Absolution by Night

Home : Stories by Catw00man : Dark Nights Series : Absolution by Night

Summary: Jimmie washes it all away.

AUTHOR: Catw00man
EMAIL: catw00man@cryptoffic.com
RATING: R
SERIES: Dark Nights Series
CHARACTER: Jimmie Johnson/Jeff Gordon, Jimmie POV
CATEGORY: Dark, dark angst and not so nice things.
COMPLETED: April 19, 2008
WORD COUNT: 8,315
DISCLAIMER: I own NOTHING and am affiliated with NO ONE mentioned here. Not the drivers, not the teams, no one. This is all fiction and fun. In other words...NOT REAL, NOT REAL, NOT REAL. ;-)
DEDICATION: To MystikHeather who has been waiting way the heck too long for this. Luv ya hun. I hope you like your Jimmieboy.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This picks up the night after Endless Night and Jimmie’s a little confused.
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Charlotte Condo: June 25, 2002

Dark.

Everything is so dark and…unfamiliar.  The soft bed underneath me, the thin sheet wrapped loosely around my body, silence all around me, and I’m not even sure where I am.  But I do know this isn’t my bed…isn’t my room, and I feel so disoriented…so lost.  Where am I?  Shift on the too soft mattress, and there’s…there’s warmth against my side.  An unexpected heat.  A warm, lean body…that I’m curled around.  Pressed against.  But who….
 
Jeff.

Oh god, I’m with Jeff.

The realization hits me like a ton of bricks, and my eyes snap open instantly.  Jeff.  Jeff lying next to me.  Jeff.  Silhouetted in the dim, gray darkness around us.  Shadows covering him like a blanket, and I can hardly make out his face, hardly trace the lines of his profile…that I already I know by heart.  I can see his breathing.  And for some reason, that’s all that matters.

But I’m confused…so confused. Everything’s almost clear, but still so fuzzy in my mind.

It’s all at the edge of my memory, but right now I’m so damn mixed up.  My mind is full of cotton, everything is so sluggish, and I can’t even begin to think straight.  Was I drinking?  ‘Cause it damn well feels like it.  Look across the bed and see the dark, crimson numbers of the bedside clock and feel a shiver run through me.  What’s wrong with me?  The dark, flickering numbers read 8:17, and I realize I don’t know if it’s day or night.  How long have I been here?  How did I get here?  Look down at him and feel another chill run through me.

I need to clear my head.

I need to know why I can’t seem to remember anything.

I need to know why I feel so…panicked?

Shake my head and slowly pull away from him, sliding my arm across his chest, as I again find myself focusing on his deep breathing.  Why is my gut twisting into knots?  Look down to see my hand trembling slightly and I try in vain to make it stop.  What happened to me?  To us?  How did I end up here, with him, like this?

I reluctantly move away and shiver at the loss of his warmth against my skin.  Why do I feel so damn cold?  Finally force myself to tear my eyes away from him and sit up, sliding my legs over the edge of the bed and go stiff with shock as realize I’m completely naked.  Freeze and grip the edge of the bed with my hands.  What the fuck is going on?  Why don’t I remember?  Did we…?

Chew on my bottom lip as I look back over my shoulder at him, still laying flat on his back.  Why does something seem so…off?  Why does he seem to be more “unconscious” than asleep?  Shake my head and push myself to my feet.  I just…I just need to wake up, figure out what’s going on, and why I have such a sick feeling in my stomach.

Push myself to my feet and wince as my ankle throbs.  Stumble towards what I think is the bathroom door, and wonder again at what we might have done last night.  Why is my ankle sore?  Have I lost my mind?  How could I forget?  And if we did…do something…why don’t I feel like before?  I don’t…hurt.  Not like last time.  Not so deep inside where every movement is pain.

God, what the fuck is wrong with me?

Reach the bathroom door and an eerie feeling of déjà vu washes over me as I press my palm against the wood grained door.  Panic is running through me and it feels like my blood turns to ice in my veins.  Breath catches in my throat and my skin feels too tight.  Uncontrollable tremors wrack my body and my throat is so dry I can’t even swallow.

Enough!

I grit my teeth against feelings I don’t understand and shove the door open revealing only darkness.  What the hell is my problem?  I just must have gotten drunk last night.  Maybe we both did.  That’s all that makes sense.  But it still doesn’t explain the terror I’m still trying to push back.  And why my feet feel rooted to the spot.

Stupid.  I’m just being stupid.  Finally force my legs to move and walk into the darkness.  It’s just a bathroom.  So why can I all but hear my heart pounding in my chest?  Stop being an idiot, Jimmie, I tell myself as I reach for the light.  Maybe if I take a shower or something things will start making more sense.  Maybe if I just--

Oh dear god.

Dead eyes. Facing my direction as he drowns in a sea of blood.  I’m too late.  Blood on the floor, creeping towards me.  I killed him.  Crimson on the walls.

I’m too late.

Sliding across the floor.  Blood on my hands.

But I’m not.  And he’s not.  Dark, crimson streaks, dried across the floor, on the walls.  Blood tinged water, stagnant, but empty.  Rust colored stains smeared across the sparkling fixtures.  Dried blood…everywhere….

And I’m running the other way, sprinting out of the overwhelmingly morbid room, across the dark bedroom.  Choke, gag against the bile rising in my throat, at the sudden flash of memories.  Stumble, catching myself with a hand against the smooth wooden dresser.

Hard wood pressing against my back.  Hands splayed across the smooth surface.  Searing lips against my skin.  Hot breath at my ear.

Wrong.  So very, very wrong.

Gag again and push myself forward.  Block out the images.  The heat.  The panic.  The blood.  Stumble down the unfamiliar, dark hallway.  Desperation.  Fear.  Desire.  Too many emotions.  Feel my stomach lurch again and reach blindly, hand coming into contact with another door.  Push it open, scramble for the light and fall to the floor in front of the toilet even as I taste the bile on my tongue again.  Can’t hold back.  Too much.

Sterile, sparkling white tile.  Shining crimson-coated glass.  Blood covered hands.  Stomach churning, retching, panting.

Cool damp cloth at my forehead.

No.  Cool porcelain against my skin.  Slowly raise my head and drag the back of my hand across my mouth.

I remember.

I remember the clinic.  Remember him lying there, so pale and so cold.  Remember losing it…almost losing him.  I gag again at the thought, but just as before, my stomach can do nothing more than rumble having long since been emptied.  I push myself back, onto my heels and close my eyes, trying to catch my breath.  Why couldn’t this all have been a nightmare?

Tightness on my right arm…almost painful.  How did I just now notice?  Open my eyes and take in the tight binding below my right elbow.

Blood.

I gave him my blood.

Bite my lip as tears prick my eyes and reach for the bandage, slowly unwinding it and let it fall to the floor.  A small Band-Aid, easily removed and I see the tiny puncture, the tiny wound they used to take my blood…to give him life.  Bite my lip harder and try to control the storm of emotions flooding me.  Take a deep breath and force myself, shakily, to my feet.  Sigh again and reach forward, flushing the toilet and move over to the sink.

Turn on the water and for the first time see the crimson stain underneath my finger nails.  Blood.  His blood.  On my hands.  And it’s all I can do to keep from hitting my knees again.  But I won’t.  Not again.  I have to be strong for him, for me…for both of us.

Turn the water to hot and scrub at my hands, digging at my nails, trying to erase it all. The water is tinged pink, but I force myself not to care as I continue to tear at my nails, scratching and washing my hands until they’re raw and left with no trace of his blood.  I look up, catching my reflection in the mirror, and I can see more dried blood…on my face, my shoulders, streaks on my chest.  How?  Why?

It doesn’t matter.  Not now.

I cup my hands under the scalding stream of water and lean over, wincing as I splash my face, and begin scrubbing at my skin again.  But it’s not enough--dried blood streaked through my hair--I need to be clean.  I reach up, cutting off the tap and step back, feeling rivets of water running down my bare chest.

I need to wash it all away.

I turn toward the shower, step into the tub and turn on the hot spray.  Instantly move forward and close my eyes, letting the water cascade down my back as I drop my head forward. Press my hands against the tile wall in front of me and sag forward, focusing on nothing but the pounding sound of water around me, trying to let it block out the surfacing memories in my mind.  Finally lift my head and let the hot water run over my face.  Run fingers slowly through my hair and try to untangle the matted mess without thinking about how it got that way.

Look down, searching the tub and sigh when I realize there’s no soap.  Why should there be?  I doubt this shower’s ever even been used before.  I’ll just have to make do with what I have.  Begin scrubbing at my body with my short nails, rubbing my hands, that I finally notice are sore, over my trembling body. Ignore the stinging in my palms as I slowly open and close my hands and then continue trying to wipe away the blood still staining my body.  Then I take a step back and almost fall as my ankle twists painfully again.

Shooting pain through my leg as I hit the ground hard.  Stinging palms and bruised pride.  Tall wooden fence, mocking my awkward fall.

Panic.

What if he’s not here?  What if something happened?  What if he’s not ok?

I have to keep moving.

Catch myself again, one hand on the wall and one gripping the shower curtain.  Then lean over slowly and unwrap my ankle, unwinding the long ace bandage carefully binding it.  Move to stand again, wet the fabric in my hand and use it to scrub my already raw skin.  Over my arms, my chest, my face.  Everywhere, until not a drop of crimson stain remains.

Finally lean forward, turning off the scalding spray and sigh deeply.  The warm, sticky air fill my lungs uncomfortably, the humidity pressing in on me and making it hard to breathe and I can’t take it anymore.  Yank the shower curtain open almost violently.  It’s too hot.  So very hot.

Step out of the tub and snatch a towel hanging from the wall.  Run the rough fabric over my arms and chest hurriedly and tuck it around my waist.  Move quickly to the door, pull it open, and step out of the oppressively humid room into the fabricated cool air of the hallway.

Need…to breathe.

I take a few steps and then stop to lean heavily against the wall in the hallway, again taking a deep breath.

Hands pressing me against the wall.  Thin body collapsing against me.  Touching me.  Kissing me.

“Jimmie…please…”

No.  It’s not right.  He’s too weak.  I won’t take advantage of him.  I won’t do this.

I won’t.

Pain. S o much pain.  Directed at me.

Betrayal.  I can’t hurt him again.  I promised….

But I did.

Shake my head and push away from the wall. Don’t want to remember.  Not now.  What I did….  What he made me do….

No.

I need to clear my head and turn suddenly to walk down the hall and have to catch myself as I stumble again.  Water.  I need a drink of water to stop my head from spinning.  Move through the darkened living room and try to ignore all the thoughts pressing in on me.  That’s when I realize the kitchen light is already on.

Sudden déjà vu washes over me again and I feel panic rising in my chest.  But how much worse can it be?  I should remember.  It’s right at the edge of my memory.  Along with so much more I don’t want to face yet.  How did everything all spin so out of control?

I force myself to move forward again, moving towards the light, and do my best to ignore the pounding beat of my heart.  Finally round the corner and freeze as I grip the counter and see the gruesome site spread before me.

Blood and shining glass, spread all over the floor.  Too much blood on sparkling white.

Dear God, what happened?

“Jeff! Where are you?”

What has he done?

Bright, freshly spilled blood.  Everywhere.

But it’s not.  It’s dried.  Dark, rusty stain smeared into the floor.  Dirty bits of glass stuck to the tile.

Swallow hard against the horrific sight.  I can do this.  I can.  Force myself to overcome my paralysis and move forward.  Reach up and open a cabinet door and then another until I finally find a small glass.  Walk over to the sink, careful not to step on any shards of glass with my bare feet, and pour some water from the tap.  Bring the glass to my lips with a shaky hand and gulp down the entire glass at once before refilling it again but only take a small sip this time.  Then I turn around and force myself to face the gruesome sight.

Look across the maroon streaked floor and see a cabinet opened at the far end of the kitchen. That also seems to be where there’s the most blood and glass.  What the hell is all this anyway?  I know this wasn’t where he….  This just had to be an accident.  But how?  Why?

Scan the floor and see a large piece of glass by my right foot that seems to still have a label on it.  Maybe I can at least figure out where all the glass came from.  Squat down carefully and reach out, fingers barely brushing over the sharp edge.  I reach up and brace myself with my other hand on the counter and stretch for the large shard again, finally picking up the glass between two fingers.

Pull my hand back and slowly turn the glass over in my hands as I stand.  But as I finally read the black label my breath catches in my throat, even though I’m not completely sure why.  It’s just a bottle of vodka.  Not a complete surprise, considering I know how much he’s been drinking recently.  So why is the Russian label giving me a sick feeling in my stomach?

Maybe because it’s the same brand I always buy.

The same brand he drank at my house…what seems like so damn long ago.

Hurl the large piece of glass across the room, jumping as it shatters against the wall.  That’s when I notice a faint stinging in my right hand.  Shake it and gasp as I see tiny drops of red pepper the floor, contrasting sharply with the preexisting dark stains.  Raise my hand slowly and see that I nicked the pad of my middle finger when I hurled the glass.

Bring my finger to my lips, sucking at the small cut, and shake my head.  What am I doing?  He bought the same damn vodka as me, so what?  Why am I acting like such an idiot?  It’s not like he bought it for me…right?  He’s been avoiding me forever.  Why would he….  Hell.  Why would he do anything?

Fucking bastard.

Grit my teeth as I finally let an unexpected anger wash over me.  All of this…all of this is his fault.  He’s the one who went off the deep end for whatever reason.  Drinking.  Smoking.  Completely isolating himself.  He’s the one who pushed me away and then fucking used me when I tried to help him.

“Please just fuck me.”

Pounding.  Thrusting.  Violent.  Brutal.  Fucking.  Pain-filled screams.

All my fault.

I was no better than him.  I used him--granted he asked for it--but I fucking used him.  Hurt him.  Knocked him unconscious!

What the hell is wrong with me?

How could I act like such a monster?  How could I snap so easily, losing complete control?  That’s not me.  That’s not what I want.  But part of me realizes…it’s what I needed.  I needed to feel him, needed to punish him, needed to make him pay for everything.  The fear, the desperation, the complete selfishness.  He tried to kill himself.  And for a moment…I needed to feel in control.  For once, I needed to be the one holding all the power.  And judging by his screams of passion…he needed it too.

Close my eyes and sigh deeply.  When did everything spin so far out of control?  Can this all really be happening?  Grit my teeth, glance around the blood stained kitchen and suddenly feel so helpless and so very, very lost.  I need….

I need to do something.

I need to “fix” things, to stop things from just happening.  I need to make things right, but how can I?  How can I fix him…fix me?  Look around the room, dirty bits of glass glinting in the harsh light.  I need to wash this all away.  I need to erase everything….

But first I need to get dressed.

I take a deep breath, finally feeling a little more in control and leave the kitchen, walking with a purpose back to the bedroom.  I step into the still darkened room, illuminated only by the light streaming from the bathroom.  Stop at the door, looking across the space and see him still breathing deeply, laying on his back.  He hasn’t even moved.  But he’s breathing.  He’s going to be ok.

I force myself to look away--the sight of him filling me with a feeling of total helplessness--and search for my clothes.  After only a moment I spot my jeans, crumpled near the foot of the bed and reach for them.  But as I shake them out I see that they’re crusted with blood--completely soaked through--and grimace. There’s no way I’m ever wearing these again.  That’s when I realize all my clothes must be covered in his blood.  But I’ve still got my bag from the track still in the truck.  Bite my lip and start emptying the pockets of my ruined jeans.

Move over to the dresser, pulling out and setting down my wallet, random change, keys and…something else.  Feel my fingers slide over cool metal and pull my hand away from the stiff fabric, letting it fall to the floor.  Turn the glinting silver over in my hand and finally set the lighter down on the smooth wood.  Why does just touching something that belongs to him affect me so much?

Push the feelings back, grab the keys, and make my way to the front door without another backwards glance.  I’m not ready to deal with this yet.  One thing at a time, just take things one at a time, Jimmie.  I run my fingers over the keys in my hands and just focus on walking down the hall and heading to the front door, trying to force my mind to go blank.  Open the door and look around, thankful the street is so deserted.  Walk over to the truck, securing the towel around my waist again and click the automated lock in my hand.  Pull the door open and reach behind the seat, snatching my bag I know is full of dirty clothes--but they’re cleaner than anything else I’ve got.

Shake my head slightly as I slam the door shut and lock the truck, heading back up the walk.  But as I step inside the darkened house, I realize I’ve had enough.  Enough of the night, enough of the mocking darkness all around me, enough of the shadows full of secrets and pain.  Immediately I flip on the overhead lights to the living room then walk through to the dining area, turning on those light as well.  Drop my bag on the table and head to the hallway, turning on every light in my path.  Then I pause, looking back over the suddenly bright room and sigh slightly.  It’s better…but it’s fake.  It’s an illusion.  But it’s an illusion I’m ready to cling to for the moment.

Walk back across the living room and over to the dining table, starting to open and rummage through my bag, but I stop.  I’m acting like a guest, sifting through my belongings out here.  But that’s not what I am anymore.  Not after last night.  If I’m going to do this, if I’m going to “force” my way into his life, I need to act like it.  I can’t be weak--not anymore.  I have to be strong, to let him know I’m not leaving.  Hell, I’d be ready to move in here right now…if that’s what it takes to keep him safe.  He may hate me for this.  He may end up despising me, but if it keeps him alive…I don’t give a shit.

Grab my bag and turn quickly, walking down the now brightly lit hallway and back to his--our?--room.  Pause, only for a moment, and then walk over to the dresser, dropping my bag on it with my other belongings.  Then I pull out a pair of jeans that aren’t too dirty, and a wrinkled Lowe’s polo.  I guess I’m going to have to do some laundry if I plan on staying here much longer.  One more thing to add to my list.  Pull on the jeans and shirt and then search for my shoes--I really don’t want to end up with glass in my feet.  I finally end up finding one halfway under the bed and the other across the room.  A short search leaves me with my socks from yesterday, but once I see even they are streaked with blood I toss them aside and rummage through my bag again.  Pull on another pair of socks, doing my best to ignore the crimson staining my shoes, and without another look back, head to the kitchen.  Might as well get started.

Step back into the kitchen and start to survey the damage.  Glass everywhere, caked to the floor.  A dark, dried pool of brown at the far end of the floor and streaks of faded red covering most of the rest. Might as well start with the glass.  I look around for cleaning supplies, under the sink, in cabinets and come up empty.  So I turn to the rest of the house, finally ending up in the garage, finding a broom, dust pan, a bucket and nothing else.  Apparently cleaning hasn’t been one of his top priorities.  Guess I’m going to the store.

Take my findings inside, leaving them in the kitchen and once again head to the bedroom, but this time I can’t stay away from him.  It feels like I’m drawn to him--pulled by a force I can’t see--and suddenly I’m sitting on the bed next to him, looking down onto the face of my dreams.  But this isn’t a dream, because in my dreams…he doesn’t look like this.  He doesn’t look so helpless, so weak.  I run my fingertips lightly over his brow--is he a little warm?  Slide my hand down, cupping his cheek and run my thumb over his cheekbone--is it more pronounced?--and feel the rough whiskers against my skin.  He’s still breathing deeply, slowly, and I swear it still seems unnatural…like he’s “unconscious” instead of just resting.  But what can I expect?  After everything he’s been through….

Swallow hard and lean over, placing a feather-light kiss on his brow and force myself to pull away.  He needs rest, and I need to let him.  Plus, if I stay here much longer…I don’t think I’m going to be able to hold it together.  My hand is already trembling hard as I pull it away.  Swallow against the lump in my throat and push myself to my feet.  Cast one more glance his direction and then force myself to look away, walking over to the dresser.  Pick up my wallet, slipping it in my back pocket, grab my keys and then stop as I’m holding his lighter again.  I don’t even think about it, just slip it in my front pocket and head to my truck.

As I finally hop behind the wheel to head off to the store I have to stop myself before I even put the keys in the ignition.  Am I doing the right thing?  Should I really be forcing myself into his life this way?  Do I even have the right?

I lean my head back against the seat and let it turn to the side, facing the passenger seat, and suddenly gasp.  I swear I can see him…head thrown back, vacant stare my direction.  But then I realize it’s just a memory, a flashback from last night.  My mind continues playing tricks on me, however, and I hear his voice.  Flat.  Emotionless.

“Why didn’t you let me die?”

The words echo through my head over and over again.

He wanted to die.

He was disappointed--cold blue eyes turning my way--even angry with me for saving him.  But how?  Why?  How could he possibly want to die…to kill himself?  Oh, I know things haven’t been right with him for a long time.  He’s isolated himself as long as I’ve known him--letting people in only when and how he wanted, always on his own terms.  But I had no idea things were so bad…and I just don’t understand.

I mean, after last week, I was devastated, hurt.  I felt like my entire world was crashing down around me.  But never in a single instant did I ever consider hurting myself, taking my own life.  What could possibly make him do that?  What could make him give up, running razor blazes across his wrists?  It just doesn’t make any sense.  We’re racecar drivers.  We deal with the possibility of dying every weekend.  But to want it. To cause it.  I just don’t understand.

Settle back further into the driver’s seat and run my fingers through my hair.  His eyes were so empty, so cold when he finally woke up.  He just seemed so…helpless, something I’ve never associated with him, and it fills me full of dread.  Part of me feels like I shouldn’t push him, that I shouldn’t invade on his self imposed isolation.  But if I don’t…. If I don’t he might slip even further away.  And I can’t let him do that.  Not after the way he clung to me last night.

Desperation, need, desire.

I saw all three reflected in his eyes--in his actions--once I all but carried him inside last night.  He needed someone, that was perfectly clear.  But I have to wonder…was it really me he needed?  I know he was crying out my name, begging me to give him what he wanted, but was it my touch he craved?  Or was it just touch, something tangible he needed to cling to, a warm body to lose himself in.  Is that all I was?  Someone to share his darkness and pain?  Is that really what I want?

It’s not.  Not by a long shot.

I know that with an amazing clarity.  I want so much more than that.  But I know with the same certainty that I’ll take it.  I’ll be the warm body pressed against his in the dark.  I’ll give him something to hold on to, and maybe someday I’ll be the one to pull him through.  I can’t leave him now…not when he so obviously needs someone.  And I know in the morning light, he’ll try to push me away, the same as he always has.

But I won’t let him.

Because I know that sooner or later the night will fall and he’ll need me--someone--again.  He’ll want to lose himself to the feel of another and I’ll be there.  I’ll be the one for him to lean on, the one to give him anything, and hopefully the one to make sure he stops this downward spiral of self destruction he’s lost in.

But I am doing the right thing?

I have to be.

Grip the steering wheel in my hands, ignoring the feel of what I know is crusted blood under my left hand, and pull back, picking up my discarded keys from the center console.  Slip the key in the ignition and push in the clutch, turn my wrist and finally cause the truck to come to life underneath me.  I need to hurry.  I don’t want to leave him alone for too long.

Back slowly out of the drive and pull onto the sparsely lit street, cutting on my lights as I try to remember the closest place that might be open and have what I need.  It’s only about a five minute drive before I finally spot a small convenience store that’s both brightly lit and deserted.  I pull into the small lot and quickly hop out of the truck, already anxious about leaving him alone.

The sound of crickets chirping and humming fluorescent lights greet me as I cover the blacktop in a few quick strides, pushing open a glass door that barely seems to be hanging on its hinges.  I step inside the vacant store and glance to the side, seeing a middle eastern looking man behind the counter with dark hair and eyes cast a brief look in my direction before returning his attention to the newspaper in front of him.  I don’t give it another thought as I snatch up a plastic basket by the door begin searching for cleaning supplies.

I’m actually a little surprised at the small assortment I find.  Apparently this guy seems to stock a little of everything.  I pick up a generic bottle of bleach, 409, Comet, and Windex, tossing them in the basket.  Then I lean over and find a few packages of sponges, the ones that have the scrubby part on one side, and two sets of rubber gloves since I really don’t like the feel of bleach on my hands.  Start to make my way back to the front of the store when my stomach takes that moment to growl sharply.  When is the last time I’ve eaten anyway?  At the track?  Before the race?

Shake my head and realize he hasn’t eaten a thing either, and I’m not about to rely on whatever he may have at home--if there’s anything at all.  Turn down another aisle, searching for food, and spot a few canned goods.  Scan the small shelf and find three cans of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup--my favorite food of choice when I feel bad--and I grab them all. Then I turn in the aisle, searching for something for me and end up with a large bag of Funyuns and about half a dozen Snickers--breakfast of champions. Nothing else really looks appetizing right now and I head to the back of the store to find something to drink.

Reach the coolers and grab a few bottles of Pepsi--like he’d let me drink anything else--and scan the small selection of Gatorade.  I feel myself panic slightly as suddenly I can’t remember what he likes.  But then it hits me.  Blue.  I saw him drinking blue once.  Grab all three bottles there are and finally make my way back to the front of the store.  Sit the basket on the small counter which is cluttered with lighters, candy and other small impulse buys and suddenly feel a little self conscious as I look at my purchases.

“Did you find everything you need?” he asks me in a heavily accented voice and I jump slightly, looking up to meet his gaze as he begins to ring everything up.

“Umm…yeah. Thanks,” I reply quickly and look down again, reaching for my wallet and fishing out some cash.  Watch him bag everything up and again can’t help but wonder what he must be thinking.  I can feel the weight of his gaze on me and realize how I must look--either like a cleaning freak with a junk food fetish or a serial killer trying to clean up his mess in the middle of the night.  Just beautiful.

But he doesn’t say another word to me, just scans all my items and bags them up in plastic bags.  Pay him in cash, ready to get out of here and after grabbing my bags I finally turn to leave.  But as I begin to walk away I freeze as I hear his words calling out to me.

“Have a nice night Mr. Johnson.”

I’m stunned at first.  How did he know my name?  Then I realize I am wearing a Lowe’s shirt…but still.  Why does this have to be one of the first times I’m ever recognized?  Shake my head slightly and mutter a quick, “Thanks,” to him and hurry out the door, switching my bags to one hand to open the truck.  At least maybe that guy won’t think I’m a serial killer.  I dump the bags in the passenger seat and crank the engine, quickly pulling out of the lot and heading back to the house.

The drive seems even faster than the first time and before I know it I’m pulling onto the road in front of the well lit house.  I grab the bags and make my way back inside, dropping them by the kitchen and immediately head down the hall.  Step into the bedroom and move slowly over to him, sitting on the side of the bed again.

He hasn’t moved much--if at all. He’s still lying on his back breathing deeply and just as before I can’t help but reach out to him, gliding my fingertips along the side of his face.  He is a little warm--skin slightly damp under my fingers--and I know he must be running a fever.  But shouldn’t that mean he’s healing?  Isn’t it better than when he was so cold?  It has to be, and I guess I should let him rest a little longer.

Pull my hand back slowly, eyes traveling over his smaller form and it’s all I can do to force myself to my feet.  Feel my stomach growling again and I know I’ve got to eat something…we both do.  But for now, I guess I better eat and let him sleep a little longer.  I really don’t want to wake him yet.  He still looks so tired….

Force myself to turn from him and go back to the kitchen.  Rummage through the bags I dropped on the table and pull out a Snicker’s bar, tearing it open and devouring it almost immediately.  But it just seems to make me hungrier.  Grab one of the bottles of Pepsi, take a long drink and then rip into the chips.  I’ll bother with the soup later when I’m making it for him.  For now I just need to eat something.

In less than five minutes time, three Snickers, two Pepsis and most of a bag of chips later, I’m finally starting to feel less famished and a little more like myself.  Leave it to a sugar high to make me feel better.  But my lightheartedness only lasts for a moment.  Now it’s time to actually get something done.  To wash away…everything.

I push myself up from the table and finally turn to face the kitchen.  I guess I might as well get up all the glass I can.  I grab the broom and dust pan, from where I dropped them earlier, and start trying to sweep away all the glinting shards that I can.  I make a little progress, but soon find that much of the glass is caked to the floor…with blood.  Shake away the realization and lean over, using the dust pan to knock loose as much glass as I can and sweep it up, dumping it in the trash can at the back of the kitchen.

The sound of glass against glass makes me jump slightly, but I push back the thoughts that try to surface in my mind.  Thoughts of how all this might have happened and what must have drove him to it.  Thoughts of what I would have done if the back door hadn’t been open, considering it’s not like I know how to pick a lock.  But none of this is important now.  What’s important is getting past this--moving on--and I’m more than willing to try and make that happen.

I look back over the room, taking in the dark brownish streaks on the floor and head back to the entrance of the kitchen, grabbing the bucket I found earlier.  I fill it halfway with warm water in the sink and carry it to the entrance of the kitchen, setting it down.  Then I look over the cleaning supplies on the dining table, and start with the Comet, sprinkling the power all over the floor, probably dumping out about half of it. Next I move to the 409, spraying it all over the power before finally fishing out the sponges and gloves.  I really, don’t want to do this.  I don’t.  But I have no choice.  If I’m going to “fix” things, this is where I need to start.

Take a deep breath and tear open the pack of sponges, followed by the gloves. Pull on the yellow rubber gloves and pick up a sponge, telling myself it’s just a mess to be cleaned…that’s all.  Just wash it away, Jimmie, make it all go away.  Tomorrow is another day; I force myself to think, as I kneel down and dip the sponge in the water.  It can only get better, I tell myself, as I begin to scrub the floor, back and forth, dipping and wringing the sponge out in the bucket.

I’m not even sure how long I scrub, crawling slowly across the floor, before I finally reach the other side.  I go through two sponges before all the reddish streaks are washed away, but still, it’s not enough.  I dump the crimson water into the sink and run the faucet until all traces are washed away. Then I fill the bucket halfway again and move back to the entrance of the room.

The glass and dried blood are gone…I can’t even see a trace. But I swear I can still feel it. Snatch the bleach off the table quickly and turn, twisting off the lid and pulling away the safety seal.  Then I walk into the kitchen, splashing the beach on the floor, ignoring the harsh smell.  I need to make it all go away.  I need to remove every trace.  I’m back on my knees in an instant, new sponge in my hand, scrubbing at the floor once again.  Crawling, purging, washing it all away as if it never happened.

I need to make it all go away.

Crawl across the floor for what seems like an eternity, and once I’m finally done my hands are raw even through the rubber gloves.   Peel the gloves off, tossing them in the trash and slowly flex my fingers as I trudge over to the sink.  Wash my hands over and over, scrubbing at my nails to make sure not a speck of anything remains and only when I realize it’s gone, wiped away and washed down the drain, do I breathe a sigh of relief.

Now just need to finish the rest.

Swallow hard at the thought, not wanting to ever enter that room again.  But I have no choice.  I have to make everything better--to fix things--and that all starts with wiping away all traces of last night.

Grab the now empty bucket and the rest of the cleaning supplies and slowly make my way down the hall, feet dragging at each step.  But I force myself to keep going, keep moving, because if I don’t I know I’m gonna start thinking too much.  Walk back into the bedroom and drop my supplies by the bathroom door and make my way over to him again, just long enough to make sure he’s still ok.

As I sit by him I can’t help but reach out for him again--funny it seems to be getting easier--and brush my fingertips down the side of his face.  Trace the line of his jaw lightly and brush the pad of my thumb over soft lips that seem way too dry.  He needs to eat.  He needs to drink something but still, I can’t force myself to wake him.  Not yet.

My work’s not done.

Sigh softly and finally force myself to pull away, pushing away the tangible emptiness I feel moving away from him, and make my way to my feet.  Then I stare across the room at the one door I wish I never had to cross through again. But I will.  I will finish this.  I will make it all go away.

Take a deep breath and stand a little straighter.  I can do this.  I’m strong enough.  I have to be because…do I really have a choice?  No.  No, I don’t.  Force my feet to move across the bedroom and pick up my supplies to start the process all over again.  Walk into the room that was almost his death chamber and my eyes are instantly caught by the stagnant crimson pool.  That’s where I need to start.  Where it all almost ended.  Where he almost died.

Start to reach for my second pair of gloves but stop as I look over the room.  This is more personal, more visceral, and for some reason…I feel like I need to be closer to it.  Toss the gloves aside and then kneel by the tub, shoving my hand into the water without even thinking about it to pull the stopper.  Then I slowly pull back my hand and become completely transfixed as the red tinged water slowly starts to swirl down the drain.

That could have been his life sliding down the drain along with his blood.  It very nearly was.  Feel myself sway, hypnotized by the draining pool, and for a moment I feel like it’s my life bleeding away.  Nothing can ever be the same again.  I’m tied to him completely and I wonder…will I become as dark as him?  Will he pull me down into his private hell?  Will it swallow us both?  And would I even stop him if I could?

Blink my eyes and shake my head.  Where the hell did those thoughts come from?  He’s not going to destroy me or us.  I’m going to fix him.  I’m going to fix it all.  Focus only on this thought as I begin my ritual with 409 and Comet, uncaring this time about how it burns my hands.  This is all gonna go away.  Everything is going to go away.  Just like it never happened at all.

“Everything is going to be fine,” I whisper softly again and again.  Maybe if I say the words enough…I’ll finally start to believe them.  “We’re going to be fine,” I tell myself, continuing the mantra as if weaving some kind of spell with my words as my hands take on a life of their own.  Start with the fixtures, scouring them until they gleam and no trace of bloody rust remains.  Then it’s on to the tub, the floor, the walls, every single place stained from the night before.  Crawl across the floor, not missing a thing as I take on the toilet, the cabinets, the mirror and the sink until the entire room gleams in perfection.

But it’s not enough.

I don’t know why I think that but somehow it feels like it’s all still here, right under the surface.  Hesitate only for a moment and then I’m grabbing the bleach and starting again, splashing it everywhere I saw the crusty stain from before.  Scrub until my hands are raw, almost bleeding and scrub some more.  Only when I’ve run out of every cleaning supply I have and my sponges are nothing but rags in my hands do stop and look around.

It’s done.  It’s gone.  And I’ll never let it happen again.

Gather all my supplies, even the extra gloves and immediately make my way to the trash can outside.  I’m getting rid of every scrap of evidence before he even wakes up.  Toss the empty containers and that’s when I realize that my clothes look as bad as the ones I was wearing last night.  Tear my shirt off without hesitation and add it to the garbage before hurrying back inside to gather everything from last night.  My clothes, the blanket, the hospital gown, everything that could be a reminder.  I even toss in my shoes because I think I have an old pair in the back of my truck.  Thankfully I had another change of clothes from the track because at this rate I’m not going to have anything left and I’ll be damned if I leave him alone.  I’d hold him hostage naked if I have to because now…things have changed.

Give the trash can a long look as I finally dump everything in and part of me wonders if I could get away with burning it all.  There’s probably enough left over bleach to be flammable…and I do have his lighter.  No, I shouldn’t.  I shouldn’t draw more attention to us.  No, right now I need to take care of him.  It’s time.

Head back inside through the back door and immediately set on making the soup I bought.  I have no idea if he’ll be up to drinking anything but the broth but either way he’s going to get down something.  I’m in charge now and I’ve decided it’s time for him to get better.  I know he’s probably going to be sleeping a lot more before he’s better and I will scour this house up and down for any and every vice I can find.  I’ll find every razor blade, every everything he’s used to hurt himself.  If I have to I’ll even throw out the kitchen knives, but it shouldn’t come to that.  This is still Jeff.  I just need to remind him of who he is.

Ladle the soup into a bowl once it’s hot and carry it back to the bedroom.  Make it through the door but freeze when I see he’s shifted slightly on the bed.  His head is turned and his is arm stretched out more than before.  He’s waking.  Feel a chill run down my spine when I think about having to face those midnight blue eyes.  No, this is a good thing.  It’ll just make this easier.

Force myself to move and make my way over to the bed, setting the hot soup on the end table beside him.  Then after a moment’s hesitation I slide back into bed with him.  Lean back against the head board and pull him into my arms so he’s leaning back against me.  His skin is hot and slick with sweat and at first he’s nothing but dead weight and I feel my stomach roll.  But then he does the most unexpected thing.  He turns into me as if seeking my warmth.

Run my hand along his side as I tug him closer, not even caring about the soup when I feel his hot breath against my neck.  Strong, I have to be strong.  But it’s Jeff and I swear I’ll give him anything he needs.  Anything.  He shifts again and the next thing I know I’m looking into deep blue almost black eyes staring up at me.  They’re unfocused, even I can see that, and they’re so filled with pain…and something else I’ve never seen before.  That’s when I realize that all the walls he puts up, all the distance he’s tried to put between us is gone and it’s like I’m looking into his soul.  I feel like I should look away, it’s too intimate…but I just can’t.

“Jiiiimmie?”  His voice is rough and raspy, his words hardly even recognizable, but I’d know my name on his lips even if I was deaf, dumb and blind.  Somehow I just would.  Gently caress the side of his face, taking liberties I’ve only dreamed and to my surprise he doesn’t pull away, just tries to get closer.  Lean closer and brush my lips over his gently and still he doesn’t pull away.

“Yeah Jeff, it’s me.  I’ve got you.  I’m gonna take care of you now.”  He doesn’t respond at first and I wonder if he’ll fight me, not that he has the strength.  Then I wonder if he even heard me.  With all that he’s been through--

“My Jimmieboy…” he rasps softly and curls up in my arms.  Blink and look down at him in surprise.  Did I hear him right?  Did he really say that?  I can feel how hot he is and I know he must be running a fever.  He probably doesn’t even know what he’s saying.  But I don’t care.  His actions speak so much louder than words.

“That’s right, Jeff.  I’m yours.  I’ve always been yours.  And now I’m going to take care of you.”  And I will, no matter what he says when he’s finally “lucid” again.  He’s shown me the depth of his pain, the way he really feels, and no matter what comes next…I’m never leaving him again.

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Catw00man - catw00man@cryptoffic.com