Darius ~ Summer 1988
Breaking up always hurt, but deep down we knew we’d get back together. If I’d broken up with him that meant he’d pissed me off somehow. He’d slide up to me the next day, usually after breakfast, with his shy puppy routine. “I’m sorry, babyface.” He’d promise never to do whatever thing I’d been mad at him for again.
Did I believe him? No, but being without him for any amount of time brought with it gut-churning emptiness.
When he broke up with me, it was because of something I’d done and I wasn’t about to admit to being a dickhead, but I would drag him from whatever hole he’d dived into to drink—missing me—and tell him we were back together. He’d accept me even when sometimes he shouldn’t have because the same place in him ached when we were apart.
Being without the other was like hollow emptiness, but in each other’s arms, we could breathe again. Together we were worth something.
Young-consuming love is fire, and it burns out of control.
It was early May of eighty-eight when I got one of my premonitions and because I always said everything to Simon, Shane, and Asher, I told them. “My brother’s coming.”
It was just like them to doubt me. No matter how much of a magic eight-ball I’d always been, they still questioned my intuition.
We were watching TV in the common room. I was spread over Asher despite that it was hot, and we were sticky. Simon and Shane had the wisdom to sit apart, but Simon’s foot was pressed into Shane’s thigh, so they were still touching.
Asher nudged me. “Get off. I’m melting.”
I was lost in a rabbit hole of thoughts about leaving though. When I first arrived, it was easy for me to picture leaving. I ached to be with my brothers. I missed home despite what hells awaited me there. Things had changed. Simon, Shane, and Asher were my new family. Impossibly, they’d become my certainty and I would have to abandon them.
“Stop it. You’ll wish you’d put up with my sweaty ass when I’m gone.”
“Wouldja stop it with that?”
“I’m telling you.”
“Even if he is coming, that’s shitty if you leave us.”
“He’s my brother, Asher.”
“Get off me.”
He pushed me off him. It pissed me off. “As if you wouldn’t leave with your sisters.”
“Shut up about that.”
I remembered too late he told me that in private. A more mature me might have apologized and shut the hell up, but I was a dumbass, angry teenager.
“Here we go again. Don’t make this about you,” I said.
“Then shut yer mouth. Know what, go with your brothers. Why don’t you leave and go find ‘em, eh? I’ll even drive yah. Oh, that’s right. You’re not fucking wanted there. Bet he’s not even coming. That he’s forgotten you.”
“Shut up or I’ll kill you.”
Years later, we’d fight over who threw the first punch. Even Simon and Shane disagree on who it was. It ended—as we know—with one of the baseball bats that were kept in the box of sports crap, through Terry’s prized TV. The resulting brawl didn’t do the room or our faces any favors either. My nose was bleeding; his lip was all busted up.
But the rest of our blood drained from all extremities. There was no fixing that TV. Lars and Terry were gonna kills us.
* * *
Darius
Asher and I fessed up. We made sure Simon and Shane’s innocence was clear. They had tried to stop us, but there was no stopping us. It was a very public and very painful ass whooping, but Terry had returned from town in way too good of a mood for a guy who wasn’t going to be watching his sports in color anymore.
A generous benefactor had donated money for a new TV. A man called Steve from Golden Harpy Inc. Prickles washed over me.
Silas.
