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I shut my eyes and try to feel that feeling right now. Something to ease the weight I still feel dragging at my chest. I should be able to—I summon that feeling of being held by him almost every night, when I’m drifting off to sleep—but for some reason, my mind is feeling fuzzy right now. I guess the lack of sleep is getting to me.
I wrap my hand around the base of my dick. Fuck, I came so hard just now. I’m dizzy. My hand starts to shake as blood rushes to my cheeks. There’s a feeling back behind my eyes somewhere—a sort of pressure.
Ezra, I think.
But I can’t say it.
I can’t do anything as my knees buckle.
Second Quarter
One
Ezra
As soon as I send him away, I sit on the edge of the bed and press my hand to my eyes. A tear spills out. I look down at myself, where I’m still hard, and that makes me feel so much worse. I try to get air into my lungs, but they’re locked.
Oh, fuck.
Did I hurt him?
I have to go say something to him.
Or you could just go back to the trestle bridge where you belong.
I feel numb as I get up and step toward the bathroom. Like I’m in a padded room with Haldol in my veins.
Where you belong.
As I’m reaching for the bathroom door, I hear the shower come on.
Just walk in there.
I play the words through my head: “Miller? Hey…I’m sorry.”
I can’t say it, though. I can’t let him know about me.
It’s so sick that I ever did this with him. I’m like…some kind of addict. I can’t get control of myself. He comes into my bed and something in me—I don’t know—just snaps.
It’s because I stopped taking the Amitriptyline. It made me feel like a zombie, and all that stuff made my dick numb, but that’s what I deserve. I should’ve never gone off that. My goal was to mess with him. My goal was to taste him. Because I’m weak. I’m selfish, and I know it.
I should go back on the pills, so the nightmares will stop.
I should go back to the trestle bridge.
I lean my forehead against the bathroom door, pulling air in through my nose and blowing slowly out my mouth. I listen to his shower, try to calm myself by picturing him.
Miller.
When he looks at me, I can tell he’s trying to figure me out. When I suck his dick, his hand rubs my hair—almost never pulls. He doesn’t get offended when I won’t swallow his load. He tries to pull out in time so he doesn’t come in my mouth.
I smear his cum all over him and send him away almost every night. It’s been something like ten nights now. He comes in here, lets me push him around, and showers alone when I make him leave. After I’ve told him that he’s a faggot or some other fucked up shit.
I try the bathroom doorknob, find it unlocked.
Miller. How does that make sense, man?
I push the door open slowly, feeling a fresh wave of guilt for invading his space while he’s in the shower. Now I’m in here, though, I’m inhaling his Dial-scented steam.
I’m going to tell him sorry, then go.
Right as I open my mouth to say something, I hear a weird sound. It’s like…gasping? I think of drowning. He’s not drowning in the shower, is he? No way.
“Miller?”
There’s no answer.
“Hey, Mills?”
I hear another soft gasp. My chest is so tight, I can’t stop myself from pulling the blue shower curtain back. I find him on the tub’s floor, crumpled on his side. He’s choking on the water, and his body’s jerking rhythmically.
Holy shit!
I can’t move or even think straight for a second. In horror, I’m stumbling into the shower with him, crouching over him and reaching for his face. His whole body’s jerking.
I lay a hand over his forehead, use my other one to cup the back of his dark, wet head. “Miller? Fuck! You gotta stop!” My body’s blocking shower water from his face now, but his eyes are rolling back, and it’s still going.
“Miller! Dammit!”
His torso, straddled by my trembling legs, gives a final jerk, then he goes so limp he’s gotta be dead.
“Oh fuck, Miller! Please…” I beg, gripping his face, searching for some sign of life. Something in my chest cracks as I notice there’s a line of blood right at the corner of his lip. His eyelids, which were trembling just a second ago—like in a dream—have gone completely still now, cracked half open.
“Mills!” I lay his head down and shake his shoulders, holding my breath as I wait for him to wake up. But he doesn’t. I shake him again. “MILLER? Wake up!”
My brain starts to haze out as an awful, tight pain grips just under my throat. “Fucking shit, fuck! Fucking SHIT!” I’m up on my feet, jerking the shower curtain, half falling out of the tub. I throw my arm across the countertop, sending everything flying. I hear a crash a half second before I realize I’m throwing things. I can’t stop. Something shatters—aftershave—and I’m crouching down on my knees, one palm pressed against the bathroom floor. Everything’s blurring together.
