Mr. One Fifty-Eight Ch. 05

"Then why aren't you looking at me?"

Chris raised his eyes, unable to disobey, but unable to fully mask his emotional conflict either.

Justin took in Chris' expression and froze.

"What does that look mean, Chrissy?"
Chris face went from uncomfortable to stricken. Shit, shit, shit, he thought, you have to save this somehow.

"Huh? Nothing, it's nothing."

"Is it about that night? Was there something wrong with that night? That you never told me?"

Chris's mouth went dry.

"What's on your mind, boy? What's going on?"

"No, no . . . that night was perfect." Chris looked at the floor again.

"But . . .?"

"It was perfect, Sir," Chris said firmly, and smiled at Justin.

The jock wasn't buying it.

"But there's something you're not telling me. Something you're not saying. Tell me." Justin rubbed his shaved head anxiously. He was still tipsy, and obsessive.

"Chris, say what's in your head. What was wrong with that night?"

Chris exhaled slowly. He squared his shoulders and looked Justin in the eye.

"It was perfect. In every way. You were amazing, through all of it. Saving me at . . . at the fraternity, and when you . . . fucked me . . . that was perfect. I think of that night all the time. I think of that night every day, in fact. But I wasn't . . ."

Justin's eyes widened.

"You weren't what?"

"It wasn't . . ." Chris couldn't complete the sentence.

"It wasn't what?! Say it!"

"It just wasn't the first time I'd been fucked, that's all."

Justin was dumbstruck. For a moment, there was complete silence; then there was the whine of another gust of wind.

The fist, when it came, landed hard.

Shock was all Chris could feel at first; it was as if he was suspended in time. And then he found himself on the floor, holding his face, an extraordinary pain in his eye and nose. He couldn't see, but he felt something hot and sticky. Was that blood? How . . . what had happened? Through the pounding in his ears, he heard the sound of a door slamming. He sat there for a few minutes in a stupor. He came to his senses when he felt something wet dripping through his hands onto his leg.

Bathroom.

He stumbled, half-blind, into the short hallway and made his way to the small bath. Afraid to look at first, he ran the tap and washed his face thoroughly in the cold water. By the time the hot water finally arrived on the top floor, he had decided that his nose was definitely bleeding. But he needed to see what else. Cupping his nose tightly in his hand, he looked up at the mirror. His nose and the area around his left eye were both red. It was already swelling; he could only squint with that eye. He closed it and reopened it as best he could. Then the other. He could still see out of both. Ok. Ok. Holding a towel to his face, he headed back to his room.

Phone. 911. Operator. What was the nature of his emergency. Shame. Pain.

Heavy snow. Poor visibility. No ambulance. Nearest emergency room. Thanks.

He dressed himself unsteadily, trying unsuccessfully not to get blood everywhere. He bundled up for the walk, towel still pressed to his face. He went through the door downstairs, locking it automatically, then thinking: I will have to change the lock. That broke him; he started to cry.

The snow was falling gently now; the street was domed in the exquisite lacework of white tree branches, lit by the occasional yellow globe of a street light. Chris trudged slowly into the night.