Summary: This was inspired by Mikou's recent story, Charlotte's Web. I was intrigued by what might have been going on in Ben's mind, in his darkest hours.
Rating: R
Archived: 12/10/05
He heard moaning and felt a stab of pain in his head as he made an effort to turn it.
Stop! Don't...move...anymore.
Ben thought he'd opened his eyes, but it was too dark. He tried again, feeling all wrong. He was lying face down on a cold, rough, wet surface that smelled...dank and briny. He couldn't be dreaming. The smells and pain were too real. But...where the hell was he? He tried to think.
Charlotte. She'd hit him with something. Instinctively, he knew to move slowly, but even that was excruciating. Something was very wrong with his leg. And he couldn't move his head without red hot slashes of pain shooting through his shoulder.
He tried to roll over, rather than sit up. My God, what had she done to him? He held still again to let all of his screaming nerves dull to a throb. He listened, trying to make some sense of his surroundings. Something dripping; water he assumed. Was he under her house?
He tried to take a mental inventory of his body. He wiggled his toes. They moved. He had shoes on, or his feet were very numb. He couldn't be positive without touching them. It was so fucking dark! He could feel with one hand that his pants were on but his shirt was gone. She'd taken his shirt?
He heard some non-human, scrabbling sounds near his head and started to panic. With a Herculean effort, he made himself roll over. His agonized scream echoed in the darkness. He felt the bones crunching in his lower leg. The pain. It was everywhere. He felt nausea rise in his throat and turned his head, moaning.
The next time he was aware of having a thought, it was that he may have passed out again. He lay, panting and sweating despite the cold surface that sucked the heat out of his body. Again, he held still, waiting for his thrumming nerve endings to die back to a dull ache.
He couldn't tell how long he'd been in this place. One of his wrists hurt when he moved it, but the other seemed to be okay. With his good hand he felt the rest of his body, as best he could, beginning with his face. There was a large lump over one eye, and it seemed to have been bleeding, but he didn't think it was flowing anymore. In the dark, he couldn't see his fingers to be sure. His cheek felt bruised, but he felt no open cuts elsewhere. The ground was wet, so some of it might be his blood, but he couldn't tell. The wrist of his other hand was either sprained or possibly broken. He could move the hand slightly, but it was painful. And it hurt his shoulder, like hell, to move that arm. He gingerly fingered his clavicle and was fairly certain it was broken.
Brian had done the same thing, falling off a bicycle. He'd thought Brian had just been putting on a good show, trying to get the medic to give him lots of painkillers. But no indeed, it hurt like a son of a bitch!
He pressed his ribcage and stomach. No notable pain. Hips and dick seemed okay, as far as he could tell. He slowly bent his good leg at the knee. It jarred his shoulder some, but no pain in that leg. But the other one, fuck, the feel of the grinding bones had made him sick to his stomach. He couldn't reach to feel it, but he was sure it was broken. He just hoped it wasn't a compound fracture. He didn't want to bleed to death before anyone found him.
Before anyone found him.
Where was he? Michael must be looking for him by now. He didn't know how long he'd been gone, but he knew that it was long enough and that Michael would be really worried. He'd go to the police; Ben was sure of that. He'd had Charlotte's number all along.
Charlotte wasn't that big or strong. She couldn't have moved him very far. But, try as he might, he couldn't see anything in the pitch dark. He had no idea which way might be the right way to go, and he didn't think he could move very far, even if he knew.
He was getting chilled, and his mouth was so dry. He had to think. He must still be in the house or under it or in that 'storage area' she'd told him to look into. That must be it. He'd stuck his head in and when he'd turned back to ask her what that place was, she'd clocked him. Now he remembered her wild look and the mixture of hate and despair on her face as he went down.
If that was so, there was a closet door and a trap-door in the wall, between him and anyone in the house. Was she still in there, guarding his escape? Would she attack again, if he managed to find his way out? Was she going to ever check on him or feed him or give him water? All of these questions ran through his mind, until he realized that, without being able to see, it was a moot point, since he had no idea how far this passage went or how far he was from the trapdoor. And what was worse, which way was it? To his left or right? He was stuck here, at her mercy.
He had a mini flashlight on his set of keys, but those were sitting in his luggage. His watch! It would light up, if he could reach it to press the stupid, tiny buttons. It was on his good wrist so he tried to move his arm over to where his injured hand could reach it. Christ, that hurt. He tried to loosen the band with his teeth, rather than move his sore wrist.
Was the floor getting wetter or was he imagining it? He put his hand down, then lifted it to his face. Yes, it was accumulating water. He tasted salt. Crap, how high was this going to go?
His head hurt, but he kept working the watch with his teeth and finally got it loose. He had to be careful not to drop it, or he might never find it again.
Using only one hand, his clumsy fingers pushed where he thought the tiny buttons were. There, he saw it flash. There it was again, but there was hardly enough light to show even where the nearest wall was. He fought the impulse to fling the fucking thing away. Instead, he put it in his pocket, in case he needed it later.
He reached out with his good arm and moved it in an arc, trying to find a wall. All movement made him hurt. He listened intently for sounds from outside this place, anything that would tell him which way to try to move. He couldn't even hear the ocean. He was tired. Maybe he'd just close his eyes and listen for a while.
The feeling of the water tickling his inner ear woke him. He must have fallen asleep. The water was halfway up his head now. It was definitely sea water, no surprises there. He had to get out of it. What if it got deep? Damn, he was cold.
He rolled as carefully as he could, onto his good arm side, which was his bad leg side. Hissing with the pain, he pushed himself up until he was leaning on his elbow. He'd just have to take his chances and drag himself until he hit a sidewall or an end or something.
It turned out to be a short trip. He reached a wall about four feet from where he started, though his body felt like he'd dragged it a mile. All of the exertion and heavy breathing was making him very thirsty. Now that he was at the wall, he had to try and sit up against it, to get as much of his body out of the water as possible. After much struggle, he was sitting with his back against the wall. But the effort had cost him. He could barely hold himself upright. He was propped on the wall by the lumps and ridges in it. If it had been smooth he would have fallen over. He estimated it had taken over an hour to get to the wall and sit up. Now, he was ready to pass out.
Jesus Christ, where was Michael? It had to have been several hours. It would be dark soon, if he were reckoning correctly. Where were the police? Somebody, besides them, had to know that Charlotte was a crazy person. Why couldn't he hear anyone searching the house? As he struggled to sit up against the wall, he let himself cry out in pain. There was no reason to suffer silently. The noise made it easier to bear. He cursed and yelled until tears came and he was getting hoarse. "Help! Is anyone there?"
He was soaking wet now, from head to toe. The water was still rising. Aching and exhausted, he slumped against the wall.
Hunter had a bag of doughnuts, and he was crying because his mother was coming to take him away. He ran out of the house, with the doughnuts, and Ben and Michael ran after him. Ben was after the doughnuts. Michael kept yelling, "Hunter, I believe you!"
They came to an alley. Hunter was nowhere to be seen. Ben had somehow lost his clothes and it was freezing! Michael started kicking him in the leg, furious and blaming him for losing Hunter. Michael was hurting him so.
Ben woke up. Or he assumed he woke up, but it was hard to tell. His leg was throbbing, but the water seemed to have gone. The floor was just wet,slimy surface again. It must be a tidal rise and fall in the ground water level. He wondered why he felt relief at that. So, big deal, he wouldn't drown.
It was starting to dawn on him that, perhaps, no one was coming. With the pain, the dark and his sleepiness, he was losing all sense of time. Trying to remember when the tide had been high or low took too much energy. He could probably figure out approximately how long he'd been there, if he could think, but his head hurt so bad and knowing wouldn't really make him feel better. He knew he had been waiting too long. Charlotte was gone or dead and they couldn't find him.
He had to try and get himself out. If only he knew which way to move. He started inching his butt along the wall, groaning at the pain that shot through him. It made him dizzy and nauseous to move. If he could stand, he'd make better progress, but standing was out of the question. His hands were getting so sore from scrabbling against the wall and the ground. There was nothing to grab on to, to help him pull himself up. Or maybe there was and he just couldn't see it.
His leg was swollen; he could feel the tightness of the skin and the strain of his pant leg. He needed to get the shoe off of that foot. It was killing him, throbbing constantly. It was just a slip on, Romeo type of shoe, so he thought it would be easy to shove it off with his good foot. But nothing was easy any more. Every movement caused him exquisite pain.
He realized his bladder was full and was part, albeit a small part, of his overall discomfort. He'd take care of that before tackling the shoe. He started to unzip his fly, knowing full well that most of his piss was going to end up all over him, but he couldn't let himself just go, sitting there. He turned his body, as best he could, and peed. He held his fingers in the stream of it, just for the warmth, but it stung them. He thought of stories he'd read, telling of how sailors adrift at sea, with no water, would drink their urine. Well, he could maybe have waited, to pee into his shoe, but he wasn't going to drink it, so why bother?
Grateful for the warm liquid on his numb fingers, he felt a sudden jolt of shock as he became aware that his ring was missing. Charlotte must have taken his wedding band! He felt an overwhelming sadness and incredulity that she had taken the only two items on his person that had any sentimental value to him. God, how had he been so blind to her craziness? He fell back against the wall, his grief and anger boiling up at her and himself. He wanted to holler and cry, but both took so much out of him and he had to try to keep a clear head.
Having his bladder empty felt a little better. He went back to work at getting his shoe off. Once it was off, he tried to scoot it up to his good hand, so he could use it as a buffer between his hand and the cold, rough ground. He finally got it and, again, felt like crying because all of the heat that might have been in it, when he first took it off, was gone.
This was so fucking fucked! Why was this happening to him? What had he done to deserve this! His anger made him shiver, and shivering made him moan.
He thought of all the suffering that went on in the world. The first truth in Buddhism: Life was suffering. He put his good hand in his shoe and fell asleep again.
He and Michael were at a party. Michael wanted to leave, wanted Ben to take him home, but Ben was waiting for someone.Anthony.
But it was a different looking Anthony. He was now a thin, pale, wraithlike man, and he said Ben was his, had always been his.
"No."
Michael looked so stricken.
"NO! I never was yours. You kissed me! I was never yours. Michael, I didn't lie to you!"
But Michael turned and left the room.
Ben couldn't push through the crowd; they wouldn't let him pass. "Michael! Michael, come back!"
He woke himself up, yelling. Yelling hurt his head and shoulder. He dozed, thinking of Michael and their last hours together.
Oh, this was-so-very-bad. Michael was going to beat himself up over it. Why hadn't they finished talking? Should he have known, back then, that his story about Anthony had left such a nagging, disturbing question in Michael's mind?
Yes, he should have, but he just hadn't picked it up. He'd been truly shocked to hear Michael bring it up yesterday. Or was it two days ago? Three days?
He was losing it. This darkness was terrible.
Anthony, Charlotte--he hadn't helped either of them. Even Hunter, he had to wonder about. If not for Michael, would Hunter be with them now? He couldn't be sure. He thought he was trying to do good things. But was it really just selfishness--needing to feel that he was useful, was needed, by involving himself in their troubled lives?
And each time, it seems, he had left Michael with the dirt, the crappy clean-up. Michael's hurt and doubt about Anthony, the responsibility for Hunter, and now this, the craziness of Charlotte. "Oh, Michael, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He spoke out loud. He'd never have believed he would ever feel so utterly wretched.
He heard small things skittering around in the dark and wet. The water was rising again. Maybe crabs or rats?
"Shit! I wasn't supposed to go like this!" Ben yelled, angry because he'd thought he'd known, pretty much, how his end would be. He wasn't supposed to be alone, stranded in some shitty, dark, hell hole.
"Why did she take my shirt and my ring?" He cried because Hunter had given him the shirt, because he was cold and hurt, and because he was afraid. After a while, he closed his eyes again. Sleep was an escape and he seemed to have no trouble going there.
It seemed to him that he was going in and out of consciousness. He knew how to do this. He'd been preparing for it for over 4 years now.
Through his Vipassana practice, he'd spent ten days at a time, on retreats of silence and near stillness, learning to ignore the discomforts in his body, calm his emotions and strip his psyche down to a place of acceptance. True, he'd had food and water and no broken bones, but it had been similar, in some ways. Certainly, he'd been closer to this than the average person had ever experienced.
He tried to focus his mind away from the cold and pain. He had to find peace. The one thing he didn't want to do was die, feeling badly about himself or his life. He was one man. He'd done the best he could at the time. He'd tried to use his talents to help and not to harm, though some harm had happened.
A cramp started up, in the thigh of his broken leg. Fuck! Who could find peace with a muscle cramping? He rubbed and massaged it. Jesus, it hurt like a bastard! What irony. His life was full of it. Never believe you have control. That was his worst sin: trying to control too much. Finally, the cramp subsided, leaving him spent and aching. Hours passed.
His thoughts were sliding around from one thing to another. He lay there, thinking of people he'd known and loved. He remembered times with each member of his family-- his parents, his sisters.
He thought of the girls he'd had sex with, when he was still trying to be a straight boy.
He thought about all of the boys and men he could remember having feelings for. He thought about his life with Paul. What had his final hours been like?
He was saving Michael for last. Once he started thinking about him, he'd never think about anything else.
Time passed but it had no meaning. The water rose and fell, but he was beyond caring.
Michael was there. He could feel him, even in the dark.
"Ben, wake up."
He tried to speak, but his throat was so sore and dry. "Michael..."
"I'm here, Ben."
Ben felt a kiss on the side of his filthy face. He could feel his groin tighten as warm fingers stroked him. "Oh, God," he moaned. "We have to get out of here. There's no time for this."
"It might be the last time," Michael whispered, warm breath, warm hand. "Let me do this for you."
Ben had a wonderful orgasm. It went on and on, but as the last pulses died away, he knew that it was the last one. The heat faded away, and he opened his eyes to the dark. The water was up again. He was pretty sure he was not going to get out of here alive. He'd wondered how long it would take. He thought it such a gift, that he was given this last erotic dream, with the love of his life. He wanted to try and get back there, but he knew better.
Take only what is freely given.
At least his leg was going numb. Things to be grateful for.
His teeth chattered and he felt as if he had a fever. He hoped Michael knew how much he loved him.
It was not love at first sight, though he'd never said it quite that bluntly to Michael. It wasn't lust at first sight, either. Not even close. Michael would not have registered on his radar screen, even two years prior to that day, at the comic book store. Oh, he'd noted his passion for and thorough knowledge of the superheroes, and how Michael instinctively 'got' what gay boys saw in them. But his interest was purely intellectual, that day. He needed the comics and, later, a speaker for his class.
He had been a different person, before becoming HIV positive. sexual.He took the good things in his life for granted. His family, his looks and his good fortune were no more than his due. He was selfish. He was more like Brian than he cared to admit, though never quite so frankly sexual.
He'd gone through many phases. When he first came out, he was unsure and ignorant of the ways of the world. But he found that lots of men were attracted to him and, as he gained more confidence, he went for the wilder ones, the ones who were nasty and couldn't commit to a houseplant, as Michael liked to say. But he was careful. Even the nasty ones had to use protection, if they wanted to be with him.
Then he'd met Paul. Ben was twenty-six, and Paul was a handsome, older man, at thirty-three. Paul was like a mentor to him, and Ben was infatuated, both intellectually and physically. They had lots of interests in common and their sexual relationship was hot!
Ben couldn't believe it when Paul started to talk about forever and partnership. Ben loved him so much. Once they were 'exclusive' Paul said there was no need for condoms. He wanted to 'be with Ben, totally.' Three years later, first Paul, then Ben, tested positive. At first, Paul tried to say it might have been Ben, but Ben knew it wasn't.
Those next three or four years had been both terrible and necessary to Ben's growing up. He never would have appreciated the person Michael was, if he hadn't gone through them. It was the day Michael spoke to his class that he realized this might be a person worth his energy and trust.
Ben had been moved, listening to Michael speak so candidly about his loneliness as a child and the isolation from schoolmates and coworkers, lest they find out his secret identity. And later that night, when Michael screwed up his courage and kissed Ben, it was the sweetest kiss he'd ever had.
And when Ben dropped his big HIV announcement, Michael hadn't tried to hide his shock and disappointment. Ben respected that. He had also been concerned for Ben, not made up some lame excuse as to why he had to leave, or jerked him off and then left, never to see him again. They had continued to kiss and talk and touch, though Michael wasn't ready to go further that night. He'd been honest and kind and genuine.
Ben wouldn't have seen that before. He wouldn't have been looking for it and he wouldn't have taken the time necessary to get to know him. He would have missed the diamond in the rough, the hidden passion, the best thing, by far, to ever happen to him.
Then he spoke to Michael, at first, out loud, and then, when his voice gave out, in his mind, of all the truth of his love. He believed his feelings were so strong that Michael would feel it. He would know that Ben was his and had been only his, from the day Michael had waited, outside in the cold, to say he wanted to try again.
He told Michael to grieve, then go on, to be careful who he gave his heart to, but to give it, to someone who deserved him.
He was feeling much warmer now. He wanted to sleep.
He'd been hallucinating on and off; people came and went and he spoke to them. But this thumping and other noise seemed so real, so outside of himself. There was crazy light moving around. Then it went out. There was splashing and he thought he heard Michael's voice. He tried to rouse a little. He spoke, but words wouldn't form. The light flashed in his eyes. This must be it. It seemed right that, at the moment of his death, he would see Michael's face.
But why did he looked so frightened?