Page 41 of Body Count

“Ask for more.”

I choked as the pressure of the boot increased.I tried to grab the boot, shove it away.I tried to twist, struggle, fight to get free.The best I could manage was to get my hand on his boot.And then all I could do was hang on.

“Ask for more,” Leather Jacket said.The pressure on my neck increased.“Be a good little faggot and ask for more.”

That high, rushing wind in my head had gotten louder.I couldn’t breathe.Black whirled across my vision.My back arched—some final, instinctual response as the animal part of my brain tried to stay alive.I raked my nails against the leather of his boots, but I couldn’t get any purchase.

And then a siren chirped, and over a cruiser speaker came a voice.“What’s going on here?”

Shouts.Running footsteps.An engine cranking to life, and then a breath of exhaust, and the tires moving away.The voice on the speaker was issuing orders, but the sound of tires was already growing more distant.I thought I heard a car door.I thought I heard steps.It was all far off.Farther off.Gone.

17

I wasn’t at home.That was my first, clear thought.Not in my own bed.My head was killing me, my throat was killing me, and the rest of me felt like I’d been dragged behind a semi.And I stank.Had I pissed the bed?As I woke, my brain worked backward.I’d gotten wasted.I’d—what?Hooked up with somebody?God, had I spent the night at his place?Darnell would be furious.

And then bits and pieces of it came back.Drinks pressed into my hand.The music, the lights, the whole world softening.The tunneling darkness of the men’s room.The hot spray of piss.Pebbles biting into sensitive skin, the scrape of asphalt.The reek of horseshit, and a boot crushing my windpipe.

My eyes were gummy, but I got them open.A semiprivate hospital room.Beige walls.An empty flower holder mounted on the wall.Something beeping.Something taped to my arm.Darnell.He was sitting in the chair next to the bed, looking up from his laptop.The light from the window looked like morning, and it made a halo around his head.Saint Darnell.So many fucking saints in my life.

“You’re awake,” he said.

Neutral.No anger.No disappointment.No judgment.Just a fact: here’s my partner, and he’s awake, and he’s covered in piss after getting himself roofied.Part of creating a supportive, nurturing atmosphere, I knew—from many long, long talks with Darnell—was also creating a judgement-free zone.

It was the first thing I wanted to say.I knew it was childish.I knew it came from that dark well inside myself, the one we all have, and if we’re lucky, it stays capped most of our lives.I didn’t even mean it, although maybe a little, mostly because I felt like shit.But staring at Darnell, meeting that look of non-judgment in his eyes, in this sterile, weirdly public space, what I wanted to say was: why can’t you let me die?

Instead, I found the water pitcher and the little plastic cup.

“I’ll do it,” Darnell said.

It was a good thing.My hands were shaking.I would have spilled it everywhere.

He poured the water.He held the cup for me.There was even a little bendy straw, and he brushed my hair back with his hand while I took painful sips.When he thought I’d had enough, he took it away.

“You’re going to need to boil that hand in bleach,” I said.

“Do you need to use the restroom?”

I did.But in that moment, it felt like saying yes would be the last indignity.The final one, the one I couldn’t come back from.Having to be asked.And having to say yes.So, I shook my head.I was still waking up, my brain starting to work again, and the shards of memory from the last night kept coming.Their hands on my arms.The way they’d dragged me, my shoes scraping the sidewalk.Laughter, and thenSome guys get off on freaks.

The strike of lightning.Stay down.

I squeezed my eyes shut.I tried to take deep breaths, but my nose was snotty, and the air moving through my mouth tasted like those guys’ piss, and everyone would know.Everyone would know.Oh God, everyone would know.

“It’s okay,” Darnell said, pulling me against him.His shirt smelled like starch and Persil, and it was soft.The familiar press of his body was soft.And his hand stroking my back felt good in ways I hadn’t thought possible.A few tears leaked out in spite of my best efforts, and after a moment, I gave up and pressed my face against him.“It’s okay,” he whispered.“It’s going to be okay.”

It felt like we stayed like that for a long time.Finally, I tapped out, and Darnell released me.He stood next to the bed, one hand on the rail.

“Sit down,” I said thickly.And then: “Sorry.”That didn’t seem like enough, so after a moment, I added, “That you have to deal with all this.”

“I’m not ‘dealing with’something,” Darnell said quietly.“I’m taking care of the man I love.”

I almost started crying again.Somehow, though, I managed to say, “Sit down, for fuck’s sake.”

He sat and was quiet while I got myself together—as much you can, anyway, after you’ve been hosed down by a couple of strangers and kicked to the curb.Literally.The sounds of the hospital made their way into the silence between us: a cart with a squeaky castor, nursing clogs moving across laminate, muffled voices.I thought of Tip’s room, what seemed like years ago, and the TV judge who solved complicated legal tangles every half hour.

“This is a new low, huh?”I said.My voice didn’t crack or anything.

“This,” Darnell said, “was a cry for help.”

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