by Trisky
I'd accept it and then choke him with it, if I could get him off of me long enough to open this door that's hard enough to open freehand, much less with an intoxicated person using you as his personal brick wall.
I should have left him standing there and I would have if I thought, for one second, that his legs weren't about to give out. I'm such a fool to actually have thought my plan to avoid him was going to last forever, or at least until I was ready to see him again. Brian only eats in the diner at breakfast or at dinner, so the mid-shift in between during the week was perfect for my first week back. And there was no way he was going to spend a Saturday night hanging around there when he could be out fucking. I never accounted for the fact that he occasionally leaves his car parked by the diner, rather than drive the block up to Babylon, because he usually only did that when he would come in and wait for my shift to be over, so we could go together. He certainly hadn't been there in the time that I was, so why would I think he'd be parked all the way down by me? I just know I couldn't let him drive himself home in the condition he's in. Where the hell is Mikey? He's supposed to be the designated look out for him.
I give the cold metal one last shrug and manage to tumble us both inside without breaking any bones. It occurs to me that I'm exhausted, between heaving plates around all night and now heaving him around, my entire upper body is aching. I would kill to use the power massager on the showerhead right now.
"God Brian, could you help me out a little here? You're not exactly light." I'm trying to get him into an upright position instead of hunched over and grabbing the ends of my jacket, before we fall over, but his six inches on me is making my attempt a little more spastic than helpful, and I don't know how to proceed. I've never had to carry Brian home before. I've never seen him like this before, period.
He uses my body as a steadying force and makes a slow climb to a standing position, eyeing the kitchen counter for leverage, I help him walk towards it. And the fucker grabs the closest bottle of alcohol he can reach, uncaps it and swigs. I can't help it, I want to drown him in it for that move, instead I just snatch it out of his hands.
"If you OD on me, I'm not giving you mouth to mouth." I don't care how angry he gets, I'm not going to stand here and watch him choke on his own tongue after he has a seizure or pass out from alcohol poisoning.
"Why does everyone always want to ruin my fun?" He doesn't even sound like himself, he sounds like he's doing an imitation of himself, and not a very good one at that.
"You can have all the fun you want, just do me a favor, next time find someone else to drag you home when you're done, because this is not my idea of fun." I back away, though I know I'm not going anywhere, but he lunges for my jacket to keep me here, only he misses and winds up with a fistful of nothing. "What did you take?"
"Don't know, don't care. But it's some good shit."
"This isn't like you. Didn't you tell me never to do anything by myself, to always have a friend around? Where the hell was Mikey? Are you listening to me Brian?" His eyes are zoning in and out, trying to find something to focus on and it freaks me out, I want to smack him on the head, partly to get him to focus, partly for being so stupid. If he drops dead on me, I will never forgive him. He won't drop dead, he won't. Shutup Justin!
He licks his dry lips with what seems like all the effort he can muster. "Mikey had more important things to do, like Ben." He giggles to himself, and his voice sounds so strained, cracking in my ear, that it almost sounds pained. I guess that's why he's so out of it, whenever Michael doesn't have time for him, he gets upset. He needs Mikey in a way he never needed me. That didn't always bother me.
"Maybe I should call him. I'm sure he'd come over if he knew you needed him." I hear myself speak, not even sure of what I've said.
"Leave him alone, he's busy." He manages to get himself into a stool and my fingers get some feeling back in them. I didn't realize how tightly I'd been gripping the bottle. "Get me a glass."
"Fuck no!" He is unbelievable, un-fucking-believable! "Don't think for one minute that I'm going to sit here and watch you drink yourself into a coma. I'll put you in one myself, before I do that," I threaten to deaf ears. He's running heavy fingers over his forehead, and staring at the counter top, to get it to stop moving around in his mind, I'm sure.
"But we have to do a toast."
He sounds so distant, I'm not even sure he's here. He can barely keep his eyes open, much less focused and he blinks rapidly. Is he fucking crying, or at least trying not to? "Toast what? The fact that you're still semi-upright?"
He gurgles a small laugh, reaching out for the bottle near me. Luckily his reaction time is severely dulled, and I manage to pull it away without any effort, his arm just lands there and stays. "We have to toast my mother and all her little purple-haired friends from the Ladies Auxiliary of whatever the fuck they're from. They sang like birds today. And Claire, can't forget Claire, lucky bitch got to stay home because one of her brats has the chicken pox." He laughs a shrill, disgusting sound. "And of course, the guest of honor, Jack, one year cold in the ground today. What a wonderful, loving husband and father, that's what they said." He sits straight up, squaring his shoulders in mock respect, and salutes the air with his nonexistent glass.
I squirm, out of guilt, out of stupidity and selfishness. I had totally forgotten that it was around this time his father died last year, not that I had any reason to remember. He didn't really tell me much about it, or about him, I sort of had to figure it all out myself, not like it was that hard from the bits and pieces I did manage to scrape out of people. I would have gone to the funeral if I could have gotten out of school, but it's not like he would have even noticed I was there, or cared, he had Michael, and that was enough, and now where the hell is Michael when he needs him the most? It'd be better if he were here, he was the one who was around when Jack was alive, and lived through it, with him, I'm sure I'm not the one he wants to deal with this.
"Well aren't you going to join my toast?" I want to shake him or hug him, I don't know. I want to not feel like such an ass for almost hoping he was this upset over me, that I could deal with.
I sigh and search for something to say to make this okay, but nothing sounds right, and I look up at him, look at the way he's waiting for me to get this right, and I'm fearless and I don't care what I say anymore, or how it sounds, I have nothing to lose. "You must have really loved him, or hated him, or maybe both."
"I don't give a fuck about him," he shrugs.
"Yeah." I say it quietly, looking at his frame, tense and oblivious. I want to cry, but I don't. I want to shove this bottle up Jack Kinney's ass, raw, but I can't and I wouldn't even if he were here, because I would never stoop down to his level, beating on defenseless people and making them bleed, and because he's his father and no matter what he's done, Brian would never want him hurt. "Did you ever hit him back?" Maybe whatever Brian is on, is airborne, that's the only explanation for my mouth.
"He wasn't worth the effort," he drawls, leaning back into the stool, and closing his eyes.
I guess I never thought of Brian as being powerless, he's always so in control of everything, of everyone, mostly himself. But what kind of power could a 12 year old getting beaten by his alcoholic father really have? The thought makes me sick to my stomach, I don't want to picture it, picture him, like that. I never want to think of him that way. Every cell in my body just wants to protect him, from Jack, from that ice queen bitch he calls a mother, from himself, make this all go away. "Lift your arms up."
"What?" He spits the word out.
"Just fucking lift them." I must have a death wish, but he listens to me and lifts them as far as he can get them over his head, without tipping over. I don't know if this is such a good idea, after all, but I don't think there's any turning back. I fist the ends of his shirt and lift it over his head, with some effort, and I can feel the muscles in his back flinch at my touch, I see the veins in his arm throb to a deep purple, and I'm hoping he's dizzy enough to not notice my hands are shaking and my breathing is shallow, at best.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
I canvass his back with my hand, searching for something that I know is there, but that I can't see, that he wouldn't let me, even if the blood was soaking through his shirt and staining my hands. "I'm looking Brian, and I don't see anything. No bruises, no marks, nothing. Your father's pretty good at not leaving a trace, isn't he?" Please God, if you ever cared about me, you'll let me live long enough to do this.
"He's fucking dead Justin, or hadn't you noticed?" I feel him moving more towards the counter, away from my touch, and I swallow the hard painful lump in my throat.
"I wasn't sure you had noticed." He stops, just stops moving, breathing, and I think maybe I might do the same... "You know what? He doesn't have to be here to beat you Brian, because he's already won. You let him win, every fucking time." I feel lightheaded, like I could just lift myself out of my sneakers and float.
"Justin..." His voice echoes in my daze. "Justin, I think I'm gonna be sick." He lurches forward, almost falling out of the stool, and I can't help it I'm grateful the bile in his throat is preventing him from lashing out at me. I grab him by the waistband, trying to prevent him from falling face first into the floor. It's the exact wrong move, because his head falls just beneath my stomach instead, and if this were any other moment, this was would have turned me on but the force of the pants in my hand straining against his stomach, must be the last straw. The next thing I know I am soaked in his puke, and I can't even push him off me, I can only stand bent over him and let him finish. I almost laugh, I don't know why I find this funny, I just know laughing would be better than crying.
"And here I thought you had all sorts of willpower." I've never actually seen him toss his cookies, no matter how high he is, whatever it is he took it's a weird mix of orange and purple. Jesus I hope that's not blood, but I don't think blood is chunky. Ugh, whatever it is, it's disgusting! He stops for a minute bending down on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Well fuck it, I can't just leave him there. I take my jacket off and toss it in no particular direction. "Do you feel like you're gonna go again?" He barely nods his head, fascinated by my puke soaked jeans, and I try to ignore the wet feeling on my skin. "Well, you're not doing it on me, c'mon."
I give him my hand, try to grab one arm with both of mine and lift him off the floor. They say in times of panic you gain super human strength, and boy are they right. He sort of falls up, slathering himself in his own breakfast, on the way there. I don't even know how we get to the bathroom, but it seems to take forever, he thankfully manages to hold it in, until I can position him over the toilet. I just stand and watch for a minute, if he had hair, I'd hold it back for him, but as it is I'm useless and he won't be leaving the floor anytime soon. I take the opportunity to kick my shoes off and rid myself of my brand new jeans, I can't stand here wearing his little gift to me. Thank god I still have clothes left here. I never thought I'd be so grateful to watch someone retching, the more he does it, the more it's coming out of him, leaving his system, the less likely he is to fall away from me. I can handle a little mess, I can't handle picking his dead body up off the floor.
I crouch down next to him, and rub his head, brush his hair from his forehead, he's breaking a sweat all over his face and tiny beads on his back and panting over the bowl, and I think as ridiculous as it seems, that he's never looked younger to me and that I'm glad I'm here. How sick is that? He looks up at me, spent from all his exertion, and he doesn't even try to say anything stupid or sarcastic, he doesn't say anything at all. He's leaving it up to me to figure out what to do with him.
"To the showers, soldier." Maybe I wouldn't choke him with my Purple Heart after all, maybe I'd pin it on him.
I step in the shower and turn it on, feeling like an idiot when the water plasters my t-shirt and underwear to my body. What am I shy about being naked in front of him? Fuck it. They land somewhere in the corner of the shower and I step out to retrieve him from the floor. He doesn't even put up a fight, makes his body as light as possible, helps me help him up, and just lets me lead him there, under the water, which feels unbelievably good pounding on my head. I watch it roll off his face, and I want to turn away, because I shouldn't be watching this, but I'm riveted to his eyes, the water just washes away the tears as if they never existed. I look at his body, cascaded in water, and wash it clean, wash away dirt that doesn't exist in crevices so small and deep, I never noticed them before, and look at how small he seems, no matter how he towers over me. "You want to brush your teeth?" He nods accepting silence, again. I leave him standing there, secure that he won't fall over and go to retrieve a toothbrush and some toothpaste.
Bitter aftertaste in your mouth is the most rancid taste, like twice as bad as that purple gummy shit they put in your mouth at the dentist, when they're trying to take an impression. That stuff is just slimy and disgusting, it makes me gag, and I have a pretty high gag factor. I snicker to myself, ashamed to be thinking about such trivial stupid things, but I can't think about all of this, overthink all of this, it gets me in trouble. I simply give him what he needs and wait outside, drying myself off, picking my pants off the floor and fold them over my sneakers. I have no idea how to get vomit out of clothes. I'm not sure I want to know.
I hear the shower turn off and watch him exit, slowly and not very steadily. My impulse is to run and grab him, but I ignore it, and let him take care of himself, he's not helpless and if he needs me, he'll ask.
"Thanks." His back is facing me, and I try to pretend not to hear him because I'm pretty sure that's what he wants, to pretend this all didn't happen. But it did, and we both know it, and that's all that counts. And I feel oddly powerful and helpless all at once. "Could you help me to the bed?"
I know this is killing him, fucking killing him, having to rely on me for anything, having to ask me for anything, killing him for me to see him like this. Jack Kinney may have never laid a hand on me, but I feel like he split my head open all over again, right now.
We pad with careful steps to the bedroom and he climbs in, naked and semi-wet, he must be freezing, but his body feels warm and soft. He doesn't reject the blanket I put over him, though, he just huddles under it.
I sit next to him for a while, watch him fall into sleep, poke his ribs gently to make sure he's still reacting to stimuli.
"What did he do to you?" I whisper it, not wanting him to hear, but having to ask, giving his hair one last brush from his forehead, and I walk around the bed and climb into my side, exhaustion overtaking me, like I'm coming off some kind of adrenaline high.
I just drift into a purple haze of my own hiding behind my eyes and wrapping me in warmth.
I don't deserve any medals. I've already won.