The Defenestration of Prague #3

Finally, after so long, here is the next part. This is 3 of 7. More to come, I promise.

The Defenestration of Prague

[A Zombie Days mess]

Family can be whatever you want it to be.

– A Home at the End of the World

#1. Call Me, Call Me, Anytime…

#2. Hide and Go Seek

#4. Phone-A-Friend

#3. Down to the Dirt of It

Dylan thought about driving Marshall to his own apartment, but she wanted a chance to interrogate him, so she made the long trek back to her house. It was pretty much a silent ride, interspersed with Marshall’s heavy breathing and the walloping of rain.

When Dylan pulled into the driveway, she told Marshall to wait, and that she would help him out of the car. He responds with a soft, but clear, “Alright.”

Dylan assisted Marshall to his feet from the car, and led him into her house, through the front hall into the kitchen. She propped him up on a stool, and looked up to his face. That was the moment she knew everything was not alright.

There was a massive bruise just starting to purple as it made its way across the right length of his jaw, and there was a jagged cut above his left eye; the blood ran down his face making his skin look pink and blotchy.

“Jesus, Marshall, you should have told me.” She pressed a finger to a patch of skin right by his left eye, and Marshall’s whole body winced. She could see now there were scratches marring his neck, and the collar of his shirt had been ripped. His hands were marked up too, his knuckles scrapped and bleeding.

Was this the reason Marshall had called her at this ungodly hour, had he been in a fight?

“Looks worse,” Marshall mumbled, and this time she really listened to his voice. He sounded much more tired than drunk—doused in the overpowering smell of blood and rain.

“You sure, St. Vincent’s is only a short speed away.”

“Nah. ‘m fine.”

“Okay, Chief. I’ll just get you something dry to put on.”

Dylan disappeared into the back of her house, looking for a pair of clean, flannel bottoms and a large t-shirt; she gathered up her first-aid kit too. Marshall stayed upright against the stool in the kitchen until Dylan returned. His eyes closed, and his limbs were limp. Dylan tapped his shoulder.

“I’m gonna patch up those cuts of yours.”

Marshall submitted silently as Dylan applied Neosporin and band-aids to every cut and scratch on his hands and face. Dylan silently hoped that they were the worst of his injuries. His skin was freezing to the touch and Dylan worked fast wanting to get him warmed up as soon as possible. When she was done, she looked at Marshall and tried to hold eye contact, but he shied and looked away.

“Hey, now. Let’s get you warmer.”

She could see that he was shivering under all his wet clothes.

Dylan helped him out of his sodden jacket, but when she reached for the hem of his shirt he stiffened. “Oh, come off it, Marshall. It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”

She could see the blush starting on his neck blending in with the marks on his skin. Dylan felts just a bit happier that he was not totally out for the count.

When he still resisted her, she tried another tactic. “If you think you can get undressed and redressed with committing suicide on my kitchen floor by slipping on the tile and knocking yourself out then I’ll leave you to it.”

Marshall was glaring at her now, so she smiled. He conceded to her help, and together they removed his shirt. Dylan had to hold back the gasp at what she saw. There were bruises, which spread across his torso and upper arms, suspiciously taking the shape of hand prints, and she could tell that some wrapped around his torso and extended past to his lower back. The ones lower down were small and round. Dylan had seen patterns like this before, and they were usually made by the toe or heal of someone’s boot. Some of the bruises even extended under the waist band of his pants.

Dylan tried her best not to say a word as she got Marshall out of his wet clothes.

When at last he was dry and patched up, Marshall stood and gave Dylan a sad smile. “Thanks. I’ll take the couch.”

Dylan tried her best to look convincingly appalled. “Oh, no, you don’t, I may not like you very much right now, but my Mama taught me better than that. You’re gonna sleep in my bed.”

“You sure?”

Dylan knew from the lost look he gave her that he truly thought that she was going to make him sleep on the couch.

“Course, I’m sure. Don’t have any clean sheets for the couch anyways.”

Marshall bobbed his head, and stiffly started his way out of the kitchen. Dylan left him to make his way. Now that he was out of immediate danger, the thought of helping him was overpowered by the fact that she still wanted to tar and feather him for breaking her best friend’s heart.

Dylan put his wet clothes on top of the washer and the first aid kit away. She even went into the kitchen and retrieved a cup of water and some ibuprofen, and she got to the bedroom right after Marshall did.

When he sat on the bed, she handed him the water and drugs, which he took greedily. He gave a bob of the head as thanks.

Dylan then let him slip under the covers and pulled them up and under his chin.

He smiled faintly, “Thanks, Mom.”

“You’re welcome, son.”

“You gonna read me a bedtime story, too.”

“Hell, no.

She looked down into his eyes, which were glassed over, and held his gaze. “You going to tell me what you were doing down there?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes. It will give me more time to figure out a punishment for what you did to Brian.”

Marshall winced; his whole body convulsed and contracted at her words.

“You deserve it, you know.”

His response was just louder than a whisper, “I know.”

“So, you gonna tell?”

“Was stupid…”

Dylan stretched out, so she was laying parallel to him and sharing one of her giant pillows.

“Well, duh. And?”

“Was at this bar, talking to the bartender, name’s Charlie. We were talking about the game, and this guy comes in with his friends, and comes right up to the bar.”

When Marshall didn’t continue, Dylan turned her head to look at him and found that he was blushing.

“Let me guess, the guy was some kind of hunk or something.”

Marshall hissed. “Thought so. He caught me looking.”

“Well, shit. How many beers had you had?”

“A couple too many, I think. Called him something I shouldn’t.”

Dylan, furious that he would have gone out to find some new conquest just after breaking up with Brian, whacked him in the arm.

Smack!

“Ow. That hurt.”

“I can’t believe you did that, Marshall. What about Brian?”

“Can we only talk about one crisis at a time?”

Marshall tried his best to simulate the perfectly dejected face of a wounded puppy, and even after being friends and partners for so long Dylan really had no defense against it.

“Oh fine. But, don’t think you’re off the hook.”

“He called me something, and I showed him just how I felt about that.”

“You really are the pretty one, you know? No brains in that skull of yours. Let me guess, he’s not looking so good anymore?”

Marshall gave her a lopsided grin. “Would have been all under control if his friends hadn’t taken exception to the fact that I was wiping the floor with his ass instead of fucking it.”

Dylan winced at the memory of the beating she has seen stretched across his body.

“Probably wasn’t the best of your ideas, Marshall. Jesus, you should have just thrown down the gauntlet on the guy and collared him for assaulting an Officer of the Law before his friends even knew what was going on.”

“Didn’t think about that.”

Dylan let the silence grow. She could hear Marshall breathing next to her, and could feel that at least he was warming up. She took in a deep breath before she asked her next question.

“Could you pick them out of a line up?”

“Probably. Not worth it though.”

“Why not? So they can beat the crap out of the next somebody who looks at one of them wrong?”

Marshall didn’t answer her, and she was very confused.

“Fuck! This is so not fair.” What she really wanted to say, she kept silent. She wanted to yell that it doesn’t matter, that in this new world superiors and higher ups cared more about your performance record than who you were sticking it to, and what your proclivities are. She wanted to grab him and shake him, and tell him, that the only consequence of keeping quiet is letting those bigoted bastards win. But, she knew that sometimes even in this modern age, things like this weren’t easy as they seem.

“Life is rarely fair, Dylan.” He took a deep breath and Dylan could feel him shaking.

Dylan was more forceful this time. “Marshall, stay with me here. Could you pick those guys out of a line up?”

“I don-I don’t think so.” His voice wavered and Dylan thought he might still be a little tipsy because of the way his voice shook.

It made her sick; the green bile rising in her throat nauseousness kind of sick; because Marshall had faced down giant mutants on PCP rages and jumped in front of speeding bullets, and he should not feel this scared about just being himself.

“Well, just think about it will you, for me?” She couldn’t help the pleading from creeping into her voice, and really it didn’t bother her that much.

“Okay.”

“Good.”

She could tell that Marshall was fighting sleep, and she raised herself to look at his face. His eyes were closed, and he had pulled the comforter all the way up under his chin. She brushed a hand across his forehead, pleased that there was no sign of fever, and whispered in his ear, trying to keep her voice commanding, “Go to sleep.”

“Hmm. S’okay.” After a few seconds, he spoke again: “Dylan, I still love him.”

Dylan patted Marshall’s shoulder, and got out of bed, making sure she didn’t jostle Marshall with the movement. And, she didn’t have to ask him who he was talking about at all.

#4. Phone-A-Friend