I woke early in the morning to find Michael still laying beside me, clutching onto me like a scared child, but he was fast asleep. After he had told me about Julianne we had once again lapsed into silence and I hoped it wouldn't last. The fact that he never went back to grab the pad and pencil again seemed to bode well, however, that the days of silent communication were over. Today was the last free day before school started up again and I wondered if this change would carry over into those over-crowded halls filled with angry people shoving past each other to get to their next destination.
I slowly and carefully slid out of Michael's embrace and made it out of the bed without waking him. I tiptoed across the room to my closet, opening the door wide and rummaging inside for clothes to wear. As soon as my hand closed around a pair of shorts I started cussing myself. I'd forgotten all about Michael's clothes being in the washer and they were probably more wrinkled than elephant hide by now. Glancing at the clock it was obvious no one else was awake. Five in the morning, no way, and so I left my room as quietly as I had entered it last night to throw his clothes in the dryer.
Blushing furiously, I tossed in his underwear first. Well, there was no need to ask the famous boxers or briefs question. Apparently Michael was a man who liked to having breathing room. I started the dryer but didn't leave the washroom right away, yawning a little and wondering if maybe I had made a mistake in bringing him here to my home. Somehow I knew that he would be staying again tonight and if my parents were to catch us there would be hell to pay.
I wondered how my sisters would react. Jealously, perhaps. Neither of them had ever been in serious relationships and even though I did not consider anything between Michael and myself as serious, they would instantly. Especially my parents because it was rare that I was ever in the company of a boy. I had always avoided guys, whether intentional or inadvertently I've not decided, and so had mostly friends who were girls. The few guy friends that I did have were either gay, wanting to become women, or so moody that they may as well be women stuck on permanent PMS-mode.
I had been brooding for so long in the wash room that his clothes were already dry. I took them out and folded them, tucking them under one arm and hurrying up the steps once more and slipping silently into my room to find that Michael was still asleep. I closed my door and, for the first time in my life, locked it. I had never done that before because I'd never seen it as being necessary. I had once even asked if the lock could be removed but my father had only laughed, telling me I didn't have to use it but the doorknob would remain the same. Something about locked doors just made me nervous.
I set his clothes down nearby and made my way over to the bed, kneeling beside it and peering down at him. I can understand perfectly now what they mean by that motherly instinct. Even in his sleep he looked troubled and I longed to scoop him up in my arms to simply rock him back and forth and let him know it would all be okay. Of course, this was a lie. I could never guarantee something that huge. I could try to protect him, but even if he was sensitive he was still a man and probably wouldn't appreciate that. I was almost certain he wasn't gay now, and even if he was then he had to be bi. He dated Julianne, after all. As my mind wandered back onto the subject of last night it dawned on me that he said he'd dated her a year ago. He'd made his vow of silence six months ago. What had happened six months ago to make him go mute?
I searched the closed eyelids for answers but found none, brushing his hair back away from his face with one hand and marveling at how smooth and cold his skin was. It made me think of porcelain, unblemished and fragile. I closed my eyes against the thought of all those scars on his back. Maybe unblemished porcelain wasn't the right choice. My fingertips trailed over his lips, feeling how dry they were, letting them drift towards his chin and down his neck. In his sleep he mumbled something indistinguishable and my fingers trailed over his bare shoulder and down his arm. I was going to hold onto his hand but something caught my attention.
On his wrist was a cut in the shape of a heart, almost perfectly done, and I was almost certain if he had done it himself it wouldn't look that way. It would be crooked or look broken. I checked the wrist of his right arm, too, but it was unmarked. How many other scars were on this boys body I couldn't see or hadn't discovered yet, lurking right before my eyes waiting to be discovered? I checked the wrist of his right arm again, double-checking. I still couldn't see anything other than a curious mole that I made a mental note to warn him about maybe being cancerous.
I jumped when he spoke, not having noticed he'd been awake, "I don't have scars there."
I nodded, releasing his arm and backing away from the bed, about to get to my feet until he grabbed my wrist and pulled me back to him. Our faces were inches apart and I had an insane urge to tickle him. Where had that thought come from? Maybe it was his eyes. They looked so sad and broken. Weren't they called windows to the soul? How tattered were his wings inside of him?
Michael's eyes closed and he rested his forehead against mine. I wrapped my arms around his neck and closed my eyes too, my heart beating a little faster because I was glad that he was still speaking and not going back to the pad and pencil. I stroked his hair, the motherly instinct taking over again, and he laughed softly.
"Before my mother became an alcoholic and before I was too old to be coddled, she stroked my hair like that." he said to me, wrapping his arms around my neck as well.
More tempted to ask than ever before about his history with his parents, I didn't feel it polite to ask. With Michael it seemed like it was best to simply let him open up to you at his own pace. I pulled back and took his arm to look down at his wrist.
I traced the heart-shaped scar on his wrist with my index finger, marveling at how I could not have noticed it before. I rolled my eyes at myself. He always seemed to be wearing long-sleeved shirts, of course I'd never seen it. I doubted that even his own mother knew about the scars on his body. Somehow, the scars on his soul seemed to be deeper.
I asked the question quietly, thinking that if I asked too loud it would frighten him off like a butterfly perched on the bud of a flower. I couldn't shake the notion that he was so fragile and I hoped I could cure him of that. "Did you do this yourself?"
He followed my finger with his eyes, shaking his head so that his dark hair brushed against my cheek, "No. An ex did it." His voice was softer than mine had been, as if the memory were painful to him. I wanted to ask who she was, what she'd been like, where she was now, but I was silenced by the fear that he would disappear behind that curtain again.
Michael was smiling when I looked up into his eyes again. Taken aback, I blinked, laughing. "What?"
"If you have questions, ask them. I have no reason to lie to you." he said, looking down at his wrist and moving his hand to entwine his fingers with mine. My heart-skipped a beat and I licked my lips nervously. Just ask? That was such a huge amount of trust placed upon me that I wasn't sure how to handle it. He squeezed my hand, "I have no reason to be afraid of you, you haven't hurt me."
My brain wanted me to ask him if he'd ever said that same thing to Julianne but I managed to hold it back. Out in the hall I thought I heard footsteps. Perhaps one of my sisters walking down the hall to shower. Would they believe he had only just shown up an hour ago if I told them? I glanced at the clock. Six in the morning. It was a risky lie.
"Who...was the girl that did it?" I asked slowly, looking down at our clasped hands.
"The boy that did it is dead." he said, his voice low and his eyes guarded. "David. He committed suicide about six months ago."
I raised my free hand to cover my mouth and closed my eyes, a small gasp escaping my lips even though it was muffled. So, that answered my questions about Michael's sexuality and his reason for the vow of silence all in one go. When I opened my eyes again to look at him I was angry with myself that I'd even asked because he looked so sad.
"I'm so sorry, Michael..."
His hand shook in mine.
"We don't have to talk about it," I said quickly, taking hold of his other hand too.
Michael forced a smile onto his face but it disappeared almost as soon as he managed to put it on. "I've never talked about it all. In fact, I've never even written about it...maybe that was a big mistake." He shrugged his shoulders, that one act seeming to take more energy than lifting a barbell off the floor.
I leaned forward and rested my head on his shoulder, "You can talk to me."
He shrugged his shoulders again, my head rising slightly as he did so before settling down into a comfortable position. His skin was warm and smelled earthy to me, almost as if he'd been running through the woods for a long time and lived in the wilderness. Perhaps if I could get him outside often enough he'd tan and start wear sleeveless shirts. People needed to realize they should be proud of their scars and show them off as medals of having survived rather than hiding them and being ashamed, thinking of them as badges of weakness.
Michael's hands released mine and he leaned back on the bed and I fell with him, smiling a little and not even bothering to look back at the door again. I think I remembered locking it after I shut it, so it should have been relatively safe. We would just have to keep our voices low.
"I'm still tired," he said to me, closing his eyes and pulling me against his chest.
This caught me off guard but I didn't pull away, closing my eyes and resting my head against his chest. His heart was pounding in my ear, lulling me to sleep, but I had to resist in case someone knocked on my door. Obviously he wasn't ready to talk about David just yet and I wasn't going to force him to. My eyes opened a fraction of an inch and I searched for the edge of the blanket to pull over us.
I drifted off to sleep again with images of beautiful boys with crimson wings walking down the sidewalk holding hands in my head, dancing to the sound of drums that sounded like a heart beat. Beside me on the bed, Michael was wide-awake, stroking my hair with one hand and wiping tears away with the other.
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