Chapter 11 - How to Ruin A Perfectly Good Funeral.

It's Chris Fucking Hobbs!

I'm paralyzed with shock for a minute or two. My brain isn't functioning well enough to help me devise any proper response to seeing this monster, especially when he's standing so close to my Sunshine. My first semi-rational thought is to grab Justin and run. My second thought is to quickly punch Hobbs' face in before he can get to Justin. While my primal mind is busy trying to determine which is the best course, I completely miss it when Justin starts to politely introduce us.

"Brian? You okay?" Justin interrupts my fight or flight determination with an elbow to my ribs. "I was saying, that this is a friend of mine from school. Our parents are . . . were . . . all members of the same country club. Chris, this is Brian Kinney. Brian, Chris Hobbs."

"Nice to meet you," Hobbs says, extending his hand in my direction.

There's no fucking way in hell I'm shaking his hand, though. "Yeah," is all I say, turning abruptly and focusing on my coffee, leaving the proffered hand hanging there.

Hobbs manages to cover pretty well though, acting as if he didn't notice my snub. "Your dad was a pretty decent guy, Justin. You know I used to caddy for him; he was always nice and he tipped real well. I'll miss seeing him around the clubhouse next summer."

"Thanks, Chris," Justin says, then the two 'friends' proceed to talk more about school and the 'club' and a dozen other things they have in common.

I meanwhile watch in utter dumb amazement. This monster, this savage homophobic freak, who has hurt and even killed Justin in my past lives, is standing in front of me amiably shooting the breeze with the man I love. I've harbored such hatred for this man for so long - I want to kill him, tear his limbs off with my bare hands, bash HIS fucking brains in with a baseball bat - I can't just stand here and watch him and Justin getting all buddy-buddy and even planning to meet up later for coffee. But there's nothing else I can do.

This Chris Hobbs hasn't ever hurt Justin. As far as I know he's never hurt anyone. He's just your average suburban teen whose primary concerns are to win the big game on Friday night, pass his Trig test next week and try to get laid over the weekend. He’s not acting hostile towards Justin at all. In fact, I’m getting a definite closet queer vibe off him as he stands just a little bit too close to Justin and touches his arm or his back just a few times too many. Fuck. No wonder Justin had a fucking crush on this guy for so long - my gaydar is hardly ever wrong, and it’s definitely pinging right now. In fact, as I’m thinking about it, I intercept a subtle glance from the creep checking out MY package, too. This is just way too fucking weird.

And, while I stand there contemplating this perceived threat, I completely miss the real danger which is even then approaching our little group from across the room.  It comes in the form of a buxom bleached blonde bimbo named Vickie.  No one would know from her innocuous appearance, clad as she is in a skirt that’s too short and a blouse that’s too low cut and much too bright a color for a funeral, that she’s the real threat to my happiness with Justin.

“Mr. Kinney! How nice to see you,” Vickie croons at me from more than ten feet away and her volume only increases as she gets nearer. “It’s so nice of you to come to Mr. Taylor’s funeral, especially seeing as you didn’t really know him all that well. Oh, hello, Justin. How are you and your mother holding up, dear? I’ve been just devastated myself. I just can’t believe it - your father was so young and vital and really very fit. I can’t believe he’s gone. It was just such a shock when it happened, too. Didn’t you think so, Mr. Kinney?”

“Uh. . . um. . . “ is what I hear coming out of my mouth - truly, it hasn’t been one of my more eloquent days.

“Brian? How do you know my father's secretary? And, what does she mean that you didn’t know my father all that well?” Justin picks up on the one incongruity in the greeting instantly.

"Well, you know dear, Mr. Kinney was there when it happened." Vickie plows on, answering Justin for me, as I listen helplessly while the bitch blabs. "He was meeting with your father about a new electronics line or something. Isn't that right Mr. Kinney? And then, when your father collapsed in the middle of their meeting, it about scared the living daylights out of us both, don't you know."

"Why were you meeting with my father?" Justin demands when he turns angrily to confront me as soon as Vickie stops for a breath. "You don't sell electronics. You didn't even know him, but . . . You were there when he died? Then you came to see me and were there when Vickie called, but you didn't say a word to me about it. You never said anything to me about this, Brian. And, you knew about the allergic reaction? My god, Brian. What the fuck?"

Shit! Justin's voice has gone dangerously low and quiet as he speaks - the way it does when he's not just mad, but furious. Justin is far too smart not to connect the dots immediately as soon as he hears the facts. He's already looking at me like he's never seen me before and has taken a couple steps back away from me. It's as if I'm some alien life form that he's afraid to get too close to. And, instead of sparkling blue eyes, he's looking at me now with a cold blue steel gaze that's filling with hatred.

"Justin, please, I can explain." The words sound so hokey even to me, I can't believe I uttered such a lame assed cliche, but I didn't really have anything else. "Can we just go somewhere private and I'll tell you everything. Please, Sunshine?"

"Fuck you, Brian. I'm not your fucking 'Sunshine'. And, I'm not going with you anywhere," Justin hisses at me, then pulls out his cell phone and hands it to Hobbs who's still standing next to us. "Chris, call the police. I think they're going to want to ask Mr. Kinney here some questions. I have to get out of here. I can't stand the sight of this. . . this fucking monster."

"Justin, please don't do this," I say, grabbing his wrist as he tries to pass by me. "It's not what you think."

"Don't touch me!" he yells loudly enough to draw all eyes in the reception hall. "Get your hands off me. You fucking disgust me. I can't believe I fell for your shit. I don't want to EVER see your face again. I said, LET ME GO!"

Justin wrenches his arm out of my grip and runs towards the exit. I start to follow right away, but Chris Hobbs and two other men are there, pulling me back before I can get more than a step. The last I see of Justin is the back of his blond head as he pulls the exit door closed behind him. The metallic clang of the heavy steel fire door ringing hollowly through the silent hall before pandemonium breaks out, ripping the quiet to shreds.

I don't really care what happens after that. There are police officers and detectives asking me endless questions, none of which I bother to answer. There are angry faces drifting around me, but none of them are Justin so I don't even look. There is a police car and rooms I don't recognize but none of it really matters. I've already lost the only thing in the world that ever mattered to me. I've lost Justin, again.

A lot of hours later, I'm sitting handcuffed to a table in another strange room somewhere. There are two police detectives with me, one seated across from me and the other pacing around the room. They've been asking me questions and using every tactic ever shown on television to get me to talk - threats, cajoling, nice guy cop routines, appeals to me to help the family reach 'closure', and more - but I really don't have anything to say. It's no use anyway, I can't fix this so why bother.

The one pacing cop gets frustrated finally and leaves. About ten minutes later, a tall uniformed cop opens the door and leans in. The seated cop looks over at him and they both get matching nasty smiles on their faces. Apparently, they both know something I don't, because I don't find any of this at all amusing.

"Chief Stockwell wants a confession on this one," says the leering cop in uniform. "Turns out the Chief was a golfing buddy of this Taylor guy. Bad news for you, Kinney. I'm supposed to tell you that the camera in this room just broke. You've got about fifteen minutes before its fixed, Richards. Make 'em good. Have fun."

The uniformed cop disappears and the door locks automatically behind him. The seated cop - Richards, I guess his name is - stands up and walks around the table to stand behind me now. His hands are resting on my shoulders and I can feel his acrid breath on my skin as he bends over me to whisper in my ear.

"You ARE going to talk, Kinney. This is your last chance to do it the way that doesn't involve you getting seriously hurt. Nobody's gonna care much if a fag like you has a bit of an accident in here. And, the Chief doesn't much care for your kind. He's not gonna care what the fuck happens to you. Especially not after you fucked over a pal of his. You gonna confess now or . . ."

The dickwad ends his sentence with a hard rabbit punch to my kidney that knocks me right off the stool I'm sitting on. Since my left wrist is still handcuffed to the table, when I fall, I pull it over with me. The edge of the heavy metal table crashes painfully against the side of my head and I see stars for several minutes. My ears are ringing so much that I miss whatever it is that Richards has been saying while he proceeds to kick me repeatedly in the stomach and the groin.

When I'm able to focus again on what's going on around me, I notice that I'm lying on my side on the floor, the table on its side in front of me, and there seems to be a growing pool of something wet all around me. The asswipe cop is still standing behind me raining kicks on my side and back while keeping up an endless stream of profanity. He's busy trying to come up with even nastier ways to call me a fucking fag, but he doesn't appear too gifted in the art of insults and eventually falls back on the tried and true: fairy, faggot, pervert, etc. Nothing I haven't heard before.

Oddly enough, the pain from the cop kicking me feels muted and distant, like it's happening to someone else. The only real pain now is coming from my temple where the table hit me as it fell. I reach up with my free hand and touch the tender spot, noticing the sticky wetness there. When I pull my hand away, I see it's covered with blood. That must be what this puddle is that I'm lying in now. It's blood.

'Hmmm? I always figured getting bashed in the head would hurt worse than this', I think as a red mist closes in around me before I finally close my eyes and let myself rest.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<7>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

"Aaaaagggggghhhhhhh!" I hear someone screaming. I also hear this annoying beeping noise that's going on in the background, but it isn't as loud as the screaming, so it's easier to ignore. Then, I hear a crash and the beeping noise stops. That's when I finally realize the screaming noises are coming from me and I abruptly shut my mouth.

"Brian? Fuck, are you okay? What's wrong?"

It's Justin, of course. He's standing next to the bed, gloriously naked, leaning towards me in concern. I can't really fully enjoy the vision standing there, however, since my mind is still full of images of that fucking police interrogation room and Richards kicking the shit out of me while I'm lying in a pool of blood. Not really the best thoughts to wake up to, I'm afraid.

I'm sitting up, leaning against the head of the bed, my knees pulled up to my chest, my arms wrapped around them and clutching at the blanket. I can hear myself sobbing and muttering. It's almost like I'm looking down on my body from somewhere outside of myself. I'm watching myself, but I'm not in control of what I'm doing anymore.

I'm also not really in control of time, either, it seems. The next thing I know, I see Michael, now hovering next to Justin, and they're both looking at me and talking quietly. Justin's dressed now, I notice unhappily. They both seem upset about something, but I can't focus enough to figure out what's bothering them.

"What the fuck happened? He was fine when I dropped you two off here last night?" Michael is saying, looking at Justin angrily.

"I don't know. Fuck! I don’t know what's wrong," Justin replies, he looks scared as shit and seems ready to bolt. "He was just like this when we woke up this morning. I didn't do anything, really. He's been like this for, like, an hour now."

"Brian? Brian, it's me, Michael. Snap the fuck out of it, Brian," Michael is saying and I can feel him running his hand down the side of my face and through my hair, obviously concerned about something. "Shit. Maybe he took something - did you see him taking any drugs after I left you?"

"No. I didn't see anything but that would explain it - if he's having some kind of bad trip or something. . . " Justin says, backing away from the bed.

"Shit, shit, shit. I'm calling an ambulance and taking him to the hospital. If he did take something, maybe they can pump his stomach or something," I hear Michael say as he reaches for his cell.

"I've gotta go, Michael. I'm already going to be late for school. I can't stay," Justin says, his jacket in hand as he hovers near the steps. "I left my number on the pad by the phone. Can you call me later and tell me how he is?"

"Yeah, whatever. Just go. Get the fuck out and I'll take care of this," Michael says, then he starts speaking to someone on the other end of his cell phone call.

"Brian? I've got to go," Justin has moved back to stand beside me, his hand hesitantly resting on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry about all this. I . . . I hope you're okay. Bye."

Justin leans in and tenderly kisses my cheek, then intently turns and walks away. I don't want him to go, but at the same time it's a relief to have him gone. I don't have to try to focus now that he's not here anymore. It's easier to just let go. So I do.

"Mr. Kinney? Brian? Are you back with us, Brian?" says a man with bad hair, ugly clothes and a white lab jacket.

"Hey! Son-of-Freud! It's been what - two or three lifetimes now? So how've you been?" I ask the man I now recognize from my prior attempt to get admitted to the psych ward at the hospital, realizing all of a sudden what that means and, by extension, where I must be now. "Looks like you finally believe me about being crazy. See, I told you so."

"Brian, I'm Doctor Richards. Do you know where you are?"

That makes me laugh. "You don't, by any chance, have a relative who's a cop, do you? If so, you should tell him that his attempt to kill the 'pervert fag' didn't work. See, I'm back! You just can't keep a good fag down these days, can you, Doc?"

"Please try to focus, Brian. Do you know where you are?"

"Well, let's see. Flimsy scratchy cotton gown that doesn't cover my ass, guy wearing a lab coat with a stethoscope draped around his neck, the smell of antiseptic, loud beeping machines nearby, big bed with metal railings? I'm going to guess its a hospital. Am I right? Love the restraints, by the way - it adds a real homey touch - although I usually prefer black satin ties myself. Leather straps really aren't very classy, you know. But, whatever gets you off, I always say."

So, I know I'm babbling, but for some reason I just don't seem able to stop myself. Freud, Jr. is writing furiously in his file. I really wish I could get an arm free because my fucking nose itches, but the restraints around my wrists are too tight. I'm a little worried though because I can't remember what my safe word is this time. Then I remember that I'm apparently in the hospital, so they probably don't let you have any safe words.

"Brian, you're drifting again. I really need you to focus for me, okay? Do you know what day it is?"

"Nope. I've got no fucking idea. I don't know what year it is even. Although, I supposed that technically it's still the same year it's always been, since the year just keeps repeating. But, if you're asking if I know how many times I've done this year, then, no I don't have a clue. I kind of quit trying to keep track of them about three lifetimes ago. It's way too confusing to keep them all straight. But, can I ask you something?  How am I supposed to know what I'm supposed to know and what I'm not each time?  That's where I keep tripping up, you see. It's just getting so confusing."

"Okay. Can you tell me who is the current President, Brian?" Son-of-Freud asks, ignoring my ramblings completely.

"Boring, boring, boring. Your questions are completely irrelevant, Doc."

Freud keeps asking his questions, though, even though i’m no longer listening or responding. I'm already tired of this game and the stupid questions. I think maybe I'll take a nap - I feel so fucking tired. But then I remember a question of my own that's vitally important, and I immediately interrupt the Doc.

"Where's Justin? He's still okay, right? He didn't go to Prom yet or get run off the road by his father or anything?" I don't think I'll be able to rest until I know that Justin's okay. "I know he said he didn't want to ever see me again, but I have to know. Please, Doctor, tell me that he's alright."

"I don't know who this 'Justin' is, Brian," Freud finally responds to my imploring. "You've mentioned that name several times over the past few days since I started treating you, but you still haven't explained who Justin is. Tell me about him, Brian."

But I can't. I can't tell this stranger about Justin. It hurts too fucking much to talk about him, to think about him. I can already feel tears building up at the corners of my eyes and starting to trickle down at the mere thought of what I no longer have.

"He's my Sunshine. And I've lost him," is all I can say through my sobs.