Nights Without Night Page 8

  “Isa…”

  “One more,” he says softly, as if he’s not asking the impossible.

  “No, no way,” I say, shaking my head against the pillow even though I already know what’s going to happen.

  “One more,” he says, kissing me again.

  He keeps pumping his fingers into me. I feel achy and used, my eyes squeezing shut.

  The next few minutes are a haze. Every brush of my prostate or my dick drags a whine from me, but it’s as if my body can’t help it. Under Isadoro’s command, it reawakens. He’s got three fingers in me before I even know what’s happening, his other hand massaging my spent balls. My body is not mine, now. It’s his and I hand it over, sparking in his hands.

  I’m not quite sure what’s happening when his fingers slide out of my body, but I don’t think to question it. The next moment brings more. Isadoro leans over me and then his cock is inside me. I blink my eyes open and his own are bright stars above me.

  He kisses me as he starts moving. He fucks me in slow, deep, precise thrusts that have me half crazy. I’m panting, not sure if the pleasure climbing inside me is too sharp to take. I feel so fucking full, limp-limbed and floating.

  When the third orgasm hits it’s almost dry, an aborted cry in my throat Isadoro swallows down. The pleasure is the foam from a crashed wave, sizzling over me.

  I feel Isadoro clean me up and then lie next to me, a warm presence around me.

  “That’s quite the superpower,” I rasp. He smiles, stroking my face.

  At the edge of unconsciousness, I wrap my arms around his body.

  “Sleep,” I say, and fall for my own spell.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The routine of having Isadoro back lulls me. I start to relax. To think, maybe this is all there is to it.

  The bar is filled to capacity. It’s Saturday night and the sound of the crowd is loud, the music even louder. I’ve never liked working the bar. It’s hectic, you get a tip every blue moon if you’re lucky, and drunk people are the worst.

  A prime example of the latter is the guy hanging around at the edge of the bar. He’s been trying to get my attention ever since he got there, even though I already served him his drink and the push for the bar is four-man deep.

  “Hey, blondie!” he shouts again as I serve someone near him. I don’t even glance at him. You don’t have to look any sort of way to get hollered at if you work behind the bar, and we’ve all developed a thick skin. Patrons protesting about expensive drinks and ending happy hours, complaining about the ratio of alcohol, trying to short us in the dark—we’ve seen it all.

  “Hey! Hey! Blondie!” The guy is still shouting five minutes later. I sigh as I see he’s starting to disturb the people around him. I walk towards him and lean in just enough to be able to communicate.

  “Yes?” I ask coldly. The guy’s eyes are glassy and bright. I know it’s just the alcohol and the lights, but it lends him a feverish, maniacal look that does nothing to ease my discomfort.

  “What’s your name?” he slurs. I fight hard not to roll my eyes.

  “You got it in one. It’s Blondie,” I drawl. He blinks for a moment before throwing his head back and howling with laughter. I take a deep breath to try and regain some patience.

  “It’s busy, so I can’t talk. You want a drink?”

  “You gonna buy it for me?” he says, leaning further in.

  “Me, bartender. You, patron. You buy the drinks here, buddy,” I say testily.

  “You’re quite the little bitch, eh?” he says, mouth turning as he finally cottons on to my rejection.

  “I think it’s time for you to leave. And by ‘I think’ I mean I’m going to call those big guys by the doors if you don’t,” I say. I don’t have time for this bullshit.

  “Listen here,” the guy says, grabbing at my shirt and pulling me forward. I have him off me in a second, thumb pressing on the weak spot at the wrist and then taking a step back.

  I look toward the bouncers, but a commotion catches my eye. It’s Isadoro, forcefully parting the crowds as he shoves toward me. For a second, I’m relieved, but then I catch sight of his expression. The snarl on his lips and steel in his eyes. It isn’t an ‘I’m a bouncer on my way to handle a situation’ look. It’s an ‘open the door of this moving car because someone cut you off’ look.

  “Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” I say. Luckily, we’re at the edge of the bar and I unlatch the exit, shoving Fever Eyes out of the way just in time to get between him and the bull stampeding for him.

  “Isadoro!” I shout, grabbing at his shirt. He isn’t even looking at me, eyes focused on the guy behind me. “Hey! Hey, hey—one! Remember, I say one-”

  Isadoro grabs me firmly by the arms and just picks me up and puts me out of the way. I try to cling to his shirt because this is going to get bad. I can see it on his face.

  Fever Eyes has no idea what’s going on. His ego and confidence are on an alcohol high, and not even the guy who just barrelled towards him is shutting him up.

  “Hey!” I shout at Fever Eyes, trying to change tactic, but it’s too late. Isadoro picks the guy up clean off his feet and then slams him hard against the wall once, twice, three times. Fever Eyes’ head flops forwards and backwards unnervingly. On the third hit, his head smacks against the wall so hard it’s audible even over the music and the crowd. My heart stops.

  “Isa!” I shout, fear real and tangible. “Let him go! Fuck!” I say, trying to get between them, but a few seconds later the other bouncer, Alfie, is there, pulling Isadoro back. The moment Alfie’s hand is on him, Isadoro takes a swing. Alfie steps back just in time, but we’re all dumbfounded.

  “Enough!” I shout, grabbing the wrist that just swung with both my hands. “Look at me. Isadoro. Look at me.”

  For a moment, he’s not there. In his eyes, it’s like he’s gone. Then, slowly, he wakes up. He eyes flit around. He’s red, panting, a hand still gripping the shirt of Fever Eyes, who is clutching at his head. I think I see blood.

  “Let go of him. Let go of him,” I plead. He does.

  The rest of the night is a blur.

  Alfie escorts us out. The cold hits my bare arms at once and I stand there shivering until someone brings me a coat.

  I can’t think. I can’t function.

  Fever Eyes is bleeding from the head. It’s a lot of blood, and even knowing head wounds are prolific bleeders doesn’t stop the nauseating worry inside me.

  The paramedics arrive. The police. At the sight of the flashing lights, my whole body goes numb.

  Fever Eyes is going to be fine, they tell me, but they have some questions for me. I tell them the truth, maybe a little embellished on Fever Eyes’ harassment. In these situations, I’m never sure if a few insults and a grab is going to be enough. And then,

  “He—Isadoro—came back from Iraq a few months ago,” I say. The officer stills, and then her whole expression changes.

  “I see,” she says.

  They don’t arrest him, putting it under the umbrella of “self-defence” and “work-appropriate force.”

  Jesus, I think. This is what it’s like to be part of the law enforcement family.

  Fever Eyes is going to be fine, they tell me again. Head wounds bleed a lot. I nod.

  The police leave. The paramedics have taken Fever Eyes away for observation. The crowd disperses.

  Isadoro gets fired on the spot. The manager catches my eyes but doesn’t say anything to me. I look away.

  The shaking of my hands has subsided as I drive us home. I don’t even put the radio on. Everything is silence.

  When we reach the apartment, Isadoro heads straight for his room.

  “Don’t you fucking dare go into your room right now,” I say quietly. Isadoro stops but doesn’t turn back. I sit on the couch, face in my hands for a moment. Isadoro just stands there, between his cave and me.

  “You need to get some help,” I say into the silence. The words have a strange ring to them, the odd aftermath of a st
ruck bell.

  “I don’t…” He trails off. I turn my head to look at the cross of his shoulders and back.

  “Are you really going to say you don’t need help after tonight?” I say. His hands clench at his sides. “Isadoro, this isn’t an accusation! For God’s sake, everybody needs help sometimes! And you spent eight tours out there! Anybody would need a little help!”

  “Not me,” he clenches out.

  “Isa, please-”

  “I’m allowed to be angry!” he says, finally turning to face me.

  “I know that. I know that. Anybody can be angry. You can be angry. What you can’t do is crack a guy’s head open on a wall!”

  “He was all over you,” he growls. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out for a second.

  “If this is because we’re sleeping together-”

  “It has nothing to do with that! He was making you uncomfortable, he grabbed you,” he says like it’s the worst sin.

  “Yes. He was making me uncomfortable. He grabbed me. But you know what? It’s part of the job. No, let me finish. I know it shouldn’t be part of the job, but it is. There is protocol on how to deal with it, and I had the situation more than handled. I wasn’t in danger. You didn’t protect me from anything. You aren’t my personal bodyguard, Isa. You can’t go around beating people up because they grab me, especially in a situation that was so under control. I don’t care how you feel about it, if you’re angry or not—I was angry too! But you can’t, you can’t…” I run my hands through my hair. “You can’t do that. What if you’d really hurt that guy? You could have gone to jail and then…” I press the heels of my hands to my eyes.

  My breath is stuttered as I try to calm down. I hear Isadoro walk towards me, the dip of the couch as he sits next to me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, but I know they’re just words. Not because he doesn’t mean them, but because nothing is going to change.

  I lower my hands and look at him. My eyes are wet, and it distorts Isadoro for a moment. I reach out and grasp his hand.

  “Please, just…go to the V.A. I can go with you, or drive you and wait in the car, or just drive-”

  “Stop,” he says. I stop. “I don’t need all that. This was one incident, okay?”

  “How many more-”

  “There won’t be more. It won’t happen again,” he says, looking away.

  I close my eyes. His hand is still and limp in mine.

  I don’t let go.

  **********

  It’s like something breaks.

  I’ve seen the documentaries. Veterans talking about the aftermath. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the anger. It all made sense when they shared their stories. There was a sort of linear narrative to it. How the depression hit them when they got home. It didn’t sneak up. It was there all along.

  Some of them talk about how the V.A. helped them. Some of them talk about how the system failed them.

  I’m left wondering about the people who can’t get on camera to tell their stories. Who don’t have a linear story. Who, as Isadoro put it, don’t survive.

  A void has opened, and I can’t jump it. I can see Isadoro on the other side. He’s alone. So am I. But I can’t reach him.

  The harder I try, the wider the chasm seems.

  **********

  Those first few days, I think it’s going to blow over. I leave him alone, giving him space. Two days pass. Three. Anxiety is a heavy stone in my stomach, a restless swarm in my lungs. Four.

  He disappears. I can’t even hear him at night.

  I’ve been knocking on his door almost every day, but on the fourth day, the rap on the door becomes insistent.

  “Isa?” I say, voice almost cracking as I try to put force on its tentative frame. I hear the slightest noise inside. I let out a breath, relieved.

  “Isa, I’m coming in,” I say through the door and then pause, waiting for a response.

  Nothing.

  I open the door, thanking God it’s not locked. The smell hits me at once. Unwashed human, sweaty sheets. I step into the fog. The room is completely dark, the curtains drawn. It eats up the light from the hallway as I push the door open a little further. My shadow steps in front of me, as tentative as I am.

  “Isa,” I say again. The creature under the sheets shifts. It looks too small to be Isadoro. I walked towards it. “Isa…”

  He’s curled on his side, facing the wall the bed is pushed against. The sheets are drawn up high, swallowing him up. His face is turned towards the pillow, buried in it. I wonder how he can breathe.

  I squat beside the bed so that I’m eye-level with the curve of his scalp on the white pillow.

  “Isa. Isa, come on. Why don’t we go sit on the couch? Air the room out?” I suggest. He doesn’t move a muscle. “Isa.”

  “What?” a croak from the sheets says. I startle. My heart starts pounding.

  “Why don’t we go to the living room? Leave the room for a while?”

  “No,” he says simply.

  “Just for-”

  “I said no.” His voice isn’t harsh, but it’s cold, somehow, like he’s talking to a stranger. I take a deep breath of the musty air.

  “Okay, well, how about I bring you some food?”

  “I’ve eaten.”

  “Barely anything. I can-”

  “I said I’ve eaten.” His body tightens into himself, the shell of his back hardening. I let out a breath.

  I stay there for a while. Isadoro and me, and the wall between us. He doesn’t move. I don’t know what to say. Except.

  “Okay.” The fragile word dissolves instantly in the dark.

  When I shut the door behind me, the click sounds final.

  *****

  I search for information on veterans of the Special Ops. I find almost nothing.

  I think, what can I do?

  Living in an individualistic society builds a very particular illusion around you: You Can Do Anything. Even if we don’t believe in ourselves there’s a little voice in our heads. “You could do it if you actually applied yourself and tried”. Possibility is an obstacle away. It’s a sense of power that doesn’t feel like power.

  I can do anything if I try hard enough.

  But I can’t.

  *****

  I quit the job at the bar, but my head is still filled to the brim. Life doesn’t slow down for us. I go to class and studio, trying to keep up with the homework, but it’s like I’m running with a millstone like a noose around my neck.

  Every spare thought is Isadoro’s. No amount of exhaustion will help me sleep.

  I check the food obsessively, counting everything so I know when something goes missing. A banana. Two pieces of bread. The jar of chocolate spread.

  I make him arroz con leche, a treat my mom used to make us when we were kids. The smell of cinnamon is an almost unbearable ache. I wait to see if the scent draws Isadoro out, but his door stays shut.

  Maybe it doesn’t even reach him.

  It comes out a little mushy, but I shrug it off. We always preferred it cold, so I wait until it cools down and then put it in the fridge. In the late evening, I take two of the small pots out. My lungs and my stomach are heavy, but I ignore them as I walk to Isadoro’s room. Balancing the pots on a plate, I knock on Isadoro’s door and call his name. Silence answers me.

  “I’m coming in,” I say. The door opens, and a familiar scene greets me. The smell and the darkness are thicker, making me pause at the entrance.

  “Isa,” I say, just to hear something in this silence.

  My steps are muffled as I walk inside. Isadoro is in the same position, and I kneel beside the bed, placing the plate and spoons on the bedside table.

  “I made you some arroz con leche,” I say quietly. My pulse jumps as Isadoro shifts, but he doesn’t turn around. I wait a few more seconds.

  “Please. I…I promise, it’s better than my lasagne,” I try. When that doesn’t work, I press a hand against his hidden back. “Please.”


  It works. I snatch my hand back as he turns around, grabbing a dessert pot and a spoon. When he’s facing me, he just blinks at my face for a moment, before looking at the arroz con leche in my hands. He looks different, a scraggly beard on his face, but I’m just glad he’s looking my way. I hold my breath. With obvious effort, he sits up, back against the headboard.

  I have the sudden, insane urge to cry.

  “Here,” I say, handing him the pot and spoon. He takes them. Our fingers don’t brush.

  I get up from the floor to sit at the edge of the bed, watching him closely.

  “Quit staring,” he says, pointing at the other pot of arroz con leche on the plate. I take the hint and pick it up, making a considering noise as I eat a spoonful.

  “Not bad, right?”

  “It’s good.”

  We eat in silence. I pretend to look down as I watch him from the corner of my eye. He’s eating slowly and methodically, eyes unfocused. The taste doesn’t seem to be taking him anywhere. It’s just food.

  When he’s done and has placed the empty pot on the plate I decide to push my luck.

  “Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll change the sheets?” At my suggestion, Isadoro closes his eyes. He slides down, turning back to his original position. His back towards me.

  I sit there for a while, just watching him. No words come to me.

  Eventually, I leave, placing the dishes in the sink. I look at his empty pot.

  It doesn’t feel like a victory.

  **********

  I don’t tell anyone about what’s going on. I try, but it feels like I’m betraying Isadoro’s trust. Like the darkness in his room is his own secret, and it’s not my right to shed light on it.

  One day I come back home and he’s in the living room. I stop short, my heart immediately racing. When I come closer, I see he’s showered, shaved, and changed. Cartoons flicker on the TV.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” he replies. I’m too scared to say anything else, worried he’ll retreat to his room.