Work Text:
I arrive home at approximately 8:30 from dinner at Marinas, some new place that just opened down town. It’s no Dorsia but, honestly, what can be? I start sifting through my mail when I notice the answering machine’s blinking red light beckoning across the marble countertop. Messages? I wasn’t expecting any messages tonight. Don’t they know I’m on fucking vacation? If only Jean could screen the calls made to my home phone as well, now that would make my routine much more simplified. Then again, that would mean having her in my apartment and the thought of her snooping around and…. finding something…. that’s too much to bear right now. I consider hitting the “delete all” button on the machine and continuing with my nightly routine of rejuvenating creams and a face mask before I hit play foolishly.
YOU HAVE ONE NEW MESSAGE
“Hello…Patrick?”
The feign, cracked voice creeps through the speakers like plastic sliding down cold hard metal. Not him, anyone but him. If Jean had been screening these calls this one would have never made it through, I’m sure of it. None of Luis’s calls make it to my office anyhow…. I wonder how often he does call me. Not important. What in the hell was he saying? I zoned out his droning voice.
“I know this probably isn’t a good time, god when is it ever a good time for this?”
He sounds pained, it’s piqued my interest I must admit.
“I just, Courtney left me, she told me she’s been having an affair with some… oh I don’t know some dumb, young hot shot in the business probably. The point is, I didn’t know who else to call. I can’t take it anymore Patrick, I’m sick of the dinners, and the mergers, and the secretaries and the business cards. I can’t take this world anymore Patrick.”
The words made me freeze in my seat beside the coffee table. Had he read my mind? Not possible. Luis is isn’t clever enough to have done that. I hide myself behind a mask of industrial grade steel, nobody could see past it, the secretaries, the whores, my colleagues, fucking Paul Allan. Not a soul and certainly not Luis Carruthers.
“Anyway, I found a bottle of pills in the back of the medicine cabinet…. oh god ….I don’t know what they are but I don’t care. I think Courtney left them. I’m so sick of this god damn façade I put together every day. I see her, we go on dates, she tries to make love to me and I just can’t Patrick. I know you probably know this already but I am madly in love with you and I don’t think there is a time on this earth where I won’t be and I just… I needed for you to know that before I left it. Goodbye Patrick.”
Within seconds of the click on the receiver I realize I am suddenly out of my seat and standing beside the counter, tapping my heel as I attempt to return his call.
‘I hope I’m not too late’
I find myself thinking before I have the chance to stop my own filthy subconscious from seeping its way out of the back of my brain and infecting the other hemispheres and cortexes. I don’t care about Carruthers; I have never cared about Carruthers. If there is one person I care about less than anyone else it is Carruthers.
“Patrick…?”
The faint reply trickles its way into my ear as I release a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. I stay silent for a moment, collecting myself. What the fuck am I doing here? This doesn’t matter to me. Living, dead, by my hands, by his own? What should I care if Luis Carruthers never existed to begin with?
“Have you taken the pills?”
It is only now I realize how solemn I sound, like I’ve just buried the bodies of my parents.
“N-No… god I’m such a coward!”
“You’re not”
Was that my voice? Why does it say what I don’t want it to say?
“I am! I’m a loser, I’m an idiot, I’m a god damn faggot Patrick!!!”
The yell comes through so harshly that I back away from the receiver in an attempt to save my left ear from permeant hearing loss.
Faggot.
It’s a word I’ve heard many times in my life. A word I’ve used many times in my life. A word I would have used many times to describe Luis in a luncheon meeting behind his back while he sat a few tables away, playfully smiling at me as if we were friends. But hearing him use it on himself was something different. It hit me in a way that nothing ever does, except maybe in the way my mother would yell at me and blame me for her divorce.
“I’m a faggot and nobody will ever love me and I work in a world full of people who will never understand me and I fucking hate myself! There’s just so much you can take and just so much you can hurt yourself until it doesn’t lessen the pain anymore. I need to get out.”
“You hurt yourself?”
My lips are moving of their own accord by now, I blame the subconscious fluid that leaked into the Broca’s area.
“I… “
He hesitates, shuddering, most likely to suppress a shaking fit of crying rather than a moan. I suppose I’m one of the few people among my friends who finds inflicted harm of any kind to be arousing.
“I have Patrick, several times. Why do you think I stopped wearing those ridiculous short sleeved button ups on casual Friday’s?”
I never thought Luis would admit to himself that his fashion choices are sub-par, maybe he’s finally learning something from me after all.
“Are you afraid people will see the cuts?”
“Terrified”
Another shudder, another sigh.
“I have cuts too”
I freeze up again, holding the receiver and silently cursing myself for letting too much slip, I feel the mask sliding down my face slowly, dragging my skin, leaving behind rough scrapes that no facial could ever repair.
“…Patrick? God, please put whatever you’re holding down, a knife, a razor, I don’t care, please don’t hurt yourself.”
Luis breaks down into a sobbing fit and I feel that pang again of something I never feel. I could never get a read on what it exactly was but it’s killing me now to discover it’s meaning, or at least what causes it.
“I’m not holding anything”
I could have lied, I could have threatened to hurt myself to get attention, to wrap myself around this idiot’s finger more and more, however, that could have easily backfired. He could call the police and make me the suicidal laughing stock of Pierce and Pierce. I’d have to leave the state, maybe even the country, start over again.
“Oh thank god, Patrick… when was the last time you…?”
“Eighth grade, when my parents were getting a divorce. I had nobody to turn to, so I did what I could to ease the pain. The scars are still there though, I dug in too deep, I was inexperienced with a knife at the time.”
“I’d kiss every one of those scars away if I could…. Patrick? ….Patrick are you crying?”
I look down and it’s almost as if Luis was actually clairvoyant if the tears staining my $300 suit are any indication. I wipe my eyes and sniffle a bit, almost considering lying to Luis, however, my brain decides ‘what’s the point?’ and lets the mask fall to the floor with a thunderous crash.
“I want to die too Luis, every day of my life I work at that fucking place, seeing all those people around me thinking that they enjoy their stupid, pointless lives. I hate the smug looks on their faces when they pull out their new business cards or when they try to dress better than me. I hate these stupid office dramas they try to start, asking me who’s engaged to who, like I really care. All I care about there is me, and looking like the perfect version of me that I can possibly be and I’m sick of it. Maybe we should die together Luis- I’ll go get some pills”
“Patrick, wait”
The soft voice makes me break my hasty stride to the bathroom in search of a large bottle of sleeping pills I keep for my late-night escapades with women who don’t want to stay put.
“What if we live together instead, you know? Live for each other, keep each other strong.”
I’m in such a daze, even the double meaning gained from his words, the idea of physically living with Luis doesn’t sound repulsive anymore. Frankly it sounds…. nice? comforting? Sweet? What’s a word that any normal person would use?
“I’d like that… can I see you tonight”
“Patrick, are you sure?”
“I’ve never been sure of anything before now.”