Chapter Four
Zander
“Five minutes, guys!” That’s our cue to move our asses and pull our weight. Jules looks at me from the other end of the sofa. I know what he’s about to ask; it’s the same every week.
“You pour the drinks, and I’ll set the table?
” He suggests. I laugh at him and his ridiculous hatred of making the drinks.
I don’t get it at all, but he swears it’s the worst job.
Theresa–I’ll never get used to calling her that–pops her head around the door into the living room, checking we heard.
“Coming, Mom.” Switching off the TV and moving off the sofa, he uses my knee to push himself up, digging his delicate, but extremely bony fingers into either side of my kneecap.
“Careful, you’ll be pouring the drinks and setting the table if I'm injured…”
“Give over, you’ve had wor–”
His face pales, and his eyes widen when he realises what he was about to say, and the implications behind it. “Zan… I didn’t–”
“It’s good,” I dismiss his comment with a wave of my hand, “you can definitely pour the drinks, though,” I joke, trying to ease the guilt written all over his face.
“On it.” He nods and steps around me, his eyes firmly on the carpet below.
He didn’t mean to suggest anything by saying what he did.
It was just mindless banter between friends, but no matter how hard I swallow, the lump in my throat won’t budge.
I’ve tried my best to hide the marks on my body, but sometimes it’s difficult.
Each week when we get changed for P.E, he uses it as an excuse to check on my physical well-being.
He deliberately takes his time getting changed, giving me no option but to undress around him.
It’s either strip down or risk being late, and being late is not an option; it results in a report card being sent through the mail.
The weeks when there are no ugly bruises, his face lights up, and the rest of the week is how it always is.
But then there are the times when his gaze will catch onto a small mark or fingerprints, and I know the rest of the week will be spent trying to cheer him up, convincing him that I’m okay.
He’s tried multiple times to ask about them, but I just shut him down with a shake of my head before walking away.
I know it hurts him to know I’m hurting, but it would hurt him irreversibly to know that the world isn’t as kind as the people he surrounds himself with.
I come over every Tuesday for dinner, and stay over every Friday night.
It’s become our new routine; there’s no need for invitation or confirmation, we just know that’s how things are and fall into the comfort of each other's company and good food. Friday’s are slightly different; once school is over, Theresa takes us to the local trading card shop, where they hold weekly meet-ups for all things game-related.
It’s like a little haven for us nerds, a safe space away from the judging eyes and mean retorts from peers.
Walking into the kitchen, the smell of homemade stew and dumplings wafts from the stove. The warmth of the room and the delicious scent reminds me of the comfort from an old blanket. It’s homely and familiar, but it’s also temporary.
I side-step Theresa, who’s making her way over to the small table, cradling a huge pot between her flowery oven mitts.
“Coming through with the goods!” She announces, the food sloshing over the brim. Jules follows behind her, each step he takes is cautious and slow, as his tiny hands struggle to hold the three glasses of water across the kitchen.
“Here, let me grab one.” Reaching out, I wrap my hands around the one at the front, but his fingers tighten.
“I got it.”
“Stop being stubborn and let me help.”
“I said I got it.”
We’re standing still in the middle of the small room, our eyes locked onto one another.
Julian’s expression is pained, his blue eyes look like infinite pools of sorrow.
The thought that he’s upset because of something as meaningless as my feelings is like a knife to the chest. I never want him to hurt, especially not on my behalf.
“Let go of it,” I say, quietly. Hoping that he releases his hold on the drink, and his guilt, too. I feel his fingers shift slightly and the cool trickle of water escaping from underneath, but I can’t get a good enough grip on the slippery surface as it slides through both our hands.
The sound of shattering glass, paired with the tension hanging in the air, sets off the alarm bells in my mind– survive. My body heats rapidly, and my heart beats like a war drum as I drop to the floor. The cool water soaks through the knees of my trousers as my shaky hands reach for the glass.
“I’m s-sorry, I’ll clean it. I didn’t mean to, I was just trying to help...” I’m rambling, trying to buy myself some time to formulate a plan. It never works, but it never changes either. It’s the same routine as always; I mess up, I apologise and plead for leniency, yet it never comes.
Something warm wraps around my shoulders, and I squeeze the glass tighter in response.
“Honey, it’s okay. Let go of the glass.” It’s a sweet and feminine voice, in place of the usual cold and rough bark I’m so used to. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t let go, come on.” Warmth wraps around my hands now, too, a familiar sensation that’s soft and tender
“Zander,” his voice seeps in, ebbing and weaving through my thoughts.
His presence smothers and blocks out everything else. Jules?
“Zan, it’s me. You’re okay, we’re all okay.” I look up to see him crouched in front of me, his hands cradling mine. He slides his fingers between mine, and the glass clatters to the floor.
“Better?”
“You’re hurt,” It’s barely a whisper. My mind is preoccupied studying the crimson that’s worked its way under his nails.
“Not me,” he turns our hands and spreads my palm open.
Crescent-shaped marks decorate the surface, red beads of blood rolling to the centre of my outstretched hand.
“Think you can stand up?” I nod, fascinated by the tiny cuts.
Julian holds onto my arms as I push up from the floor, not releasing me as we make our way to the sink.
I can feel Theresa watching from the other side of the room as Julian slides our hands under the warm water.
I can sense her worry– I hate that I put it there, but I also hate the man who put it in me, too.
Julian takes his time, rinsing away the blood and gently rubbing away the numbness.
“Let’s get them dried, and then we can eat. Sound good?”
“Yeah.” Jules takes the towel his Mom offers and wraps it around my hands, squeezing it lightly against my skin until all that remains are a few small grazes, no bigger than papercuts.
We sit at the table as Theresa spoons steaming hot stew into our dishes. Julian’s eyes never leave me, and strangely, I’m ok with it.
“How do you feel about staying over tonight, Zander?” She asks, blowing the spoonful of food.
“But it’s not Friday.”
“I know, but I’m sure Jules doesn’t mind, right, honey?
” She looks between Julian and me. He still has his hand wrapped around mine, but she doesn’t care.
It’s not something we’re in the habit of doing anymore.
We used to hold hands often when we were younger, but as we got older and the stares became more intense, the physical comforts tapered off.
I know he needs this contact just as much as I do, so I let him.
If anything, his Mom’s face softens at the kindness her son is forever showering me with.
“I wish you could just stay here all the time,” Jules replies to his Mom, but speaks to me.
He always knows how to make me feel better, even if it is just a childish dream.
Being around him always brings a certain calmness.
When I’m losing my grip on reality, he’s the one who slows everything down, guiding me back to the things that are important, the things I can control, and he doesn’t even know it.
I refuse to dim his sunshine with my shadows– I won’t be the reason his view of the world, and the people in it, becomes tainted.
I’ll do everything I can to ensure he only ever knows kindness– some people are just destined to be loved.
“Yeah, me too.”
After dinner, the evening resumed as normal, well, except I’m not climbing into the back of Theresa’s car and dreading the final destination.
She called my dad after we had eaten, telling him Jules and I had a school project due, and we needed to finish it.
She assured him that she would drop us both off at school in the morning, and it was no bother for me to stay over.
He must have agreed, because here I am, in my pyjamas, staring up at the ceiling from the top bunk.
“You asleep?” Jules’ voice drifts up from below
“Nope.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“You just did,” I joke, trying to avoid what I know he’s desperate for me to confirm.
“Okay, that’s fair. Something else…” I throw my arm over my eyes. I know he can’t see me from down there, but it makes me feel less exposed, somehow.
Tonight was a disaster. I never wanted Jules to see me that way.
I’m his protector. Tonight, though, he saw the ugly side of me.
The side I reserve for the solitude and darkness of my bedroom, where the shadows hide my tears, and the silence swallows my desperate cries.
Being away from home brings a sense of safety, but in the same breath, it fills me with an undeniable dread. What will I return to?
“If you need anything, you will ask me, right?” It doesn’t feel right to agree to what he’s asking.
Although it seems more like a silent offer than a request. It’s his way of supporting without overstepping, and for that, I’m grateful.
Just as I know his Mom has her suspicions about my behaviour, she’s been sensitive enough not to question me about it.
I know there will come a time when she asks what triggered the episode, but for tonight, they’ve simply given me safety and space.
“Yeah, of course,” I don’t know how I managed to hide the wobble in my voice, but if he noticed, he didn't say anything. I’ve come to learn I’m capable of a lot when it comes to protecting Jules’ innocence.
As promised, Theresa dropped us off at school the next morning.
The day went by painfully slowly. I just wanted to go home, which is something I never thought I’d say.
It’s a strange place to be; conflicting feelings of wanting to be as far away from the man who causes me so much turmoil, wars with the side of my brain telling me I need to be around him, gauge what mood he’s in, and just get it over with.
The longer I’m away, the worse the anxiety gets.
I know there’s nothing good waiting for me at home, but the unease of not knowing how bad it’s going to be has me racing there once the final bell rings out.
I don’t even wait for Jules today. If he sees me, he won’t let me go back.
A large part of me wants him to beg me to return home with him, to accept his kindness and spend the evening forgetting that part of my life exists. But that’s all it would be; a game of make-believe, more fuel to add to my anxiety for the following day.
Be brave. I find myself drawing the courage I need from the thought of Jules. I find my fight in his freedom, take comfort in his innocence, and find my promise for tomorrow in his friendship.
The door creaks as I push it open. The curtains are already drawn; lint dances in the light seeping through cracks. The air is heavy and polluted with the smell of B.O and stale food.
“D-dad?” I call out, cautious not to be too loud.
If he’s sleeping, the last thing I want to do is wake him.
If I can just make it to the stairs and into my bedroom, I’m safe.
His pattern of behaviour is predictable most of the time.
Punishments are only doled out when he feels justified.
If I can make it past the living room door and up the stairs, he will have missed his opportunity to reprimand me for the events of the night before.
Whilst nothing happened–that he knows of–his mind works in mysterious ways. His evening will have looked a lot like a pity-party for one, and a constant loop of all the things I could have been doing.
My foot lands on the bottom step as my fingers wrap around the handrail.
Slow and steady, I tell myself. I’m fighting the urge to rush the stairs; to fly up two at a time, with no care for the sound, and bolster myself against the door.
He never enters my room; it’s like there’s an invisible ward built into the frame, to keep danger on the opposite side.
Another step.
I can feel my stomach grumbling under my shirt– a consequence of skipping lunch.
Nourishment replaced by adrenaline; an all-too-familiar occurrence.
From my position on the stairs, I can see the kitchen.
Pizza boxes and beer cans litter the countertops, but I’ll go hungry tonight, it’s a price I’m more than willing to pay.
Another step.
I stand still. Listening for any signs of life from the room next to me. Nothing.
Another step.
And another.
And another.
I allow myself a little bit of hope, praying it will carry my shaky legs the rest of the way.
“Got somewhere to be, boy?”
My heart stops. Dread wraps itself around the fragile organ, dragging it down to the pit of my stomach. I stand frozen to the spot, the silence hanging in the air, mocking my efforts with its unbearable volume. I can feel the familiar sting of tears prick my eyes.
I will not cry.
I look up to the ceiling, willing the tears and my mind to clear.
I beg whatever greater power is out there to take away this all-consuming fear, to rid him of his power over me.
But more than anything, I ask for Jules.
I ask for him to be with my broken mind, to give me the strength to see it through.