I'm so stupid, Ace Finn thought as he lay on his bed, almost relishing the feel of Tristan’s fingertips on his bare chest. I don't know what's going on with me. I feel like I can't break this off because of the way he makes me feel when we're doing this, but all the rest of the time...I'm in agony. What is it with him?
What is it with me?
“What are you thinking about?" Tristan asked, his mellow voice taking on a sing-song quality. “Thinking about me?”
“Yes," Finn answered, a dark edge to his voice. Please just get it over with.
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Finn lay wrapped up with his lover, as close as two people could ever be, as content as a single human could feel. I'm in love, he told himself. That's what this is--love. All relationships have their ups and downs.
Yes, Ace, if you think that him beating you is an up or a down that comes standard in a relationship, then yes. Go on and believe that, if it makes you feel happy.
But the truth was that nothing made him feel happy. There were bullies at school, and then when he came home, he went to bed with one.
But the difference is that this one loves me, and he doesn't realize what he's doing. He can get better. I can change him. It’ll just take a little bit of work.
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He rolled over and looked at the clock; he must have fallen asleep at some point. Tristan was snoring lightly next to him. Not wanting to wake the sleeper, he got up as slowly and carefully as he could and went into the bathroom. Finn locked the door.
He looked around as he sat down with his back against the side of the whirlpool tub, and then his head fell seemingly of its own accord into his hands. His shoulders shook violently, though it took him a while to realize he was crying. He was lying to himself; there was no possible way he could change Tristan.
He remembered Farrah describing it--depression--like that. With hers, she’d been completely unable to talk to anyone without getting distressed; she'd cried over the littlest things, and sometimes for no reason at all. But it seemed that she hadn't said everything about it, and now Finn understood why. There was no word for the emptiness and worthlessness he felt.
Pulling himself together seemed like a task as delicate as splitting atoms. You'd have to have high tech machinery, people watching to make sure everything went well, even permission to do it. And mistakes could be fatal. Finn had none of the tools required for the job, and it seemed like disaster was sidling up sensuously to him. One mistake...
It could cost him his life.
Then he realized how deep he was into something he thought could only happen to girls whose boyfriends were too small in an area that mattered too much. It could happen to him. It was happening to him--maybe not at that exact moment, but at some point, Tristan would strike him again. He had no defense.
He wanted to tell his boyfriend of eighteen months to take a long walk off a short pier, but it seemed like he was wrapped around the boy's finger--though it felt more like being trapped in his claws.
Finn looked around the room blearily, surprised. He’d almost forgotten he could cry; it’d been so long since he had. The last time...that had to be when his mother had given him a smile, an “It’ll be all right, Ace,” right before leaving the hospital room three years ago. It was okay, until he heard loud sobs that he knew were hers. He remembered admiring her for being able to hold herself together when she knew that a large piece of herself was trying to jump off. She'd managed to act strong, to put on a facade that seemed to tell the world that that one piece wasn't going to kill her even though she was thoroughly convinced that it would.
If only he could get through to her. He figured girls probably ran to their mothers with relationship problems, and boys to their fathers, but Gracie would probably be a better bet than Paul in that instance. However, he wasn't sure how to do that. He’d never really been one to ask for advice of that magnitude. Anything that happened, he normally kept it all locked safely inside, and could usually manage to fix it himself.
Then there was Benny...how would he be able to pry his little brother away from their mom for long enough to tell her what was happening? The little boy had never really allowed Finn to say his piece. Even when Finn had been lying helplessly in a white room on an uncomfortable bed, tubes sticking out of his chest administering chemicals, the only thing available to watch being soap operas, it had been all about his little brother.
He didn't hate Benny, but he without a doubt despised him.
Who are you kidding? It means the same thing. Since when were you ever P.C.?
Now, in the bathroom, he held the razor he'd picked up off the side of the tub. It was almost new--used on the sides of his head just once to clean up his 'hawk--and it gleamed brilliantly, invitingly.
It was something he made fun of a few kids for doing, but at that moment, he thought that maybe they had something going. Perhaps they had a point. And as he brought it straight across the inside of his forearm, pressing down hard, feeling a keen bite as it sliced his skin, he figured they were right. He remembered telling a group once, at school, “Remember, kids. It's down the street, not across.” But he realized that they, like him, probably didn't want to venture down that particular highway; they just wanted relief.
Finn just wanted attention, but it seemed that relief was a byproduct.
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Note: All right, so this is for a MarNo thingy...not very polished, and it's really a few snippets tacked together. And GAAHHH is it EMO! I'd sort of like input--this is one of the sections that seems to be bugging me. Probably the darkness of it all. Thanks!
