- Text Size +
Author's Chapter Notes:

 

 

WARNING: For much of the story from this point on there will be painful presentations of child abuse, both physical and emotional. I know from experience that this can be particularly difficult for those who have struggled with the effects of childhood abuse, so I am posting this one-time TRIGGER alert.  

Thanks,

NC

 

 


Three days. Three days of her wanting him to talk. He really hated that bullshit. Justin knew that, and yet he let this bitch hold him hostage. To talk. Fuck her. Fuck Justin. Fuck every fucking motherfucker in this goddamned fucking hell hole! Brian's hand flew up to cover his ears as if to block out the memories of the last few days.

"We can't help you if you don't talk to us, Brian."

"Are you ready to talk today, Brian?"

"Can we speak to Trick today, Brian?"

Trick? You want a trick? Bring back that orderly with the generous bulge and I'll show you a trick, bitch. And who the hell is Trick?

He stood in front of the window in an office to which he had been ‘escorted', looking out across the exposed roof of the floor below. "Not quite the usual five star accommodations you normally order, Kinney," he thought wryly as he counted the rusting rivets holding together the air conditioning unit on the other side of the mesh filled glass. Sixteen. At least that's what he could count from this luxurious vantage point. Sixteen rusty rivets.  

He hadn't seen Justin, or anyone but hospital personnel, since they had moved him to that god forsaken new room. Snickering, Brian thought this was surely some kind of cosmic comeuppance for never telling Justin he had visited him in the hospital. Figures. Apparently the twink had learned to play hardball.

He pretended not to hear when the bitch entered the office. That's the only way he could think of her now - the bitch. She had issued orders that the door to his room be left open at all times since... well... since he had apparently destroyed the room after her last ‘visit' with him yesterday. He didn't really remember. He didn't really care much. Didn't care that she called herself a doctor. Didn't care that she said she wanted to ‘help'. She deserved it. She wanted to ‘talk'. Fuck her.

"How are you today, Brian?"

He gave a humorless little laugh. Ran his hands through his now shaggy hair.

"How the hell do you think I am? I'm here." He folded his arms across his chest and turned around to face her, his ass resting on the narrow window sill, his long legs crossing at the ankles. "Did you bring me here to invite me to ‘talk' again?"

"Actually, yes. Do you recall our discussions yesterday?" Dr. McCarthy took in the body language of her patient. Closed off. Folded up around himself. Protective. Although she was sure he was trying to project  nonchalance, she clearly heard what the posture actually said - stay away from me.

"We didn't ‘discuss' yesterday, as I recall. Or the day before that."

"Actually we did. Quite a bit of discussing."

Brian scowled slightly and snorted. "Yeah. Right. All those times I said ‘no'. Quite a lively conversation."

"Please, Brian. Have a seat."

As Brian pushed himself away from the window and settled himself into a chair in front of the doctor's desk, Dr. McCarthy settled herself into the chair beside him and said quietly, "I have something I would like to show you, Brian. Is that okay?"

Brian gave a slight shrug and grudgingly turned his attention to the computer screen indicated by the doctor. He heard three quick clicks and watched as a face appeared on the screen. A face that looked like his. In this room. In this chair. The face that looked like his was... singing? The sound pealed out from the speakers, tinny and high, mirthless and forced. Hands shifting in the air, directing some muted orchestra that could only be heard inside the head of the face that looked like his.

This is the man all tattered and torn...

...the maiden all forlorn...

...tossed the dog...

...who killed...who killed...

...in the house that Jack built.*

And his heart stopped. And his breath stopped. And he wondered how he could still feel so much air pass over his tongue and over his throat because you can't breathe in these great gulps of air when your heart and your breath has stopped. Can you? No. No. You can't. He learned that...tossed the dog... in some class at Holy Mother... who killed... Holy Mother... who killed... didn't he learn that... in the house that Jack... that Jack...

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The noise that came from the chair next to her was the most broken she had ever heard and she wondered if it was even a word at all. It was a primal sound. It was agonized. It was pure pain. In that fraction of a second it took her to turn her attention from the monitor to the man sitting beside her, he had curled himself into a tiny ball, his arms wrapped so tightly around his drawn up legs that the fingers were already white from the grip. She could see he was holding himself together by a very tenuous thread of reason, his tortured eyes staring beyond her, seeing something that no longer existed except to him.

"Brian?"

"...who killed...who killed..." He chanted and rocked himself, his eyes dry and his voice so very, very small. "...he pissed on my rug... come here, Sonny Boy... that's what happens... remember that, boy..." He could see the fur that had been so soft and gray. Now the color was... off... the fur was too... still. But it had bounced today... hadn't it? And it had warm brown eyes... before... And the air made no sense flowing through his teeth. His heart had stopped. Its heart had stopped and red was the new gray...

"Brian..."

"Leave him be, you cunt." The whisper was belied by the anger - no, the hatred in the voice, as the body in the chair beside her unfolded itself and leaned toward the woman. "He's safe where he is and I swear to whatever is almighty that we'll keep him there if you don't leave him alone."

Dr. McCarthy sat slightly stunned, appreciating the sudden hardness in the eyes of the man next to her. This was definitely not Brian Kinney. Of course, she actually knew better than to believe her own irrational thought, but she could understand where the concept of possession arose. Although the physical features were the same - a few differences having more to do with the projection of emotion through body language and visual façade - but the demeanor and personality, even the vocal qualities were so very opposed to the arrogant and distant man who entered her office. This alter was commanding, protective, threatening. And boiling over with quiet contempt.

"Where is Brian?"

"Safe."

"You don't believe he's safe here?"

The man laughed, a great bellowing guffaw, before closing his gaze in on the doctor. "You can't protect him. We can," he hissed.

She paused, then nodded. "Who is ‘we'?"

The man smiled, a smile that didn't show in his eyes, and replied, "Just... friends."

*******

Lindsay sat plucking at the red ball fringe edging the pillow in her lap, staring furiously at Justin. She, Mel and the kids had arrived early this morning, having driven straight through the night from Toronto following the phone call from Debbie two days ago. Now, sitting in the middle of Deb's living room with the rest of the adopted family, she felt a battle waging deep inside between her upbringing and her anger. Her anger was rapidly getting the upper hand.   

"You mean to tell me that Brian has been in the hospital for over a week, missing for who knows how long before that and you didn't let me know, let his son know?"

"Linds, please..." Justin was tired. Fucking exhausted. The last thing he needed right now was more of the family ganging up on him. He had been ignoring most of their phone calls, had refused to answer their continued attempts to get through to him at the loft. Although he had not been allowed to see Brian - to visit him or hold him - for the last three days, he had still spent every single solitary day in the psychiatric lounge talking with the doctors and hoping that today would be the day he would be let inside. At night he was simply too weary to deal with the onslaught of questions and demands and advice he knew he would be bombarded with if he allowed it. His one concession to all the family demands was a daily call to Carl. He gave him a running update, at least a sketchy one, leaving out such important details as diagnosis. He trusted Carl. He did. But the less he knew about some realities right now, the less opportunity the family had of finding out. 

"Justin! Don't ‘please' me! You should have called me! From what I understand you aren't telling anyone anything!"

"You got that right! We aren't even allowed to visit him! He's been in the hospital for days and I've been allowed to see him one time! One time!" Michael's own anger at Justin, long brewing over the last several years, was overflowing. Christ, the kid just wouldn't stop trying to run Brian's life! And now he was trying to push them all away from Brian. Well, it would stop now if Michael had anything to say about it. The family was fed up!

"Sunshine, I know you think you are doing the right thing..."

"Deb... Christ! Will everyone just SHUT the FUCK up!"

Uneasy silence fell over the room. Cynthia sat beside Justin at this fucked up family command performance. She was the only other person who knew all of the details surrounding Brian, the only person Justin could completely trust with that knowledge. They were bonded in a way neither of them sought, but both of them appreciated and he had wanted her there, with him.  She placed her arm around Justin's shoulder, whispering to him, trying to calm the trembling young man.  As difficult as it was for Cynthia, running the companies and grieving for the incredible pain her employer/friend was enduring, she knew that it was an overwhelming load for this young man to carry. Justin was living it every minute, every second and she could see that he was barely holding it together. And Cynthia knew it was only because he had no other choice.

"When did you move to Toronto, Linds?"

"Justin, you know exactly when we..."

"How. Long. Ago. Lindsay?" Justin interrupted brusquely.

"Um...almost three months. But you already knew tha..."

"And how often did Brian talk with you after you moved?" Again, Justin interrupted. There was a point to be made.

"Every Saturday. He always called... Saturday morning... to speak with Gus." Lindsay's voice began to trail off and she fondled the pillow fringe again. Oh, my god, she thought. "Oh, god..."

"Yeah. You didn't even notice, did you?" Justin massaged the back of his own neck. God, he just didn't want to battle this tonight. He tried to stretch the kinks out of his shoulders and, turning his head slowly, let his gaze touch on each person in the room.

"Other than the visit to the hospital, when was the last time any of you actually spoke to Brian? Or saw him?" There were a few murmurs, sideways glances to others in the room, and then silence. "A week ago?" Justin waited. "No? Two weeks ago? Three weeks? A month!?" Again, he waited. Nothing.

"Where were you all? Where were his friends - his family? Yeah, I have a shitload of my own guilt because I wasn't here for Brian, but... you were here! You were right here! And with everything happening in his life you don't see him - talk to him - for weeks?" Justin stood up and shrugged into his coat. "You know, Brian never expected anything from his real family. But from you? Yeah, I think he would expect more. Something."

"Linds, Mel. You've probably wasted a trip. No one can see Brian right now. If you need money, talk to Cynthia. Brian would want to take care of Gus and JR." As he turned to leave he clutched the hand of the woman next to him. She tightened her hand in his. She understood. She would make sure Gus had what he needed. For Brian.

 Michael reached out and grabbed the arm of Justin's coat and pulled the young man around to face him. "Where the fuck do you think you're going? You still haven't told us what's going on or why you're not letting us see Brian."

"Let me go, Michael." The two men faced off, neither backing down. As they stood watching each other, Justin had the sudden realization that Michael's battle was not about Brian any longer. It was about him, about Justin. It was about a persistent twink who had done what Michael himself hadn't the courage to do. "Michael, let go of my arm. Now. I promise you I'm not the little boy you met five years ago. You can't manipulate me anymore. And you can't use Brian anymore." He stared hard into the other man's eyes and repeated, "Let. Me. Go."

Michael loosened his grip on Justin's coat and lowered his arm. Justin shook him off and turned back toward the roomful of people he had considered friends. "Stay away from the loft. Don't call me. Don't loiter at the hospital. It won't do you any good. Brian's doctors have given strict orders that he see no one right now. When that changes, or when I know anything else, I'll let you know." He drew a deep breath to steady himself and continued. "I thought I knew you, could trust you. Yeah, I have my own guilt about leaving for New York. But Brian... How could you have abandoned him the way you did? I... I... Just leave us alone. Please."

"Baby, I'm so sorry. You know Brian. We thought..." Emmett reached his hand out to his friend and stopped, realizing how pathetically feeble his own excuses were. He had failed his friends. Horribly. And he knew that no excuse or apology could ever begin to make amends.

Justin looked his friend in the eye, anguish glaringly obvious in his own, and laughed bitterly. "Yeah, about that. You may all be surprised at how very little any of us actually know about Brian Kinney."

He turned and left the house where he had spent so much time over the past five years. Where he had lived and loved and laughed and cried. His leaving somehow felt so final.

*******

The dark settled in around him. It lay flat and heavy against his skin, running its thick fingers through his hair and winding its way into his nostrils like gas fumes from a pump - heady and noxious. It filled him and suffocated him. He hated the dark. The blackness and the inevitability of it. The fear it carried with it. His breathing increased, pulling more of the dark into him. God, he felt so helpless, so ineffective, so... vulnerable. His hand reached out for the panic button on his bed. He had to get out of here. He tried to call out. His lips were frozen by the kiss of that darkness. It bound him to the bed - sat upon his chest like a harsh lover. Please... please... He shut his eyes tightly, thinking of blonde and blue and neon lights and alabaster. God, Justin, please...

"Brian..." The voice was quiet, close. It lightly touched his hand.

"Brian, you're okay. You aren't alone." That voice again. That life preserver he thought he had hated. He breathed in raggedly holding onto that voice and opened his eyes. God, he hated her. But she saved him from the dark. And behind a small, locked window somewhere deep inside himself he thought, "Go ask Alice, I think she'll know."**

His eyes, round and dark as a doe's, searched out the room for any vestige of lingering darkness. It had hidden itself in the corner, behind the curtain, under the bed. It cowered in front of this woman he thought he hated. The dark ran away from her. She could be light. She could illuminate. She could know.

He grasped her hand and turned his tear filled eyes onto to hers. As the tears broke loose and coursed down his face he begged,

"Please. Help me."

 

 

*The House that Jack Built -- a Mother Goose nursery rhyme

** Lyrics from White Rabbit -- Grace Slick 

You must login (register) to review.