blood clouded his chin where his nose had bled, but other than that, his face looked remotely fine. His torso, though, had a story of bruises to tell. A large one extended in the groove of his chest, stretching downwards towards his rib. Another was a fist size tattoo of purple on his round shoulder. Smaller ones, splotches the size of coins discoloured his collarbone. He lifted his arms gingerly. Where he had thought he had been injured most badly, there was nothing but a stain of green and yellow. The post-bruise was however, remarkably large, wrapping a good portion of his taut stomach.

Rover stared at himself in the mirror, watching his own intense eyebrows furrow, his straight nose crinkle in frustration and left blue eye twitch as he tried to recollect his memories. What had happened?

He remembered the kick his father delivered, and meeting someone on top of a building. Everything else was a blur, nothing but flashes of broken motions, random words and rushes of feelings. Anger. Fear. Desire.

“Desire?” he asked himself out loud, watching his lips mouth the two syllable word as though they weren’t his own. It clung to his mouth like a poisonous stain, and a sudden tremor ran through him as his head spun with the memory of closeness, the stranger's long fingers brushing his side. Fingers that radiated with shocking warmth, lifting his shirt and pressing against his skin.

Rover clenched the edge of the sink until his knuckles paled, the bruises coming alive as the muscles of his torso rippled and tensed.

Slade.

The name rang in his memory like spoons pealing against wine glasses.

“You okay man?”

Startled, Rover turned too quickly to face the entrance to the washroom and pulled a muscle in his neck.

"Hell," he groaned, wincing, "I was until now. Thanks for sneaking up behind me."

Somerset laughed, then yawned widely, showing a stretch of paper white teeth. "Speaking of hell man, that's what you look like right now, so get your ass to bed. It's four in the morning."

Rover looked downwards at the shirt he took off, and realized that he didn't recognize it. "This isn't mine," he mumbled.

"Sure as fuck isn't." Somerset raised an eyebrow, adjusting his boxers. "You think I'd let you crash with your bloodied clothes? Who did you kill, by the way? And how the fuck did you wind up on my doorstep? I sure as hell didn't let you in the building, and a few seconds after you knocked, you were asleep."

"I didn't kill anyone."

Somerset rolled his eyes. "Well fuck of course you didn't. What happened, then? Who's blood did you have all over your clothes? Do you actually remember what happened?"

Rover opened his mouth to answer, but his friend waved him off.

"Actually, you know what, fuck this," he said, "I'll question you later when you've got enough sleep."

Rover swallowed, grateful. "... Okay."

"So go." Somerset yawned again, retreating from the threshold.

"What?"

"Get to bed! Fuuuck."

Somerset was out before he hit the mattress, but Rover found that he couldn’t sleep. It wasn't because of his injuries -- they were only bruises after all, and he had learned to ignore them through the years. He remained curled underneath the sheets, shivering despite the warmness of the summer night, head whirling with a billion thoughts. His father plagued most of his memories. At times, the floating face in Rover’s mind had a warm smile that he couldn’t help but share; however, the majority of the time his father was angry. Violent. Hateful. The painful ordeals Rover relived were far too vivid in his head -- he shook and jerked as he remembered each forceful blow to his body. He blinked hard as he reheard each and every terrible yell his father had ever hurled at him.

Then the mysterious boy took over Rover’s thoughts, and nothing mattered but those blazing green eyes, those lips and that soft voice. A deep sigh of content escaped his lips, and Rover finally relaxed. Lulled into a trance by the echoes of Slade’s soft voice, he fell into a deep sleep.

*