“Let his flesh not be torn. Let his blood leave no stain. When they beat him let him feel no pain. Let his bones never break and however they try to destroy him. Let him never die. Let him never die.” -Everyone should know I didn't write that.
Two hours after Brian arrived home the water in his shower has long ago gone cold. Brian stands under the coarse spray, trembling from both fear and the change in temperature. His perfectly manicured hands are in constant repetitive movement.
One hand holds an almost empty bottle of Caress body wash, the object’s intended use in perfect contrast to what his other hand grasps, a rough blue exfoliating sponge. The sound of constant scrubbing and the squirt of the soap bottle reverberate off of the bathroom walls like music to only Brian’s ears. It is mixed with the showerhead’s hard water spray that pounds down upon his skin and the shower stall the sounds become an eerie echo of a symphony he knows all too well.
Perfection and cleanliness is all Brian’s mind knows as he falls to the tile floor of the shower. He doesn’t feel the pain that he should from the raw opened red patches, some bleeding, some bruising, all numb and comforting. The slick cold tiles on his bottom seem to awaken him from his ritual cleansing. Only a few degrees colder than the water, yet they do the trick to make him come to his senses and turn off the indoor rain.
Brian carefully opens the glass shower door and reaches his hand out and gets a soft fluffy blue towel off of the linen bench. Meticulously he dries every inch of his body with small light dabs. Every time the cotton sticks to an open wound he finds himself jumping a bit from the sting but at the same time reveling in the familiarity of it.
Brian has always needed stability and familiarity. So much so that he needed to make his own.. After stepping out of the shower Brian thinks he feels much better. That is until he hears his mother’s words.
Memories that were once buried and that his therapist brought to the surface invade his thoughts like a hammerhell to his brain. The onslaught is never kind, it is never anything less than a heart wrenching, brutally ingrained mind fuck.
‘What were you doing taking pictures Brian?’ Joan Kinney asks her ten year old.
“I..I.. Mam I..” Brian stutters.
“Out with it Brian!” Joan stomps her foot on their kitchen floor. “Quit stuttering. What were you doing stealing my camera?”
He didn’t mean to take the picture of the flower. It just looked so pretty, purple petals kissed with morning dew sparkling from the early morning sunrise. He regretted it the minute he picked up his mother’s camera and heard the click of the shutter. “I wasn’t stealing mother, I swear.” Brian said looking down.
“Are you telling me that I didn’t see you take my camera outside this morning? Or is this your camera Brian?” Joan said holding up the black camera. She honestly couldn’t even remember the last time she had used it. She was sure it had sat on the bookshelf for a few years. But that didn’t excuse the fact that her son had taken it and used it.
“No. Mother.” Brian said. His mind couldn’t think fast enough. She always made him so nervous. “I mean, I was only borrowing it. It looked so nice outside and….” He wasn’t able to finish his sentence because he heard his father coming down for breakfast.
Jack immediately noticed the tension in the room as he entered the small spot free kitchen. He looked at his son who was stirring what smelled to be gravy on the stove. Warm biscuits were surely tucked away in the basket that sat at the center of the table. “Are you running behind today sonny-boy?” Jack asked sitting down.
Brian turned to look at his father. “No, sir, I just thought I’d keep the gravy on the stove so it would still be warm.” Brian went to the coffee pot and made his father a cup of coffee the way he liked it.
“Are you going to tell your father what you did today Brian?” Brian’s face turned white. The innate sense of dread was imbedded into him almost from birth. His hair on the back of his neck stood up as his father walked to where he was now at the stove.
Brian looked at his mother for a moment who chose this moment to walk out of the kitchen. Whenever she asked Brian to tell Jack what he did, it usually meant that his father would not give a shit what it was. I t was just an excuse to beat up on him.
Jack spun Brian around hard by the arm. “What is it sonny-boy? What’d you do this early to make the warden mad?”
“N..N..N..Nothing.” Brian said truthfully. “I didn’t steal it.” Brian said.
What felt like hours but was only minutes later Brian would think of how stupid he was to say what he said to his father. He added ammunition to the fire his mother so lovingly set.
Laying on the tile floor Brian held his burnt hand to his chest. He would have to get up and put cold water on it soon, before it scarred. But that was nearly impossible because he couldn’t move his right leg.
He had stopped crying or fighting back too long ago. He knew it was his fault. He was the reason his parents didn’t love him. He heard footsteps coming his way and closed his eyes hoping that whichever one it was would go away if they thought he was passed out.
The tapping of his mother’s shoes made him relax slightly, if possible. Then he heard it. Her mantra. “You are an evil wicked little boy Brian. You did this. You are a bad wicked little boy. Wicked.” His mother said as she tapped her pointy toed shoe into his sore shoulder.
Brian opened his eyes and focused on himself in the mirror. He touched the sensitive skin and took a deep breath. “I am a good person.” He said to his reflection before brushing his teeth and getting on with what he called a simple cleansing.
After Brian dressed in one of many pairs of levis 501 jeans and a blue t-shirt he owned since high school, he felt more relaxed. Though this would not stop what needed to be done. He still had a lot of house work to take care of.
The first thing he did was go into his kitchen. That to him was the dirtiest place, save the bathroom of course, and he liked this rooms system of cleaning better than any other.
Like a wild animal he tore through his fridge and cabinets, gathering anything opened and throwing it in a large black trash bag. Of course first he donned a pair of long black disposable gloves and put a large apron around himself.
In a very short time Brian’s kitchen was spotless clean and nearly foodless. He decided that after he took out the trash he would call Cynthia and at least ask her about how the interview went. He still very much wanted to know about Justin Taylor.
Brian took the trash outside to the large dumpster next to his garage. He lifted one of the flaps and threw the first bag in. The next one was slightly heavier so he had to take a swing with it. Upon launch the bag split it’s bottom and sprayed it’s contents, mostly containing yogurts and deli foods, all over Brian.
At first Brian stood in shock looking at the littered ground around him. After about a minute of staring it started to sink in what had happened. His clothes were sticky and his whole body felt like it was crawling with ants.
He started to scream and shout and dance around ungracefully. Lucky that none of Brian’s neighbor’s were home during the day Brian screamed and screamed some more. He didn’t stop until he collapsed unwillingly onto the grass below him,
He never heard the car that turned into his drive way.
But he certainly felt the boy’s hand on his shoulder, and then more of the boy, wrapping his young body around his sticky one without a care. Whispering word’s of comfort that were soothing to the point of unreality.
The touch was a good sense of fire. His body seemed to mold into the smaller man’s as he felt himself being rocked within the warmest embrace he’d ever known. Brian’s heart beat like a mad man’s and his eyes were in disbelief at the beauty of Justin Taylor.
This one is for Sid, thanks for being there and beside my muse, scaring the devil away.