Eighteen
They can lock me up, but they can’t keep me in here forever.
I’ll find my way back to him.
Always.
--Georgia McIntyre, age 10
Rex
“Pick up, Darren. Pick up!” My phone pressed to my ear, I throw my truck into a spot and put it in park.
“Hey, you’ve reached Darren Gale—”
“F*ck!” I throw my phone into the passenger seat. My head throbs, heart aches, lungs burn.
I can’t breathe. I push open my door and stumble through the parking lot. The concrete twists and rolls beneath my feet. I grip my head and walk faster. My stomach lurches. If I can just make it to my place.
I push through the door and race to my bathroom, tossing my keys somewhere along the way. Dropping in front of the toilet, I gag and cough.
Hands, strong and unforgiving, grope me from inside. A surge of bile pushes to unload. I gasp over the bowl. The memories flood from the caverns of my mind.
Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.
I retch into the toilet. My muscles form a vise from back to stomach that squeeze my insides. I hurl again. Moisture runs from my eyes. God, I wanted that so badly. I wanted to be taken care of.
Promise you won’t hurt me?
So young, f*ck, I was so f*cking young! Vomit lurches into my throat. Sour spit strings hang from my lips.
I want to make you feel good.
They all promised the same things. I had no one. Mom was dead. I was shuttled through different families that treated me like an animal. I was just a kid. I would’ve done anything to get them to love me.
Anything.
“Oh God. I wanted it.” My fingers grip the sides of the bowl; back arching, I cough up what’s left in my stomach. The acid bites into my tongue.
You’re a good boy, Rex.
They knew what to say, what I needed to hear. I was so sick when they were done with me, raw and broken from the inside out, but those words . . . I was starving for them.
I’d have done anything for them, whatever they asked.
Until . . . He was doing up his belt buckle.
You’re worth every dollar, kid.
Cramps seize my body in an unrelenting hold. They paid for me. Not love.
They lied. I wasn’t a good boy. I was the worst kind of boy. Dirty. Sick.
Unworthy of love.
I push up from the toilet and rinse my mouth out in the sink. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I study my bare torso. Covered in ink, different sayings, random thoughts matched with whatever art I thought was cool at the time. A mishmash of shit that means nothing except to prove just how f*cked I really am.
All except one. Mom. What’s her story? What about life was so horrible that she couldn’t hang on for me? Where was my dad?
So many questions and not enough answers. I scrub my hand through my hair and squint to focus my eyes. My skin crawls with the feeling of hands all over me.
I reach down and hook my finger around the rubber band at my wrist.
Snap!
There’s no sting.
I pull it tighter.
Snap!
Nothing.
I drag my fingernails up the belly of my forearm.
It burns.
Yeah, f*ck, yeah.
I bite my lip, snagging my lip ring and pulling hard with my teeth. A low moan rolls from my chest. More.
My nails dig deeper, and I pull them up my arm again. The skin breaks; blood tracks the path.
“Mmm.” It stings.
The pressure in my chest lets up.
Everything around me dissolves. I need more, so much more.
Stripping off my pants, I turn the shower on hot. I climb in and let the scalding water hit the most sensitive part of my body. The dirtiest part.
The pain is so much, but I force myself to take the punishing torment. It’s what I deserve. It’s what I crave.
Starting at my head, I bury my hands in my hair and pull, ripping against my scalp.
I’m filthy, forever stained by the memories of my past. I scratch down my face to my neck; the raw sting is the only thing that keeps me grounded. My chest, arms, stomach—every inch of my body has been defiled by perversion.
I scrub harder, faster.
Hands grab and stroke. Lips against my neck. Hot breath at my ear. I’m covered in them. Every man who used me, manipulated my feelings, robbed me of my innocence, all of them left their mark.
I want them gone.
Skin gathers behind my fingernails and blood colors the water at my feet.
More. Get them off!
Pain. Blood.
Will I ever be rid of them?
~*~
Mac
It took seconds. Seconds of standing in my driveway and watching everything I’ve built my life around drive away for me to realize there’s no way I’m giving him up.
The worst thing he can threaten is calling the cops? Fine. A ticket, a few months in jail, restraining order, bring it.
I failed him once. I will not fail him again.
Pulling on a pair of leggings, I slide into my boots and race to the garage. I throw my leg over my bike and fire up the engine.
“Come on, come on.” I hit the opener and pull back on the throttle, ready to shoot out of the garage when the damn door lifts. As soon as it’s high enough to accommodate me, I lie hard on the gas and peel out of the drive. I don’t worry about closing it. Trix should be home soon, if not, f*ck it. Nothing matters at this point, nothing but getting to Rex.
The wind whips through my hair and slaps my face in stinging bites. Pushing his face into the forefront of my mind, I fly through a stop sign, racing until I’m in the parking lot of his condo.
I spot his truck, parked sideways. A knot drops dead weight in my belly, knowing that I did that to him. I stand and pop the front tire to hop up on the curb. Riding on the sidewalk into the bowels of his complex, I aim my bike at his front door. He doesn’t get to walk away from me, not like this, not without a chance to explain. And if I have to drive my bike through his front door to get to him, I f*cking will.
Once at his place, I swing off my bike and ready my fist to bang the shit out of his door. He gets one warning and then I’m ramming the shit down.
I pull back and thrust my fist into the door, and it swings wide open. “What the . . .?” Not only unlocked, but left open?
The interior is dark as if no one’s home, but his keys are lying near the front mat in the foyer. His shoes aren’t there either. I swallow and step inside, closing the door behind me. The light from outside is shining in through the windows, and I don’t see him anywhere.
Standing in the great expanse of the dark, cold room, I strain to listen. What is that sound? The pipes? He’s in the shower.
I tiptoe toward the direction of the bathroom when a sound freezes me in my tracks. “Oh no, Rex . . .”
Loud, uncontrollable sobs transpire between the sounds of his retching. The audible heartbreak spears through my body and I double over. Hands on my knees, I breathe through the crippling pain of hearing his.
And just like back then, the need to comfort him overwhelms me. I take a deep breath and move to the door. He’s talking, mumbling to himself. I press my ear to the wood and close my eyes, willing him to feel my comfort.
“I can’t get clean.” His voice cracks.
“Shhh . . . I’m here.” I’m whispering too softly for him to hear me, but hope somewhere in his heart he feels me here. “I love you. I’ll always love you.”
“F*ck.” The single curse is laced with pain and shock.
My eyes shoot open and my heart picks up its pace. Is he hurt?
Flashbacks from the day he was taken away by the paramedics covered in his own blood blind me with panic. Would he do that again with no one around to save him? No, I can’t let that happen. He can’t die.
My hand twists the door handle, and I push into the bathroom without the conscious thought to do so. The room is big and filled with steam, so I can’t make out where he is other than following the sound of his soft whimpering. He must not have heard me come in over the rush of the shower.
The steam starts to clear, and I see the outline of a large stall with a glass door. A darkened area toward the bottom of the shower I identify immediately.
“Rex.”
He’s curled up, his arms wrapped around his shins, rocking. He doesn’t seem to notice me, so I move in closer.
And then I see it.
Blood.
Lots of it.
I drop to the tile floor and scurry to the glass, my hands splayed against the see-through barrier. Oh no!
“Oh, God, Rex, what did you do?”
He stops rocking but doesn’t look up.
“Rex. Talk to me.”
“I had to get them off.” Squeezing his legs in tight to his body, the blood from his arms creates red serpents that slither down his tattooed shins finally to be washed away. “They won’t stop touching me.”
Tears sting my cheeks. “They can’t hurt you anymore.”
“But they do.”
I’ve had to watch Rex suffer from a distance for too long, locked behind a door or shackled by our past. But those things can’t keep me from him anymore.
I pull open the shower door and climb inside with him. The water hits my back in a burning onslaught. I can see most of the damage is to his arms and neck, but I don’t know what he’s hiding in the parts I can’t see. I check for a knife, something sharp, but in my quick once over find nothing. I squint through the foggy air to his marked skin. Scratches. It looks as though he did this with his own hands.
With one objective, I move across the shower to him and wrap my arms around his body. He leans into my hold, but doesn’t let up on the grip he has on his shins, keeping himself in the safety of his little ball.
This is what I always wanted to do when we were kids: comfort him like this and let him cry into me, hoping that I could somehow carry some of his burden.
I don’t speak just hold him while the water pounds and the steam billows around us. He feels so tiny in my arms, fragile and precious, a life worth protecting. He shakes with every breath. Tiny whimpers fall from his lips. My mind searches for something that will help while my body gives in to the grief and slumps against his.
“Sing to me?” His voice is so soft I wouldn’t have heard it if I hadn’t been so close.
“Always.”
I hum “Silent Night” and his breathing calms.
Yes, it’s working. I continue but start to sing the words and he stops shaking. Over and over I sing the song until the water in the shower is cold and the steam is gone.
My clothes are wet and I’m shivering. But more importantly, I need to get him out of here so I can check his wounds. “I should check your arms.”
His body goes solid in an instant. He pulls back and shrugs off my arms. Slowly, he lifts his face and turns it toward me. It’s the first time I’ve seen his face since he took off from my house and one thing’s for sure.
This isn’t Rex.
His eyes are cold, dead like the glimpses I’ve seen before, but this is different. He’s looking at me like I’m a stranger, an unwelcome visitor who’s here to steal everything he cares about.
Isn’t that exactly what I am?
A small voice in my head says I’m worse. I’m the enemy. I broke into Rex’s life, and like a thief, I robbed his peace to covet as my own. My palms sweat and I break out in teeth-chattering chills.
He’s right. I’m no worse than my parents.
“Get out.” His voice is low and menacing.
I scoot backwards until my back hits the glass. “I’m not leaving you like this.”
“I said get out!” His shout echoes off the tiled walls.
He jumps up, and I take the few seconds to check his naked body for other wounds. His chest is scratched up along with his inner thighs, but it seems as if his arms and neck got the worst. He snags a towel off the rack and wraps it around his body. The white immediately turns pink in places from his blood, but he doesn’t seem concerned.
He stares me down and I scramble on the wet floor to stand. “I promise I’ll leave if you give me five minutes to explain.”
He stalks toward me, arms flexed, fists balled tight. “I don’t want to hear a thing you have to say. Ever.”
He leaves the bathroom, and I follow him into the part of his condo with a bed. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a pair of pajama pants, sliding them on.
Ignoring me, he manages to completely avoid my existence.
I swallow and stand tall, a little cold and very confused. What happened in the shower? He let me hold him and sing to him, but now he wants me to leave?
I can’t. I’m too weak to live without him, not strong enough to let him go.
And even though he says he doesn’t care what I have to say, he’s going to f*cking hear it before I get my ass dragged out of here in handcuffs.
“Five minutes. Can you give me that?”
His eyes work back and forth between mine, but he doesn’t say anything.
“My parents were hideous people. You think I’m just as bad as them, but I didn’t know what they were doing until after you left.” I take a step closer and he spears me with a glare. “The box. Our secret. Do you remember?”
Recognition flashes through his turbulent aqua stare.
“I found the box. Once I realized the”—I shake my head, even now unable to speak the words—“abuse, I confronted my parents, Rex. I buried the box in my backyard so they couldn’t destroy it, and then I threatened to go to the cops with what I knew.” A shiver of terror races up my spine, remembering my parents’ idea of punishment. To this day I have no idea how long I was locked in that closet with nothing but a bucket and a box of cereal. “They spooked, locked me up in a closet and ran. Mexico or Canada, I have no idea. They just . . . left.”
His eyebrows drop low, and I can’t tell if it’s concern or distrust he’s feeling.
Either way, he’s quiet and listening. “It was dark and silent for so long, and then one day I heard noises like my house was being ransacked. Men, a few of them, were yelling back and forth, tossing furniture, looking for something. And then they found it. They found me.”
“Who?” His voice shakes with apprehension or emotion; it’s impossible to read.
“The man responsible for your abuse. The man my parents worked for.” I swallow hard, so scared to finally offload the secret I’ve been lugging around since that summer day that changed my life. My eyes burn and fill with tears, and my chest cramps to hold back the punishing blow. But we’ve come this far, and I have nothing else to lose.
“Rex, it was your father.”