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Screams. Heartwrenching, from the top of the lungs screams. Charles trembles as he puts the phone down. It’s not his fault, he knows that. He only wanted to give his boyfriend a birthday treat. He had permission from the doctor, the staff. Billy was relaxed and happy. Happier than Charles had ever seen him before. Sleeping peacefully when Charles left and through the whole night as well. Then, early this morning it had all turned.
Charles has to sit down. Luckily, he’s not alone in the coffee shop right now and there are not many costumers. One of the part time workers is here and she can handle it until Charles can put himself together.
The nurse didn’t accuse him at all. On the contrary, she assured him he’d done nothing wrong. That anxiety was, by it’s nature, illogical and it was common for people with Billy’s problem to get anxious from strong feelings, no matter if they were good or bad. Too much happiness, apparently can give some people panic attacks. Who knew…
Billy is very tired today, the nurse had explained. From screaming himself to exhaustion? No shit?! Not that it would’ve stopped Charles from visit, if he could. The thought of Billy laying conked out from exhaustion and meds, as a result of Charles attempt to celebrate his birthday a little, is pushing on every button in Charles’ mind.
He was almost certain, this would mean no more visits, but to his big surprise, the nurse asked him to stop by as soon as he had the time. It’s important not to allow the brain to connect harmless things or people with anxiety, especially not things that usually brings you happiness. The longer time the brain has to stay in that feeling, the harder it gets to break the pattern.
It’s not actually a fear of being happy, but more the exposion to new feelings. That makes sense, at least. Charles has no problem to picture that. Billy’s been afraid to get overwhelmed from the very beginning and maybe the birthday celebration, the intimacy and of course, the quite deep talk, was simply too much to deal with at once. It was for Charles too. When he finally went to sleep last night, his nerves were nothing but a frayed mess. Billy must’ve felt something similar, only ten times worse. And as soon as he’s consious enough to be aware of his feelings, it’s important to not give the fear time to grow.
The time is passing so slow, the clock seems to mock him. When he’s finally done for the day, he puts two croissants in a paper bag, grabs his jacket and practically runs. By the time he’s entering the ward, he’s a little out of breth. He recognizes the keeper who lets him in. Liza. She has her black hair in a braid and her smile is friendly. Calming.
”Hello, Charles.”
”Is it because of last night? How is he feeling?”
”I can assure you, you’ve done nothing wrong and he’s mostly tired. Maybe we could talk a little before you go to him? Would that be alright?”
Actually, no, but maybe it’s for the best. Charles is on his way to become hysterical and that’s not a good state to be in when he’s meeting Billy. He follows Liza to a chat room.
”Please, have a seat.”
She points at one of two blue armchairs and Charles sits down, still far from calm. Liza gives him another reassuring smiles that doesn’t help.
”As I said earlier, you’ve done nothing wrong. It’s very common that strong emotions, no matter if they’re good or bad, can trigger anxiety. When you left last night, Billy slept very calmly and did so the whole night. The panic attack came this morning.”
”Because of last night?”
”It could’ve been triggered from it, but it’s very important to separate triggers from causes. It’s not you who’s causing the panic, Charles.”
”How do you know that? And if so, why have you been so strict with the visits earlier?”
”Because Billy is extremely sensitive at the moment. Too much of anything can cause a massive overload of emotions and that is both unpleasant, even frightening, and highly exhausting for Billy. In that state, it’s hard for the brain to sort out good feelings from bad and that causes stress and anxiety.”
”Is this because of that… what did they call it… alexi-something?”
”Alexithymia? Yes, not recognizing emotions can absolutely cause anxiety.”
”So maybe Billy didn’t feel good yesterday, huh? And then, suddenly, he woke up this morning feeling like shit for seeing me?”
”We don’t know that. He could’ve felt very good yesterday, or bad. Anxiety isn’t logical.”
Liza hands him the box with tissues. Fuck. He didn’t even know he was crying. He can’t see Billy like this, he would only make it worse.
”You know, this doesn’t even make any sense.”
”What isn’t?”
”Me and Billy. I mean, some months ago I would never have thought that I could… you know…”
”Fall in love with someone with a psychiatric illness?”
She smiles friendly.
”There are many misconceptions and prejudices about psychiatric illness. For many ill people, the social shame is causing as much pain as the illness itself. You’re afraid people will distance themselves from you if they find out, or that you’ll loose your work if someone finds out. So, in addition to handling the very illness, many people also feel the need to put just as much effort on appearing as normal and functional as possible. Without the right help from both the health care system and the social network, it can be very difficult to recover. Essentially, Billy isn’t any different from you and me, or from someone with a physical illness or injure.”
”Too bad he doesn’t seem to get that…”
Another tissue. Charles sighs.
”You know, I usually don’t cry. Or talk about these things. Fuck, some weeks ago I couldn’t even picture myself having coffee with someone with a mental problems. Not that I had made a decision not to, it was just… you know, something I’d never thought about.”
”How did you two met, if I may ask?”
”At the university coffee shop, where I work. He used to come by two times every week, the same days and time, and order a vanilla soy latte. He mimicked and blushed very easily and, of course, I thought he was hot so I got curious.”
”So, how did you get to talk to him?”
”By notes, actually. I asked for his name by putting a note under his coffee glass and he answered and asked for mine.”
”Really?”
Liza smiles again, looking both interested and a little impressed, encouraging Charles to continue. He tells her about the two weeks of notes, the movie date and how Billy told him he had social anxiety disorder and selective mutism, by handing him a note in the darkness. He tells her about the conversation at the coffee shop, the group he consulted on Facebook and the first time he was invited to Billy’s home.
”See, it’s alright with me if he’ll never go to parties with me or hang out with my friends, I don’t count on that. As long as he doesn’t avoid it because he’s afraid, it doesn’t matter. I don’t expect him to be social and outgoing. I don’t want him to change, I just want him to feel good about himself and relax. He’s really such a sweet person…”
”He means a lot to you.”
”Yeah. And I get it that he can’t just get out of here or get well quick because I wish he could, I’m not stupid. I just… you know… want him to be able to do normal stuff. Be a little happy. I didn’t mean to send him into a panic attack.”
”I know you didn’t and you have no reason to blame yourself for it, Charles.”
”Can I… I mean, do you think it’s a good idea for me to see him now?”
”Actually, yes. I really think it would be good for him. For both of you. Just tell me when you’re ready and you can see him.”
***
Charles has cried. Billy reaches his hand out, trying to touch his face. How is it possible to feel this tired? To suddenly feel so calm, as if the night has been erased? His boyfriend looks so worried, so lonely and Billy can’t stand not having him close.
”Please, let me hold you…”
He puts his arm out, pulls Charles down to lay on it. Or tugs at him. Billy doesn’t have the strength to pull down anyone right now. As soon as Charles is settled on his arm, with Billy’s nose in his hair and his muscular but weak arms wrapped around him, some of the tension seems to disappear from Charles’ body. He kisses Billy’s collarbones, stroking his back softly.
”Little darling… What’s happening inside that head of yours?”
”I don’t know, Charles. I really don’t…”
”Sch… It’s alright, honey. I’m here, sweetheart, you’re not alone.”
Charles is whispering the sweetest things to him, his voice being soft and slow, as if he’s rocking him to sleep, when he shifts positions and let Billy slide down to rest against his chest.
”Whatever’s scaring you so badly, we’ll get through it together, Billy. It wont put me off, you hear that?”
Charles sounds so calm. The presence of his body, his strong arms ans steady heartbeats is a solid comfort Billy’s stirred up emotions can crash against. And they do. The one thing Billy fears more than anything, to break down completely in front of someone without knowing what he feels, or being able to explain, is happening. He speaks, incoherent and confused, cries and sobs like child.
He can’t explain himself, can’t make comprehensible sentences or even follow any sort of logical line in his talking. He’s puking words and all Charles does, is listening. Listening, stroking his back, holding him close and lets his lips rest in his hair. To find some sort of silverthread in the mess of words isn’t easy, but Charles doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t shush him. It seems as if the stream of words is endless, and still, Billy isn’t sure what he’s actually saying. He just empties himself in Charles’ arms.
***
Charles has rarely cried in front of others. Even more rarely in someones arms. The pillow has been his comfort when he’s needed it. He doesn’t know how Billy feels now, only that it’s not all bad. That a cry like this takes it’s time and mustn’t be interrupted.
The last time Charles cried like Billy does now, he was laying in his bed at the reform school, feeling the buzz cut with his fingers along with a scar the razor left at Charles’ attempt to get away. He’s cried after that, of course, but not in that way. He’d buried his face in the pillow, trying to repress the sound not to have the staff come in. He’d been all alone on a narrow bed, stripped of anything he’d called his own. His clothes and what little personal items he had, were taken and thrown away first thing. He never got them back. Then the humiliating medical search, the search for drugs, even though he wasn’t brought there because of drug, or even alcohol problems – hell, he didn’t even smoke – and then that fucking razor.
He’d begged them not to and was answered with a laugh. It took two men to hold him down while a third one deprived him of his hair. When it was done, Charles’ scalp was bleeding, the guards were sweaty and his hair laid on the floor. He didn’t cry thou and he never begged again. The tears were saved for the pillow and hours before the alarm rang, he hung the pillow case on the radiator to dry and waited for the red eyes to fade.
Cutting his hair by force, stripping him from any sign of personality, didn’t had the intended effect. What happened was that in the morning, Charles met the guards with a look of pure despise, instead of the expected defiance, fear or insecurity. Without breaking rules, Charles made every attempt to show the guards exactly how little he thought about them and it worked. He had nothing more that could be taken away from him and beatings or solitary definately didn’t make him cry. They simply made him hard inside and exhausted.
He’s stroking Billy’s head, kissing the short hair while remembering – and listening. The desperation in Billy’s voice is slightly fading, the words coming in shorter, slower outbursts. Some words are repeated more than others. I’m sorry. Don’t want to be like this. Please, don’t leave me. I’ll get better, I promise… For your own sake, or mine? Charles wants to ask, but he really doesn’t need to. This is Billy Manderly believing he doesn’t deserve to be held like this. That he doesn’t deserve comfort or care, that he’s an inconvenience, a burden to normal people and this is simply not the right moment to be logical.
So Charles goes through his memory, trying to come up with something, anything, to distract the crying man in his arms and the only thing his mind provides him with, is a song. An old Running Wild song Billy probably hasn’t even heard and it has no logical connection to this situation, but fuck logic. Charles sings:
”Mr. Bones is fighting 'Black Dog'
he want to split him to the chine.
'Blind Pew' the bringer of the spot
horse-hooves trampling his spine.
We have the map to start our trip
the 'Squire' has the ship and the sailors.
'Long John' is the man with the grip
no one knows he will raid us.”
I’ve never sung to anyone before...You make me do things I didn’t no I could…
”The yell of the slain,
the waves on the rocks
Captain Flint's raising hell.
He's calling my name
to drive me insane.
Treasure Island
where the brave fell
a one-legged devil
from the pit of hell.
A greedy demon on his treasury
cursed the island, oh, eternally.”
I can tell that you’re listening, surprised but not displeased…
”'Long John' is spreading his law
hatching a death bringing plot.
I show up in a council of war
what I heard in the barrel from this toad.
The yell of the slain,
the waves on the rocks,
Captain Flint's raising hell.
He's calling my name
to drive me insane
but I'll never return to
Treasure Island
where the brave fell.
A one-legged devil
from the pit of hell.
A greedy demon on his treasury,
cursed the island, oh, eternally.”
Always shivers a little from the four last lines… Jim Hawkins’ description of captain Flint as a devil, a demon in a human body...
”We see the land, shining sand
but it can be our grave.
I jump the boat, overload
trying to be too brave.
Burning sun, find 'Ben Gunn'
assassins claim the ship.
I cut the rope, I try to cope
to free it from 'Hand's' grip.
Bulling row, cannon law
the jolly-boats last trip.
Killing tried, stockade fight
'Silver's' villains quit.
Abandonment, to 'Silver's' hand
a cunning pack is made.
Trick or treat, make scoundrels
bleed, their dullness will be paid.”
I’m not singing as much as telling you a story. You’re still crying, but lesser now. Not as heartwrenching…
”I stumble to the stockade
the sweat drips form my brow.
No one keeps a lockout, oh no!
The rabble owns it now
'Silver' tries to shield me
the 'Black spot' comes again.
He throws the map onto the ground
he plays a tricky game.
Pickaxe, rope and shovel
the dead-man marks the way.
No chest, no gold, no silver
2 guineas is their pay.
Musket cracks like thunder
the blood is running red.
'Ben Gunn' kept the treasure
from beginning to end.”
And how happy did he end up being... Treasure or no treasure, fictional or not, you have a far better chance than him.
”When we put back to the sea
'Silver's' chains are doubly tight.
'Long John' and his counterfeit key
sidle away through the night.
The yell of the slain,
the waves on the rocks,
Captain Flint's raising hell.
He's calling my name
to drive me insane
but I'll never return to
Treasure Island
where the brave fell.
A one-legged devil
from the pit of hell.
A greedy demon on his treasury,
cursed the island, oh, eternally.”
At least you’re not more tense…
”Treasure Island
where the brave fell.
A one-legged devil
from the pit of hell.
A greedy demon on his treasury,
cursed the island, oh, eternally…”
The low, soft singing is nothing but a desperate attempt to calm and comfort a sad little soul, but it’s working. At least on some level, it gives the crying man a little distraction from the raging, highly unpleasant and unwelcome feelings inside him. The story drags him away from the self-contempt and sorrow far enough to allow him some respite.
Billy’s still holding a tight grip on Charles’ t-shirt, but it’s slightly lighter. The worst desperation seems to have faded and the rock didn’t move from the crashing waves. Charles cups his hand around Billy’s neck and kisses his chapped lips.
”Nothing’s as bad as that angst wants you to believe, Billy. What was it that made you feel so bad, darling? If you want to, you can try to tell me.”
”I’m just… so scared. So fucking scared, Charles, and I don’t know why.”
”You don’t have to know, babe. It’s alright if you don’t know. We can try to figure it out together.”
”Sometimes I think I’m really going mad…”
”No, you’re not. Being scared and confused isn’t madness. You don’t have to find the right words at once, Billy. It’s okay to not get it right everytime. The only voices you’re hearing are memories from real people, fucking idiots, who’ve scared you into silence. What do they tell you, huh?”
The weariness is actually helping a little. It’s harder to guard your thoughts and words when a gentle, loving person is collaborating with your lack of defenses to get you to speak without fear. Charles’ blue eyes are as calm as if they were laying together in the aftermaths of a glorious fuck. Nothing in his face talks about discomfort, hurry or a longing to get away from this. Billy bows his head against Charles’ chest.
”Before you, I thought I was doing well. Nailed my classes, paid my bills, took care of my body, went to that therapy that didn’t work… I kind of felt good, you know. That I was a good student, a good grown-up. And if mute people could use their hands, I figured so could I…”
He swallows.
”Was wrong about that, of course. Even learned some sign language, but I couldn’t make myself use it. It’s true that I don’t like the sound of my voice, but that’s not the primar issue.”
”Figured it wasn’t.”
”Usually, when I try to talk, my mind gets slow. I know I’m not stupid in a clinical sense, but when I’m slow I feel really stupid.”
His voice is starting to fade a little. Gets more quiet and Charles leans in, putting his ear against Billy’s mouth.
”I hear myself and it’s sounds just disgusting, so I loose words, can only hear my voice and then I get silent and hear the voices inside me again. People telling me to talk, or shut up and I never see any pattern. Only that if I don’t talk, I’m rude, manipulating and unnatural. And if I do, I’m not saying the right things and my voice doesn’t sound right.”
Now it’s merely a whisper.
”My voice, my words, my silence… It’s not good enough, Charles. Nothing’s ever good enough.”
***
Maybe he shouldn’t do it. Not without talking to Billy. But he knows what the answer till be and Charles is a person who rather ask for forgiveness than permission. Technically, Billy hasn’t forbid it. He only said it’s no point.
Charles stares at the screen. The name and the number is there. The adress. Fifty miles aint that long if… Yeah, that’s the thing. If. He shouldn’t, but what else can he do at this point? What’s the worst that could happen? That his boyfriend gets furious, anxious, panicked and so fucking angry he never wants to see Charles again. Charles swallows hard and dials the number.
”Hallo?”
”Hi, is this Harold Gates?”
”It is, who’s asking?”
The voice sounds quite harsh, but not at all mean.
”Um… My name is Charles Vane and I… I wonder if…”
”Yes?”
”Do you know anyone named Billy Manderly?”
”What’s happened to him? Where is he and who are you?”
Worry. Genuine worry and Charles has never been so relieved to here it.
”I’m his boyfriend, or sort of. He’s in hospital. A psychiatric ward.”
”Where? Which town, lad?!”
”York.”
”How long has he been there?”
”Almost four weeks.”
”And his parents? What the fuck are they doing?”
”Um… they kicked him out some time after you’d moved from the neighbourhood. Billy told me.”
”Of all the… Why hasn’t anyone called me earlier?”
”Billy didn’t want to. He didn’t exactly forbid it, but to be honest, I didn’t want to ask in case he’d say no. I’ve been thinking about this, and I know I kind of do this behind his back, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
”Could you please tell me what’s happened to him?”
”He had a mental breakdown. I… I wanted to surprise him so I came to pick him up, and he sort of lost it… We’ve been dating for a while.”
”Billy’s dating… Didn’t see that one coming. He’s talking?”
”Not in the beginning… Look, I’m really worried that I’m doing something wrong by calling you.”
”Trust me, you’re not. You should’ve called me earlier. How did you get my number? Nevermind, the Internet has it, I guess. Did he talk about me? I know he had a birthday recently.”
”Yeah… Kind of celebrated it here. At the hospital. He told me about the Christmas bag you used to give him.”
”He remembers that… I’ve often wondered why he never returned my letters.”
”Did you send them to his adoptive parents home?”
”Of course. That was the only adress I had.”
”I’m quite sure Billy never got the letters.”
”Fucking assholes… Should’ve known. Did you say you’re his boyfriend?”
”Yeah. I… hope that’s not a problem.”
”Not if you’re good to him it aint. But I… why doesn’t he want me to know he’s ill?”
”Honestly, I don’t know. The way he spoke about you, gave me the impression that he really liked you. But you know about his problems, right?”
”I only know how they were when he was a skinny fourteen year old. Hardly ever talked, skittish as a little animal… I asked his parents if he got any help and they said it was all about defiance but I don’t know… It really looked as if he tried.”
”He is. I mean, for as long as I’ve known him, he’s tried really hard. Now he can talk almost like anyone, but he gets easily tired. Has a lot of panic attacks.”
”Panic attacks? Slow down a little… Charles. It was Charles, right?”
”Yeah.”
”Slow down, Charles. I’ve not seen Billy in fifteen years… Have to sit down. Now… before anything else: how’s he doing?”
***
When the man with the dark voice, Charles Vane, had hung up, Hal Gates moved resolutely to the living room and the cabinet with fine liqour he rarely had a good reason to touch and therefore rarely did. He took out a small bottle with scotch, went back to the kitchen and poured himself a drink with lots of ice and even more liqour. He swallowed half of it in one go and sat down at the table. Billy Manderly, as quiet as a church mouse. Skittish, highly skeptical eyes that said more in one look than that nervous mouth ever did.
Hal Gates had never liked Billy’s adoptive parents. It was clear that they treated their biological kids better than Billy, despite the fact that they’d actually adopted the kid instead of just being his foster parents. And then, kicking him out on the street first thing they could. Why hadn’t Billy called him? Hal clenched his fists. If he’d even suspected the Philips couple for being such bastards… Who ever this Charles Vane was, Hal owed him.
***
I’m not gonna ask why you did it, I don’t want to know. You still mean the world to me and I don’t think you did it to hurt me, but you have to stay away for a while. Don’t answer this/B
Charles hasn’t turned his phone off since they started dating. He’s starring at the display, tears burning under the eyelids as he turns it off. You still mean the world to me. Charles is swallowing hard, unable to stop himself from crying.
Billy’s under his skin. Everything wonderful, scaring, tempting, fascinating and sad with that man is a part of Charles now and he can’t escape it. He couldn’t bare Billy’s loneliness, his fear. Couldn’t handle it alone, couldn’t be Billy’s one and only human being that mattered. Charles can’t be his voice, his way out, not alone. And despite being put off, knowing that he’d gone behind Billy’s back, that Charles now is one in the line of people who’ve let him down, he can’t regret it. Not in full.