Bad Stereotypes - 23. Sunday 28th July 2013

James found me when he came in having expected me to be downstairs. Still sobbing on the floor in boxers and one sock, he dragged me up and put me to bed.

When I next woke it was dark outside and I could hear the noises of the club downstairs. The acid green blinking lights of the clock told me that it was just past midnight. I cried for about an hour before I fell asleep again.

I woke up in the early hours of Sunday morning to find Dale sitting on my bed. He looked exhausted and the sky was just light enough to show that he had come up from the club only moments before. I watched him watching me for a few moments before his eyes adjusted and he saw that I was awake.

“Bay…”

“D, I’m sorry,” I ploughed ahead before he could continue, “I’m so sorry that I didn’t show up for work. I understand if you’re angry with me.”

“Bay.” Dale rubbed a hand over his thinning hair, “That’s not why I’m here. I’m not angry. I’m upset.”

I sat up in bed, wrapping the sheet around my waist as I looked at my Godfather. He’d given me everything a teenager could want for; job, house, flexible schedule, tolerance, love. And now he was upset with me.

“Talk to me Bay. Tell me what happened.”

“Issac left me.” My head hurt when I said the words, I didn’t want to see the image burned into the back of my eyelids: Issac with his hand on the door, turning away from me and leaving.

“That I know. You wanna tell me why?”

“No.” I folded my arms across my chest and I knew I was sulking.

“Don’t pout Bay.” Dale tapped on my knee with one huge knuckle, “Makes you look silly. Tell me what happened.”

“I told Issac that I ‘wasn’t that gay’ and he yelled at me and left. When we went out to the club I nearly beat up a guy who I thought was too gay. I fucked up.”

“Shit…”

Dale looked about as knocked about as my heart felt.

“I’m sorry.”

“You know where he’ll be today?”

“No.” I stared out the window and the beginning of a sky that didn’t match my mood. It was Sunday. Game day. Zupan had a match, and tattoos told me that Issac would be there, “Yes.” I was up and falling down the stairs before Dale had shouted that I needed a shower and actual clothes before I ran after my missing man.

It was way too early to go the sports complex, so even though I didn’t want to I had a shower, tidied up the flat, changed the sheets and made the bed, then helped Dale clean up around the bar and do the orders until I was practically jumping out of my skin with nerves. Dale sent me off with a wave, and his blessing to go and fix my life and a clip round the ear for breaking it in the first place.

I ran to the sports centre in a sky blue t-shirt and board shorts and thought of nothing but Issac’s face. My feet pounded out the beat of my heart with no music and I could see nothing in my head except his face, his smile. I needed to see that smile again. I ran.

At the complex there was no one on the track, no sign of the ‘society of the wooden leg’ so I headed inside and walked towards the squeaking, rubber on varnish and crashing, swearing sounds of the murderball game. Issac was in the stands, about half way up, sitting next to Zoltan, the biggest guy in the room, and they were cheering for the action on the court.

My heart leapt into my throat when I saw him. But Zupan saw me first.

A crash on court alerted me to his presence, then a shout, half my name and a snarl and suddenly I was scrambling away from Zupan and he battering-ram chair.

“The FUCK are YOU doing here?” Zupan angry was one of the scariest things I’d ever seen, “Get off my fucking court you spineless little SHIT!”

I jumped over a couple of chairs as he came for me, thrashing stuff and people out of his way. There was murder in his eyes and in the time it took me to find Issac on the stands again (on his feet, holding tight to Zoltan and looking pale) Zupan had landed a solid blow to my shin. He couldn’t tighten his grip any, but fuck if he could hit. I staggered and yelped and tried to scramble off the court.

“ZU!” Zoltan was yelling at his brother, but Zupan wasn’t listening to anyone, “Stop!”

“You’re such a fucking dick Bay, you know that?”

“Zu, wait! I need to speak to him.” I was getting backed up towards the wall, the door on my left. Zupan was still coming for me, my head felt hot and tight, I searched for Issac but he wasn’t looking at me, his face turned away, my heart clenched. Trapped between Zupan and a wall was not somewhere I wanted to be, so I ran.

I skidded on the lino floor of the sports complex, bolted and nipped over the turnstile at the entrance because I could hear Zupan behind me still. I turned towards the sea and ran. I didn’t figure on Zupan catching up with me so quickly.

One moment I was running along in the sunlight, then something (which turned out to be one of Zupan’s extra grip gloves) hit me in the shoulder. I glanced back, and then Zupan was in front of me and my shin’s hit the side of the murderball chair and my continued momentum sent me flying. I tucked my arms round my head and landed pretty much solidly on my right shoulder, gravel biting like a thousand tiny teeth. Everything hurt.

Then Zupan’s hand was loose around my ankle and I half uncurled to look at him. He couldn’t hold me there, his thumb and fingers were shaky and barely touching, but there was something more in his eyes than physical restraint, and I realised perhaps that maybe Zupan didn’t want to kill me.

“You could keep running if you wanted to Bay,” Zupan’s voice was as normal as I’d ever heard it, not so hard, not sarcastic, “But then you’ll just be running away for the next decade or so. Get off your high horse and breathe OK?”

I took one deep, shuddering breath and winced.

“Well you did decide to fall pretty hard there. Get up and let’s look at ye.”

I limped upright and swiped at the gravel stuck into my shoulder. My shirt had been ripped by my fall, so I dragged it off over my head and used the wadded up cotton to dab that the bits of my back and shoulder I could reach, removing grit and asphalt and blood. Not such a pretty sight. My shin was bruised where I’d connected with Zupan’s chair. I rubbed my hair from my face and turned to Zupan with my shoulders sagging.

“I don’t know what to do Zupan.”

I swore there was something like a smile on his face.

“What was the last thing he said to you Bay?”

I breathed deep, fighting back against the way my ribs hurt from my spill.

“That I couldn’t love him if I didn’t even like myself.” It hurt to say the words even now, outside in the open air, and I felt my chest going tight, my head telling me to run until I could deal with this fact.

“Well,” Zupan folded his arms in his lap, “That seems like a good place to start.”