Everyone Else - Part 9

Genre: high school; romance; drama; m/m

Original characters

- - -

His arm hurts. Charlie looks down and sees his sister pulling hard at it; her face red, shadowed by an impregnable fear. She is yelling something at him in garbled, angry words. It's her lipstick. Her lipstick has gone missing and she thinks – she knows – it's him. Last time she found her bangles and her nail polish under his mattress, so this merely furthers her suspicions. His shoulders hurt from the way her fingers dig into his skin. Exasperation irons out the temporary lines in her face as she throws him aside and storms into her room.

Charlie rubs his fingers into his shoulder blade and massages the bruised area. Soon enough, his name is called and he has to face trial before his mother. Her face is soft but stretched taut around the corners from fretting over details he could not see. "God is watching you," she says, "don't you lie to me. Lyin's a sin, Charlie, and sins are punished. No son of mine is going to burn in hell. Now tell me. What did you take from your sister?" Charlie swears he had not done anything. He is sent to his room without dinner and a stinging backside. But that's okay. There are always the extra candy bars.

Over the next few days, his mother's earrings go missing. And then it's a pair of sunglasses and a screwdriver.

And then everything is locked up.

-

It's his eighth birthday and he's at a park with his father. It's dry out and the sun is hitting just as hard as the baseballs that come flying into his stomach. His father is bent on making a man out of him, and so he had decided baseball would be the perfect sport that would match the brand new baseball bat he got him. But Charlie has already seen it on T.V. and he thinks it's just as boring on screen as it is in the park. He wants to go home. His father tells him to quit his whining and man up. The balls keep reaming into him, hurting more and more from the embarrassment of every miss.

"Stop batting like a girl and bat!" his father cries as he gears up to throw a new ball.

Charlie can hear snorts and giggles coming from the other kids, and he wants nothing more than to sink into the ground. Maybe it was for the best that he hadn't had anyone to invite over to witness the humiliation.

"You tryin' to show me up, boy? I know you're better than this, so show me what you got!"

Charlie grits his teeth and tightens his fingers around the bat. He swings so hard he loses his balance and falls on the ground, scraping his chin and knees. But he doesn't dare cry. Two large feet hulk up suddenly on the ground in front of him, pausing briefly before pulling away, out of sight.

Charlie scrambles to his feet and chases after him, but the burly figure melds with the background, and soon it is just him with the rest of the world drifting away behind a screen of tears.

-

The news comes one day after school. There is an air of celebration in the house that he believes does not concern him. He is in the room he shares with his sister, drawing his favourite character from a television show fighting a rather disgruntled one-eyed alien, when Claire bursts in.

"We're going to have new baby sister or brother!" she cries. Charlie senses relief coating every word. "Oh, I hope it's a cute little girl. It'd be so nice to dress her and make her up like a pretty doll." She skips out the room and leaves Charlie staring at the door in mute incomprehension.

His chest constricts and his breathing increases to short, rapid puffs of air. The crayon in his hand snaps in two. He gets up to his feet and crumples the drawing that no one would admire anyway. How dare they have another child. He throws the crumpled ball of paper at the door. How dare they replace him. Is it to have a smarter, cuter child to love? He doesn't understand why they would have another child when he would do just fine. Or maybe it's because he wouldn't do at all. Will he have to give his room to the baby? Will he have to move out of the house now? He won't stand for it.

He clenches his hands into fists and starts to scream. It's not long before his father storms in and orders him to stop. Charlie will not stop, and his screams double over when his father smacks him across the face and shakes him violently by the shoulders. He looks at his father, his face red and dirty with tears. He swears he'll learn how to swing a bat if he has to.

His father leaves the room in a resigned gait that is all too familiar to Charlie, and shuts the door behind him, letting the boy calm down on his own.

After all his frustration is spent, Charlie slumps to the ground. Exhausted and aching, he climbs into bed and closes his eyes, hoping he will wake up to his mother cooking up a stew and reassuring him that he will always be her little boy. However, he only realises that crying won't ever change anything, except make his father hate him more.

The bed above his is empty. Claire. Where is she? She was here a moment ago. Where did she go?

-

A cold, damp sensation cradles Charlie's lower body, coaxing his eyes open.  Hovering above him is the blurry outline of a face uttering equally nondescript words. All he hears is an acute ringing, and the silhouette grows more agitated. His body screams with fatigue and he closes his eyes again.

- - -

"He hates me!" Finlay snaps at his drink. "I knew it!"

Christie and Rick stand uncomfortably around Finlay, not knowing what to do with themselves. Rick throws Christie a look that means for her to do something. Christie frowns and shrugs.

Finlay lets rip a frustrated roar through the crowded room, turning a few inquisitive heads his way. Christie quickly places an awkward hand on his back and pats him gingerly.

"Aw, come on, now…" she says and glares at Rick to incite him to do the same.

"Yeah…" Rick says, trying not to imagine Finlay as some hung-up girl, and failing. "Uh… you don't know. Maybe he had a hold-up or something. Did you try calling him?"

"If I called him, I'd just be a creepy creeper!" Finlay's outdoor voice has suddenly converted into his indoor voice. "No one loooooves meeeeee! I'm un-fucking-lovable. Just good for a few fucks. Anyone want a free fuck? Get your discount fuck today!"

"Alright, that's enough alcohol for you," Christie says and pries the plastic cup away from Finlay's loose fingers.

"No!" Finlay blurts out and chases limply after the cup. "Alcohol is the only one fer me now. You can't understand our love."

"Oh geez…" Christie sighs.

Rick snakes a hand behind Finlay's back and leads him toward the balcony.

"Right. Let's get you some fresh air. Sound good?" he says.

Finlay groans and lets himself be pulled out into the cool night air which is a pleasant contrast from the heated interior swamped in blaring pop music. He drops onto the ground and leans against the wall. The night sky is barely registered as a screen of grainy murk, the type that he gets after downing ten too many. Rick sits next to him and stays quiet for some time, just staring at the obscured landscape in front of them.

"Hey, Rick," Finlay says and furrows his brow in an intense stare. "Is Christie, like, yer sister or something?"

"What?" Rick's eyes widen. "Where did that come from?"

"Well…" Finlay clunks his head to the wall. "Fer one, you're always together, and fer two, you have the same hair. If that doesn't prove it, then I dunno what does."

Rick shakes his head and stretches his legs out in front of him. "Y'know… I have to admit," he says. "When I found out your, uh… affections for Charlie… I was kinda relieved."

Finlay narrows his eyes at him. "Huh?"

"Yeah…" Rick continues, "'cause I seriously thought that Christie might've had a thing for you. What with your looks and stupid talent for music…"

"Ooh," Finlay slurs in a moment of clarity and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. He chuckles. "Jealous are we? Can't blame you. Many have–"

"You should call him," Rick says as he gets up and stretches his muscles. "Just ask how he's doing, then come back inside. I was looking forward to playing something tonight. Can't do it without someone at the guitar."

Finlay watches him disappear inside, and lowers his hand to his pocket and slides a finger across the slick edge of his phone, toying with the idea of actually calling Charlie up. He imagines just how much better the party would be if he were here.

But if Charlie didn't show up then it's his choice. Although he still can't shake the feeling that he's pushed Charlie away somehow. Is their relationship only something he's imagined all along? Is there even a relationship at all? Whatever he does seems to be marked in sand, always subject to change, losing or gaining anything in a second. He wonders that if he had left Charlie alone, would their paths have crossed at all? Or is he simply destined to watch from the sidelines as people come and go and leave him behind as they continue their own paths?

Finlay tucks his phone away and lifts himself up to joins the others inside. Rick gives him a small smile as they start grabbing their instruments.

Whatever it is, he decides he isn't going to sit around and go with the flow anymore. He needs to start walking his own path soon before the world he has always taken for granted starts to crack.

-

After English period, Finlay tries again. Charlie's phone will not answer. After using Rick's and Christie's phones with the same result, he starts to suspect something might have happened; he doesn't have his e-mail address either, which makes him wonder if Charlie even has a computer at home. Should he go visit him? Maybe that would be a bit much… Rick's and Christie's faces share the same troubled expression.

"What?" Finlay asks.

"There's been rumours going around that Charlie was taken to the hospital yesterday," says Rick, and quickly adds, "But it could just be rumours."

"You should check it out all the same," says Christie.

"Yeah," Finlay agrees reluctantly.

-

Finlay walks through the off white hospital walls with an uneasy feeling barrelling in his guts. Once he reaches the door the hospital clerk indicated, he stops to catch his breath. Inside, he finds a brittle woman with a neatly kept, greying bun sitting by the bed, reading the bible. Her entire composure seems to be holding together from sheer dedication to finishing the page she is on. She looks up at him with a wary look in her eyes. Charlie is sleeping.

"I'm, uh, I'm a friend of Charlie's," Finlay says, hoping that would clear any suspicions.

The woman places the bible on a table beside the hospital bed.

"I'm his mother. Though I thought Charlie didn't have friends." Her words crinkle like dry leaves, disappearing in the air as soon as she opens her mouth. "Still, it's nice of you to come."

Finlay pulls up another chair and sits on the opposite side of the bed. His eyes wander over the steady rise and fall of Charlie's body, and he notes the white bandages wrapped snuggly around his head.

"Do we know what exactly happened?" Finlay asks.

"They found him in the river," she says in a small voice as she looks at her son. "Them doctors say he hit his head on a rock and fractured his right arm. He stayed like that overnight until some good soul found him in the morning."

Finlay arches his eyebrows. "What was he doing near the river?"

The woman knots her hands together like two old rags.

"Did you know that when I was finally allowed to see him he looked at me as if I was some stranger? 'Who are you?' he said. He actually said that." Her lips quiver slightly, yet remain steadfast in the delivery of her words. "They said it should only be temporary."

Finlay doesn't know where he should look, and so settles on examining his shoes.

"Ever since his sister died, things have been different. It's a terrible thing when a parent outlives their child… I don't want to lose another." She clears her throat and looks at Finlay with a taut, apologetic grin. "I'm sorry. I don't why I'm telling you all this."

"That's okay."

"I don't understand." A slowness overcomes her voice as she focuses her wavering gaze on Charlie. "Where have I gone wrong? Why did he turn out this way?"

Charlie stirs from his sleep and opens his eyes. His mother gets up and places something on the side table.

"I brought you that book you like," she says. "It's right on this table next to you. You'd do well to listen to the doctors if you want to come back home."

Charlie stares after the brittle figure with dull eyes, while the sound of footsteps, like twigs dragging through dry ground, snap back into silence. Finlay leans forward and creases his brow.

"Charlie? Are you okay?" he says. "Do you recognise that woman? Do you recognise me?"

"She says I can't live with her anymore." The boy's voice crackles like old radio static, incapable of settling on a channel he recognises. "But says I can go live at Aunt Miranda's."

Finlay takes Charlie's hand in his own and squeezes it hard enough so he'll notice that he's here too.

The boy turns to him. "I missed your party, too. Sorry about that. Evidently, it seems I can't get anything right."

"Forget about that," Finlay says.

'Why don't you live with me?' It's a selfish thought, though. Finlay can't bring himself to say it on his own. But more than anything, he doesn't want Charlie to leave. The change would only destabilise the boy even further. Here was Charlie, finally trying to express himself in a tentative stutter, only to be reamed back into his shell. But it basically all comes down to the choices he makes. Either he will fight tooth and nail for the ability to think, reason, and enjoy life for himself, or he will sink back to a complacent, self-harming spiral.

Life isn't as complicated as some make it out to be, though. Everything is a matter of choice. To measure one's gains and losses is simply mathematical. It would all be so much simpler if there weren't any feelings, and hope… Finlay isn't sure if he's making any "right" choices himself. He isn't sure of reaching any goals he's set, let alone reaching them halfway. But he wants to at least think that he's doing everything he can not to regret.

- - -

tbc