Hard-Hitting Reality

Dean, a gay man, was abused by his ex-friend Mohammed. They meet years later, but how will things turn out?

Bold, bright and beautiful, that used to be me.

Years ago he tormented me, laughed at my sexuality. I’d admitted it to him because he was my best friend. His face wrinkled up in repulsion. He’d assumed I’d meant that I loved him. He’d walked off, spitting out painful words. I looked down, a single tear falling to the cracked floor.

I hadn’t told another soul. There wasn’t a reason to �" since all my friends abandoned me. Alone, I battled against Mohammed’s torment.

He threw me in a bin with help from his buddies. I crawled out from it; banana skins and other putrid rubbish clinging to my clothes. Some things poked me �" yet I couldn’t rip them away. If I tore them off; I’d cut myself. They seemed to resemble a part of me. How being gay hindered me; yet trying to be straight would be like going against my nature...I wouldn’t be able to do it.

Last night, I found him. With a bottle hand, he sat on the curb. I said hi, looking down on him. His hair was messy, his clothes torn. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. Instead, he spouted insults. Despite the years of abuse, my craving for his companionship, for our lost connection, forced me onto the ground beside him.

Secretly I’d felt that paying me attention �" as negative as it was �" meant that he too, was gay. After much persistence �" and noting down how much he’d drunk �" he’d finally opened up. I was aghast when I found that my fantasies had become reality; my abuser, abusing his own kind.

He’d told me how much of a struggle it’d been �" having to settle for women when he had no interest. He’d get their numbers at clubs �" to gain the respect of his friends. They’d ask about his ‘conquests’ and he’d lie. He was sick of lying. After all his groaning, all his relief flooded him, and he was uplifted �" only to go inside for one last beer.

I followed him, walking as if he’d been spun in circles. His feet crossed over each other; his vision blurry. He’d called a woman the bartender �" he hadn’t been facing the right way. I put my hands on his shoulders, twisting him to face the bar. I wasn’t too sure on him having another drink. He’d already had a few out on the street �" but somehow, I wanted him to suffer. A few minutes of sharing wasn’t going to make me forgive him.

Mohammed finally ordered his drink, but it was clear the bartender had given one too many. Looking to him, the pathetic, intoxicated bully that destroyed my confidence, I realised he was depressed too.

The bartender rolled his eyes as he gave him the beer. Mohammed, my torturer, happily gulped it down, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down. Admittedly, I stared, confusion stirring. He looked straight, but he couldn’t hack it.

Interrupting my thoughts, he put a hand on my chest. He tried to keep it in place �" but it slid down and flopped by his side.

“I love you.” He gripped my shoulder, before his fingers loosened and his other hand flopped down too.   

“You do, do you?” I got down off my stool, getting closer. I put my face so close to his �" lips a breath away. I’d stood there �" completely still. I’d wanted to tell him that just in case he asked me what I did to him �" I could say he initiated everything. I realised what I wanted, what he wanted. Despite it all, I knew I couldn’t forgive, but I really knew what had been playing on my mind when I sat next to him on the pavement. It wasn’t his friendship I missed. It was the feeling he gave me without trying �" that mystical suspension like reality didn’t exist.

He shifted in his seat. As drunk as he was, he still had a small hold on reality. He tensed right down to his hand. It curled into a fist. I backed away, scared he’d start a bar fight. He went to hit me, but his reactions were slow as I held his fist.

“You’re not very gay, are you?” I shout, letting the whole bar know. It was packed with straight men �" mostly middle aged with beer bellies and bad fashion sense. Mohammed grunted, his eyes reflecting the deep red lighting. It was as if they’d burned up out of anger and embarrassment. He made no reply, withdrawing his fist from my hand.

He gulped back the last of his beer, heading out the main door with a slam.

I followed him. He was walking along the street; knocking things over and kicking lampposts.                

“What’s up with you?” I ran up from behind, catching up to him.                                

He turned to me, a dark misty aura excreted from him, “How dare you tell them.”

Across the street, a few thieves knocked the ornament off a car. We lived in a rough neighbourhood �" especially at night. Mohammed and I shouldn’t have been out alone. In smaller towns, two grown men would’ve been safe enough out in the middle of the night. Not there though, the gangs are serious. They were just as bad as the ones from films �" with guns and knives hidden beneath jackets.                                    

Mohammed spun round, gripping my shoulders. I looked to him, with an eye on the gang.            

Unlike me, he was completely focused. He’d stared me down. He tried to say as clearly as possible, “Dean, how do you feel about me?” I hadn’t wanted to answer. I felt as if I’d been backed into a corner. “Tell me!” He shouted, shaking me.

The gang spun round, alerted to our whereabouts. I put a finger to Mohammed’s lips. “Shh!” I grabbed him, running off as the gang started to walk fast, hoodies up as they cast shadows over their faces.                  

We kept running, before the police came, alarms blaring. Lights went up around the street, waking people. This gave us chance to hide in an alleyway whilst the police momentarily spoke to the gang. They wouldn’t put them away �" they’d get a warning for following us. The police are too tired this time of night. They really don’t want to go through the trouble of arresting them. Yet Mohammed and I were glad they still came �" to at least delay them. 

“Dean.” Mohammed said, leaning against the metal mesh. I leant in, waiting for him to say more. He grabbed my face, two large, yet soft hands firmly placed on my cheeks. He came closer, but as he did, the gang came into view. They spotted us, whipping out knives and coming toward us. With a spare second, Mohammed whispered in my ear, “I’m not gay.” He pushed me away, the gang turning to me.

I rub the bandages around my waist. Closing my eyes, I breathe out slowly and gently �" not wanting to feel the aching so deeply. But the stabbing hadn’t been the worst part. It was how Mohammed never loved me.

Author's Note

Opinions welcome.

Reviews

[Krista Weiss]

Awww! Really sad!! Really great job thought!!!