clear.
The blood is pure red and thin in
it’s form.
Justin smiles, his teeth smeared with it. The red glistens over the white and
it looks like art. Which doesn’t surprise you, even in battle Justin shines.
He licks his teeth and grins some more. “You should try it, Chris. It makes you
feel alive, man. So alive.” He makes the words sound like fact. Truth. And
maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he’s fucked up and maybe you are too for making
this shit possible.
You look at him, with his new shiner and the long, jagged cut on the side of
his face, and you think that it still doesn’t diminish the beauty of his face.
“I’m never fucking touching you again, J. Never.” And you mean it this time.
This is the third time you’ve hit him. The first time was when you and the guys
had found out that Lou had filed a lawsuit against you. It hadn’t been exactly
then, maybe a few weeks later when it had been brought to court. At the recess,
he had dragged you inside the bathroom and had asked you to do it.
He cried that first time. You had cried too.
But in the end he’d walked out of that bathroom looking like he could battle
the world, you had been the one left leaning over the toilet vomiting up your
stomachs contents.
The second time had been after NSA had been released and you and the guys had
beaten all kinds of records that meant nothing to you but meant everything to
Justin. Everyone had wanted a piece of your success. Moods switched quickly and
suddenly the people who had belittled before and around the lawsuit were
suddenly worshipping and toadying. To you it was sickening but to Justin, who
the lawsuit had affected the worst, it had been a heady drug.
He came to you after the VMA’s. You and the guys had won three awards for Bye
Bye Bye and Justin had been particularly obnoxious.
At some point that night, he had made his way to your hotel room. He had
scraped at the door and you only heard it because you had been up reading.
He came into the room, his head low and his shoulders hunched. And you knew
exactly what he was going to ask and you told him right away that you weren’t
going to do it.
He had pleaded with you and eventually you had yielded to him, but not before
you asked him why.
He looked at you, his eyes red and his mouth drooping and whispered, “This is
freedom. This is reality. This is what I need.”
That night you had fought him so hard that you had left him with a broken hand
and a swollen face. You held him all night and cried when he fell asleep. The
day after, when the guys had seen his injuries and asked what happened, Justin
had just responded with some stupid lie. That he’d tripped over his own feet or
something.
You had left the room that time.
You’re itching to leave the room now.
He’s peering at you oddly and you realize that you’ve spent the last few
minutes staring at him without saying a word.
“So, you gonna stop there?” He asks, his brow quirked.
You shake your head. No, you’re not going to stop there.
His album is out in one week. And he needs this now more than ever because
everything is ten times worse this time. He needs to remember that he’s not
just a name or a dollar sign. He needs to remember that he’s real.
You knock him out this time. And you don’t cry or get sick at all. This is the
last time.
He wakes up in your arms and asks if he can stay the night.
You nod and tuck him into your bed.
You join him and hold him for a while.
“No more, J.”
He doesn’t respond and you think he’s sleeping.
You’re about to follow suit when he turns around to face you and kisses you
with his swollen lips.
“I love you.”
And when he says it this first time, it’s pure and warm and folds itself around
your heart.
“I love you too, J.”
He sighs and closes his eyes. “No more.”
And you close your eyes too.
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