Something clattered on the wooden floor, loud and almost echoing in the silence, followed by mumbling. Normally, I sleep like a log; it has been so eversince I was a kid, sometimes it took numerous attempts from somebody to wake me up in the middle of the night. Usually this somebody was Tay when he came over in a hurry. He almost broke my window once with his furious knocking but then I saw the state he was in and every single shred of ill-feelings disappeared. With my successful graduation this spring I’ve been officially recruited at the hospital part-time, which basically meant my hours were all over the place, whenever they needed a hand. My biological clock still hasn’t gotten used to this wacky timetable.
Another thing about my sleeping habits is that while I have energy to share during my wake-hours, actually waking up is a very, very slow process, one usually aided by at least a dozen snoozes and coffee. So when I’m  forced out of my fields of green and dreams by some outside-factor so fast I immediately get a nauseous feeling in my stomach, it’s ought to be something big.
After a few, dizzy moments of not even knowing what century we’re in, my gaze wanders over to Dante’s side of the bed. No parts of me feels relief when I see his dark frame, because even with slightly blurry vision it’s obvious something’s really off.
“Tay…?” I call out his name in a sleep-scratched tone. He’s sitting up with his head in his hands and breaths in an uneven, shaky way. “What’s wrong?”
Even in my half-asleep state it takes me by no surprise that he almost immediately dismisses me. The nausea comes back with an ice-cold grip on my chest as I try to sit up but only get to rest my weight on my elbows by the time he’s half out of the bed. Something paints rigid blue glow on the wall; he must’ve knocked down his phone.
My eyes wander over to the clock on my nightstand. I know; who needs clocks when you take a phone with you everywhere? Well, those like me who think a clock which projects the current time and date to the ceiling is a must-have in every ‘just five more minutes’ student’s room, that’s who. Anyway, it says 3:42 in pale green lines which means we must’ve went to sleep barely two hours ago.
At least I did. I have no idea about Tay.
I’ve been worrying about him. I mean, I worry about him on a general basis, it’s almost like breathing now, but he has been loosing a lot of sleep lately. Hell, I don’t even know if he sleeps at all; not without the sleeping pills, that’s for sure. Every time he’s supposed to be sleeping, I catch him just kind of staring into nothing; it doesn’t matter if it’s the afternoon and he’s supposed to be on a night shift and I just walk in to the room to get something or these rare occasions where we’re both home for the whole extent of the night.
But it’s not about sleep now, it’s something different, something on the tip of my tongue, hiding behind a corner in my mind; I know I’m supposed to know but my mind is completely dull.
My eyes follow his movements without actually sensing anything. “Where are you going?” He mumbles something about having a smoke (I almost heard stroke for a moment there) and leaves without saying anything further.
I bend over the edge of the bed in search for my discarded nightshirt (naturally, it’s not mine, per say, but there’s always a small print in relationship-agreements about getting to steal their stuff, right?) but as soon as I find it, a strange feeling dawns on me. I have no better description for it, but this: weird.
It almost feels like the previous scene didn’t even happen and it was all my imagination, as if I’m just getting awake and Tay’s actually not even in the neighborhood. I still don’t know what woke me up, but… it’s like I missed something.
Dad was in the ICU when he died, no visitors allowed after 7PM so mom couldn’t be there with him. She slept in the waiting room and woke up with a sudden pang of pain, she told me later; that she felt him die before the nurses rushed to the unit. She said she had a similar feeling when Reese got hurt, and that she always felt when we were really upset. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I do believe that when two people form a close relationship, romantic or platonic, they actually form a bond, something that’d have physical form in the astral plane. Something that overwhelming things tug at like a line.
It takes me a good five or ten minutes to gather these thoughts though, my brain shut-down from the lack of sleep.  There’s a hollow throbbing behind my eyes and a knot on my stomach as I make my way through the living room. Almost everyone’s home now, so I don’t turn on the lights, steering toward the balcony guided by the night lights of the city. It works almost like a charm until the last few inches where I manage to hit my pinky on the farthest of the chairs of the dining tables so it’s a safe bet Dante already knows I’m there. Still, with a mute chain of curses towards the founders of IKEA, I lean against the glass door instead of stomping up next to him.
“Hey,” I say quietly with a crooked smile, and that’s all I say, because I have no idea what to do next. What should I ask? What the hell was that? It’d be a fair question but I’d never get an actual answer. I could ask him again what’s wrong but it’d only achieve the same thing.
Staring at his silhouette for a few moments of relative silence – there’s always traffic and yelling on the streets loud enough to hear even on the 9th floor –, I finally make up my mind and walk ahead, the cold touch of tiles for my bare feet sending a slight shiver up my spine. I spare a lingering glance at the window boxes and the out-bloomed flowers before leaning on the railing next to where Tay’s doing the same. I look at him from the corner of my eye, gaze wandering to the cigarette between his fingers. I think he has an idea that I don’t like it when he smokes, and of course in a way he’s right, cancer and all, but I don’t, like… Distinguish myself from smokers. I stopped a long time ago but if there’s one thing about hospital staff, it’s that we have the highest number of smoked cigarettes per head in the whole city.
“Gimme one?” I reach toward the pack of smoke he has, rolling a stick between my fingers before lighting it. He smokes the same type that Ramon does so I fortunately skip the part where I start coughing like an asthmatic walrus, making him think I’m just trying to bond in whatever way I can. I mean I do, but…
The first puff of tangling grey smoke disappears into the jetblack sky before I speak up again. “Look, if this is about the potpourri I got, then I’m sorry, but I’m choosing the potpourri. It smells like vanilla and waffles.” I turn toward him with an almost honest smile which almost immediately melts. Something’s really wrong now, I can feel the unease and anxiety rolling off of Dante in dark blue waves, it’s been so for a while but not in this intensity. I feel so helpless all the time I could cry but that would only make him feel bad about me, and that’s the farthest from what I want. I look behind my back to make sure the door leading outside from Watt’s room is curtained properly and not open. “Babe, I don’t know what’s going on with you only that it’s big. And it’s only getting bigger. But we’re a team, remember?” I reach out with my free hand to tuck away a few strands of hair from his eyes. He’s even more disheveled than usually. “Let me help? Please…?”

You're ripped at every edge

but you're a masterpiece

jangst vol. 2

i'll be fine once i get it

For the past 12 months, I’ve been doing nothing but listening to my partner talk. He told me all about his family, his hamster, his nephew, even his dating life, and yet, I still don’t feel an inch closer to him as a person compared to when we first met. I mean, I do spend most of our quality time together nodding my head to music while he tries to talk over it, so I guess that could be a factor. I don’t mind it, though. It’s not like I joined the NYPD for friends.
We are in the school. That’s it: the school. We’re casually strolling down the empty corridors, minding our own business, keeping today's assignment in mind. We’ve accepted it without question, even though we've never been selected for such an errand before. What the task was, you ask? Well, “connecting to local communities”, of course. Strengthening human bonds and, y’know, synergy, global solutions, affirmative action, whatever. We’re going to sit in front of a whole class of little kids and tell educational stories, answer “have you ever used your gun?” questions, all that. I know the day’s gonna be a cruise for me, ‘cause Cohen will do all the talking. He loves kids, even though they bully him all the time. I guess humans can tell the weak ones apart from a very young age.
“You wanna tell 'em the hotdog story?” Cohen cuts in, interrupting his own unending monologue.
“Nah. ‘Stage is yours, Kindergarten Cop,” I reply. “Y’know how I feel about kids.”
“I know how you feel about anything,” he mutters.
We take a turn down the corridor. Somehow, this part of the school seems a lot more run-down than the other, looking like a public school in the Bronx, while the previous one seemed more like a private academy in Manhattan. I don’t know how I got that impression from a single aisle of lockers, but I did.
Suddenly, Cohen breaks into a jog and goes straight ahead. I can see him sliding his gun outta his holster.
“Fuck you doin', man?” I ask, eyebrows knit in confusion.
“Ssh! Get in position!”
He stops by a closed classroom door and puts his back against the wall. He’s holding his gun with two extended arms pointing to the ground, taking up a position as if he was about to break inside. I figure he must know something that I don’t, so I followed his command and got in cover, waiting for him to initiate action. He takes a few deep breaths before bursting in through the door, gun held forward.

“NYPD, hands in the air!” He shouts, but lets his gun down as soon as he sees what’s inside.
It’s a nearly empty classroom with four dead bodies inside. That’s right, four innocent people, slain. They’re sitting in the front two rows: a man and a woman in the front, another woman behind the man, and next to her – a kid. A little boy. There’s blood dripping everywhere from their fractured skulls. The man and the women are hunched over, heads planted in their desks, while the kid's spine arches backwards against the backrest of his chair. He’s facing the ceiling, mouth wide open and oozing blood. His arms are still dangling by his sides, as if he'd still been moving them recently.
“Fuck,” Cohen sighs, placing his hands on his waist. He looks slightly displeased at the sight, but still casual, as if he was looking at spilled milk. “Guess we gotta do some cleaning now.”
I stare at the carnage in shock, mouth ajar. Questions of what, how, and why swirl around in my mind. I have no words for what I’m seeing, the only thing I know is that this kid’s lifeless stare is making my blood run cold. I pity him, but I fear him more. I’m so paralyzed by dread that I can’t gather the courage to speak, the same way I froze up a few weeks ago when some kids nearly shot up a store.
“It was an accident,” Cohen reassures me, placing his hand on my shoulder. I’m starting to grow wary of him. He hasn’t once acted or looked like himself in the past hour, constantly shape-shifting, but until now, I’ve always accepted it was him.
“What do you mean, accident?” I snap at him in annoyance and indignation. “They're dead!”
“No,” he replies in a morose tone, looking back at the horrifying scene. “He's not.”
Even before I follow the direction of his gaze, I know what he means. I’m overcome by fear once again, a shiver running down my spine. I still don’t know his name, but I recognize the kid now. The boy who now seems to be drowning still, blood trickling down his jaw. I’m so captivated by his sight that I almost miss Cohen raising his gun for a coup de grâce. I push his arm away.
“It doesn't matter,” I state robotically. “He'll be back.”
He’s stuck here on replay, with me.
We’re drowning together.

***

I bolt upright with a gasp of air. I can see in front of me just fine, but all I can tell at the moment is that it’s the middle of the night. I don’t bother taking a better look around, I’m too busy trying to catch my breath. The more I feel the walls closing in on me, the thinner the air gets. I think I forgot how to breathe. I think I might be dying. All I want at this point is to curl up into a ball and just fade the fuck out.
I lean forward, knees bent, and bury my head in my hands. I’m digging my nails into my scalp, trying to hold on to some strands of hair, or anything for that matter, but that shit ain’t enough to hold me together right now. I feel like I’m disintegrating into thousands of tiny little fragments. Every time this happens, I lose parts of myself. As if some of my particles had escaped during the meltdown, and now they’re gone. The ones that do return, band together loosely, ready to break off next time. That’s what this bitch feels like.
Inhale deeply, exhale slowly, four-second break. Repeat until the system’s back up. This is my reboot button, my “have you tried turning it off and back on again?” solution for the short-term. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
By the time I’m done with four deep-breathing cycles, I no longer feel an urge to wake Mac up to ask her for an ambulance. In fact, I no longer want her to know about this at all. I mean, shit happens, but that don’t mean you gotta disturb everyone’s beauty sleep, right? It was just a nightmare, and I don’t pee my sheets anymore.
“I’ma have a smoke,” I mutter back to her under my breath while rising to my feet. My words come out so slurred, though, that “smoke” ends up sounding more like “stroke”. Funny thing is, I do kinda sound like I’m having a stroke, speech slurred by the three bars of Xanax I popped before bed. Haven't helped one bit, but at least now I get to sound like a depressed SoundCloud rapper. Y’know, the type that’s destined to meet an untimely end in a drive-by shooting, but is completely fine with it. That’s me, except if I tried talking fast to music right now, I’d suffer a stroke for sure.
On my way out of the room, I check the time (2:13 AM), and grab the pack of Marlboro Reds that we store in one of Mac’s colorful bowls. She also keeps some fake rocks in it, or “minerals”, as she likes to call ‘em. I hope some of their healing spiritual energy rubbed off on my cancer sticks as well. Been trynna quit for years now, switched to E-Cigs first, then nicotine patches. Tried cold turkey, then relapsed as soon as the night terrors struck, ‘cause my bitch ass is way too weak. I tried to wean myself off ‘em, but it didn’t matter what color pack I bought, I always ended up smoking the same amount. Overall, it’s more economic to stick with the reds. They contain more cancer per piece.

I’m leaning over the handrails of the balcony, listening to dogs barking. They always start around 2 a.m., while the birdsong starts around 4. That’s right, they still exist in New York City, and thanks to my backpacker of a father, I can identify some of them based on sound. We got some blue jays in the neighborhood, and I know that ‘cause those annoying little shits scream like seagulls in the middle of the city. When they start is usually when I give up on sleep. Their chatter reminds me of the ocean back home, though, so I like listening to ‘em sometimes.
There’s still some humidity left in the air, as a city of concrete and glass doesn’t just cool down overnight. What’s more, it smells like rain and piss and gas all the time. Sometimes metal. I’m staring at my phone, got the notes app open, a beam of bright blue light projected onto my face. The text cursor’s blinking at the end of a sentence that I don’t dare finish.
I turn my head to the sound of Mac stumbling across the pitch-dark living room. It brings a light smile to my face, but I instinctively lock my phone screen as soon as I realize she’s close. I didn’t even think twice about it, it just happened.
“You good over there, stalker?” I ask, smiling. I butt my cigarette on the metal railing. “Guess we switched places. I used to be the one sneaking up on you in the middle of the night.”
I turn back and slide my phone into my pocket – I’ve got one ‘cause I’ve been laying my lazy ass to sleep in sweatpants ever since I moved here. It’s less effort, ‘specially when you’re sharing your morning coffee with three… acquaintances. (Okay, bullshit aside, I pretty much just forgot to pack ‘em when I fetched my stuff from home, and I ain’t about to spend money and energy on getting them back or buying new ones. So, sweatpants it is.)

I listen to Mac’s barefoot steps as she joins me on the balcony. I’m about to slide another cig outta the pack, and she asks me to share. She smokes all types of stuff, but I don’t remember tobacco ever being her thing.
“Ay,” I express my disapproval with a shake of the head, tío Pablo style. I’m clearly just messing around, though; I don’t know what else to do, never did. “I see we got a baddie over here.”
After letting her take a piece, I lean in close, and light both of our cigarettes’ ends at the same time. My eyes are smiling because of the nostalgia this brings, and also because I keep clicking on this cheap-ass lighter, but it’s taking forever to spark a flame.
“Puto,” I mumble with my lips together as I keep trying. Even after both of our cigarettes are lit, I don’t pull away. I stay inside Mac’s personal bubble, and take a long drag on my cancer stick. “We used to do this, too. Felt cool, the adult stuff, huh?” For some reason, the words leave a bittersweet taste in my mouth, one stronger than the taste of tar. “I mean, it coulda been cool now if this bitch stopped with the attitude.” I grin as I wave the lighter in my hand, puffing out smoke with every vowel.
“Yeah, that potpourri got me hella fucked up, girl. Gave me a permanent speech impediment.” Only after I’ve said it do I realize how cheap it is to make a weed joke about dried DIY-mom plants. I let out a bitter laugh, but I kinda hate how drunk on pills I sound.

Suddenly, silence ensues. No more potpourri to joke about, I guess. I stare off into the dark and the dots of twinkling lights that form the skyline. The eye can’t see that far, and it’s not a flashy Manhattan view, or a starry Portland view, but it’s a view nonetheless. At first, I hoped it would be pretty enough to divert attention away from my own disheveled look, but I can see Mac watching me from the corner of my eye. I can feel her sensing with her Mac-tuition that something’s off.
Starting to realize how futile it is to try and hide behind laughs, I wait for her to inevitably address the elephant in the room. And she does soon enough. She sweeps some of my hair out of my face, but an intense, and yet nearly catatonic stare is all she’ll find behind the cover. When she looks at me, she’s looking at an empty shell, a battered one at that. She asks me to let her help, and I need to take a drag on my cigarette before I can bring myself to answer. I know I owe her an explanation.
“I mean, I want to, but…” I shake my head, trying to find the words. “I don’t think you can.” I finally allow my gaze to meet hers. I see the concern in her eyes, and I wish I could give her some hope, tell her she can help, but I can’t. I know deep down that whatever’s going on with me, it’s bigger than the both of us. And at the end of the day, everyone’s alone in their own head. They’re alone in their sleep, they’re alone in their dreams. I guess I’ve got myself my own private Hell, and no punch seems strong enough to knock it out of my skull. It crosses my mind sometimes that maybe the solution is to just switch the lights off for good, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t put an end to this. I’m afraid tío might’ve been right about that.

“I tried…” I sigh deeply, flicking some ash off. I might seem exhausted with Gucci bags under my eyes, but I’m nowhere near the stage of acceptance or final exhaustion. My voice gives away the tension seething inside. I like my anger, I think it might be the only thing keeping me from blowing my brains out. “I tried getting help, I did. I went to this group thing. I went there, and they wanted to know my story. Like, that was the whole point of this bullshit. They wanted me to say all of it. And I don’t… I don’t fuck with that. Y’know?” I give a bitter, barely audible chuckle. “What if they’re not ready? I don’t know if I could tell my fucking story, but even if I could, I don’t wanna… Like, I don’t wanna put it out there for everyone to hear, and then find out afterwards that it was all for nothing. Nah, I ain’t gonna let nobody do me like that. And what if I’m not ready? And what if I don’t even know the whole story?”
I’m so busy working myself up over this and gesturing with a cigarette between my fingers that I only realize what I’ve said when it’s too late. I take another drag on the cig and let it sink in. I mean, it’s not exactly a full coming-out: Mac still doesn’t know about the nightmares and what they’re about. The boy. Or the fighting. Or what happened during the robbery a few weeks back.
“And I don’t even wanna know. Fuck that shit.” I finally say with a little too much confidence, but there’s a strain in my voice as I simultaneously shake and nod my head. Maybe a part of me does wanna know. “It’s like I forgot, but at the same time, I didn’t. I mean, fuck, maybe I’m just trippin’, maybe… Maybe tío was right, and I really did get the sense beaten outta me.” I hang my head and laugh again. Good old tío, right?
I look back at Mac and wonder if she’ll take this for an answer. I know her like the back of my hand, but for some reason, I sometimes forget what we have together. Sometimes, I wonder if she’s finally had enough of me, if she’s about to realize how worthless I am and send me away. It’s a feeling I can’t shake, even though I know she loves me, and I love her, too. She’s the light of my life. Still, I can’t seem to grasp the concept of her simply liking me for me, no transactions, no conditions. I just don’t get it.
“Why are you so good to me?” I ask with a huff of air. “I could very well be a horrible person. You’d never know. I might’ve…” I clench my jaw, but I can’t gather the will to say it just yet. I need to find another way to put it.

“Okay. You remember Leo as a kid? How he would just go up to strangers all the time? How he would pretend like your parents were his parents? Yeah. Well, I never told you this, but one time, when he was nine, I… He begged me to see Avatar for weeks, so we went to the mall. He… he ended up just kinda wandering off afterwards. I got ‘em to announce through speakers that I was looking for him, and this family of five brought him back, laughing, like, ‘We didn’t find him, he found us’,” I shrug my shoulder bitterly. “And I knew that this was why he wandered off in the first place. That’s why he just kinda joined in on their McDonald’s lunch. To…” I stare at my grazed knuckles as I flick some more ash off my cigarette. “To see what a family’s like.”
That’s right. At five years old, my brother would not understand why he shouldn’t hug a stranger at the store. He craved an adult’s love and attention that much. Sometimes, he’d pretend to be a Mackenzie to the point that the twins would look at him weird. No matter how much I kept trying to speak some sense of stranger danger into him, he was ready at any time to strike up conversation with a random woman at the playground. The problem with this was that what he was looking for, strangers couldn’t provide, and neither could I. He was looking for mom and dad.
Even after he’s turned ten, I’d chew my pencil to its core in detention worrying if he managed to walk home alone, without accepting any invitations to anyone’s house. And even then, I despised myself for putting myself in a position where I couldn’t look out for him. But when he turned twelve and things got hard with him, I did just that. I bailed, ‘same as mom. That’s why I can never stay mad at him for too long, ‘cause in my eyes, he’ll always be that kid who hugged strangers at the local Walmart. Just like the boy in my dreams, his ghost still haunts me to this day, ‘cause I know I’ve let him down. I think I’ve let ‘em both down.

You see, everyone is afraid of something. Sure, there are people to deny it, people who think being afraid makes them weak and vulnerable when actually it’s usually the very thing that saves us, one of our most basic instincts for survival. Sometimes it’s something pretty reasonable; like my grammy from my mom’s side, who has always been deadly afraid of storms to the point that if a storm was coming (which, given it was Portland and the East Coast) she made us plug out all devices, close most curtains and sit in silence for the duration of the storm all because when she was a little girl, a lightning bolt almost hit her. Then there are fears which are hard to explain; like Indiana Jones and his fear of snakes or Reese and his unreasonable fear of heights. When they visited in the summer he refused to even look at the photos made on top of the Empire State Building of his kids.
My biggest fear was never one specifically related to me getting injured. I’m not really afraid of spiders or flying or drowning. If anything, it’s others drowning: I guess I’m afraid of not being of any use, of not being needed. Of seeing someone I love splash and cry for help knowing very well I’m not able to help or them realizing they don’t need me at all. Which one is worse though? I have no idea; or at least I didn’t have. Because as Tay says those few words without any intenion of hurting me, he hurts me in a way I never thought possible. He is drowning in… in depression, his own thoughts, trashing around trying to keep from sinking to the bottom, but he doesn’t even try to call for me because he accepts I can’t help him.
Depression is not exactly something far from me, not after those few years after ’11. Dark and cold and terribly lonely, where oxygen is hope but you can’t really find enough because it’s so damn hard you think – is it even worth it? Life, normal life as it is, is so far away like a distant memory and you can’t really remember what I was like, anyway. Scared to move upward, but also terrified of falling further downward, hitting rock bottom. Even more: extremely frightened of staying put, all alone in the dark.
I shouldn’t make assumptions based merely on my instincts, especially about someone so close to me, that was one of the first things we learned in nursing school. I mean, looking up all the illnesses and diseases and their symptoms, you eventually reach the point where you have at least a dozen fatal diseases, two of them worse. It’s kinda the same with important people in your life, you get real paranoid real soon.
With Dante though, this fear seems to be a grounded one. He’s brooding, deeply unhappy and lost and clearly pained by something strong enough to cause him nightmares but I can’t help him. What’s my point, then? If I can’t help the person I love the most, then what’s my purpose?
For quite a few, silent moments, I forget completely about my cigarette, the grey crumbly rod of ash bowing in front of gravity. Then, I simply don’t dare speak; having Tay open up about himself, like, really open up is not some everyday thing, even when we’re alone. Part of me wasn’t even expecting him to answer, and while I’m somewhat happy he decides to confide in me, his words do not sooth the ripples of concern.
If he tried getting outside help, then this must be something even bigger than I could’ve thought of.
“What do you mean ‘do me like that’? They’re there for the same reason you are. It’s not like they are the enemy…” Even though I don’t have the slightest of ideas who are ‘they’ and what are they there for. I mean, is this about having addicts as parents? Or about the marines? Or the police? Maybe he has something going on I don’t even now about, I have no idea and I kind of don’t want to press further. He’s talking; he shares what he wants and he feels like he can. My curiosity and need to be needed is really not of his concern. Even if it was, he has greater problems than that.
Imagining Dante at a group therapy session is so out of place though, a piece I just can’t suit into the picture I have about him. He must’ve been really desperate if he went. I kind of get what he’s talking about though; I mean, not telling others about it. He spent his years in Portland trying to be tough as a nail, building walls like Guantanamo Bay’s around him. Even if you had a staff pass you had quite some difficulty getting in. In a lot of ways, Reese was like him, though he still tends to hide is hurt and pain behind idle calmness instead of anger or snarky remarks. Then again, Reese had a family who supported him.
I’ll never be able to fully get Tay, will I? I crack a lopsided smile about his yet again self-deprecating joke. “Well, you do have a tendency to try and get all kinda stuff beaten out of ya, so…” I absentmindedly reach for his free hand, placing my palm below his over the railing, not quite locking fingers. My thumb dances across the charred skin of his knuckles. The previous bruises are fading, losing their angry red color but I know that he’ll get fresh ones before that’d happen. Nodding toward his index finger, I add, “You should’ve let me stitch that one up. It’s gonna be scarring now, may limit movement.”
I don’t know what he did but the skin from the proximal interphalangeal joint (or as others would say: that middle fucker) through the knuckle and up to the side of his hand almost to the thumb was torn, damaging tissue. The kind of cut you get when you miscalculate the strength you need to open a can and manage to slit your hand open. Not deadly, sure, but worth a few stitches. ’Tis but a scratch. Involuntarily, I start giggling. “I just… Sorry. I just feel like you’re like that freaking black knight from Monthy Phyton. I’d tell you your arm is off, and you’d be like ‘nah, it isn’t, I’ve had worse’. ”
Sometimes things simply get so sad and hard to take you have to remember The Holy Grail of all things. My chest still heaving with repressed laughter, I interlock our fingers and raise them so I can place a kiss on the back of his hand. I see him watching me, contemplating or something. I meet his gaze, lips still hovering over his hand and raise a brow in question though I have a slight feeling what he’s thinking about. “I mean… I could be a horrible person for all you know. We have eight years lost, that’s a long time. I could’ve done things, too. ‘You’d never know.’” Despite the serious doubt soaking him and his question, I smile up at him almost happy. At least this is something I can understand. “Why am I being good to you? Perhaps because I think you’re worth being good to. I mean, you’re being good to me, too. Yes, you are! Don’t give me that look. Name one time you were actually mean.”
He’s gonna refuse and resist, because that’s the way he his, he accepts other people’s goodness (all right, he has is suspicions but once you get past that, I mean) but denies to have it in him. At least that’s what’s going on aloud. I wonder if it’s the same in his head. Is he fooling himself there, too?
I listened to his story in silence. That’s something he didn’t tell me before, even though it was before they left. It makes me kinda unease he kept this from me. But then again, I keep a lot of things from him still. Thumb tracing invisible patterns on his hand, I take a draw from the cigarette before my gaze glides over to the inside of my lower arm where one word, ‘sunshine’ is tattooed in cursive. Some believe it to be one of those meaningless tats you get because it looked dope on Instagram or something and don’t give a second thought. It’s actually my dad’s handwriting and the nickname he gave me. I had the guy tattoo it from one of Dad’s last letters to me.
For some reason, when anybody asks about it, I still go with that Instagram story.
There are things you feel like you have to keep to yourself up until a certain point where it’s supposed to be told, I guess. It’s not the time to tell Tay about this or about Reese for that matter, but it seems to be the time he told me about Leo and I can simply feel it’s also time I tell him what I’ve really been hiding but has been harder and harder to keep reigned eversince we learned of Nessa’s pregnancy.
“And you tell me this now because you think it invalidates my ‘goodness’ to you somehow?” I ask slowly, only looking up at him by the time I finished the sentence. “Tay, you can’t… you can’t blame yourself for everything. You seem to have this gripping guilt of Leo eating you up but you can’t, I mean… You did your best, the very best you could. Come on, you were a kid too, dammit!” I flick the cigarette to the side, no longer interested in it and try to get under Dante’s gaze. I move my now free hand to his shoulder, trying to get him to face me completely. “Maybe you messed up, yeah, maybe you made bad decisions, but ultimately, it was never really up to you. You think that if you did anything different, he’d be happy now?”
He wouldn’t. I guess his fate was sealed the moment their dad died; maybe even sooner. “You weren’t ready to be someone’s father. You still wouldn’t be. No offense; I wouldn’t be, either. But what’s worse, trying and failing, or not even trying at all?”
It’s a wonder, really, how much Dante thinks I’m so different from him but got all these parallels. All right, maybe their father wasn’t exactly… Well, father material, and maybe it was all in Tara’s head in the end, but we both lost our dads to the same fucking company, and that’s where the shitshow started. Mine was delayed and he wasn’t there to witness it, but it happened, anyway.
And if I’d never tell him, he’d never know. We only know the other as much as they let us know them. I guess he thinks I’m this angel as he lies to call it, all good and sugar and virtues and truth be told, I’d like that to be the truth. I love having him think I’m perfect, I love sinking into that comfortable, happy feeling but you can’t run from reality forever, it catches up to you eventually. For me, it caught me when Watt announced he’s going to be a father. They’re keeping their baby without even a debate over it, even though they weren’t even dating, and Nessa confides in me and has me buying all this baby stuff with her and when I went with her to have an ultrasound, all I could hear was not the fast little heartbeat but more like… drums. That very ancient, very frightening rhythm you feel in your veins and know you’re gonna get caught. I have no idea by who, but it’s gonna happen.
It’s time. He thinks I’m perfect? Maybe this helps.
My mouth seems dry as hell and it’d be easy to write it off as a side effect of smoking. Licking my lips, I glance around, trying to find the right words. It really is time, but it’s hard to let go of being golden in his eyes. I mean, that was the best feeling ever. “Do you remember, in sixth grade, I broke Ashley Doherty’s nose? I told you it was because talked shit about Reese when actually, she was talking shit ‘bout me. About how when we had this whole-class talk about what we want to be, my instinctive answer was mother. They all said stuff like doctor and astronaut and footballer and I said I wanna be a mom. Then I overheard her talking about how our kind really knows what’s in store for us early on and that’s when I broke her nose.”
Can’t deny it: I’m still proud of that one.
Heart pounding fast, the words seem stuck in my throat. So I do the next best thing I can, because I feel like if I stop now to actually gather my thoughts I’m gonna lose my courage and back off. If I don’t tell him now, I probably never be, not in time.
I grab his hand, put it on my abdomen, under the shirt, impelling him to feel the skin with his fingertips, where the delicate flowery tattoo hides the scar. It’s not really seeable, and you only notice the slight bump of skin is there when you know to look for it. I don’t think he ever paid attention to it; if he noticed, he didn’t say a word. But I want him to talk now.
I want to ask him if he feels it being there but then that may sound like my way of telling him I’m pregnant and that would bring a whole other kinda freak-out. “I told you I got this tattoo because I lost a bet. It’s true, in a way, I mean, there really was a bet I lost, but I never would’ve went with it if I didn’t want to have it covered up, anyway.” Would that be classified as lying? I’m not even sure. I look up at him finally, staring at him straight, trying to not let him interfere. “What I’m trying to say is… You think you’re the only one of us who sometimes messes up big time. I’ve been wanting to be a mom since I was, like, ten and started to take care of my brothers. I thought they listen to me, I can feed them, dress them, help them, I was born for this. But then I… Had the opportunity. And my only debate was how to pass it up, not whether to live with it in the first place. So which one is worse, trying and failing or not even trying at all?”

You're ripped at every edge

but you're a masterpiece

jangst vol. 2

i'll be fine once i get it

I let out a sigh at Mac’s question regarding my distrust towards the support group. Fortunately, she has no idea it’s not about them, but about me. It’s not that I see them in an antagonistic light and expect them to bully me for no reason. It’s that I think I might be past victimhood by now. They’re not the enemy, but I might be, and I don’t think I can forgive myself until I find out the truth. Then again, I’m too much of a pussy to go out and actively seek answers. I mean, what if I’m right about this? New memories have been resurfacing in my dreams lately, and I made a pact with myself to just do the right thing no matter what. I’m afraid I won’t, though, and that thought right there fucking terrifies me.
For now, I let Mac carry on without elaborating on all of this, ‘cause it’s easier than interrupting her to explain how I may or may not be complicit in war crimes. Nah, let’s not go there right now. Instead, I just stare right ahead and clench my jaw, letting the conversation move on. I fill in the gaps by keeping my mouth busy, sucking on a cigarette that’s almost burned down to the filter by now. At this point, I’m only using it to keep my hands busy.
Her reception of my tío reference puts a lackluster smile on my face, but it’s not enough to cover up the hurt. When she reaches towards me, I feel a surge of shame and an urge to hide my bloody knuckles, but I can’t pull away. I wanna hold her hand too much in order to pull away.
“You can’t stitch me up everywhere, I’m already one Frankenstein-lookin’ ass. Or was he the doctor?” I squint at her, and with a faint grin, I add, “I mean, we got A-level English lit alumni over here.” I’ll never stop bullying her for this. I still don’t understand why you would attend advanced literature classes if you plan on taking Science tests on the SAT, which is a whole new level of masochism in itself. All of that is just classic Mac stuff right there.
While she’s laughing at her own Monthy Python reference, I watch her with my eyebrows high up on my forehead. I’ve never seen that show, or whatever it is, but I’ve heard of it being painfully European. She’s having so much fun with it, though, that I do end up chuckling a bit myself as I flick some ash off my cig. “That might just be the whitest thing I ever heard. It’s adorable,” I say with a laid-back smile, as if breaking unexpected news. As if I didn’t always find everything that Mac does, adorable. Now I kinda feel like asking her to do that so-so Irish accent, but I guess it’s not exactly the right time.
I watch her lifting my hand to her mouth and giving it a gentle kiss. I punched a dude’s teeth out with that fist just a week ago, but I’d rather not tell her that story right now. I once again ask myself what I did to deserve Jasmine Mackenzie. No one’s ever treated me the way she treats me, for seemingly no reason.
“Damn,” I bite out, grinning. “No one’s ever kissed my hand before. I feel like Cinderella.” I lean in close to give her forehead a kiss. I tried to turn it into a joke, ‘cause I never knew how to handle intimate moments, but Mac’s more comfortable with them, and she never lets me get away easily. She goes on to openly and coherently express her thoughts, a skill that I’ve always admired as someone who lets his fists speak for him. I knit my eyebrows at her in visible doubt, which seems to prompt her to read my mind and respond to my thoughts before I could even say a thing. I keep telling her to get a side gig at one of those psychic hotlines, freak everyone out with her telepath skills.
“I mean, I did eat the last strawberry pop-tart yesterday. Not gonna lie, it wasn’t worth it, though. Pretty gross.” I raise my brows at her from the corner of my eye, preparing to get punched in the arm. I ignore Mac’s arguments, ‘cause they don’t overwrite the facts. I’m kinda like my smoke: I might not kill you upon impact, but I do tend to cause side effects on the long-term. I might be good to her, but I’m no good for her, and I know that for a fact.

I take a last drag before I butt my third cigarette on the metal railing. I pull another one out the pack as I listen to Mac trying to hammer her message home for the hundredth time: that I’m not at fault. But I fucking am, and the only thing I can do about it is smoke some more, hoping that by the seventh cig, I’ll get too lightheaded to think about all of this. So, I light another one with the nonchalance of someone who’s way past giving a fuck. I’ve more or less accepted the status quo in my head by now, or at least I have moments of resignation that feel almost… peaceful. It might just be the Xans, though. I give Mac a few lazy nods, keeping my eyes on the skyline, even though I can see her trying to make eye contact.
“Yeah, right, right,” I mutter, hoping it’ll make her feel better if I pretend to agree. She can tell I’m just playing, though, ‘cause she grabs me by the shoulder to divert my attention back to herself. I turn with a sigh, just like my fourteen-year-old brother used to do whenever I tried to talk some sense into him.
“Don’t ask me,” I raise my voice to her question, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t fucking know. That’s the great question of my life, man. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve tried in the first place. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve been a selfish piece of crap, yeah?” I gesture with the accent of a Little Italy waiter, then turn my back to the railing and lean on it backwards. I hold that cigarette to my mouth as if it was enough to manage my temper issues. I listen to Mac’s sixth-grade confession with my head hanging low, the same way I used to sit in church, like I was forced to sit there and listen. ‘Cause I was.
“So what? Bitch deserved to get got. Nobody fucks with my girl.” I raise my free hand so we can celebrate that with a fist bump. I’m talking with the certainty of a guy who’s broken dozens of noses in his life, and regretted most of ‘em, but not enough to cover anyone’s medical expenses. “If you’re trynna one-up me with that, though, then nice try. Doesn’t make you any less of a good girl.” I cock my head to one side with a bitter smile. I’m still convinced that Mac’s got nothing on me when it comes to shittiness.
Suddenly, she takes my hand and guides it to her abdomen. I look down at her with confusion written all over my face, but I don’t pull away, ‘cause clearly, she’s trynna convey a message over here. When it finally dawns on me, my face reflects a sort of “weirded out by the timing, but also ready for it” moment. Or at least I would be ready, but benzos are strong enough to kill my morning wood even twelve hours after I popped ‘em, meaning I’m probably not all that ready yet. She needs to come back in ten hours. Wait, scratch that, we’ll both be at work by then, so maybe fifteen hours, unless I can take out a lunch break or some shit.
Man, this sure is taking a lot of planning, and I don’t think I’ve ever focused this hard on a mental task at 2 a.m. before.
“I mean, y’know I’d be down whenever, but you do realize I can’t, right? I swear, mija, Xans make me limp as fuck.”
I sigh deeply at this colossal first-world problem. Just as I’m about to pull my hand back, I touch a slight bump at my fingertips, and the realization dawns on me before Mac can set the record straight. My face falls as I keep on feeling out the texture of her skin, right where her floral tattoo is that I’ve kissed many times without noticing anything. I think it’s starting to sink in for one part of me, but the other part is still in denial. I open my mouth to stutter through a few words, but Mac cuts in before I can say a thing.
“Hijueputa,” I exhale in a barely audible whisper as I run my fingers through my hair. My mouth stays ajar as I glance around the balcony. I can’t bring myself to form a coherent sentence, though, so instead, I finally draw my hand back and take a puff on my cigarette.
As someone with a lot of personal experience with foster kids and teenage mothers, I can’t even find the right words at first. I’ve known many who grew up spirited away from their biological parents, and given our South Bronx location, you can guess how well life worked out for them. Many of them “grew up” to be teenage parents, too, in a place where they could barely look out for themselves, let alone a child. I’ve always seen them as a product of their environment, and usually treated them with some degree of sympathy, but I can’t say I take this lightly. If there’s one thing that breaks my heart, it’s kids who are brought into this world only to be neglected and left on their own devices. I know Mac would never treat a human life without care, but it gives me major cognitive dissonance to hear her confess to giving up her baby for adoption. I know I love her no matter what she does, but I gotta know…
“Where’s the kid?” I ask after some silent contemplation, almost out of breath.
I bite my lips as I listen to her answer, which at least provides some relief. I know I would’ve still loved Mac no matter what choice she made, but for the sake of that kid, I was praying she didn’t let them get sucked into the vortex of foster care or some shit. I don’t care if it’s two guys raising them as long as Mac deemed them competent. I trust her judgement. Fuck, I would’ve gladly taken three transgender men as dads instead of what Leo and I got. A faded junkie for a mother and a reoffending felon for a father.
I shift my weight from one leg to the other, clearing my throat. Biting my lips, I start nodding in acceptance, although it takes me a few moments to get some coherent words out. “Sometimes, I wish I’d done the same for Leo. Let someone more committed raise him, someone who was ready.” I hang my head with a vacant stare. “Sometimes, I wish I’d tried, but I was stupid enough to think I’d be enough. With kids, though, ‘enough’ is not enough, you gotta give all of you. And you found someone who could do that. Who was ready. That’s good,” I conclude in the end, looking back up at her, agreeing with myself through tiny nods.
“Hey,” I say, pushing myself away from the railing. I flick my cig away the same way she did a minute ago so I can step closer and squeeze the life outta her. Once I’m done doing that, I lean back just a bit so I can look her in the eyes, cupping her face in one hand. “You might not be perfect, but you’re still the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You got that? You think I love you ‘cause I think you’re perfect, but I got no idea what you mean. I swear, girl, you sound so whack when you try to rap,” I frown for emphasis before cracking up at this. I quickly rein it in, though, ‘cause I still got shit to say. “I look at you, and I see your flaws, and I love all of ‘em. All of you. I mean, it’s 2 a.m., and you followed me to the fucking balcony. That’s called being a stalker in training.” Again, I can’t help the affectionate smile that this puts on my face. It stays on even as I lean closer to kiss her.
As our lips part, I touch my forehead to hers. Dad told me once that people do this as a greeting over in the Philippines, and mom got so fucking mad. She snapped and went off on him for trynna “alienate me from her heritage”. She explained that touching foreheads is a Pacific thing, and that Filipinos do it differently. I’m sure dad had no idea, but mom used to have this tendency to get paranoid about his intentions. I remember the argument so vividly because she slapped him with a flip-flop, and I’m pretty sure I cried.
“You shouldn’t’ve covered it up,” I tell Mac. “You grew a whole person in there. Pretty awesome if you ask me.”
I let her go with a sigh and return to leaning on the railing. As I trace the dots of light forming the skyline, I slide my cigarette pack back into my pockets, then rub my palms together. “Just make sure to let ‘em know they’re wanted. And that you still love ‘em. They’ll wanna hear from you, trust me.” I always wanted to hear from mom, too, but she was on a whole other plane. “Hey, fuck this ‘they’ bullshit, is it a boy or a girl?” I ask, putting one hand on the railing and rotating my upper body towards Mac. It’s honestly pretty batshit that she’s got a son out there somewhere.
“Maybe we could go visit him sometime. Man, we got a shitton of people to visit, and we ain’t even crossed anyone off our list yet.” And that brings me to my next point. “Y’know, I was gonna try and find these guys I served with. One of ‘em, I found out through Twitter, moved to San Diego. His name’s Cesar Ferreira. The problem, though, is that his last post’s about Iran’s 2015 nuclear deal. So, I’m thinking, he’s either in jail or dead. I look up some obituaries, nothing comes up, so I figure he’s serving time.”
Gesturing aimlessly, I finally come to a halt and lick my lips, trying to figure out how to proceed. I was going be a man and say it outright, but I can’t bring myself to do that just yet. Instead, I’m immediately overrun by a wave of, just, utter shit, and it seems to spill over into my storytelling. When my lips part with a smack like this, you just know you’re in for a ride.
“Aight, so…” I blurt out before exhaling shakily. “I can tell you that I’ve never had anything to lose. All my life, I could do whatever I wanted, It didn’t matter, ‘cause I figured there was nowhere to go but up. And yet, all I ever wanted to do was the right thing.” I steal a glance at Mac before proceeding. “And it really costs nothing when you’re living alone, no family, no past, no future. So, every time some type of shit went down, I said: hey, I could do it right for that guy, too. And this guy, and that guy. Make myself feel useful while I’m at it, compensate a little. ‘Stakes are lower for me than them, anyway.” I look down at my calloused knuckles and remember the time I was gonna tattoo ‘em like Darryl and Jada. Today, I’m so fucking glad I never got around to do that. For white Spotify rappers from Brooklyn, it’s fashion, but for us, it’s like branding cattle. Just like my brother’s gesture of commitment that he’s going to wear on his neck ‘til the day he dies.
“And I might’ve been hard on Leo for all the shit that he does, taking the easy route, but I never actually judged him, though. Not really. ‘Cause doing the right thing is hard. It’s so fucking hard, man. I used to think it was a matter of choice, but nah. Choices are fake as fuck. At the end of the day, you’re gonna do what you gotta do.” I shrug bitterly as I try to think of what to say next.
“Remember the day we first met up again after eight years? How I got beat up by Gados earlier that same day? I still had no idea what life’s got in stock for me then. And now, I’ve gone and got myself something to lose.” I look at Mac, pouting pensively and also sorta like an idiot. “Some… If something goes down or if I turn out to be someone else than we both thought I was, I don’t think I’ll have it in me to just give it all up. So if that happens…” I shoot her an intentional look, trying to read her expression and see if she’s really minding my request. “If I turn out to be guilty of something, or just a shitty person… Do you promise me you’ll tell me to do the right thing?”

I had no intentions to tell him all about Aidan for the sake of undermining his pain; none, whatsoever.  I wasn’t even under the impression that this is some kind of an exchange; you tell one bad story and receive another one back from his end. You can’t stitch me up everywhere, he’s kinda right about that. I mean, not medically; that’s a horrible point of view from that standpoint. But no, I can’t pretend like I can solve everything, including his problems which aren’t even necessarily my business, except they very much are. Like, when you see someone suffer, how can you not try everything you can? Sooner or later, you run out of options, yes, and there’s a chance you’re really no use, but you’ll never know until you try. And for Tay, I intend to try every last freakin’ thing, even if it means I’ll tell him stuff which won’t make him feel better rather me look worse for it.
I just… Hate it how he thinks we’re different, like, sure, we have differences, our personalities couldn’t be less alike or that’s how it feels most of the times, but at the core of it, we are made from the same material. I refuse to think elsehow. Even if out of the two of us, with the greatest respect, people would guess he’d be the one to have a kid by now.
It’s not something I’m proud of; neither the situation nor how I handled it. I’ve tried to deny the existence of him for so long it’s crazy and actually doesn’t feel real when I say it out loud. Or is it that I simply want it to not be real? I would never, ever hurt someone innocent; but if I could change the past, I’d headbutt Trent Santirelli the first time he said hey, girl at me, leaning against the locker next to mine. That would be quite a show. It would have been for the better, and I know that now but that’s not changing anything, right? Those few years, after all the shit went down… It was like I got switched with an “evil twin”, only its more along the lines of “selfish, stupid, douchebag twin”.
But it’s out, right? All those years of hiding it from others, months of not saying a single thing about it even when Tay asked about stuff relating to it… And it’s out. Gotta say, it’s somehow anticathartic.
Except for the fact there are several, long moments there where I’m convinced this is the part where Tay decides not only to leave me but to jump out of the balcony. I’m almost tempted to jump between him and the railing. “I… I wanted to… take care of it early on. So I went to these… clinics. I went, like, six times, but I never got through it. I just… I just couldn’t,” I say, raising my shoulders, defeated. I mean, he didn’t accused me of anything and in fact, he asked a simple question, but I just… Want him to know the whole truth to it. “Even though the last time I actually had an appointment and everything. When they called my name, I just sort of… bolted out like the freaking Road Runner. And that’s where I met this woman, Jane. She worked for New Hope, it’s a, ah… Non-profit organization. Basically they help stupid girls like me so they won’t fuck up their kids. They help with adoptions; they helped me find a pair who couldn’t have children on their own and who would cover all the expenses. Everything, not just the medical part. That’s where I met John and David.” I shrug, hugging myself but can’t help a smile. I’m just so fucking grateful to them, for them. They’re like walking miracles – so fuck you, George Bush.  “They were there, supporting in every way they could. I knew they’d be wonderful dads.”
Was this a good answer? I hope so; I mean, if I would’ve told anyone at that time… If I told Trent, I bet he’d have vouched for me to go through with the abortion, and with him “supporting” me, I would have done so. That douchebag.
“You didn’t have a choice,” I sigh. “You can’t… I mean, no one really fought for guardianship over him, did they?” If Leo were younger at the time, around six, at top… He may’ve had a chance. Maybe. He was a really cute kid afterall; but who would want a ten year old mixed-race kid from the pits of Portland – not even the good Portland? Most kids don’t find their Brangelina. But he’s not mad at me; I mean, even I’m mad at me.
There he goes again with shaming himself, even though it was supposed to be about me being a stupid, bitchy 18-years-old. “It was luck. If Jane wasn’t there at the right time, I would’ve probably messed up. I’d be messed up, and my… my kid would be messed up, and I wouldn’t be here. And those would be all my fault for not paying much mind in health-ed. But you weren’t the one, you  know… Actually conceiving him. He was tossed at you; like I said, no choice. Me on the other hand… Well, I have no excuses.”
I really don’t. If it was only about only me, about almost fucking everything up with whatever troubles I’ve caused in school or outside of that, almost missing out on my scholarship, for… For what? Trent? I’ve heard all the talk about the importance of education from mom;and then I also heard all the talk about those special people you’d throw anything and everything away, and how that is good; being loyal and loving is good. Yeah, those are some conflicting talks, mind ya.
But I have to agree with both; both path can lead to the right place. I mean, working moms and stay-at-home moms are equally awesome, right? And they can all raise a happy family as long as they’re not alone. You can be strong on your own, but… sooner or later you’ll need someone to lean on. Even Queen B needs a shoulder sometimes. It was plain to see at the time, too, that Trent was not my Jay-Z; if anyone, he’d be like… Biggie Smalls. Only he probably has no idea who that is, and that’s just sad and pathetic.  
Tay would’ve been worth it. I mean, if things were different, if he would’ve stayed, or if it happened now, it’d would still be stupid and selfish and unresponsible but I’d trust him, trust us to solve it somehow. He’s totally my Jay-Z. Except for that elevator-part, and the cheating, but I mean, they’re superstars, right? That’s a whole other kinda hell.
Tay suddenly steps up to me and all I can do is hug him back hard like I was clinging on to freaking life and I guess in a way I am. I press my cheek against his chest, and for a moment I’m sure I can hear his heart beating; but that can also be my pulse, echoing in my ear. “I just… I just don’t want you to think bad about me… But then at the same time I do. How crazy is that? Is it crazy? I’m crazy”, I add with an accepting sigh, burying my face further into Tay’s shirt. He’s incredible. I mean, he’s just so fucking annoying a lot of the times, but he’s still incredible. Guess he’s just really filling it out at all angles. Stalker my ass. I repress a laugh into his chest before raising my head. “I don’t… try to rap. I can rap. It’s intentionally awful, FYI.” His smile rubs off on me, I can’t help but return it even though I can feel tears forming in the corners of my eyes and I really can’t decide whether it’s sad-tears or happy-tears. It’s starting to get really mixed up.
The only thing I can surely count on is Tay and I cling to this moment, to us, to the kiss as if it was a pledge that he’s never gonna leave and I’m never gonna be stupid again even though it’s really far-fetched. I can’t ask him to never ever leave me, can I? Even though I really want to; I’m sure he’d promise me if I asked him to because I guess together we can just… Close out the whole world and it’s problems we can’t control and pretend things can never change. It’s easy to think so when I can feel his heartbeat under my palm and the hotness of his breath on my face. Things are rarely easy and right.
“You only say that because you didn’t see me around the 35th week,” I laugh because otherwise I’d cry, because why does he have to get all his sweetness out at once? I’m pretty sure this is an adjective 98% of people he’s met would never link to him but I guess that makes it just all the better.
For a moment I’ve almost forgotten what we were talking about; and how it still feels insane aloud. “I’m not sure someone who has given up their kid is supposed to be, you know… going back. Especially with all the gay-man things? You know… How there are still, like, a handful of people out there who think same-sex partners can’t raise kids on their own?” I shrug as I walk to lean next to him, looking down at the golden-spotted image of the street-lighted streets. Truth be told, I have zero idea what would be the most ideal for the situation. I thought distancing myself would be the best but… Now I’m not sure. Maybe Tay is right. He certainly learned the hard-way what’s it like to grow up without parental figures. But Aiden has his dads, so it’s not exactly the same, right?
“Boy,” I add with a short laugh. It’s weird and cute at the same time that he not only not-hates me for being stupid or hiding the truth from him, he’s also asking about it. Him. “I named him Aidan, and… The guys kept it. So… Aidan Brownfield-Perryn. Sounds, like, high-classy, doesn’t it? Posh, I’d reckon,” I add with an overdramatized accent I’ve tried to learn from Downtown Abbey. “I dunno. I mean… the guys are nice. They wouldn’t mind. Matter of fact, they… send me a Christmas letter every year like old-men. I never opened them, to be honest. It’s just, I don’t know… Thought it’d be easier. But I mean, it was an open adoption, so.. In thirteen years he could look me up to come and kick my ass, especially if he learns I’ve been in New York for years, as well. So I’ll think about it.” I nod. This is the best I can do right now, at 2 AM, standing half-naked on a 9th floor balcony. With a wide smile on my face, I nudge him with my elbow. “Thanks for the offer. And for, like.. You know. Not taking it personally. I don’t think most guys would dig visiting their girlfriends’ kid whom they gave up for adoption and didn’t even see in years. So… Yep. You’re cool.”
Cool doesn’t even cover a percent of what I think he is, but it’d take too much time so we might just as well go with that. Especially as we were bound to be wandering towards darker waters again. That’s just how it goes; and that’s how I wanted it to go. Because even if he’s not talking about it aloud, he always wanders over there sooner or later. Maybe he’s right and I can’t help him but at least I can be there with him. “Or he forgot his password?” I suggest, albeit, weakly. I’m not trying to undermine his emotions, it’s just kind of… weird how this is the only two options he considers. Dead or imprisoned. I mean, he doesn’t post anything on his twitter yet he’s here, right? “Was he a friend of yours? Or he owes you money and you want to beat him up?”
He said they served together but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I mean, he’s profoundly opposing any statements of mine regarding how Cohen is his friend. But it’s nice to have him share stuff with me; he never talks about the military and I kind of always felt there’s a reason for that, a good reason I should not poke around until he allows me to.
Is he allowing me now? Judging by the look on his face, he doesn’t know either. So I figure the best I can do is let him proceed – I listen to what he has to say carefully but without any intervention. That is, until he reaches that you gotta do what you gotta do part, because that sounds like a real bad omen. “Yeah?” I wanted it to be a declarative sentence but it turned into a question. And then it turns into a million questions.
“What do you mean, ‘if something goes down’?” I just have a feeling he’s not talking about police-stuff, the reason why I get all jumpy and nervous and have a mental breakdown every time I hear an officer is about to be rolled through the doors with a shot-wound. It’s all on the inside, but it’s there, and all those “dating a cop is hard” kinda talks started to make sense to me a while back. The more he goes on without actually saying anything makes it all the clearer this isn’t regular stuff he means.
“I… Tay, I’m really not following you right now,” I admit, taking a step forward so I’m standing in front of him again. “What do you mean guilty of something? And what do you mean if?” I’m asking all these questions but looking at him and judging by his expression, he’s the wrong person to ask right now. “I mean… Look, I’m all for helping you, you know, stay on the right path, eat your vegetables and brush your teeth, but why do you think that if you’d be tempted to not, like… do what’s lawfully right and probably bad for you, for us, I wouldn’t be?” My brows are starting to hurt from being furrowed again and again, but I can’t help it. My mind is flicking with all kinds of horrible imagines. I mean, guilty of something… “Tay, you do make the right choices. You just said that you’ve been trying to help people. You say you had nothing to loose but that’s not true, everyone has got something to loose!” I can feel the tears coming again, and also a hyperventilation of sorts, so I’m trying to fight that, but I can’t do that the same time as talking coherently. Not right now, at least.
“And, I mean… If that right thing you mean is not what you’d want, not what I’d want, then… Why do it? I mean…” I tangle my fingers into my hear, pulling it back from my face with a frustrated groan, “People get away with shit all the time. You of all people should know that! People who are, like, intentional murderers on ten different levels, and-and-and… rapists and politicians… So why couldn’t you?” I’m starting to feel like my voice-level is getting way too high for this conversation so I force-shutup myself by planting my hand over my mouth. For a few moments, that is. “Okay, okay… Just so you know: I’m already planning our runaway to Montenegro. I have no idea where that is, but I remember they don’t have an extradition treaty with the US, and the only other option coming to mind is Chad, but I really don’t think that would be a good destination. Lots of warlords over there.”
And somehow that clicks something, or at least it begins to. With slightly less despair in my eyes, I ask, “Is… Is it about, like, what Leo said? What those douchebags made him tell you, about, like, uh, what was it? Something about Watergate, and then about fucked-up stuff. The address. Did you go to that address…?”

You're ripped at every edge

but you're a masterpiece