Memoirs: Part One

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Notes: This is a make-over fic of a Frank Moorehouse short story of a similar title. Yes, I am a shotakon hentai ^_^ and no, I don’t hate Crawford. Hope you enjoy the fic. C&Cs are welcome: dreamwalker@edsamail.com.ph
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He seemed a decent enough fellow. In his business suit and his glasses, he almost reminded me of him. And I don’t think he normally goes for boys either. He was so surprised when I approached him that I was so sure he’d say no. But then again, no one has ever refused me before. Not when it came to that. And not when it’s for free. In that sense he was just like the others.

Sick bastards. But like I said, he seemed a decent enough fellow. And so, when he came, shuddering and spasming inside of me, I did not hate him like I did the others…and besides, when I closed my eyes, I could pretend that it was him with me. In me.

Afterwards, I could sense his awkwardness as we dressed. Poor man. I wonder who I reminded him of. His son? His nephew? His younger brother? I could still remember the expression on his face when I told him how old I was. I don’t blame him. I look much too young for my age.

My body still tingling from that transient encounter, I decided to walk back to the apartment. Even the tiny pinch of guilt at the back of my head was not enough to dampen my spirit. But the moment I turned the corner into my street, my mood took a nosedive.

There was a black sedan parked on the curb in front of the apartment building.

He was home.

I found him in the den, on the sofa, a wineglass in one hand, the evening paper in the other.

“Where have you been,” he asked, not even bothering to look up as I entered our apartment.

Where have you been? I wanted to throw his question back at his face. But I knew better than that.

“You’re early,” I said, avoiding the question as I closed the door behind me. Funny, how I should say that. I had not seen nor heard from him for two weeks and yet I could still manage to be civil. But that would be as far as it goes.

I turned my back to him, shrugged out of my coat and hung it on the peg by the wall. Then I slipped off my shoes and wordlessly proceeded to the bedroom.

He followed, leaning by the doorway and watching me as I began to change.

“You look guilty.”

I stiffened for a moment but quickly recovered. “Don’t I always? With you, I always do something wrong.” Without waiting for him to reply, I went to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

I washed and showered and brushed my teeth, sterilizing myself back into our strict, shared world. Our hygienic arrangement-he had always been one for cleanliness. As I went through the motions, I felt a sense of self-loathing. Here I was, angry and upset and yet not capable of breaking free of the routine that he had set for me. I should have just laid in bed and curled up to sleep--that, I know, would irritate him. But I didn’t.

I took the longest time it could possibly take, brushing my teeth twice and staying under the near scalding stream of water until my skin turned pink. When I finished, he was no longer by the doorway but was sitting on the bed, waiting for me.

“Why all the redemptive washing then,” he said as soon as I came out. I was in no mood to argue and to try and fabricate a lie-or maybe I just wanted him to know, wanted to see how he would react. Wasn’t it the reason why I did it in the first place? Lovers starved for affection would resort to it. Meaningless fucking. That’s what they always do, isn’t it? To cry out for attention, to fill the void.

“Why don’t you ask yourself. You just might find the answer.”

I saw his lips twitch. He was displeased. I felt an odd sense of satisfaction. He was not the type to be easily provoked. I felt it a small victory, until he dropped the bombshell.

“I’m going to marry.”

I paled. His eyes never wavered, his expression unreadable. At first, I thought I must have imagined it, that I heard wrong. Then he added, “I already asked her and she said yes.”

I tore my eyes away from him. The first thing I saw was a Chinese carving sitting at the small table at my side. I touched it for no reason, reaching out to it with a shaking hand, as if for balance. I stood there, perilously hovering above his splintering statement.

And then, “You’re lying.”

It came out a whisper. That was all I could manage to say.

He had been escorting this girl-woman-for almost a year now. I didn’t really think much about it, and had always though it as a front for his political career, an arrangement. She must be in the Country Party or maybe her father is. I don’t know about these things, never cared much for it. I thought she was just another sort of hostess.

He smiled. “Am I?”

Damn him.

Looking back, it would have been better if I had just walked out on him right then and there. But I wasn’t thinking straight.

“You can’t,” I said, as I turned my head to look back at him. “What about…what about us?” I regretted it the moment I said it. I should have known that there was no longer any leverage in “us” and that I should not have tried to use it. I pressed my lips together, fighting to control the play of emotions that threatened to show on my face. Then I said, just as hopelessly, “What about all this?” indicating the apartment.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I will leave everything here. It’s yours. An account will be opened for you at the bank-“

“No.”

It came out flat and hard. I saw his eyes widen for a moment. I must have surprised him. I even surprised myself. I was angry, and confused and on the verge of breaking apart. How I hated him at that moment.

He reached up to adjust his glasses and regarded me with cold eyes. “No?” He stood up and walked over to where I stood. “No? What are you gonna do, Nagi? Are you going to try and stop me now?” he said softly, tauntingly as he lifted a finger to trace a line down the side of my face. A caressing touch. I must have trembled for he sneered and dropped his hand back to his side and said, “I move out of here tonight.”

Had it not been Crawford, I would have cried out, begged, flung myself at his feet. But none of that would have worked and even if it did, I will not trample what little dignity I had left.

“But I don’t think there’s any need for me to worry. Your little escapade tonight tells me you won’t be lonely for very long after I’ve gone. So, did you get paid tonight or was it just one of your small favors?”

“Bastard.”

He laughed. “I don’t want to catch anything-wherever you’ve been-whatever sewer.”

“Then you’d better have her checked too.”

He hit me with the back of his hand, the one with his college ring. He did it as if he had been waiting for the chance to do it. It was so timed, so pent up. The blow split my lip open.

“You should have known better, Nagi,” he said in a tone that for a moment made me think he regretted what he did. But then, ”You know I never waste my time with things that don’t have a use for me anymore. I am to live a clean, domestic life. It was all good while it lasted but you have no further part to play.”

“You can’t change anything no matter what you do. You’ll always be white trash.”

He hit me again and this time, I felt his ring slice at my face.

“Don’t be pathetic,” he said, not trembling, no loss of poise at all for having struck me or having said all those things. “You’re no better than I am, you little whore.”

I wiped at the blood that trickled down my cheek then spat at the floor.

“Fine. Leave. Do whatever you want.” Then I turned and went back to the bathroom.

As I stood by the mirror, dabbing at my cuts with a trembling hand and fighting back the tears that threatened to spill, I heard him leave.

Cold bastard, I thought . And that was that. He had left me.

I walked back to the bedroom in a kind of daze, numb after what had taken place. Even though I’d seen it coming, had sensed him grow distant the past few months, I did not expect it to end this way.

Marrying. The word echoed hollowly in my head.

“Hypocrite,” I whispered as my eyes landed on a framed photo by the wall. It was taken a year in one of those countless conferences he had to attend. I stared at it for a moment, smiling when I heard the glass crack. I’ve failed to notice when I first arrived but he must have packed while I was still out. He took only his clothes and toiletries. He took no memorabilia of our shared life.

I looked around the room, our room, with all the things he had collected the year before. They were pieces of art that never did appeal to me. Most of them were glass figurines. He had taken a liking to it and even had things flown in from Bali, Calcutta and Shanghai. When they first started arriving, in those large shipping crates, I kept quiet, though I loathed having them around. Looking at them now, they only served to remind me of his presence, long gone.

I sat back on the bed and watched as one by one, they toppled out of the shelves and stands, listening with satisfaction at the sound of shattering glass until there was none left for me to break.

I stared at the mess around me for a moment, confused. Then it all came rushing back to me.

He left me. The bastard.

And so there I sat, bereft and slowly sliding into black misery, into that emotional sickness known bluntly as depression. I went back to the bathroom-ignoring the tiny shards of glass underneath my bare feet-and rummaged through the medicine cabinet. I took what Valium was there. He would take them sometimes when he had trouble sleeping. I never approved of him taking it. But then, what right had I to stop him? And he never would have listened to me anyhow.

I emptied the bottle in my hand. There were not enough for me to overdose but it was enough for what I intended. I took them all and slept that deep, dreamless, drug-induced sleep. I slept for two days.

When I woke up, I saw Schuldich sitting on a chair by the foot of the bed.

//Good morning. Did you sleep well?// He was smirking.

My limbs felt sluggish and I glared at him as I struggled to sit up.

Leave me alone.

//Oh, still touchy, I guess. Well, that’s life kid. You win some, you lose some. Grow up. Get over it.// There was a slightly amused glint in his eyes as he looked around the room, taking in the broken pieces of glass on the floor. //Looks like you had a nasty little scene in here the other night.//

Fuck off.

“Hey now, don’t shoot the messenger,” he said aloud, raising his hands in a sign of surrender. “I’m not here to fight, Nagi.’’

“Then leave. Get out.”

“I will, kid. Here. Take this.”

He tossed a white envelope in my lap.

I eyed it suspiciously before I picking it up and tearing it open. Inside was an elegant card with a fancy design engraved in front. I flipped it open and began to read. My hand trembled as I scanned its message.

Schuldich must have seen it for he said, //Don’t worry, you’ll get over it.//

I raised my eyes and stared into predatory green eyes.

“You’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you?” I said, getting tired of his mental baiting.

He leaned back on his seat, his lips spreading in a slow smile.

“Of course, I am. I still haven’t forgiven you for taking him away from me. I used to think, ‘What a lucky little bitch that Nagi is.’ But I guess I was wrong--”

“Get out.”

His smile grew wider. “What’s the matter? Did I hit a spot?”

“Fuck you.“

He pushed back his chair and stood.

“Sorry, Nagi, but I don’t go for left-overs.” He walked over to me and bent down until his face was so close I could feel his breath against my cheek. “But I will, if you beg me to.”

I felt the heat flooding my cheeks. Schuldich chuckled.

“Got you, didn’t I? Didn’t think I knew? How you’d beg him to do it to you--do it to you hard and rough. You liked it didn’t you, you little whore? I’ve always enjoyed listening to your escapades. You got me off quiet often, Nagi.”

He let out a pained gasp as he hit the wall opposite the bed with a loud thud.

I stood up, shaking with anger. “Get out,” I said, my voice low and hard. I let him go, and he dropped to the floor on his hands and knees.

I heard him curse as he got up. Pieces of glass had cut through his knees and palms.

He looked at me with piercing eyes. “This makes us even now.” He glanced at the invitation on the bed. “See you at the wedding,” he said then walked out of the room.

I stared at the door, stared after Schuldich long after he was gone. I stood there for a long time. Then afterwards, I locked myself in the room and for the first time since Brad left, I let the tears fall silently.

***

I did not go to the wedding. I remembered staring at the invitation and realizing that he had it brought to me not as an invitation but as a closure. I sent them nothing if sending something is what you are supposed to do.

I saw him once, to get him to sign something about the apartment. I had changed my mind about not taking his money-the thought that he was going to spend it all on her and their life irked me.

When we met in his lawyer’s office, I acted with what might have passed as civility, though all the while I was loathing the sight of him for I still yearn for him to put his hands on me. He, on the other hand, was all formal and immaculate in his suit with a minute lapel badge I hadn’t seen before. I remember wondering if she made him wear it. He has not changed since the last time I saw him. He did not seem to be affected at all by our separation. He was cordial though. And very generous. I would have been touched by his generosity if I had not known that he did it just so I do not come knocking on his door and ruin his perfect life when I am of need of something.

Bastard. Selfish bastard. And yet, I still want him. Want him back.

I had no strength of self for months after he left me. We never spoke after our last meeting. Still, the checks would arrive for me.

At the times when I am alone in my empty apartment, I would think back to the quieter times when I was this beautiful boy who shared this large apartment with him and was something of a mystery. A desirable young thing who obviously did what he was told. It had been a workable, shared…home.

I retched now, yearning for those days. I sweated in the fever of withdrawal, at the absence of him.

All that remained, it seemed, was dirty laundry, unopened junk mails, and a plaintive note from the cleaning person saying how it is not her job “to pick up after the occupants.”

Then-suddenly, unbelievably, unexpectedly, without warning, as if in answer to a prayer, like the clouds parting, the end of a bad dream, the beginning of spring-the telephone rang.

I was just leaving. I was outside of the door when I heard the phone ringing. I took my key out and let myself back in, expecting that, as always, it would stop. It didn’t. It was him.

It was the first call he made to me since he left.

He began with that desultory, false conversation-How are you? Is the apartment ok? Did you get those forms? And then he moved on to the shared lore of our life together-How’s Tabe?(the cat) and so on. Yes, I kept thinking, I know, I know what this is all about. He must have gotten tired of her. The novelty having worn off like it did with me. Embarrassing as it may be, I just wanted him to stop and say it. I could not wait. Did not want to wait. But I let him talk. It would displease him, I know, if I had interrupted him.

And then, he suggested that he might drop around-and for the first time, asked if “it would be alright.”

Of course it’s alright.

I hated myself, for feeling that surge of joy, the overwhelming sense of anticipation and I said, albeit calmly, “Of course. Will I expect you soon?” I wondered if he had sensed what I truly felt at that time for he said no, that it would have to be later, after a meeting.

The meetings. I remembered all the time I’d spent just waiting for meetings to finish. He always made me wait, knowing how much I hated it.

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll wait.”

I could have tried to make him come up now and to skip the meeting. That would have been a test of power which, I felt had been granted to me. After all, it was he who called did he not? And it was he who was coming over. But I didn’t dare. And I didn’t want to.

I felt only a slight regret at not refusing his request. He had no right to be here. He had ended it. He had left me. But, I told myself, he has as much right to the apartment, didn’t he? He pays for it after all. My mind seems pretty satisfied with that excuse.

I had trouble filling the time before he arrived. I tried relaxing, occupying myself with a book.

Finally, there was a knock on the door. It surprised me. The knock. It had not occur to me that he might not have the key with him anymore. But more than anything, it signified something else. Power. For the first time, he needed to ask permission. To come over, to enter… I toyed with this idea for a while and thought I might actually enjoy it.

I answered the door with a polite, guarded smile. It was awkward. But only at first. He could be very pleasant when he chose and he was now. We sat down by the mini bar in the den and talked as I poured him some brandy. We talked about his work and other mediocre things. But never about her. I was thankful for that.

But I knew he did not come here for talk. But I let the conversation flow until there was nothing more to discuss. There was a pause. I was silent, waiting for him to speak. If he wanted it, he’d have to ask.

Finally he said, “I’ve missed you.”

That was my last and the only instance I played with the idea of being in control.

I wouldn’t have done it very well anyhow.

One moment, I was sitting beside him, the next, I stood against him, our bodies flush. I could have spent an eternity, just standing there, feeling his lips against mine, tongues touching fervently.

We were supposed to go out for a late dinner but we just didn’t make it. We tumbled into bed and he was surprisingly gentle. He had always been deliciously rough in our coupling. This was different. As if he was somewhat unsure, a tad cautious.

Tears sprung in my eyes when he wrapped me in a gentle embrace and took me with such sweetness that I came the moment I felt him inside me.

I choked out his name and buried my face in his shoulder as I heard his breathing grow ragged and felt that involuntary clutch.

As he emptied himself inside me, he pressed a kiss against my neck. Then he withdrew from me, wiped himself in the sheets, stood up and walked over to the bathroom.

Then, emerging moments later, fully dressed, he proceeded towards the kitchen, poked about in the refrigerator and ate half a quiche. I followed him out, dressed in a robe and sat by the table watching him silently as he ate.

You must realize that, since he said nothing, and I’d asked no questions, and because he had obviously wanted me so badly, I had at this point a fantasy the he had come back to me. Come back to live with me. Maybe he had, by using the old intimacy, moving about in it the way it had been, using the language of our domesticity, maybe he had let me have this fantasy to, say, get my total participation.

He didn’t say much but looked relaxed. And just as I was beginning to believe the fantasy real, it was then that I experienced the most diminishing gesture I know. The gesture which spelled out the new contract.

He looked at his watch.

And as soon as he did that, I knew where I stood.

The looking-at-the-watch gesture said, “I have demands on me above and beyond you.” The eating from the refrigerator said, “I have the run of the place again.” The way he sat now and looked at me said, “I have reclaimed you. But in a different way.” And the way he used me in bed, the way he made me writhe beneath him and brought tears to my eyes said, “I am still this to you.”

I felt it in my stomach as I helped him into his jacket. I leaned against him, wanting his warmth and looked up at him with apprehensive eyes.

He then reached into his pocket and took out a small black box. He opened it and inside was a silver bracelet. A metaphor coming true.

This was a manacle.

He said, “You are to wear this.”

He dangled it. It was a plain silver, small-link bracelet. There was no engraving on the plate. That was right.

“Put it on,” he said.

“Yes.” My heart was hurting. I held out my bare arm to him; liquid with submission. “Yes.”

He clicked it on. I had changed from sharing his daily life. I was now being kept for pleasure. I was a vassal, now to be always in some low level of need, and this would be the difference, for most time I would be in need of him and having to live within the shadow of his absence.

It was for me a re-experiencing of that same true feeling, the lightning struck feeling when he had taken me to that hotel room that first time.

I was shaking.

“Thank you,” I said.

My eyes were crying. He merely looked and said, “The Diet will be meeting next week. I’ll give you a call.”

And then, he was gone.

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