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Marcus Lopés

LGTBQIA2S+ Author, Blogger, Runner

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communication

Broken

May 18, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

“I don’t know why I came,” Ian said, glancing at his watch. “It’s been a goddamn waste of time.”

“Will you mind your language,” Karen said through gritted teeth. “You’re in church, not on Third Street turning a trick.”

Ian’s eyes went wide. “That was uncalled for. I haven’t turned a trick in years. And for the record, we’re in the refectory.”

Karen’s mouth dropped open.

“God, you’re gullible.” Ian rolled his eyes.

“You know…” Karen pursed her lips, but that couldn’t stifle her groan. She locked onto those beautiful but rather deceitful copper blue eyes. “This is an important day and I’d like to get through it without any drama. So, try to behave … and watch your language.”

“Bite me, Karen,” Ian spat. He surveyed the room, not knowing anyone. When he saw the woman wearing an obnoxious wide brim black hat coming towards them, he threw his sister a knowing look.

“Don’t start,” Karen warned. “You know she means well.” Then she stepped forward to accept the hug being offered. “Thanks for being here, Aunt Geraldine.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Geraldine said as the two women pushed apart.

Ian held up his arms in an ‘X’ when his aunt went to embrace him. “I’m good, thanks.”

Karen swatted at her brother. “Ian…”

“What a lovely service,” Geraldine said, lifting her pudgy arms to adjust her hat.

“Why do people say that?” Ian sucked his teeth. “‘What a lovely service.’ Jesus Henry Fucking Christ … it’s not the Fourth of July.”

Karen’s eyes were on fire. “I know you’re upset, but your language is —”

“I’m not upset,” Ian interrupted. “Fuck, I barely knew the man.”

Today mimicked that rainy and humid August day when Ian was six years old. He stood on the covered porch of their three-bedroom bungalow on Marlon Avenue and waved as his father backed the beat-up maroon Oldsmobile out of the driveway. Then that evening, at six thirty, the rest of the family sat down for dinner without his father, who was usually home by six. That night the front door never opened.

He could still see his mother — her eyes red and filled with tears, the Marlboro cigarette pinched between her chapped lips — seated at the kitchen table and calling the local hospitals. He could still hear her sobs as she phoned all their family and friends, and his father’s work colleagues … the ones she could remember. No one knew anything. He sat with his mother at the table, holding her hand, as she kept up that routine for ten days until she realized that Reginald Fairfield wasn’t coming home and didn’t want to be found.

Then, twenty-eight years later, he picked up a message from Karen on his voicemail. “Dad called and wants to meet us,” was all she’d said. After some hedging, Ian agreed to the meet. He and Karen drove to Leaside Memorial Hospital in Melville, a city just fifty miles from Junction where they’d grown up. They were directed to the cancer ward. When Ian walked into Room 114, his body went rigid as his gaze latched onto the copper blue eyes of the frail man seated in the corner chair. A metallic taste swirled in his mouth and he could feel himself trembling.

“Thanks for coming,” Reginald Fairfield said and coughed.

“Do you know what she did?” Ian asked, his voice rising.

Karen touched her hand to Ian’s arm. “Ian —”

Ian jerked his arm away. “Do you know what our mother did when you didn’t come home?”

“Don’t do this,” Karen pleaded.

“She searched and prayed,” Ian said, tears banking in his eyes. “Then she gave up. She … was … broken. And one day, just like you, she went to work and never came back. The only difference was that she got on a bus to Niagara and jumped into the falls. They never found her body.”

“I’m sorry,” Reginald said in a whisper.

“Sorry…” Ian wiped the tears from his eyes. “Are you dying? Is that why you want to see us now?”

Reginald nodded. “I made mistakes and —”

“Just because you’re dying doesn’t mean you get a free pass,” Ian cut in.

“I know I hurt you when I left,” Reginald said soberly. “It was complicated and —”

Ian raised a hand in the air. “Stop. I’m not interested in your excuses. It doesn’t matter why you left. You abandoned us. You don’t know what it’s been like…” He bit down on his lip. “To me, you’ll always be a coward. And, God help me, but I hope you suffer.”

Karen gasped. “Ian!”

“You can’t talk to me like that,” Reginald said, raising his shaking hand in the air and pointing at Ian. “I’m still your father.”

“You’re not my father,” Ian said with control. “He’s been dead to me for twenty-eight years.” He spun around and walked out of the room.

The tightening grip on his arm drew Ian out of the past and back to the present. He shrugged off the questioning looks the two women threw at him. “What? The bastard walked out on us. Don’t expect me to be sad that he’s dead.”

“He was your father,” Geraldine said with emphasis.

“He was never a father to me.” Ian checked the time. “And you know what? I’m done.”

Ian stepped between Karen and his aunt, not looking at either of them, and strutted towards the exit. Why did I even bother? he wondered as he emerged outside, the rain finally beginning to taper off.

He came because he thought it would make a difference, offer some type of closure. But how could it? He knew his heart wasn’t open to forgiveness and wasn’t sure it ever would be.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: abandoned, amwriting, communication, contemporary, dysfunctional family, family, father and son, fiction, flashfiction, forgiveness, fridayfiction, love, relationships, reunion, separation, shortstory, understanding, writing

Shelter

April 27, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

“Unbelievable. Fucking … unbelievable!”

The contralto, from-the-stomach grunt thundered on all sides, but Zach Logan didn’t flinch. The deep moodiness of Adele’s voice, streaming through his earphones, had transported him to another world.

“Ten freakin’ percent probability of precipitation!”

Wedged into the corner of the bus shelter and updating his Facebook status, Zach turned up the volume.

“Can you fucking believe this?”

Zach killed the music and lifted his head. He wanted to but did not — could not — move. All he could do was watch as a guy with a scruffy beard wrung out his longish dark hair, huffing with each movement.

“For Christ’s sake!”

Zach, hypnotized by the hard, pink nipples showing through the man’s shirt, suddenly felt the quiet awakening of an ache he hadn’t felt in months. Then came the piercing scream that made his heart pound in his chest. He levelled his gaze at the stranger’s wild apple-green eyes. “Are you all right?”

The guy, rocking back and forth, stopped and looked up. “Sorry. It’s just…” He sighed. “Jesus, Joseph and Mary … can’t they get it right?”

Zach shrugged. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“They say warm and sunny, we get wet and cool,” he snapped. “They say rain and windy, we get a goddamn heatwave. And today…” His fingers curled into fists. “I left my umbrella at home this morning because they said there was a freakin’ ten percent chance of rain. Look!” He thrust his right fist towards the glass roof of the bus shelter. “It’s a freakin’ hurricane!”

Zach stared into the intent and probing eyes, the excitement beginning to build again. Then he saw the blackness in them and knew something wasn’t right. But what was he supposed to do? Call the police? They didn’t know each other, and Zach wasn’t sure he cared enough to intervene. He’d heard too many stories about people trying to diffuse a volatile situation and ending up dead. Most of those stories came from his over-protective mother, who didn’t want her little boy talking to strangers. He wasn’t a boy anymore, and his mother was long dead. With someone before him in need, or who at least looked like they were in need, shouldn’t he try to help? “I don’t think it’s an exact science.”

“Science?”

“I mean —”

“It’s not science at all. It’s goddamn voodoo!”

Zach burst out laughing but stopped when he saw the guy’s fiery eyes were trained on him. Then his body went rigid. He remembered the conversation he’d overheard between two of his colleagues about the recent spike in escapes from East 9th Campus, the city’s mental health facility. The last escapee — a tall, dark-haired male — had claimed temporary insanity in the killing of his father. And he hadn’t been caught yet, either. Zach swallowed hard. Is that him? Let it not be him.

Maybe the guy acted ‘crazy,’ but he didn’t look the part. With his face twisted in knots, he looked like a lot of people sprinting through the rain and annoyed at how far off the forecast had been. Even Zach had been caught off guard by the abrupt change in weather. Listening to Junction Morning Live before heading to work, the meteorologist had called for clear, sunny skies. A perfect summer day. That all changed just after lunch when the dark clouds blanketed the city. About ten minutes into his walk home, the threatening skies unleashed their wrath. He whipped out his pocket umbrella, which the fierce winds immediately ripped from his hand and carried off down the street.

Zach checked the time. He’d been holed up in the bus shelter for more than twenty minutes and the rain showed no signs of letting up. He raised his head, and he again found himself staring at the man, who looked critically at him — like he was the enemy that needed to be annihilated. He glimpsed the headlights of the car as it swerved onto the street. It was a taxi with its rooftop light illuminated. Zach moved to the bus shelter entrance to flag it down and bolted for the vehicle when it pulled up to the curb. This was his moment to escape the stranger whose worth he’d been quietly questioning. He was about to open the back door when he spun around. “Can I drop you somewhere?”

“Really?” The word rippled with shock and doubt, and was then swallowed up by the rain pelting the asphalt.

Zach, his wet clothes cool against his skin, didn’t wait for an answer and barrelled into the taxi. He felt resistance as he went to pull the door closed and looked up. Those mesmerizing eyes stared down at him. He slid across the seat. The guy scrambled into the vehicle and offered up an address on Seventh Avenue.

As the cab navigated the city streets, Zach stole sidelong glances of the Adonis slouched back in the seat and staring out the window. What’s he thinking about? Is he all right? Do I really care? He licked his lips, a new vision coming to him. They were stripped down to their underwear and holding each other in a clenching embrace. There was that ache again, gnawing at him.

The car swerved onto Seventh Avenue and came to an abrupt stop in front of a grey stone building. The man edged forward and, after a brief struggle, yanked his wallet out of his back pocket.

“Don’t worry about it.” Zach smiled, trying to dispel the shock and doubt twisted into the guy’s face.

There was a long silence as they stared searchingly at each other.

“Thanks,” was the grunt-like reply, followed by the bang of the door closing.

Ten minutes later Zach, in the front hall of his Hanson Road home, peeled off his wet clothes as he thought about what had just happened and tried to decode its meaning. He felt nauseous. No, that wasn’t it. He was disappointed in himself. He’d wanted to ask the guy’s name but didn’t have the courage. Why? Knowing his name would have forged a bond, made Zach care about his situation and his worth.

Zach wasn’t ready for that.

*          *          *

The computer screen went black, and Zach reached for his grey satchel as he stood. He pushed in his desk chair and stared blindly at the monitor. It didn’t take long for him to be lost in thought of the dark-haired beauty he’d met eight days ago. That was because the guy was all Zach thought about. In his mind, they’d already become the perfect couple with an enduring and unbreakable bond. They confided in each other their dreams and deepest fears. They laughed a lot. They argued, but never held a grudge. At night, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, smiling at how they’d both been saved to a new life sublime. And for Zach, something even more precious. He came to believe in love again.

The sudden outburst of gruff voices and laughter brought Zach back to the present. He slung the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and left his office.

“Zach…”

Zach spun around and smirked as Daniel McAndrew strutted towards him. Daniel’s bravado and confidence were all a part of his showmanship. And Zach didn’t buy it. He knew Daniel was a self-conscious, eager-to-please underling working hard to climb the corporate ladder. They both were. Only Zach wasn’t trying so hard. “What’s up, Daniel?”

“It’s Friday,” Daniel said askance and stopped a foot away from Zach. “We’re all heading to Frankie’s for drinks. It’s tradition.”

“Can’t tonight,” Zach said, glancing at his watch. “I have plans.”

“Big date, eh?” Daniel cupped his hand to Zach’s shoulder. “Good for you, man. You’ve got to tell me all about it Monday.”

Zach rolled his eyes as Daniel moved off. That was Daniel looking after his own interests, keeping his eye on the competition. They weren’t best friends, although Daniel made it sound like they were. And Zach wasn’t interested in playing Daniel’s game. God, he’s an asshole, he thought and headed for the elevator.

There were no plans to speak of, no ‘big date.’ Nothing concrete, anyway. But every day Zach left the office, he hoped to run into that guy on his walk home. And if he did, he’d finally ask his name. No more living off crestfallen fantasies. No more living in the past.

Five minutes later, Zach was outside and zigzagging across the plaza towards Main Street. He walked briskly down the sidewalk, dodging around the other pedestrians, like he was on a mission. He was on a mission, sort of. His brief encounter with Daniel had slowed him down, and that wasn’t good. He couldn’t be late. He had to be where he was eight days ago at the exact same time. He was tempting fate, trying to change his life.

He turned onto First Street and the infamous bus shelter came into view. Stay calm. Stay calm. Someone was there, but he was too far away to tell if it was a man or a woman. He kept moving, and soon he realized it was a man. Not just any man. It was him, although he’d changed. The guy’s brown hair was shaved short on the sides, and long and wavy on top. The scruffy beard was gone. And when their eyes met, Zach’s throat constricted. He’d never forget those probing eyes.

“Hi,” the man said.

“Hey…” Zach cleared his throat. “Hello.”

“Evan,” he said, holding out his hand.

Zach gripped the hand, its smooth, velvety feel making him almost swoon. “Zach.”

“I don’t think you expected to see me again,” Evan said at the release of the handshake, the hint of a smirk on his face.

Zach didn’t say anything, just shrugged.

“I’m not sure I’d have remained so calm if I was the one who’d come face-to-face with a crazy man.” Evan’s smirk stretched into a generous smile. “I’m sorry … about what happened. Not exactly my best day.”

Zach opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Really, he didn’t know what to say.

“I wouldn’t know what to say, either. You probably thought I was crazy.” Evan reached into his pocket, pulled out a ten-dollar bill and held it out.

“What’s that for?” Zach asked, clasping his hands behind his back.

“That day … the taxi.”

Zach shook his head. “It’s not necessary, really.” He saw the doubt gleam in those eyes, but it quickly ebbed.

“Are you sure?” After a short silence, Evan put the bill away. “Thanks. Not just for the cab fare. Thanks for being nice on a day when it was … a game-changer.”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Zach said.

“It was … to me. I mean…” Evan gave a nervous laugh and dropped his head.

Zach shivered at the raw emotion in Evan’s voice. He had to say something, and wanted it to be meaningful. All he came up with was, “You don’t need to explain, not to me.”

Evan looked up. “It’s just been so frustrating lately. You know how the saying goes, something about paving a new road if you don’t like the one you’re on. I don’t know who said it but —”

“Dolly Parton,” Zach interrupted.

“Really?” Evan rolled his shoulders. “Huh.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to cut in like that.”

A bus roared up to the curb, and the two men stepped back as the doors opened and a woman got off. Seconds later, the bus groaned as it started to roll away.

“And your new road?” Zach asked cautiously.

“Oh, well…” Evan flicked his eyebrows. “I guess it’s still under construction. I’ve been applying for jobs but I haven’t received one callback. I have a job. I’m a server at The Stables, I just … I have a master’s degree in modern thought and literature. I’m twenty-nine, and I feel like I should be doing something more with my life. Is that crazy? I don’t have any friends. Well, I do, but they’ve all moved to Toronto or Vancouver. I can’t seem to fucking escape Junction. And my mother, God love her, keeps pestering me about settling down and starting a family. It’s not like she doesn’t know that I’m gay. I freakin’ came out to her when I was twenty.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Christ, I don’t know why I’m telling you this or why you’d care. We don’t know each other. But that day … the weather, I don’t know … I’d just reached my breaking point.” He blinked magnificently “Maybe you believe in fate. I don’t know what I believe, but running into you…” He sighed. “I was on my way to Welland Bridge.”

Zach saw the glint of shame on Evan’s smooth face and, one more time, was at a loss for words. Welland Bridge made his body go rigid. Welland Bridge, or Jumpers’ Central as the locals called it, attracted people from all over Southern Ontario and Upstate New York. People who struggled to fit in. People who desperately needed help but had no lifeline. People who thought plunging into the rocky, fast-flowing Moldova River was their only choice. Area residents were always on the lookout for jumpers, eager to prevent the long traffic delays caused every time someone decided to leap. It was mid-July, and the Junction Gazette kept a running tally of the successful jumps since the beginning of the year. The count, up from two days ago, stood at eighteen.

“Now I know you’re thinking this guy must be crazy,” Evan said cheekily, “but I’m not. Crazy, that is. If I’d made it to the bridge, I probably wouldn’t have jumped. I don’t like heights. But that day I was just so … fucking miserable.”

“And now?”

Evan shrugged. “And now what?”

“Are you still miserable?”

“I’m taking it day by day,” Evan said soberly, then checked the time. “Look, I didn’t mean to ramble on. I just wanted to thank you for being kind to me. It’s made me believe that, maybe, there are good people in this world after all.” He wiped away the tear that rolled down his face, then turned to walk away.

“Evan…” Zach waited for Evan to face him again before continuing. “You’re right. We don’t know each other, but fate, if you believe in it, brought us together. How about grabbing a drink? If it sounds crazy —”

“Why?”

“Why —”

“Why would you want to have a drink with me?” Evan asked with an edge.

Zach scrunched his eyebrows. “It might be nice to get to know each other.”

“I said too much,” Evan said quickly. “I don’t need your pity.”

“Wow. I was just trying to be nice.”

“No one’s ever nice to guys like me.”

“I’m starting to see why. It’s hard to be nice to a prick.” Zach started off down the street, turning back once and throwing Evan a look of disbelief.

God, I’m such an idiot, Zach thought when he reached the corner and waited to cross the street. He’d let himself be swept up in some silly fantasy, idolizing a guy he’d met on the street. Was that really how he thought he’d meet his future husband? Was he that desperate for love? The light turned green and Zach stepped off the curb. When he reached the other side of the street, he felt a hand in the centre of his back. He cranked his head to the right, saw Evan, and kept walking.

“Zach…” Evan grabbed Zach’s arm and pulled him off to the side. “I’m sorry. I’m a prick. A world-class prick, actually. You caught me off guard and I didn’t know how to react. I’m not used to —”

“Not used to what?” Zach asked, his voice flat.

“I don’t know.” Evan rubbed his eye. “Someone being interested in me.”

“You’re kidding, right? Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

If Zach had a type, Evan hit all the buttons. Tall. Dark-haired. Fit and lean, but not one of those muscle jocks who spent all his time at the gym. A gentle demeanour, for the most part. And most importantly, a tri-cornered smile that had that ache burning inside him.

“I have issues,” Evan said. “You can see that. No one wants to be with a guy who’s —”

“Maybe going through a rough patch?” Zach broke in, placing his hand on Evan’s shoulder. “Some days suck. That’s life. And we get through them, like you said, day by day.”

“It’s more than that.”

“So, tell me about it over a drink,” Zach said, his hand falling away. “And maybe, at the very least, we’ve both made a new friend.”

“I probably shouldn’t drink.”

Zach pointed at the Starbucks sign down the street. “Then let’s grab a coffee.”

They stared intently at each other for a moment, then headed to the Starbucks.

Waiting in line, Zach turned to Evan, who flashed him that heart-stopping smile. God, he felt silly when his manhood went hard as steel and slipped his hands into his pockets to conceal it.

They both ordered lattes and, when the drinks were ready, sat at a table in the corner.

“Tell me about your ‘issues,’” Zach said playfully and winked.

“We could be here a while,” Evan said dryly.

“I’m in no rush.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Evan smiled mischievously. “I was sixteen when I was first diagnosed…”

Sipping his drink, Zach listened as Evan spoke, never interrupting. He sat there, his gaze locked on those penetrating eyes, at one point reaching out and placing his hand on top of Evan’s. Then came the shock. He couldn’t believe how intense — despite the details Evan shared of his life and struggles — the ache had become.

What am I doing? This is crazy? But he was hooked, by a stranger no less who’d stirred something inside of him. He couldn’t help but wonder — and hope — if this was the moment he’d finally step out from the shadows of his past.

Or maybe, in the most unexpected way, he’d found his shelter.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: amwriting, change, communication, contemporary, desperation, fiction, fridayfiction, friendship, grief, lgbt, lgbtq, love, mental health, relationships, self-acceptance, self-love, short stories, shortstory, strangers, suicide, unconditional love, writing

Never Let Go

April 20, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

“I love it here,” Shane said, swinging his legs that dangled over the edge of the wharf.

Damien smiled. “Me, too.”

Six months after his suicide attempt, Shane was getting his life back on track. He and Damien had sold their homes and together bought a house in Muskoka Lakes. A talented abstract painter often compared to Jackson Pollock and Piet Mondrian, he was painting again and preparing for an exhibit in the fall. He’d never expected to fall in love, to find someone who’d love him just as he was. But Damien appeared and, most of all, stayed. His best friend. His rock. His protector.

Shane’s gaze locked onto those deep-set azure blue eyes that made him forget about the past and begin to imagine living a truly happy life. God, why did he stay? He reached for Damien’s hand. “Thank you.”

Damien shook his head. “Stop thanking me.”

“You saved my life,” Shane said with emphasis. “You saved me.”

That was true. Shane knew he wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for Damien. And while he felt better, it felt like he was always being tested. Especially on the nights he couldn’t sleep. Or the days he didn’t feel like talking to anyone, not even Damien. Or when he cried without really knowing why. But every day he took his meds, determined to conquer the dark knight of misery vying for his soul.

That dark knight had almost won. Shane didn’t remember much about the day he’d overdosed, but he could still hear the doctor’s flat voice explaining how his heart had stopped. The paramedic’s vigorous CPR revived him … and broke a few of his ribs. He’d been unconscious, too, for three days. But when he opened his eyes, Damien was there.

“Hasn’t left your side,” the nurse had said with admiration. “Not even to take a shower, despite our encouragement.” She chuckled. “He’s a keeper.”

“I’m … I’m sorry,” Shane said, his voice hoarse and unsteady. “I’m sorry.” Then, when he felt Damien’s strong arms around him, tears streaked down his face. He cried for his long-dead mother, cried for this love he didn’t understand, cried for a life he was constantly trying to escape.

“Don’t be sorry,” Damien said. “You’re here. You’re all right. That’s all that matters.”

Shane felt the pressure on his hand, and Damien’s tanned aristocratic face came back into focus.

“You okay?” Damien asked.

Shane nodded. “I am. I was just, you know, thinking about that day … at the hospital.” He matched Damien’s pressure. “You smelled awful.”

“Thanks a lot!”

They laughed.

Shane gently pulled his hand away, then shifted his body to face Damien, leaving only his left leg hanging off the wharf. “You’re sure about this, right? I’m taking my meds. I’m committed to staying healthy. And, God, I love you, Damien Miller. But —”

“There’s no but, Shane.” Damien slid his body closer and took Shane’s face in his hands. “I’m exactly where I want to be.” He leaned in, pressed his lips to Shane’s and held them there for about ten seconds. “For me, nothing’s changed.”

“It could happen again,” Shane said, his voice dipping low. “And it if does … that could be the time I get it right.”

“If you’re trying to scare me away, it’s not working.”

“You could be living a normal life with someone who’s not —”

“Stop.” Damien swept up both of Shane’s hands in his. “Do you remember our second date?”

Shane felt the heat burn in his cheeks and looked down. He’d been such a prick the night they met at Mikey’s, yet he agreed — like Damien had suggested — to them having dinner together. His treat for how he’d acted. They’d gone to Station Bel-Air, a French bistro on Front Street West. Even though they talked at Mikey’s, conversation didn’t come easy for them. And at dinner, the dominating silence had Shane second-guessing his choices. They didn’t look at each other, their eyes shifting to the door every time it opened. They only spoke when their server came to take their drink order and when she returned to see if they’d made any decisions on food. What the fuck am I doing here? he’d wondered, checking the time at regular five-minute intervals.

“Want to just call it a night?” Shane asked, gulping the last mouthful of his wine.

“Maybe that’s not a bad idea,” Damien said.

“I mean, really, you don’t want to date a crazy person.”

Damien’s eyes went wide. “Well, that explains everything.”

Shane bristled. “Go to hell!”

There was a silence, then they both broke out laughing.

“Are you…” Damien stared at the open menu. “Are you really crazy?”

“They call it bipolar disorder these days,” Shane said, matter-of-fact. He saw the surprise in Damien’s eyes and beyond it something more. Was it … compassion? “Look, now’s the time to get up and walk away. I wouldn’t blame you.”

Damien reached across the table and placed his hand on Shane’s. “I’m told I’m a great listener.”

Shane tried to pull his hand away, but Damien held on. “It’s not something I really talk about.”

“You can with me.”

Shane, his gaze locked on Damien, drew in several deep breaths. Something in those eyes inspired confidence and trust. “I was nine when my father killed my mother…”

The sound of a speedboat zooming across the lake made Shane raise his head. “You should have walked away that night.”

“That was the moment I fell in love with you,” Damien said.

“Out of pity?”

“Respect. That you survived. That, despite everything, you’ve built the life you imagined.”

That was, at least, partly true … when his mind wasn’t broken. Now he had people waiting almost two years for a commissioned work.

“Come on.” Damien stood and held out his hand. “Let’s grab something to eat.”

Shane grasped the large hand and rose. “Stay with me?”

Damien pulled him in close. “Always.”

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: amwriting, communication, contemporary, depression, family, fiction, flash fiction, flashfiction, fridayfiction, grief, lgbt, lgbtq, love, memories, mental health, relationships, short stories, shortstory, suicide, unconditional love, writing

Stay with Me

April 13, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

“Goddammit, move!” Damien slammed his fist into the steering wheel. Traffic on the eastbound QEW hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. The worst part was that he could see the exit for Islington Avenue, and that meant he was almost home. He turned on the radio and, searching for news, kept switching channels. No one talked about an accident, just the usual heavy rush hour gridlock. “Fuck!”

He’d been staying with Shane for almost a month, and waking up to those mesmerizing coffee-brown eyes made him smile. But the forty minutes added to his commute — most of that time spent parked on the highway — had him rethinking his decision. Well, not really. He wouldn’t abandon Shane, not when he needed him the most.

“Hey, Siri, call Shane’s mobile.”

“Calling Shane Wright … mobile,” the robotic voice said.

Like his three previous calls, Shane’s voicemail cut in right away. Damien didn’t want to admit it, but something was wrong. He knew as much by the way Shane, over the past few days, wouldn’t look at him. And when he went to touch Shane — kiss him goodbye in the morning, reach for his hand, hug him when he came home — there was always resistance. More than that. Avoidance. The silence made his stomach churn. Shane, lost in his labyrinth, wouldn’t let him in. Damien swallowed hard. When he thought about the past few weeks, and Shane being back on his meds, he wasn’t sure that anything had changed.

Traffic began to move again. Fifteen minutes later, Damien pulled up next to Shane’s black Matrix and scrambled out of the car. He jammed the key into the lock of the grey-brick house on Lake Crescent and opened the door. He roamed from room to room on the lower level, immured in a silence that had a metallic taste swirling in his mouth.

“Shane,” Damien called out, mounting the stairs. “We don’t have a lot of time if you want to get something to eat before the game.” It took a lot of convincing, perhaps even begging, but Damien had finally persuaded Shane to go to a Raptors’ game with him. It wasn’t necessarily the date night he imagined, but he’d have done anything to get Shane out of the house.

Damien, at the end of the hall, pushed on the bedroom door that had been left ajar and entered the room. “Come on, sleepyhead,” he said as he sat down on the bed and gently shook Shane. “You agreed to go, so there’s no backing…” His voice trailed off when he saw the empty pill bottle on the nightstand. His mouth went dry as he placed his fingers on Shane’s neck. He found a pulse … barely. He yanked his phone from his inside jacket pocket and dialled 9-1-1.

“Don’t you die on me,” he said, tears banking in his eyes. “I still need you.”

He heard the sirens growing louder and, when it sounded like they were wailing inside the house, raced downstairs to open the front door. He led the paramedics upstairs and, back in the bedroom, watched as they worked on Shane. Damien couldn’t stop crying because Shane never responded, never opened his eyes, never twitched.

The next thing he knew, Damien was climbing into the back of the ambulance, never taking his eyes off Shane. He found himself smiling and crying as he thought about the day they’d met and the rocky debut to their romance.

It’d happened two years ago at Mikey’s, one of the less popular hangouts on Church Street. Damien, seated at the bar, didn’t seem to blink as he watched the Penguins take on the Lightning in the Eastern Conference Final. At a commercial break, he drained his beer stein and that was when he saw the man at the other end of the bar. Something about him — the smooth caramel skin, the way he nursed his drink, his focus on the book he held in his hand — everything had Damien swooning. He slid off his barstool and walked over to the guy who he’d already decided would be his future husband.

“What’s that you’re reading?” Damien asked, his voice cracking.

“A book,” was the curt reply.

“Right.” Damien held out his hand. “I’m Damien.”

“Good for you.”

Damien started to walk away, then spun around. “Fuck you. I’m just trying to talk to you. You could say, ‘Hey, not interested,’ instead of being a world-class prick.”

“You’re right,” the guy said, putting down his book. “I’ve had a crap day, but that’s no reason to take it out on you. Shane.” He extended his hand and, after a quick handshake, added, “Let me buy you a drink.”

“I think a better apology would be dinner.” Damien winked. And when Shane flashed him a broad, life-affirming smile, that was the moment he knew he was hooked.

The rapid beeping of the heart rate monitor made Damien look up. His gaze latched onto the flat line streaming across the screen.

“No shock advised,” was the audible prompt. “Begin CPR.”

Damien let go of Shane’s hand and felt himself gasping for air as the paramedic began vigorous chest compressions.

“Stay with me,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Please, stay with me.”

As they sped through the city streets, Damien thought about God, salvation and eternal life. Now, he wasn’t sure about any of them.

The Flowers Need Watering: A Novel

When Mateo’s present and past collide, he’s questioning everything he knows about family, friendship, and love. The biggest test is this: is he willing to forgive? Read The Flowers Need Watering today and find out! Available on Amazon.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: amwriting, communication, contemporary, depression, family, fiction, flash fiction, flashfiction, fridayfiction, grief, lgbt, lgbtq, love, memories, mental health, relationships, short stories, shortstory, suicide, unconditional love, writing

Let Me Go

April 6, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

Do it, Shane thought, limping into the dark living room and collapsing onto the sofa. And this time … get it right.

In the silence, all he heard was the ticking of the clock hanging above the fireplace. His stomach gurgled and, suddenly, it felt like the room was spinning. He thrust himself forward until his head was between his knees and took in several deep breaths, pushing them out forcefully through his nose. When he calmed down, he could barely hear the whistle of his breath. Just the tick-tock of the clock that had him remembering the moment that had set him on the path to madness.

Tick. Shane was nine years old again, wearing his Spider-Man pyjamas and standing at the top of the staircase with his hands over his ears to block out the yelling. Tock. The light over the staircase came on and, seeing his mother sprint towards him, his hands fell to his sides. Tick. She swept him up in her arms and carried him downstairs and out of the house. Tock. She set him down on the front porch, cupped his face in her hands and then leaned forward to kiss his forehead. Tick. “Go next door to Mrs. Dodd’s,” she’d said, tears streaming down her face. “Have her call the police. And don’t come back. Go!” Tock. Shane took off running in his bare feet. Tick. Before he made it to the end of the walk, he heard a popping sound, followed by a high-pitched shriek. Tock. He tripped and fell to the ground. Tick. He stood and, when he heard two more pops, bolted towards his neighbour’s house.

The doorbell sounded. Shane, his heart thumping, didn’t move. A year ago, on a night like this, he’d decided to lay his burdens down. He’d just swallowed ten of his Tegretol pills when his phone rang, Damien Miller’s name on the call display. Damien, a scruffy Robert Downey Jr. lookalike, came into his life when he needed an anchor and became his hope, his joy, his everything. At that moment, Shane felt a presence, something — maybe that still, small voice — that made him answer the call. He tried to speak, but no words came as he cried. Through his sobs he heard Damien’s reassuring voice, “I’m on my way.”

The repeated pounding on the door brought Shane back to the present. He rose slowly and made his way into the foyer.

“I’ve been trying to reach you all evening,” Damien said as he stepped into the house. He closed the door, then reached for the light switch to his left and flipped it on. His eyes went wide. “Jesus! You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” Shane slinked back into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa.

Damien, following behind, turned on a lamp before sitting down next to Shane. “Did you have that dream again?”

“It’s not a dream,” Shane said. “I lived it, remember?” Even now he could still smell the hint of sage as Mrs. Dodd held him as they watched his parents’ bodies, each draped in a white cloth, being rolled away on gurneys.

Damian reached for Shane’s hand. “I know. I just meant —”

“I know what you meant.” Shane, locking his gaze onto those cinnamon-brown eyes that somehow made him smile through the pain, pulled his hand away. “I’m tired, Damien.”

Damien wrapped his arm around Shane’s shoulders and drew him in close. They sat in silence for a moment, then he kissed the top of Shane’s shaved head. “You’re taking your meds, right?”

Shane squirmed out of the hold and rubbed his eyes. “I ran out.”

“When?” Damien asked, almost shouting. “I’m sorry. But you can’t just go off your meds and not expect —”

“You don’t know what it’s like.” Shane rose and crossed the room, standing in front of the fireplace with his back to Damien. “My head hurts all the time. I can’t eat. I don’t feel like being with you even when I want to.” He spun around, tears pooling in his eyes. “I can’t fucking concentrate. I haven’t worked in almost a month. What the hell am I still doing here?”

Damien bounced off the sofa and rushed to Shane, taking him into his arms again. “You’re still here because I need you.”

Shane twisted away and returned to the sofa. “You don’t need a pathetic —”

“You’re not pathetic.” Damien moved to the sturdy wooden coffee table, sat down on its edge and took Shane’s hands in his. “Tell me how I can help.”

“Let me go,” Shane pleaded. “For Christ’s sake, let me go. Fuck, I’m going to end up just like my father anyway.”

At fifteen, Shane was diagnosed with bipolar depression. That was when his grandmother, who’d taken him in after his parents’ deaths, told him how his father was schizophrenic. “Your mother loved your father very much,” his grandmother had said with a hint of guilt, or shame, or maybe both. “They were soul mates. That’s why she stayed. But your father … he tried to self-medicate. He didn’t want her help, or anybody else’s. And I really don’t think that it could have ended differently.”

Maybe that was what hurt the most … that his mother had given her life for his.

“You’re not your father,” Damien said, matter-of-fact, and glanced at his watch. “The pharmacy’s closed by now. I’m crashing here tonight. Hey, it’s not up for debate. We’ll go get your meds first thing in the morning.”

“Why?” Shane blinked rapidly, but the tears still flowed.

Damien shrugged. “Why, what?”

“Why do you stay?”

“You haven’t figured that out yet?” Damien, smiling, squeezed Shane’s hands. “Because I love you. That’s the only why I need.”

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: amwriting, communication, contemporary, depression, family, fiction, flash fiction, flashfiction, fridayfiction, grief, lgbt, lgbtq, love, memories, mental health, relationships, short stories, shortstory, suicide, unconditional love, writing

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