-Dear Brian,
Sorry I wasn’t there last night. I was . . .
Justin hesitated. He wasn’t sure how much he wanted to share with Brian about himself and his very screwed up life. Normally, he was a very private person and didn’t want or need to share the very personal details about himself with anyone. But, this felt different.
His mother, of course, knew much about what he had endured. She had been there from the beginning. She had seen, first-hand, how he’d struggled after the bashing. It was Jennifer who had driven him week after week to the physical therapy sessions and then the therapy-therapy sessions. She had suffered with him through the night terrors and panic attacks. But, Justin had never felt comfortable discussing matters with his mother – they’d both dealt with the consequences of the bashing, but in effect they had each worked through their individual responses alone.
Justin had shared more of his feelings with his best friend, Daphne. She knew how emotionally paralyzed he felt and how worried the artist was about the obstacles to his career that came along with his gimp hand. Daphne had been wonderful - providing support and encouragement even when Justin felt ready to give up. But not even Daphne knew the full extent of what Justin was enduring or how deep the pain and guilt had penetrated into his soul.
Was he ready to open up about what he was going through with this stranger when he hadn’t shared it with his family or his best friend?
Justin reflected back on Brian’s last letter. The man had shared more about himself than Justin would have ever expected. He had been touched by the level of trust that had shown. And, in spite of the fact that the two of them had never met in person, he felt close to this man in a way he’d never experienced before. Justin desperately wanted to nurture that sense of closeness, even if it would forever be impossible to connect in the flesh. He decided to take a chance, just this once.
-I was sick. You see, I get these night terrors – they’re like super bad nightmares which I can’t wake up from. One of the worst parts is that they don’t just happen at night. They are all part of the wonderful legacy of my bashing. Anyway, I was taking a nap yesterday afternoon when one hit. I kind of lose time when they happen – I’m not really unconscious the whole time, but I’m not exactly awake either. I didn’t ‘wake up’ until around 10:30 last night and wasn’t really able to even move or function until after 11:00. I’m sorry that you were worried about me. I’m fine now.
Boy, reading that, I sound like a complete psycho, don’t I? Fucking Chris Hobbs! Not only did he fuck up my hand, but he screwed with my brain, too. The doctors say that I get the night terrors and panic attacks (yes, I get those too, unfortunately) because I’ve subconsciously repressed my memories of the whole thing. Since I’m not ‘dealing’ (their word, not mine) with the bashing on a conscious level, my subconscious keeps asserting itself by forcing this shit to the surface. But, screw the psycho-babble. All it boils down to is that I’m royally fucked up. Sometimes I’m not sure if wouldn’t have been better if I’d died along with the other guy Hobbs bashed that night. At least then I wouldn’t have to go on feeling guilty about what happened to him and reliving the whole fucking thing in my god-damned nightmares.
I don’t mean to unload on you – sorry. It’s just that you’re such a good listener – nothing like a captive audience, right?
Anyway, I was thinking about that ad campaign you mentioned in your letter and I had an idea – what if you changed the focus a bit so you could incorporate the logo itself into the copy. Here, let me show you . . .
Justin spent the next hour perfecting his ideas for the ad-man’s problem account. He even went so far as to draw out the whole concept on a 10x12 sheet torn from his sketchbook. As it neared 6:30, he hastily finished off his letter, folded it up along with the sketches he’d been working on and rushed down the stairs to deposit it all in the box before Brian would arrive.
Luckily, he’d remembered to bring a large couch cushion with him this time. Tossing the cushion on the otherwise hard linoleum floor underneath the array of postboxes, he plopped down and leaned against the wall, waiting in comfort for the metallic clank that would indicate Brian had received his letter and was posting a reply.
Fortunately, he didn’t have too long to wait. At 6:40 he heard the anticipated “clank” and hopped up to snatch the response out of the box. Reseating himself on the comfy cushion, Justin couldn’t believe the happiness he felt just seeing Brian’s handwriting on the reverse of his last note.
-Justin, you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything. Sorry is bullshit! You had no control over what happened last night, or for that matter, what happened to you at your Prom. You definitely shouldn’t feel ashamed of it or feel the need to say you are sorry. The only person who is responsible for all you’re going through is that homophobic asshole who took a baseball bat to you. God damned fucker. And, I absolutely do NOT think it would be better if you had died. I wish there was something I could do to prove it to you.
Wait, what if I look up the prick in my time and break his fucking knee caps now. Then he couldn’t fuck with you ever! Yes – just say the word. B.
-Love the idea, Brian. But, it wouldn’t work, I don’t think. It’s like one of those time-travel conundrum things. You know, like if you travel back in time and kill your grandfather then you’ll never be born and therefore it’s impossible. I mean, I wouldn’t have had the money to move in here if it weren’t for ‘Homerun Hobbs’, and if I hadn’t moved here we wouldn’t be having this discussion. Right? (And don’t call me a geek – I happen to have really enjoyed Physics class). It’s very cool that you would do that for me. But we’ll have to come up with some other time-travelling tricks that won’t mess up the time-space continuum. J.
-You ARE a geek. Don’t even TRY to deny it. Only my friend Mikey could decipher even half of the shit you just spouted. Anyway, my offer to break the little shit’s knees still stands if you change your mind . . . By the way, how did the guy avoid prison time if he actually killed someone? Even our court system isn’t usually that fucked up. B.
-There was some screw up with the evidence at the scene – something about the crime scene having been ‘contaminated’ - so the murder charges were all dropped. I had already been knocked unconscious before the guy, who was apparently trying to help me, was attacked, and there weren’t any other witnesses so there was only circumstantial evidence against Hobbs. The D.A. didn’t want to press it and Hobbs’ family has connections so they all got together, worked out some lame deal, and voila everybody was happy. Except me and the guy Hobbs bashed until he bled out. I wish that I could remember something that would have helped convict him. I feel like I let the ‘good-samaritan’ guy down. I mean, he was only hurt because he tried to save me and then he gets killed for his trouble. Fuck. I guess it serves me right that I keep having these night terrors about seeing the guy being bashed and killed. Guilty conscience I guess. J.
-Like I said – it wasn’t your fault. You should try and just forget about it. Let it go. You don’t need to let Hobbs win by hobbling yourself with all this guilt. It’s really a fucked up world though, isn’t it. You get bashed because of your sexual orientation, something you can’t change, and your would-be helper gets taken down too. You think things are changing, getting better, and then shit like this happens. B.
-Okay, so let’s take your advice and forget about it. Did you look over my ideas for that account of yours? What did you think? J.
-Yeah – I’ve been looking at it all while we’ve been writing back and forth. It’s perfect! It’s exactly what I was trying to get at. What about if we change the font though . . .
Several hours and many additional sheets of paper later, both men realized that it was getting late. They both signed off and both headed up to their loft.