Chapter 2

Outside the restroom, footsteps rang off the concrete floor, heading our way. Without releasing him, I backed into the nearest stall; he laughed again, letting me pull him along. When he latched the stall door, locking us in, I stepped back and picked at the bottom of his shirt. “Take this off.”

The stall was cramped. He turned, bumping against me; I caught the hem of his shirt, tugging it up over his flat, hairless stomach. “Wait,” he said.

I raised the shirt higher, exposing pert nipples that hardened in the restroom’s cool air. “What are you doing?” he asked with a shaky laugh, trying to smooth the shirt down. “Wait…”

I couldn’t. Merciless, I pulled the shirt up over his head and he bent at the waist to let me take it off. His black curls were disheveled, his face ruddy, his arms and chest pimpling with goose bumps that he tried to rub away. Tucking one of his shirt sleeves into my back pocket to keep it from falling to the floor, I caught his wrist and had to fight him to turn his arm over. He struggled with me, his other hand clawing at mine to keep me from looking, but I was the stronger man.

On the inside of his arm, up near his elbow, were a series of bloody marks.

Anger flared in me at the sight of the swollen, damaged flesh. “You told me you’d stop this.”

He twisted out of my grip, all playfulness gone. “You’re not the boss of me,” he said, sullen. “Give me back my shirt.”

Instead I grabbed his arm again, my fingers closing over the recent cuts. He drew in his breath, hissing in pain. “You think this hurts now?” I asked, squeezing harder. He gasped and tried to pull away but I wouldn’t let him go. “Why do you do it in the first place?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Please—”

“When do you do it?” I wanted to know.

“Please,” he sobbed.

Without warning I released him. Before he could draw those thin arms in across his chest and shut me out, I stepped closer, pressing my body to his. Cradling his head in my hands, I touched my forehead to his and forced him to look at me, to see me.I stared into his teary eyes and waited, silent, for the apology I knew would come.

He drew in a ragged breath that hitched in his throat. I felt his hands touch my back, tentative, then fist in my shirt as if clinging to me for support. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, face crumpling beneath a pain I didn’t understand. “So sorry. I didn’t think—”

I kissed his words away. “This hurts me, too,” I whispered; he nodded, yes, he knew. “To see you do this, and not even know why. Do you get off on it?”

He shook his head, and my hands tightened on his face as if I could somehow pour my own strength into him.

“Do you like it?” I asked.

Another shake.

A cloying helplessness rose in me and I clenched my teeth in frustration. “Then why?”

Through his tears, he whispered, “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

I kissed him again, a hard, rough kiss that pinned him back against the stall door. I gave him myself in that kiss, everything I had, everything I felt, as if I could somehow hollow out all the pain trapped in him and instead fill him up with something happy, something positive. Fill him up with me.

Wasn’t that enough?

* * * *

We missed our train. Instead, I led him outside, to a grassy hill that overlooked the rails, and we lay together in the thin sunshine, me on my back and him on top of me, once again holding me tight. His head fit comfortably under my chin, and I liked the press of his body against mine. Beneath my hands he felt so frail, bird-like, his shoulders hunched like damaged wings. After a long bout of brooding silence, he whispered into my shirt, “I won’t do it again.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

There was no harshness in my words, but he flinched as if I had struck him. I rubbed his back, and beneath my fingers, his T-shirt burned from the sun. The sleeves had been pulled up, but not enough to show his scars. I felt helpless in his arms, knowing that no matter how tightly I held onto him, he’d still manage to hurt himself when I wasn’t looking. Why he’d do it was beyond me. How could I ever hope to stop something I didn’t understand in the first place?

“Usually it happens at night,” he whispered, startling me. His voice was muffled, his face turned against my chest so that his breath tickled under my collar and along my neck. When I didn’t respond, he ran a hand along my side, a ticklish touch, and told me, “I don’t mean to, I swear. But sometimes, when everyone else is asleep and I’m lying there wide awake, I can’t turn off my mind. I just keep thinking, round and round in circles, until I’m…”

He shrugged, settling closer to me, and I wrapped both arms around his body to hold him. “Until what?”

Burying his head against my chest, he sniffled, upset again. I hugged him tight. If only I could take this pain away. “I don’t know,” he murmured. My shirt grew damp with his tears. “Until I can’t think any more, and everything in me hurts so bad.”

“Everything what?” I asked. “What hurts?”

His answer was a shake of his head, rubbing his face against me. “I just need to bleed it out,” he sighed. “You know what I mean? If I can just get it out, make it hurt on the outside, maybe then it won’t hurt so much inside, see?”

No, I didn’t. I couldn’t. “What hurts?” I asked again.