Painkiller
Jeffrey Gianelli
I don’t think of myself as someone who knows everything or who has it all together just because of my age. I could have been that boy once. I am the older one, the one who knows better, the one who can look the situation up and down and take it for what it is. I can see past the pit of my stomach or look over the length of my biceps. I can ignore all of these things completely if I choose.
He sleeps with the covers up over his head and only the lower half of his face is showing. It is almost comical, the nose and the pair of lips still claiming their breath while the rest of him has given up everything. I pull my arms away, wondering how things got to this point.
If I were more subtle about things, it would have been easier. He might have been expecting it. I could have easily been more of a bitch, just ask any of my friends. Why I have held back so much in this relationship, I don’t know. Normally I would expect perfection from my lovers; do your dishes immediately, don’t even think about leaving your clothes on the floor, get up off you ass and help when it’s time to do the cleaning. I let Ethan break all of my rules.
He rolls over and pulls the covers off of his face. He is still asleep and his bare chest rises too abruptly; he’s smoked five packs of my cigarettes so far this weekend. Sometimes I wish there were hair to run my fingers through in the place between his nipples where the hard, well-developed muscles rise and fall in a noiseless crescendo. I run my lips over his cheek, then climb out of bed.
The shower is too many feet away. I walk towards it, imagining I am in a marathon and it is the grand prize. If I make it, this is one more day, if not, who knows. The room becomes blurry and I start to get dizzy, but it soon passes and I stumble over toward the toilet. It takes me a very long time to go.
I still have several hours before my flight leaves, so I decide to take a bath instead of a shower, even though the tub hasn’t been cleaned in over a week. Just goes to show how far I have compromised my standards with this entire situation. As the tub fills, I sit on the edge and try to picture what it would be like to slip into the water and cut my wrists open, staring blankly ahead as it slowly turns crimson. The funny thing is, I can’t even imagine myself doing something like that. I am simply not capable of it. That is something that he would do.
I slip into the tub slowly, letting the warm water cover my body inch by inch. The dizziness hits again and I fight it as hard as I can. Just think if he found me lying here naked with my head under the water. I picture a white light running down from my head to my toes, penetrating all of my cells, restoring my strength. I let my mind go completely blank and before I know it I have been sitting in the tub so long that the water has started to get cold, then I notice the clock above the sink. It is almost 9 a.m. and I do have a lot to do today. I get out and dry off quickly, feeling almost renewed.
I return to the bedroom to find Ethan in the same position he was in when I left. Oh yes, I could go over there right now and pull his legs up to his cheeks and take it all out on him one last time. He would deserve it. He would almost deserve it even if I didn’t use protection.
“Ethan,” I say. He doesn’t stir. His ruffled black hair makes him look as if he were some young, talented musician who could play beautiful music but has completely lost his mind. And it is entirely possible that he has done just that. If only he had something to keep him occupied, like music or acting or some sort of hobby. But he has nothing, nothing that is, except me.
“Ethan,” I say, louder. His eyes open. He appears to be dreaming still. I pull the covers completely off of him. I had forgotten he was naked. His boyish hips lure at me. I turn my eyes away.
“What time is it?” he asks, rubbing his eyes. I notice there is a spot of crusted blood on his left earlobe.
“The sun is up,” I say. “Get your ass out of bed.” He turns over on his side.
“God damn it!” I shout. He flinches. “How many pills did you take last night?”
“None,” he says. I already knew this would be the answer, it is always the answer, yet the supply in my medicine cabinet has to be replaced weekly now. I am unsure at this point of which pain is stronger, mine or his. I say nothing more. As I climb onto the bed, he smiles and rolls over, eyes still closed.
“Hi,” he whispers. He slides towards me. Soon his lips are sliding all over my body, drawing out my weakness.
“Get some sleep,” I say, pushing him off. I don’t know why I got into the bed in the first place. If I make love to him again I’m too afraid I’ll change my mind. I get up off the bed and go into the bathroom and shave, then get dressed. When I am through combing my hair, I return to find him asleep once more, so I decide to go get some coffee. Before I leave I place a bottle of Vicodin on the night stand next to a glass of water, then blow him a kiss.
It is not as warm today as I expected it to be. The moist air is too obtrusive. I wish I would have moved back to California years ago. San Francisco, maybe even San Diego. Well, in a few hours I will be gone anyhow, quite possibly for good.
The skyscrapers lean over me, full of spies. I wonder who is watching from their corner office ten stories above. I wonder if anyone can see what goes on in my bedroom through the blinds at night when I leave the lights on. I suppose there is some guilt in thinking about this.
The coffee joint is crowded and I wait in line behind well dressed, middle aged ladies who stare at the menu for five minutes before they place their order, and even then only after asking how much fat is in the 2% milk, or whether preservatives are used when the coffee is imported, and is it imported from Belize or Columbia? I want only a large drip and I don’t understand why there isn’t a separate line for people who have their shit together.
I finally get my coffee from the heavily tattooed young lady with the pierced eyebrows. She is wearing a pink bow in her hair today. Her voice is girlish and sweet.
“Same old thing again?” she asks as she hands me the coffee. Her eyes move down my chest.
“It’s probably time for a change, isn’t it?” I say. She shrugs. “But I’m leaving for Rome today anyhow.”
“Wow, can I come with?” she asks.
I realize that I must look ridiculous to her in my too-tight shorts and my white tank top, bulging muscles refusing to deteriorate along with the rest of my body. I have all of my hair and not one strand has turned gray. The lines on my face are subtle enough to go unnoticed still, yet I am undeniably pushing forty and therefore should appear absurd to someone her age in anything other than Khaki slacks and a Polo shirt. Unfortunately, Ethan is too naive to see that.
“I guess I could stow you away in my suitcase. Just make sure you take out all of those piercings so you don’t set off the metal detector.”
“Forget it then!” she smiles. “Well you have a great trip Joe.”
“Thanks, see you when I get back,” I say, dropping a generous tip in the bucket, knowing I will never see her again. I walk back outside, past a mob of European tourists pointing in the direction of where the World Trade Center used to be and talking in loud, excited voices.
I decided to go on this trip last week after seeing a bum try to sell the ring of a bombing victim to a tourist for ten bucks and the tourist ended up buying it. I need a place where nothing so crass would exist, where I will be surrounded by architecture that has gone untouched for hundreds of years, where nothing can take away the feeling that you have traveled back in time. I decided to go first to Rome and then Venice. From there, who knows. I am told I have up to three years left, and there’s no telling what sort of miracle drugs might pop up during that time. I plan on making the most of it, however long it is.
I walk home slowly, avoiding eye contact with anyone. I don’t want to run in to a neighbor or an old acquaintance now. To do so might bring me out of the mindset I am in and I want to feel nothing other than self-loathing. The coffee cup is too full and hot liquid sloshes onto my wrist, burning me. I rub it against my other arm. There is too much chaos here, but I am not prepared to go back. I rehearse everything in my mind, how I am going to lead up to it piece by piece. I tell myself that he will go easily, that he really doesn’t care enough not to go easily. Soon, I have walked all the way up Battery and the mob of tourists has grown even thicker. I decide to head back.
I can hear the loud thump of my stereo blaring some hip-hop CD the moment I get off the elevator. I have had so many noise complaints the past six weeks, I am probably only one more away from eviction. I open the door slowly. The smell of bacon fills the room. Ethan is standing over the stove in the kitchen wearing a pair of my boxer-briefs. I set my coffee down on the counter and go to turn down the music.
“I’m making French toast,” he announces. From the looks of it, the pills have already kicked in. He turns his back to me and throws an egg-battered piece of toast on the too-hot grill. It immediately starts smoking.
“Shit!” He grabs the pan and flips it over into the sink. The sound of cold water hitting the pan hurts my ears and I wince. “Sorry,” he says. This is not the first time Ethan has attempted to cook, but it usually ends up with one of my pans getting ruined.
“I’m really not hungry,” I say. He turns to get a new pan out of the cupboard, then grabs a pair of tongs and takes the bacon off the grill.
“That’s nice.”
“Just stop what you’re doing for a minute and come here,” I say.
“Why? I’m busy.”
“Please, Ethan.” I turn and walk into the living room. He sighs and turns off the stove, then saunters over towards me in his usual fashion. He leans over to kiss me and I pull away.
“Sit down,” I say. I realize that the boxers he is wearing are the same pair he wore our first morning together. He had cooked breakfast that morning as well. Pancakes, I think it was. What the hell was I thinking letting him stay?
We had met the night before at a club in the Village. Not somewhere I usually go, but I was in the mood to dance that night for some reason. He approached me as I was standing on the edge of the dance floor, debating whether or not I was drunk enough to make a complete ass of myself in front of all these people half my age. He grabbed my hand without saying a word and dragged me out onto the floor.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He had taken his shirt off and had on a pair of tight black stretch pants. His chest was boyish, yet toned, and his lengthy black hair hung in his eyes in a way that made him look like a teen idol in the early 80’s. His face was well proportioned and his features perfectly set into place, with bright green eyes that stood out in contrast against his black hair.
“Why don’t you take your shirt off too? It’s hot!” he yelled out over the music.
“No thanks,” I smiled. He was swaying his hips wildly and I was barely moving mine.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Joseph,” I said.
“I’m Ethan.” He put his arms around my waist and swung my hips in sync with his. We danced like that for a long time but after awhile his rhythm started to become broken and he began to slow down his moves until he finally pulled away from me.
“Man, it’s so hot,” he said again, fanning himself. His expression went to one of confusion, then what looked like exhaustion. “I think I need to go sit down for a moment. You stay here,” he said, wagging his finger. “I’ll be right back. Don’t dance with anyone else,” he called out over his shoulder as he was walking away.
“I’ll go with you,” I said.
“No,” he panted. “I’ll just be a second.” I turned and watched him stumble over to the barstool and after a moment I followed. I figured he must have been high on something but I didn’t have much experience with drugs, other than all of my prescriptions.
“You all right?” I asked. His face had gone pale and his eyes were glassy and dilated.
“Yeah, hang on,” he said. He leaned over, nearly falling out of his chair, then got up and stumbled into the bathroom. I waited for nearly five minutes before I went in to check on him.
I found him lying on the floor near the sink. Luckily, he hadn’t slipped in his own vomit. It looked like he had simply fallen over. His eyes were still open. I leaned over him in panic.
“Ethan,” I said, shaking him. I had never been in a situation like this before and I didn’t know if I should call for help or just try and draw him back.
“Look at the snowflakes,” he said, his voice drowsy and guttural. He held up his hand and gazed at the tips of his fingers.
“You have to get up,” I said, shaking him. “You don’t want anyone to find you here like this.” He looked up at me and nodded. Slowly, he leaned over on his arm, then pulled himself into a sitting position. I grabbed a paper towel and wiped the rest of the vomit off of his chin, then helped him to his feet.
“Thanks,” he said, then to my amazement he started to walk away.
“Wait!” I called. “Where are you going?”
“Back to the dance floor, come on” he called, as if nothing had happened.
“Wait,” I said again, running up behind him and grabbing him by the shoulder. He turned towards me and the look in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. “Why don’t you come with me.”
He had been close to incoherent most of the night, unable to finish one thought before he moved on to the next. Like when he was telling me about how, as a little boy, his mother used have sex with her boyfriends while he was laying in bed next to them, which I thought was pretty serious, but a moment later he was laughing hysterically about how silly Japanese soap operas were. I just sat and listened for hours, holding him, fascinated by everything he said. Somewhere around 3 a.m. he stopped talking and asked if he could use my shower. When he came out of the bathroom he was completely naked and I just gazed at his body, mesmerized, not caring what was going on in either of our heads.
“The bacon’s getting cold,” Ethan says, breaking me out of my daze.
“It can wait,” I say.
“Why are you so serious looking?” he asks, eyes shifting nervously. He leans forward and grabs the remote, then turns on the television and starts rattling on about what happened on The Young and the Restless the day before. I sit back and stare, tuning out his voice completely. I picture myself standing in front of the Coliseum, haggling with a Gypsy vendor over the price of some gaudy Catholic souvenir.
“This is serious, Ethan,” I say when he finally stops, sounding more authoritative than I ever have with him. “At some point, it has to be.”
“Whatever,” he says, eyes lowered. I lean back into the couch and sigh. I hate the way I sound talking to him right now, as if he were a child. I never wanted to treat him that way.
“I’m going on a trip. I need to clear my head and not have to worry about anything, or anyone, for awhile,” I pause looking at him. “I’ll probably be gone a few months.” Ethan just stares at the floor. “I can help you find a place to stay,” I mutter, my voice starting to choke, which I absolutely cannot allow to happen again. I try to pretend like none of this is real, it is just a scene from movie or one of Ethan’s soap operas. All I have to do is say the lines I have rehearsed so carefully and it will all be over. Ethan says nothing. The tears come sooner than I expected and as I watch him, he seems utterly pathetic to me as he cries. Emotions I have never felt before swell up from somewhere inside of me. Ugly emotions. Cruel emotions. He looks up, not bothering to wipe his eyes.
“This is bullshit,” he whispers, glaring at me. I want to slap him. Instead, I get up and stand up over him, then grab his chin and try to force him to look at me, but he turns his eyes away.
“I’m sorry,” I say, firmly. He pulls back and covers his face with his hands. There is a long period of silence, then finally he asks,
“What this, all of a sudden? Are you fucking someone else?”
“Maybe I am,” I say. “Maybe it’s a lot of things. Like the drugs, for one. How can I trust you when you go around popping my pills behind my back all the time?” The expression of guilt on his face is terrific, but he surprises me by lifting up his head and looking me in the eyes.
“Your right,” he says. “I don’t know what to say, other than to tell you that I’ll stop.”
“Just like that? Well great, let’s just forget about all this and go have a celebration fuck,” I say, smirking.
“I’m serious,” he says, eyes wild. The desperation in his voice is making me sick. I sit down.
“Bullshit, and it’s more than that anyhow.” I tell him. “It’s the fact that you like hip-hop music and I like Nat King Cole. Or that you enjoy taking ecstasy and dancing all night until you fall over and I enjoy a quiet evening at home with a bottle of Merlot and an old movie. And it’s the fact that if I let you stay here then I’m doing nothing but enabling you to keep throwing away your life.” He wipes the tears from his face. The sun has risen high enough so that light is streaming in through the blinds and surrounding him completely. I can’t see him clearly.
“The age difference doesn’t mean shit. And neither does our differences,” he says. The pain in his eyes is so deep, I have to look away. “I love you,” he says. “I don’t want to live without you. Just take me with you. We can get past all of this.” If he only knew how much I would love to do just that. I have visions of him going back to the hotel room he had been staying at before I took him in, stripping off all of his clothes, then wrapping a noose around his neck and hanging himself. I become enraged.
“I need to go alone,” I say. “And you know nothing about what it is to love someone other than yourself.” This is a lie, but it seems the best way to put everything back on him, and he just might believe it too. It is so easy to make someone in his position think that they are being selfish. His tears come back and I shut my eyes. In my mind I see only an endless array of pill bottles, so many pills you had to have an electronic organizer to tell you when to take them all.
“You have to leave,” I say. “Now. My flight takes off in three hours”
“But...”
“Now!” I shout. “Get dressed and go. I’ll give you plenty of cash to get you by.” I am expecting him to fall to his knees, have a temper tantrum, pull a knife on me. Instead, he climbs on top of me and starts kissing me, then I feel him grab my hand and press it to his crotch. I want to pull it out and suck him off, but instead I push him away, me so hard that he falls head first onto the floor. He tries to get up. My vision becomes blurry. I try and focus on something but cannot. All I can think about is hurting him. Never in my life have I been violent with anyone, but suddenly I lift up my leg and kick him in the side as hard as I can. He grabs his chest and begins sobbing hysterically. I turn and walk into the bedroom.
There is a safe in the wall behind the tapestry. I have been hiding my morphine supply in there ever since Ethan moved in. The pain that runs all throughout my body is almost constant now, but I refuse to take the morphine, despite what the doctor says. There is also a few thousand dollars in cash. I open the safe and grab the cash, then tear open a syringe pack and dip it into a vial of morphine, and then another, until the syringe is full. I am so dizzy now that I can barely manage to close the safe. I see colors swirling in the air, forming rainbows. It is almost beautiful.
Back in the living room now. Ethan is still on the floor, his sobs growing louder by the moment. When he sees me he starts beating himself on the head with his fists, then tears his fingernails into his forearm so hard he draws blood. I want to kick him again. I want to hurt him so bad. He hurt me just by being here, how could it hurt so much?
“Stop it!” I yell, dropping to my knees on the floor next to him, the syringe in one hand and the cash in the other. I put down both and grab his arm.
“I’ll follow you everywhere you go. I won’t stop,” he says. “You can’t just get rid of me.”
“As if you could even figure out how to get the fucking plane ticket. Jesus!” I stop and double over, clutching my chest, pain shooting through my rib cage. “Here,” I say, grasping his arm just above the elbow. “This will make it all better.” I hold the syringe out to him. He grabs it and looks at it for a moment, then smiles and lowers the needle into the vein on his forearm, letting the morphine enter his body slowly. That’s when I notice there are quite a few red marks on his arm and his eyes become cloudy and his body is limp in my arms.
“I was in the safe earlier today too,” he whispers. “Thanks. It’s just what I needed.”
“What? How the fuck did you know about the safeÉ” I say, my voice quivering. The colors have turned to black and the room is so cold. So dizzy now. I can barely hear him, his voice has become childlike.
“You keep the combination in your address book. Found it a few days ago. I slammedÉ” he pauses, catching his breath. “Two vials while you were gone.” He smiles. “Felt great with the Vicodin.”
“YouÉ” I stutter, so hard to speak now. “You slammed two vials?”
Eyes roll back into his head and he’s breathing strange now mouth just drops open like an old man’s, why do I feel so dizzy? It’s almost funny, his expression and the white light glows from my chest, it is healing me. I can heal him too, he looks sick. Try to heal him but it doesn’t work let myself try but his eyes oh god what the fuck is wrong with him have to do something.
“Ethan,” I shake him. His head slides back and forth in slow motion. Have to say something, bring him back. “Open your eyes,” I plead. He barely manages. Darkness falls all around me. I collapse to the floor. The tears, why I am I crying? I don’t cry, not ever.
“Now you won’t have to watch me die,” I whisper, holding him. My voice is shaking. He touches my cheek. I lose all sense of time looking down at him, his beauty as his breath stops and his eyes sink back into his head. Blood dribbles from his left ear and his pulse is slowing now, it has stopped. I kiss him on the lips, put the syringe in his left palm. Have to get out of here.
I am getting out of here. Left the plane tickets on the counter and the suitcase is packed. Can’t stay here now. Will take a cab, fuck the shuttle. Grab the suitcase the cash, he wont need that now got my coat. Want to leave but they’ll think it’s murder, you know, they’ll be after me. My God, it was murder! Make sure it looks like suicide. Looking back at him now blood dribbles on the carpet, it will stain and someone else will clean it up and his body, what will they? Never mind. Have to go now. Head out the front door, there is no need to lock it, don’t want nothing here. I am out the door now. Nothing but the pretty dead boy on drugs and the pills, oh god all of those pills, they stay behind in the medicine cabinet like a child’s forgotten toys.
