Young Writers Society

Nicky slept for four hours that night, and I slept for half of one. Every time I started dozing, I slipped into a semi-lucid, half-hallucinated nightmare. She'd be standing in the corner, or he'd be glaring at me from the doorway, or they'd each have a hand on either of my shoulders. I woke up the rest of the way and they were gone, every single time, and every single time, I had another meltdown. I'd kept myself rolled over, facing the wall with my back to Nicky's, a hand pressed over my mouth and an arm wrapped around my chest, because I didn't want to make too much noise and wake her up.

My family went with her to church the next morning, which wasn't something that we always did, but it was definitely something that we wished we could've done more often. The pastor loved me, and his daughter was a transsexual lesbian who he loved and supported with every fibre of his being. The church as a whole was fairly affirming, with the odd older member who disagreed, but after they made it known, they didn't bother bringing it up again, and they still treated me with hospitality. Needless to say, I felt safer there.

I spent the entire service tucked into a chair near the back, half-asleep and miserable looking, and Nicky had claimed a spot next to me. She didn't even stand to worship; just told me that God understood that I needed someone to rub my back, this time. She drove me home, too, because I didn't want Mom or France to catch onto how bad things were getting. Not when I'd just gotten out of the hospital, and especially not when things were headed in a direction that should've been making me happpy.

I called Parker when I got home (hours before my mother and my sister because they went out for lunch with Nicky's parents), trying to ignore how worried he sounded when I told him that I needed to talk. The sooner the better. He said that he'd pick me up when his aunt got home at two, evidently piecing together that this wasn't the sort of conversation you could have in front of a four-year-old.

He found me curled up on the couch, half paying attention to Tom and Jerry reruns on the retro channel, half plotting ways to avoid Wednesday altogether. I called for him to come in, too scared to look him in the eye when he walked into the living room.

"Braz..." The tone of his voice conveyed more than an entire sentence could have. It was gentle, and knowing, and he crossed over to the couch before I could respond and sat down, resting a hand on my shoulder. "I'm not even going to ask if you're okay."

I looked up at him, offering a meek smile, and sat up. "Is it weird that I find it comforting that you can tell that easily? Because it's very, very comforting."

He shook his head, and at first, I didn't know what he'd planned on doing when he leaned over. I almost backed away. But his lips pressed themselves against my forehead, and it almost made me cry. "Do you want to tell me the thing that you wanted to tell me here, or do you want to tell me somewhere else?"

I paused to mull that over, absentmindedly leaning into him. His arm slipped around my shoulders, and it was almost unnerving in and of itself that it felt that safe.

"I don't want to be here," I said. "It's... not something that I want Mom and Francis to know about yet. Especially not France." I sighed, pressing my cheek into the shoulder of his sweater. It was soft- probably all cotton, knowing him and his aunt. And the shade of purple looked good on him.

"Okay," he whispered back. "Um. Leanne and Koby are both at my place. My mom and Taylor are at my other place. We could... cruise, maybe? Or find somewhere quiet to park, if you needed the arms."

"I need the arms." I was barely even murmuring. "Let's do that."

He nodded, standing slowly- gently, almost- and reached down to offer his hands. I accepted, and we both slipped into our shoes and jackets and out the door to his car. He looked... nervous. Nervous and very, very concerned. He cranked up the heat, because it was colder than usual out today, and turned the stereo down. I didn't recognize the artist, but she had a gorgeous voice.

"Regina Spektor," he mumbled, nodding at said stereo.

I nodded back, hoping that it didn't look disinterested. It wasn't. I just didn't have the energy for much else. "I might've heard her before." And thus marked the end of our conversation for the rest of the drive. He rested his hand between the seats, and I slipped mine under it, trying to shake off the sudden bout of nausea.

I was going to tell him. And telling meant saying, and explaining, and going back to a place that I didn't want to go back to. Which wasn't anything new, because as much as I hated it, I paid it unintentional visits semi-frequently. Still, I felt like I'd swallowed a bunch of stones. My throat was tight, and my vision was hazy. My lashes were damp, and I was sure that he could feel my hand sweating and shaking under his, because he held it more securely than he usually did. More protectively.

That was nice.

I didn't know how long we'd been driving when he finally found a park to pull into, quiet and, for the moment, totally devoid of people. He parked in the lot, and we both sat there for a few seconds before he whispered, "Do... you want to be held, or given a little space, or...?"

I closed my eyes. "I don't know." I didn't. Being wrapped up in him would be nice, I suppose, but I didn't know if being restrained like that would make things better or worse. "Can we just... move to the back? We'll figure it out from there."

He unbuckled. "Yeah, sure." And then he was gone, and I didn't even open my door and step out until he was opening the back driver's side and stepping in.

I settled next to him, pulling the door closed after me, and kicked off my shoes so that I could put my feet onto the seat without getting it full of half-melted snow and mud. I wrapped my arms around my legs, one hand hooked around my other wrist, and took a slow, deep breath.

And Heaven help me, I didn't know where to begin. I didn't know what to say, or how to tell him. With my doctor, it'd all just tumbled out with a request for tests and me begging him, with all my heart and all my soul and all my might, not to call the cops. With Nicky and her dad, it'd been a release of fresh terror and more begging them not to tell anyone. Not a soul.

Parker would be the first person who'd know since the day I got out. I hadn't even told Michael. Hadn't told my mom, or my dad, or... anyone, really.

"Do you have a paper and a pen?" I finally spit out, voice hoarse, throat constricted.

He turned immediately to the front, mumbling a, "Yeah, hang on," and popped open the glove compartment, producing half of a pencil and a memopad. He handed both to me, and I took them gingerly.

The pad was roughly the size of my hand, embellished with snowmen and Christmas trees at the top, and for a second, that made me feel a little, tiny bit better. The moment passed, and I took a deep breath and started scratching away at it. I had to pause once every couple of seconds to wipe my eyes and remember that breathing evenly was important, or to try steady my hand, or look up at him to make sure he was still there. Still Parker. Still listening.

I ripped the page out and handed it to him before I lost the courage to do so, another wave of nausea hitting as soon as it left my fingers. I held my breath because if I let it go, I'd start hyperventilating.

I watched his face contort as he read it. Watched his hand come up to cover his mouth and his eyes well up. And I just felt sick.

"Fuck," he whispered. "Fuck, Braz, I-" He looked at me and crumpled the paper, reaching over the back of the driver's seat, and dropped both there before opening his arms. "Don't take it if you don't want it, but c'mere, okay?"

I didn't even think- just scrambled into his arms.

Thirteen words. I knew because I'd counted as I wrote them, and I remembered every single one.

My cousin and his girlfriend raped me when I was fourteen.

Not that it was a very easy sentence to forget, mind you.

I swallowed, trying to breathe through an unexpected shut-down. My ability to think was gone. My ability to feel was even more so. I didn't know if it was better or worse than panic. "It was Chad," I whispered. "And Elissa."

Parker didn't say anything for a second, just held tighter and eventually got out, "Isn't Chad the really homophobic one? Why would he-"

"It was corrective." I swallowed. "That was the winter France got pneumonia so bad she almost died. Both my parents were in the hospital with her full-time, and grandpa still lived in Manitoba. Chad lived here." I closed my eyes. "I don't know why I didn't just stay with Nicky." I paused, but he didn't seem to have any intention of commenting, so I kept going. Nicky's dad had told me that it was better to tell the whole story, if I could. So I'd try. "I don't even know how he found out." My voice cracked, and the shut-down ended. There were tears in my eyes, and the tightness was back in my chest, and every fibre of my being wanted me to just lie down and die before the flashbacks started.

"It was the first thing he said after my mom left. 'Fucking fag.' And I-" My chest shuddered, and I stopped to regain control of my lung activity. "I stayed in his walk-in closet for four days, Parker. And he kept coming back, and Elissa kept coming back, and two of their friends from that so-called church kept coming back."

This is how fags do it.

This is what you should like.

I don't care if you like both; it's not over until you only like one.

You're lucky you have people who're willing to put their foot down, Brazil.

"They called it mercy-rape." I pressed my face into the crook of his shoulder after that, trying to focus on his smell. Hairspray and expensive, light, vanilla-y cologne and coffee grounds. And it worked. I tried to match our breathing, and that worked too, and the tension started to ease, bit by bit, out of my back muscles.

"I feel like such a jackass for not knowing what to say to that," he finally whispered, giving me the gentlest, most reassuring squeeze I'd ever felt in my life.

I managed a hoarse chuckle, shaking my head as best as I could without lifting my head. "I wouldn't know what to say, either. I just... I wanted you to know that if anything we do ever... I don't know. Freaks me out or something, that it's not- it's not your fault, okay? And it's not-" I sighed. "That's not something that I feel comfortable keeping a secret from my boyfriend." That word felt almost weird on my tongue, but in a way that was so completely normal that it worried me. Boyfriend. I suppose that made it official, then.

And I was actually touched that, at the moment, he didn't seem to notice. "Okay." A pause. "Does... who all knows? Because I know for a fact that Chad and Elissa aren't in prison right now."

"Dr. Greenbrige and Nicky and Nicky's dad. I don't... I didn't want anyone else to know." I sighed. "I begged them not to report it." And then I realized something. Something that I probably should tell him, just in case he looked back at this one day and the thought occurred to him. "I don't... have anything. By the way."

"Oh." He kissed my hair. "Okay." There was another pause, and then, "Is there anything I should do? Or be aware of or... anything? Because I'll give whatever you need, okay?"

I shook my head. "I haven't found any physical triggers. It's mostly just hearing about them. Seeing them at family things. Conversations surrounding the subject." My voice dipped so low that I almost doubted he'd be able to hear me. "I don't think I'll ever be able to do oral, but... other than that."

"I don't need blowjobs to be happy, Braz."

I chuckled again, pulling my face back enough to wipe my eyes. "Glad to hear it." And yet another pause, but this one was mine. "They're both visiting on Wednesday. Wanted to see how I was doing." Or so they said. I refused to even start to think about what their motives were- too many worst case scenarios. Too many possibilities. There was just no way in hell I was going with them anywhere by myself.

Every muscle in Parker's body tensed, and I tensed with him. "They're what?"

"That's why it's coming back in the first place," I said quietly.

For a few seconds, I was positive that he wasn't capable of making words. His jaw clenched, and his arms shifted to a location that was far more... menacingly protective, and I just wanted to melt into his chest and never have to come out of it.

"Do you want me to be there?" His voice was strained, like there were a million things he wanted to add to that. Violent things. Things that involved brutal murder and torture and fire.

I had to mull that over for a second. The question of whether or not it was wise to bring my very-obviously-gay boyfriend to meet my occult, hyper-homophobic cousin and his pregnant wife was the one that posed the biggest issue. But in all honesty, I'd feel safer with him there than I would without him, so I nodded. "Yeah. Nicky said she'd be there too. And I- don't do anything that'd tip my mom off, okay? I'm not ready for her to know about it."

He took a deep breath. "Okay." There was another pause, longer this time, before he said, "Can I take you out to a movie or something? I feel like you could use the breather."

I blinked surprisedly, and then I looked up at him and offered a grin that was at least ninety percent genuine. "I'd really, really appreciate that, Parker." I swallowed. "And if you'd burn that note or something when you got home."

He nodded, pressed a kiss to my temple, and found my hand to give it a squeeze. "Definitely. On me, your pick."

I let my breath go again, but this time, it was relieved. "Okay."