Ghosts of Blood and Bone

By Marcus James

2020 International Book Awards finalist for Best Horror Literature

Bailey Nguyen has been dead for nine years, and yet, he still lingers. Chase Sheppard was Bailey's best friend, but something had always lurked beneath B

• Language: English
• Publisher: Midnight Choir
• Release date: Oct 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781087962283

Marcus James

Marcus James is the author of eight novels, including the award-winning Blackmoore Legacy series of books and the International Book Awards Finalist Ghosts of Blood and Bone.An avid devourer of food, drinks, and horror films and every book that catches his eye. He lives in the Pacific Northwest. He is 36 years old.  Connect with Marcus James Facebook: @MJameswriter Instagram: @marcusjamesauthor Twitter: @MJamesbooks

Book preview

Ghosts of Blood and Bone

A Novel

Marcus James

Also by Marcus James

Following the Kaehees

Blackmoore

In God’s Eyes

Symphony for the Devil

Rise of the Nephilim: A Blackmoore Prequel (Book I)

Fall of the Nephilim: A Blackmoore Prequel (Book II)

Instructions in Flesh

Featured Short Story Anthologies

Ulitmate Undies: Erotic Stories About Underwear and Lingerie

Best Gay Love Stories: New York City

Ultimate Gay Erotica 2007

Dorm Porn 2

Travelrotica 2

Best Gay Love Stories: Summer Flings

Island Boys

Frat Sex 2

Best Gay Love Stories 2009

Dedication

To my first agent, Michael Mancilla, who back in 2004 took a chance on a 19 year old with an incredibly daring and transgressive slasher, seeing the things I was trying to say and believing it was worth being heard. It wasn’t ready then, but it’s ready now.

To the brilliant Michael Carroll, if there has been one for sure positive benefit of the connectivity of social media, it’s that I met you. I was a fan of yours separate of Ed, and a fan of Ed’s separate of you, and not only do I get to continue to be your fan, I also get to be a friend and colleague in this ridiculously daring and often comedic profession. Next time I’m on your coast I owe you a drink.

My editor, Evanne Freeman-Casey, you always just get it, and I am so glad.

To M.M. I’m not sorry I killed you. I couldn’t do it in real life, so I did it on the page and it felt really fucking good.

To horror. To the really great slashers of the 70’s and early 80’s. To the storytellers and the filmmakers who made celluloid soaked in red. You are the music makers and the dreamers of the dream.

To Shelly Alexandre, my awesome co-host of our awesome podcast, and to every evening at The Vista Shel-Mar we’ve had drinking in the past, and to every evening drinking in the future. You’re part of the reason this book even exists.

To the 90’s. Shit. Fuck. Goddamned. I’m glad I knew you from start to finish.

To B and T, combined together you make the perfect psychopath. I knew monsters and you were those monsters.

To A.P. and C.C.: the two of you defined two stages of my life in the most profound and devastating ways and you will always be my ghosts, and that’s okay, I’m not bothered by your rattling chains. Chase Sheppard only became complete when the two of you merged.

To Maygun Tubbs. None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for you never deleting an email. Eternal gratitude and love.

And to Mason, you are the greatest ghost of all.

Ghosts of Blood and Bone

Copyright ©2019 by Marcus James

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by The Midnight Choir Publishing Group, a division of Candiano Books, Seattle.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

©Midnight Choir Press 2019

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All registered trademarks mentioned in this book are the property of their respective owners. No infringement is intended or should be inferred.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available from publisher.

Printed in the United States of America

Cover image by Jesús Vasquez. Cover design by Ransom Graphics

ISBN: 9781792078101

ISBN 13: 9781393060925

ASIN: B07V4WSFPL

SPRING 1998

April is the cruelest month,

Breeding lilacs out of the dead land.

Mixing memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

—The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot

Prologue

He flew out of that bathroom as if he were running from the devil, trying to escape some terrible horror that had met him on the other side, amidst several white porcelain urinals, gray stalls, and yellow light shining through dingy windows that hadn’t been cleaned in years.

His thin body made its way through dim halls and past posters advertising games with rival schools and another dance where if he went, he would just be stuck leaning against a wall or sitting up in the seats of the auditorium, talking to no one and wondering why he had even bothered.

Spiriting by classrooms with their doors closed, he ran. Teachers were conducting class and students were only half-listening, some jotting down notes and others talking amongst themselves and trying not to get caught. None of them aware of what had just happened to one of their golden classmates.

The sweat was visible through his red cotton polo. It dampened the strands of his brown hair, and his hazel brown eyes were dilated and full of distress. His blue jeans were damp, and his black lace-up boots were echoing with each determined step.

Thirteen and scared and trying to keep his legs from giving out, to keep his knees from buckling, from locking on him and forcing him to the floor. That couldn’t happen. He needed to get to the office and report what had taken place—though some of it could be omitted for his own protection, and to protect the things about himself that he was not prepared to deal with in front of the school, his peers, and his community.

Some things he would have to hide, but as to how it had happened, that he could tell truthfully. There was no reason to hide such a thing; it was an accident, plain and simple, and no one could make him say otherwise.

He pushed open the large steel doors and ran up the breezeway, connecting him to the large two story brick main building where the office was located.

Get to the office. Just get to the office.

He walked in, opening wood doors painted blue, taking an immediate left. The sun was shining through closed blinds, splashing gold light on the tan carpet. Greeting him was a large mangy brown counter, behind which was the secretary’s desk and the door to the assistant principal’s office.

To his right were four study cubicles where students were frequently made to sit when either serving detention or waiting for their parents to pick them up and take them home for one reason or the other during the school day.

The ceiling arched, acknowledging the separation of the attendance office and the main office. The main office hosted the principal and the nurse, as well as two mannequins displaying the school uniform for parents of incoming sixth graders, and as a reminder to any student who tried to violate the dress code.

Aaron Christopher, what are you doing here; why are you—what is that—blood?

He looked at Mrs. Baker, the head administrator in the attendance office. Her face was round and soft, framed with a mop of graying curls, and her voice was always kind and even, gentle as most elderly women’s voices are—but in this moment, her tone expressed the required amount of panic.

She wore a snap-front denim dress with short sleeves, and her eyes had grown wide and were fixed on his hands.

Aaron looked to see his fingers and palms caked in blood, seeping into the crevice of his skin and making him think of lines of highways or cracks in glass. It was all over his jeans and his shirt. Dark and metallic, drying on his skin as if it were paint from art class.

There’s been an accident! Bailey Nguyen. He’s, he’s, he couldn’t say it. Saying it would make it real and would give validation to his tears. These tears which were sliding down his face.

He hadn’t even noticed that he had been crying.

What, honey, what is it?

Mrs. Baker was becoming impatient; Aaron could see this as plainly as he could see the blood on his hands and clothes.

Bailey’s blood.

He’s dead! His voice broke before the wailing took hold.

People emerged from offices and students that were present and overheard began to break out in gasps and tears; the office was in chaos. Mrs. Baker shook her head over and over again in disbelief.

I tried... we were fighting, and he kept pushing me, and I pushed him away, and he slipped! He slipped on some spilt water by the sink and he fell back; his head hit one of the urinals. He bled so fast! I tried to help him; I tried, but he just bled!

One of the student assistants picked up the phone and called for an ambulance.

It’s okay; no one’s blaming you. Where is he? Tell me where he is.

Mrs. Baker was holding onto him now, trying to steady herself, as well as him.

The bathroom. Another deep breath. The bathroom in the eighth grade hall.

She nodded and looked to the security officer, who gave a nod of his own and raced quickly out of the office.

Mrs. Baker clicked on the intercom, repeating over and over again that there had been an accident, and that all students were to accompany their teachers outside in the directed fire escape fashion.

They walked outside, Mrs. Baker telling Aaron to wait for his class to emerge, and that he must join them. The police would want to speak with him, but he needn’t worry about all of that now.

Aaron could only nod, forgetting in the chaos that he was covered in Bailey Nguyen.

His teacher, Mr. Jeffrey, finally walked out with the rest of his class following behind. His russet moustache and goatee were trimmed smartly, and his cold gray eyes looked tired and annoyed. His brown hair was parted at the left and receding. He wore a dark green sweater and blue jeans, as well as a pair of tennis shoes which were scuffed at the toes.

Aaron attempted to avoid the gazes of his teachers and wide-eyed classmates, praying that he could just become invisible, that he could suddenly be transparent and fade away like vapor.

Are you all right? Mr. Jeffrey asked him, trying to understand the sight before him—this thirteen-year-old covered in blood.

It was an accident.... He could say nothing else.

This was the first time in April that it was clear out. Blue skies and bright sunlight, a rare day for the city of Tacoma—or anywhere else in Western Washington, for that matter—and yet it seemed as if the gods would not permit so much beauty without a sacrifice, and that sacrifice was childhood. It was the lost dreams of youth shed in blood and being used to saturate the earth.

They brought out the body.

Students stood gawking in silent horror. Those who had overheard what had taken place in the office began to spread it around, letting his peers know that it was him—that Aaron Christopher had been involved, had possibly been responsible.

Aaron had become aware that someone was standing next to him—not a friend, because he didn’t have any, but someone that he knew just the same—and it was comforting to him.

He turned to see Chase Sheppard standing next to him. He had been friends with Bailey Nguyen, and was the most popular guy in the eighth grade class—in the whole school, for that matter.

He stood at 5’4", with perfect blond hair parted at the middle. It framed his face and just covered his ears, his dark roots visible. His skin was immaculate, a beautiful olive complexion, and his turquoise eyes were a perfect blend of blue and green and mixed like a palette of paints. His face was narrow and his jaw line was strong and dominate.

He had a tendency to be an ass to Aaron, but there was also a strong aura of kindness to him; there was something else beneath all of that attitude—something else that lingered between them, and in those brief and silenced moments he knew how to make Aaron’s heart pound.

Chase smiled at him slightly, and it made Aaron blush and grin sheepishly in spite of himself. This wasn’t right. The air was fermenting with death, and yet he was finding himself in the most trivial and mundane teenage situations.

What happened? Chase asked him. His voice was soft, but its timber hinted at the man he was going to become as the years went on.

Aaron shook his head. He didn’t know what to say. After all, it was Chase’s friend who was dead. It was his blood that covered Aaron Christopher like paint, seeping into the pores of his skin. As it did, it felt to Aaron that Bailey was moving in, that his entire genetic make­up was merging with someone else—someone dead, someone who was preparing to go into the earth as a dinner feast for maggots and worms.

It was an accident.... He became lost in his own mind, losing sight of everything around him, lost in false ideas and all of those promises of youth. God had chosen a victim to take, and just like glass breaking, it had been Bailey Nguyen’s skull, fragments of him shattering like glittering shards from a broken frame and shining like stars in the night.

Aaron...

A voice called to him. A voice he knew and was familiar. A voice that was a source of comfort and that drew him from his stupor.

Aaron Christopher.

It was Mrs. Baker.

Uh­huh? He watched as Chase stepped away quietly, offering a sympathetic smile as he faded into the background of students.

The police... they’d like to speak with you.

He felt like he was going to throw up.

Don’t worry, you’re not in any kind of trouble; they just need to know what happened. Can you do that?

Aaron nodded, and she took him by the shoulders and guided him through the chaos. He looked to his left and caught sight of his classmate, Carolyn Carter, staring at him. She was awash with fear and concern. Her red hair pulled back with a navy blue headband, and she was dressed in a blue pique-knit polo tucked into her pleated navy blue skirt. The sympathy and confusion was written all over her young face with her milky skin and wide blue eyes. The gravity of the situation—the weight of this tragedy was soaking in, just as this blood—Bailey’s blood—was soaking into his skin.

He realized on this day—this sunny day in April—that nothing lasted forever and at one point you were forced to grow up, forced to realize that the dreams of youth were the disappointments of man. On this day, God chose to wake up the youth in one great collective conscience to tell them that it was time to grow up and put away the toys and the stories, all of those things that let them stay away from reality as much as possible. Like the lies parents told to hold on to their children for just a little while longer.

No one would forget this year. It would always be there in the back of their minds—the day they were forced to grow up, the day that killed them. That day in spring when flowers bloomed and school gods fell, their thrones left vacant and unattended.

A day like none other.

Spring 2007

Pain has an element of blank;

It cannot recollect

When it began, or if there were

A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,

Its infinite realms contain

Its past, enlightened to perceive

New periods of pain.

—The Mystery of Pain, Emily Dickinson

I

Morning had come and gone, and now the afternoon was rousing Aaron Christopher from sleep, forcing him to wake up and deal with the day. His hazel eyes looked around his bedroom in the sprawling four-story Victorian, his bed beneath a wrap of bay windows. The light was blocked out by large black drapes, thick enough to keep the room as dark as night, which was the only time that Aaron actually brought himself to part the curtains and let the view of the city as well as Bellingham Bay come through like a living painting.

He stood barefoot on the hardwood, his body still lean, though having filled out more over the past decade, enhancing all the parts that would make him appealing to other men. He stood at a height of 5’10" with thin black hairs that ran along strong pale legs, his half-erect cock stuffed inside little black briefs. A trail of black hairs led from his navel to his crotch, and his pink nipples were hard from the cold.

His brown hair was a messy mop, with the sides short and neat. He stretched and yawned. His voice was deeper, but not deep enough. It was still soft, and still wispy.

He looked around his room with large eyes straining to stay open. A simple black table sat up against the wall to the right of the door, littered with papers and a closed laptop. There was a dresser to his left with a collection of candles of various colors and sizes decorating the top. Some had been lit, while others had yet to meet with the flame of his green lighter. Many of them were deformed and connected by a web of melted wax.

He looked behind him at the digital clock on his nightstand. He had an hour to get to his next class. Aaron walked over to the light switch by the door and flipped it on, and the room came to life with the golden glow of white string lights which hung in the beams above his head.

He listened intently for just a moment, waiting for any sign that his roommates were home. Closer by Nine Inch Nails floated from the third floor and into his room. His roommate Andy was obviously awake and probably studying, though how she could get that done with that music blaring was beyond him.

He walked over to his closet, which was littered with clothes. Shirts on hangers, clothes on the floor—clothes everywhere. He wasn’t even sure what was dirty and what was clean, but he really didn’t care, as long as it smelled okay and wasn’t stained.

He picked up a pair of dark blue skinny jeans and put them on, then he looked for a shirt that was decent enough and would cover his scars. Aaron looked at his arms and sighed. Old scars atop fresh ones and still red from the blade. He had done it nine times last night; five on his left arm and four on his right. It was such a development from what had started nearly ten years ago, when he had first attempted to get him out.

He shook his head and forced memories back into filing cabinets, choosing not to deal with them. He picked up a red and black polo and gave it a sniff. It smelled fine enough. Just lingering phantoms of deodorant and Versace cologne.

He pulled out a pair of black lace-up boots and sat them down on the floor before grabbing socks and taking a seat back on his bed to put them on.

He opened the door and was met with the day spilling in through the windows on the landing covered with linen curtains. Gray light shone dreary on the floorboards, and Aaron gave another yawn before making his way down the stairs. His room was the only room on the fourth floor, and he was glad for that. It cost him an extra two hundred to rent, but it was worth the extra cost to have a floor to himself.

He descended the oak staircase sluggishly, his feet stomping on the steps and announcing to whoever else might be home that he had emerged. He stopped on the third floor. The doors of both bedrooms were closed. Tammy wasn’t home; she was most likely in class, or flirting with some cute freshman in the library. He would have to find her later and go for coffee at Prospect & Bay or possibly The Horseshoe.

The other room on the third floor belonged to Andy. She didn’t really get along with the other girls in the house. She was often abrasive and seemed annoyed with almost everyone else all of the time, but her rent check was never late and she helped keep the house clean.

He knocked on her door and waited for a response, but Trent Reznor’s voice was the only thing that answered him back, so the second time he pounded.

Enter! said a slightly husky female voice, screaming over the music.

Aaron twisted the glass handle and the door skirted across the floor. Andy Stone was standing there in a black skirt and red corset, her curls dyed deep burgundy, and her mocha skin looked wonderful against the pallet of the fabric. She turned and smiled at him. She was only 5’2", but she could hold her own. There was a slightly toad-like quality to her that Aaron figured contributed to her hostility.

Though I adore Trent, could you please turn it down? It woke me up.

"It’s two in the afternoon, Aaron; you need to be awake!"

He growled and rolled his eyes, remembering once again that he had class.

So, who’s home? He was hoping that maybe one of them would be willing to cook him breakfast.

Well, Tammy’s gone to the library.

Of course, he thought.

Sandra’s nursing her hangover in the kitchen. And the terrible twos are probably having lunch at The Colophon.

The terrible twos were Christy and Trish, the resident couple in the house. Christy had grown up in the house, and her parents owned it, though when she graduated from high school they decided to move to Vermont and start a dairy farm, and so they left the house to her, and she in turn rented out the five rooms. Two rooms and a bathroom on the second floor where his roommate Sandra lived, and a vacant room that they were currently in the process of trying to rent out

The third floor was occupied by Tammy, Andy, and another restroom, and then the fourth floor, with another bathroom and the turret room where Aaron spent most of his time, locked away from everything and everyone else. The bathroom had been a bedroom originally, but during Christy’s sophomore year of high school, her parents had converted the room into a pristine bathroom with frosted glass light fixtures, subway tile, and granite as a birthday gift for her.

When he had asked Christy about not living in his room she had told him that it was haunted, but that was as far as she went, refusing to elaborate any further. Aaron had experienced no ghosts in his room, no spectral presence, and he assumed that if any departed souls had inhabited the fourth floor, then they must have moved on long before he arrived.

Well I’m going to get some coffee. I’ll see you later.

Andy nodded and Aaron made his way out of her room and down the stairs, closing her door behind him.

The stairs yawned into the large foyer where a round antique table sat in the center. A bouquet of lilies erupted from a blue-and-white Chinese porcelain vase that sat in the middle of the table, bringing to life the lily design in the etched glass of the twelve-foot oak front doors. Gray light shone through, and Aaron knew that it would be another gloomy day in the Pacific Northwest.

He took a right and made his way through the formal dining room, the pocket doors were pushed wide open, and the large oak dining table was bare. The usual stack of books that littered the table top were now missing, and that usually only ever happened if Christy and Trish were going to be hosting a dinner party.

He looked briefly at the candy-striped wallpaper and wondered if it was ever going to be covered or removed? It seemed so dated. The large brick fireplace was lit, and pictures of all of them decorated the mantel. A reproduction of Night and Her Train of Stars hung on the wall above it, encased in an antique gold frame.

He pushed open the swinging door and entered the large kitchen. Sandra sat on one of the steel stools at the island, a cup of coffee in front of her with her head resting in her hands.

Good afternoon, he said to her.

Sandra looked up and shook her head, her brown eyes bloodshot.

Not for me! Her voice was hoarse, and she stared at him miserably through the curtain of thick, curly black hair.

She had a dancer’s body and was—in Aaron’s opinion—one of the most beautiful women that he had ever seen. Aaron offered her a polite smile and looked her up and down. She may have felt like a wreak, but she still looked great dressed in her tight blue jeans and slim black turtleneck, her eyes shadowed in glittery silver and her lips rouged the color of dark cherries.

That’s what you get for partying like you do every other night!

Sandra was the oldest member of the house, and her twenty-seventh birthday was fast approaching. She loved women and could never be tied down. She moved freely and loved freely, and sometimes Aaron wished that he could be like her.

"Well, it was worth it. There was a big crowd at Rumors last night; you should have come."

Aaron shook his head.

You know that I hate large crowds; besides I had a lot to do....

Yeah, up in that tower of yours. The mad painter!

Her words stung a little, but it was true; he painted canvas after canvas, littering the floor with them.

Well, you know, genius can’t be interrupted, he smirked, rolling his eyes.

Want any coffee, Oh tortured artist? Sandra smiled, and Aaron nodded vigorously.

So, what are you reading? he asked her, looking at the small book by her coffee mug.

A collection of poems by Rita Mae Brown, you know? The self-described woman, warrior, mother, lesbian, et cetera.

Aaron snickered and nodded.

Right up your alley, isn’t it?

You know it!

––––––––

He stepped outside and slipped on his black pea coat as he walked down the narrow wood steps and looked at the wet street, thankful that it wasn’t raining at the moment, and he hoped that the clouds would hold out until he got to school before letting down the usual shower.

He walked up North Garden Street and ignored the few students passing by and giving him awkward glances. This wasn’t unusual, though he had no idea why people seemed to take such interest in him—but perhaps it was simply his own paranoia and adolescent insecurities that he hadn’t been able to shake that made him feel this way, and not the actuality of the situation.

His mind swam with thoughts, and his scars burned. The lining of his coat irritated them and made them itch. He had to ignore it, though. The last thing he needed to do was scratch and open wounds that weren’t quite yet healed.

He didn’t cut out of depression or built up angst; he didn’t do it for attention. He did it to get something out, something that had joined with him a decade earlier, something that he was always so certain was beneath the flesh, this entity—this person who flowed in his veins, under the shelter of his soft skin.

The Student Union stood at a towering five stories with large glass walls that was built into the steep hillside above North Garden Street and was home to dining facilities and offices. This was where most of the university populace hid themselves against the wicked Washington weather.

He opened large glass doors and made his way to the set of elevators at his left. He prayed that he would take the ride alone, that he would be free from the frustrations of bustling strangers.

The doors opened and to his happiness it was empty, and hopefully it would stay that way until he reached the fourth floor. He reached out and pressed the button, and in an instant the doors closed and he was making his way up, trying to shake memories from his mind. He was no longer there; this was not eighth grade, and he was not thirteen.

The elevator came to an abrupt stop and the doors opened, and he was met by the sounds of noisy college students, all chatting about classes, parties, clubs, politics, and their personal lives, which all coalesced.

He made his way through the throng, walking down the narrow hall and into the large commons, passing an information booth and vendors eager to take the money of hungry students.

He threw open the doors and walked outside, closing his eyes and letting out one long, deep breath. He realized he had been holding it in ever since he stepped off the elevator. The air was damp and misted. The evergreens and moss lingered like perfume, wakened from a slumber by the dew. It didn’t take long for the rain to come again.

It came down light at first, tiny sprinkles attacking his head, slowly wetting his hair and dripping down his face. He crossed the street, avoiding the city buses that collected along the curb waiting to pick up students, while others pulled in and dropped them off.

He stepped onto the wet grass of the courtyard and made his way to the large six-story stone library with its exterior walls covered in creeping vines of ivy. He loved the campus library, from its mass collection of fiction to its archives in the newer part of the building, which was connected to the original by a long concourse with massive walls of glass.

He walked up the steps and opened one of the doors. A woman with long and tired features smiled at him wearily. He returned her smile and made his way up the stairs to the concourse which was filled with soft couches and chairs, all of which were taken over by more students eager to stay out of the rain than to actually study.

He found his roommate at the other end of the skywalk, sitting in one of the red chairs, a book lay open in her lap but completely ignored as Tammy was too busy talking up some cute young girl with blonde hair and big tits. She seemed to be oblivious to the fact that the only thing Tammy cared about was getting laid and having a drink to top it off.

Tammy Reynolds wore hiking boots with a pair of frayed jeans, a blue cotton blouse with an intricate floral pattern making its way from the bottom of her shirt and up to her breasts which expressed a nice cleavage. Her light brown hair was draped in loose curls over her shoulders, blonde streaks running through soft burnished locks, and her eyes were an absolutely striking mix of gold and green.

Boo! he said.

Tammy only smiled and laughed, reaching her hand out and clasping his, their complexion identical.

Hi, sweetie, I was going to wake you, but I figured that you would have ripped my head off.

Her voice was soothing and always seemed to be filled with laughter, as if she were constantly in on some private joke. Tammy seemed to be one of the easiest going people he had ever known in his life, and yet sometimes it put him off in ways that he could not comprehend.

Yeah, I would have put it on a stool and used it as a focus in a still life! His hazel eyes darted to the pretty young thing and realized that she was absolutely perturbed by his presence.

And who’s your young friend? he asked her.

Tammy looked at him for a moment and winked, making sure that she couldn’t see it.

This is Clarissa.

The girl shook his hand and smiled nervously.

Hi, I’m Aaron; are you a freshman?

She nodded. Is it that obvious? Her voice sounded like a shrill bell.

Well, you seem so happy to be here; you don’t find that in second years or third years, for that matter, Aaron answered.

Tammy laughed and Clarissa seemed to shrink back before deciding to pick up her book bag and leave, telling Tammy that she would call her later.

Sweet girl. He hoped that it was sarcastic enough.

Yeah, I wanna teach her the ABC’s. She winked, and Aaron stuck out his tongue in mock-disgust.

So anyways, I’m thinking of ditching class today and getting some coffee; do you want to come?

Tammy crossed her fingers and said ‘shame on you’ a couple of times; Aaron only smiled.

Sure, why not? I have nothing else going on, and school is over for the day, at least for me. You, on the other hand....

He flipped her off and she kissed the air, telling him that she didn’t fuck gay men.

That’s a pity, because you don’t fuck gay women either. This time he winked, and she threw the back pillow at him, knocking him in the face. Touchy, touchy; careful or you’ll....

He lost himself on his words as the world seemed to slow down.

A figure walked by, a face from the past, but looking nothing like it once had. The image was now changed, but still it was there, floating in the air like a particular scent—a smell that seemed to cross nine years and make its way to Aaron, who could only breathe it in, allowing it to fill his lungs and jump-start his brain.

It was ephemeral. The person spirited by in an instant, clad in dark blue jeans, a tight black V-neck tee clinging to a toned, muscular frame. The skin was still immaculate, though now it was a lighter shade of olive, and both arms were covered in a mess of tattoos.

The face was still sculpted—that prominent jaw line and those large turquoise eyes, and that now-black hair, chopped in layers and brushed to the side, covering his left eye and part of his left cheek. Aaron knew that face and knew that hauntingly silent kinetic energy that seemed to travel with this person, forcing his heart to pick up in a rapid pace.

Hey, Aaron, you okay? Tammy asked him.

The world seemed to speed up again, returning to its common measure. Tammy stared at him, her bright eyes looking at him with concern but there was nothing that he could say.

Huh? Oh, I’m fine, I just... can we get out of here?

Tammy nodded and they rose up from their seats, making their way down the skywalk, Aaron desperate to steady himself in the present.

Watch out! Tammy yelped.

Aaron’s brain and his body did not respond to each other in time and his body collided with another, hitting against a tight chest. The smell of expensive cologne filled the air, mixing with the heat of the body he had come up against.

Fuck! I’m sorry, I...I Aaron looked up to see those eyes staring into his, that familiar smile acknowledging him and forcing his knees to buckle.

It was Chase Sheppard.

Don’t worry about it.

Aaron looked at this face from the past staring back at him. He watched as those eyes widened as they took him in and connected the face he was looking at now with the face that he had known years earlier.

Aaron Christopher!

He nodded and his mind was swimming as his scars began to burn, nine years coming around full circle, the past colliding with the present and two worlds so long apart forming one universe.

Hey, Chase... He blushed and looked down at his boots, not expecting those strong arms to encase him, to feel a body that he had only felt once before and so long ago—that it had often felt as if it were a figment of his imagination—was more than he could bear, and now Aaron was shaking.

God, I haven’t seen you since Proctor; how are you?

His voice had grown deeper over the years, just as Aaron had expected, suddenly aware of the tone of his own voice, the same way that he had been aware of it in those tragic three years of adolescence.

I’m good. Um, what are you doing here?

Well, I’m going to school here. I just transferred at the beginning of the semester. I’m starting my pre-law program.

They were staring into each other, and Chase’s hands were still holding tight to Aaron’s forearms.

Oh, wow.

Chase smirked and gave a nod.

Yeah, I graduated from University of Puget Sound last year. I’m taking the Law Diversity and Justice program here before I go to law school.

He was so thankful that Chase had finally let go. If they had been together any longer, Aaron would have popped an erection.

That’s really great, Chase. I’m happy for you.

For a moment, they said nothing more. They just stared at one another and took in the gravity of all of the years. All of those things left unsaid—things that could have taken up all of those blank pages in the back of yearbooks, but had never been written down. Things reduced to a few lines and a smiley face and wishes for the summer.

God, I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other until now! Chase said with a laugh.

Bodies like dolls left on floors and blood like paint on tiles and white porcelain urinals flooded Aaron’s mind.

Imagine that....

Anxious, anxious, anxious. Tap on shoulder, not dead fingers, living fingers, Tammy fingers.

So, who’s this? she asked him, looking from Aaron to this beauty in front of him.

Can’t speak, what’s his name? What is it!

Hi, I’m Chase; I went to middle school with Aaron.

They shook hands and began chatting, Aaron realizing that Chase’s labret was pierced with a sterling silver stud. Though not very big, it still looked good under his full bottom lip.

You want to join us for coffee? We’re going to Prospect & Bay downtown, she told him.

Aaron’s palms began to sweat; he looked at them, and for a moment he thought that he was sweating blood.

I would, but I got a lecture; another time maybe?

He was speaking to Tammy, but the whole time his eyes were focused on Aaron.

Sure, here’s our house number! She took out a marker and wrote on his arm, commenting on his muscle definition and soft skin.

Thanks, oh hey... Aaron!

He looked up, braving that sly grin.

Yeah? Bodies and cracked skulls. Those big eyes and kind smile cutting through all of the static and keeping him in place.

It was great running into you; can’t wait to do it again. He smirked and Aaron returned it, attempting to make it as nonchalant as possible.

Aaron turned quickly and began to walk away from him.

It had always been like that. He had always made it a point to tear himself away from Chase before Chase could do it himself. It was the only thing he could think to do to prove that he controlled his actions—that no one else had power over him.

If he found himself lingering for too long, then Chase would know that he had Aaron in the palm of his hand.

Who in the world was that? Tammy asked as they made their way down the steps, clinging to Aaron’s arm.

That was a ghost....

They pushed open the doors and made their way to the bus stop, the rain hitting them in a down pour, attacking like needles on the skin. His scars still burned and he wished to scratch, but was afraid of opening a wound—especially since another had just been reopened.

II

The bus ride was made in silence, Tammy only looking up briefly from her copy of Mrs. Dalloway to make sure that Aaron hadn’t fallen asleep.

He hadn’t.

Aaron remembered classroom glances and a boy with blond hair who would stare at him for several minutes, never breaking concentration and never looking away. He thought of middle school locker rooms and tan naked flesh under a shower of warm water, letting the white foam of the lather rinse down a smooth stomach, resting in a nest of black hair and the beginnings of a hard­on.

He pulled himself out of that nine year tunnel and looked out of the bus window, watching as it made its way down a sloping hill, crossing Railroad and Holly, and nearing the bus depot. He expected this to happen eventually, a face from the past emerging to greet him, but he had never entertained the idea that it would be Chase Sheppard.

He thought Chase would have been at some Ivy League university like Yale or Harvard. He had the grades for it; at least he did in the eighth grade. The bus pulled into the transit center and bodies of all sizes, genders, colors, and ages waited to board the bus and piled against the doors.

Tammy stepped out first; her hemp purse strung over her left shoulder, hanging at her side and knocking against the top of her hip bone. She had thrown on a gray toggle coat with a matching scarf wrapped around her neck before they had gotten off the bus.  

Aaron followed her out, and they began to make their way through the depot and out into the rain drenched streets, neither one speaking. They had just passed Cellophane Square when Tammy suddenly opened her mouth, forcing Aaron to take notice of her.

You okay with the fact that I gave that guy our house number?

Her eyes were wide with concern, and though he wasn’t okay with it, he wasn’t going to tell her that.

Yeah, it’s really not a big deal. It’s just... well, Chase wasn’t exactly my friend in middle school.

Tammy looked at him with one brow raised in question.

You mean, like, he was an enemy or something?

Aaron shook his head.

No, we were just from two different worlds. His was inhabited by the beautiful people, and mine... well, mine was inhabited by me.

Tammy nodded, droplets of rain leaving her locks.

Well, did he look like that years ago?

Aaron shook his head.

Do you think that if he did he still would have been popular?

No.

This was true. If Chase Sheppard had looked like that back at Proctor Middle School, he would have been shunned. Popular people don’t like that. They hate what’s different, and if they actually like it, they hide inside of themselves, along with the eating disorders and secret apathy, afraid of going against the crowd.

She smiled and told him not to worry about it; they were going to get filled up on some good chai and get cozy in the comfy old sofas. 

They made their way past the Rite-Aid and near-empty downtown lots, avoiding puddles that filled cracked and broken pavement.

The rain was now letting up, though it had yet to come to a complete stop, but Aaron was glad that it was no longer a downpour. They crossed the street, and there were a few protesters standing outside of the Federal Building. What it was exactly they were protesting they weren’t certain, but what did it matter? In this day and age everyone’s political, and the prospect of Hilary Clinton being president ignited in everyone a sense that the ceiling may finally be broken.

His house was divided between Hilary and Barack Obama supporters, he and Sandra being in Obama’s camp and the other women staunchly behind Clinton. He and Tammy had made it a rule between them in order to keep the peace that they would not discuss politics no matter what. So far, it was working.

What they were united against was the fact that there was no enemy greater than the Republican party and their right-wing values and policies that had nothing to do with conservatism as Eisenhower knew it, and everything to do with Oral Roberts fundamentalism that had made queers Enemy Number One—right along with women’s bodies—and had made it a driving force in Bush junior’s reelection.

No matter what, they were determined to never see their country teeter that close to the edge of theocratic, bigoted, discriminatory fascism ever again. They couldn’t imagine their generation or the one after, ever letting Republicans come into power again.

Their generation couldn’t be that stupid.

Though, Americans were reading less, and the education system sucked, and there was a sleeping giant of systematic racism, misogyny, heterosexism, and nationalism (spurned by the church pews, the administration, and the world-shaking catastrophe of September Eleventh,) that was starting to creep out of the gutters, and ignorant communities where the Book of Genesis was taught alongside, or in place of, actual science courses.

There was the next generation of conservatives coming up in the churches, and those not religious but simply poisoned by the systematic heterosexism that has infected every society and demographic for the past two millennia.    

They cut through a small parking lot, moving between cars and stepping back onto the sidewalk. They passed the old Breakwater Church on Bay Street with its blue tile and white stucco exterior. It looked more like a theatre than a church, and NA and AA members were frequently seen gathered outside before and after meetings.  

They walked by the windows of the radio museum, both of them stealing glances of themselves in the glass as they neared their destination.

The large two-storied brick building which was Prospect & Bay was no more than twenty feet away. Scattered smokers sat and conversed in dark green plastic lawn chairs, dishing out their theories on theology and philosophy while inhaling Camels or Lucky Strikes and swigging back cups of hot coffee or other assorted beverages.

Tammy opened the door and allowed Aaron to enter first, both of them making their way up to the front counter.

What can I get you? a man asked them. He was an inch or two shorter than Aaron, his hair shaved to near-baldness, and his large brown eyes accentuated his cute face. He wore a black sweater with a white oxford underneath, with loose khaki pants, and his voice was rough and deep.

Two large chai’s and a piece of focaccia, Aaron said with a smile.

The barista nodded and turned to take care of the order. Aaron’s eyes darted around the coffee house, staring off into the void. There were two tables up against the wall, little lamps sat on the tops and a collage of vintage magazine clippings covered the table-tops and were protected with epoxy.

There was a bar up against the window with a collection of newspapers scattered about, obviously read and neglected by various patrons. He caught Tammy’s stare and they locked eyes, silently challenging the other to break away. In this game no one won, they always erupted into a chorus of laughter and ended up moving on, usually into a conversation about their roommates.

All right, two chai’s and focaccia; that’ll be eight dollars and thirty cents, please.

Aaron handed him a ten and put the change in the tip jar, the barista offering a polite smile and a nod, which he returned.

They walked into the open dining area.

A large red Victorian couch sat up against the wall to their left with a giant mirror hanging above it in an antique frame. There was an arm chair up against the wall in the opposite direction, facing