A Kiss for Jack

Love conquers all. Or that's what we hope. But the past is a powerful force to be reckoned with. Especially when its still living with us every day.

Jack didn't have to look for a problem. Instead, he looked for perfection and that, in itself, was the problem.

A hundred little things had to be ‘just so’ for his day to go smoothly: lock and unlock the front door two times after coming in with the mail, flip the lights in the den on and off four times, straighten the plush toys on the shelf row by row, and realign the spines of the anime DVDs and manga before placing the mail on the coffee table.

That was just a trip to the mail box.

The less said about the preparation to go to the mailbox, the better. Of course there was the ritual cleaning of the second floor. The bedrooms were up there, mom’s old bedroom specifically. Daily folding and dusting routinely devoured an hour and a half from his already compulsively packed schedule. Some days he just couldn’t go near the bathrooms. He just couldn’t spare the time. How often had he stumbled from the bathroom, scrub brush in hand, only to find that the sun was no longer shining in through the front door? Far too often, Jack decided. That’s why Quinn was so important to him.

Jack was convinced he could overcome all of his “little issues” for Quinn. No one had ever made him feel as special. No one had ever made him feel as loved, at least not in a romantic way. His mom had died years ago, and his final memories of her were tinged with sickness and soft sobs. He preferred to forget, and Quinn was helping him do just that. In the months since he had known Quinn, Jack found himself replacing incessant scrubbing for incessant waiting. As soon as the alarm screeched each morning Jack was out of bed and at his PC, waiting for the only contact on his list to log on. As soon as he did, all thoughts of compulsive ritual were banished.

They had spent more than a year just chatting online; playing games, reading terrible fan fiction, laughing at overly serious forum posts, criticizing sub-standard film adaptations of their favorite comic books, and sharing many other secret pleasures. Another six months on top of that, and they had constructed enough idyllic fantasies of each other that a flesh and bone meeting was proposed. This decision was not taken lightly. A pleasant bubble of perfection had formed between the many miles that separated them, and Jack was not eager to pop it with sharp reality. But Quinn was insistent. He was going to drive cross country to see Jack.

It had been two days since he had started out from his home state. A generation earlier and Jack would have spent an anxious week alone, hoping for a call from some cheap motel on Route 66. But this was the glorious 21^st Century. It had brought their minds together across tons of snaking cable, now it would bring their bodies together. In the mean time, no sleep needed to be lost over the condition of his travelling desire. Quinn sent several pics a day from his phone, posing in front of odd landmarks and roadside attractions. Jack didn’t care so much about the Diner-Saurus, Car Henge, Old Sparky the decommissioned electric chair, or any of the other pieces of Americana that littered the landscape just outside his front door. All he cared about was the man smiling and waving in each frame.

Quinn’s smile, that’s what kept Jack from having a nervous breakdown during the long wait. The face shining up from the tiny screen gave him confidence Quinn would actually show up. Unfortunately, it supplied him with just enough confidence to stand at the bottom of the stairs all day, not moving an inch for fear of starting in on one of his many rituals. From 7:15am to 12pm he stood on the bottom step of the staircase, his gaze shifting from the frosted glass of the front door to his phone. He was so glad he hadn’t heard anything yet today. Not a peep. He didn’t want to jinx it. But as time wore on his mind wandered. The house creaked. Any second, he began to think, I’ll hear it.

Jack spent the better part of the last half hour focused on a framed picture hanging, ever so slightly skewed, on the wall. His brow was beaded with sweat.  It took every ounce of effort he had to not run screaming and adjust it.

“Just one thing to fix, one thing to clean,” he thought, “just to make sure I don’t hear it.”

Too late: There was a knock at the door. Jack screamed and dropped his phone. A silhouette stood shifting from side to side in the front door’s curtained window. Jack’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. Looking down he saw Quinn’s smiling face on the phone’s screen and groaned.

“Please, please let me do this right!” Jack prayed, to nothing in particular.

The moment Jack opened the door he whimpered with joy. There stood Quinn, an ill fitting t-shirt that read “Professional Zombie Hunter” sagging from his gangly frame, a bag of chocolate truffles in one hand, a bottle of cheap champagne in the other, his black plastic glasses nearly sliding off the end of his equine nose. He was the most beautiful thing Jack had ever seen. They both stood in the door way for a moment, stupid grins plastered on their faces, before Quinn spoke up.

“…Can I come in?” He chuckled and held up the pricey bag of imported confections. “These things are going to melt as fast as I am.” Jack blinked and began nodding, backing inside and motioning a welcome. He closed the door, turned around, and Quinn was against him. With a muffled squeak their lips met and began a slow and passionate kiss. Quinn’s boney arms wrapped around Jack’s ample body as he leaned in, getting as intimate as possible. It was Jack’s first kiss. It was the most amazing moment of his entire life. It had caught him by surprise, and that was the kindest piece of charity fate had ever bestowed on poor Jack. He closed his eyes and enjoyed every moment of it. Quinn pulled back, Jack’s eyes still closed, warmth and love filling his body. He could hear Quinn chuckling as he asked, “Well, how was it?”

“… filthy f****t.” A completely different voice whispered in Jack’s ear.

“What?!” Jack’s eyes bulged open. He twisted away from Quinn, looking in every direction for the other voice. Suddenly he realized what he was doing and stopped, turning back to the confused face of the man who had just given him his first taste of love. It was too late. The first step had been taken. This was not going to end well.

Jack tried the rest of the day. He made every attempt he could to ignore the odd phrases that leapt out at him from time to time. Watching a romantic movie didn’t help distract him. Quinn leaned over to tell him, “I’m so glad we decided to do this.”

Jack flinched.

Not because of Quinn’s kind words. It was the guttural whisper of “dirty queer” that came directly after. From where, Jack didn’t know. He never knew. Quinn’s confusion was obvious.  Jack quickly smiled and deflected with a kiss. It was nice. But Jack couldn’t ignore the sidelong glance Quinn gave him.

As the voice continued berating him Jack found it harder and harder to ignore his rituals. He discreetly repositioned the throw pillows of the couch while the movie played on, its plot and characters the last thing on his mind. He cuddled against Quinn, but found himself trying to smooth the wrinkles of his t-shirt. Thankfully Quinn just thought it was playful petting. All the while the same voice was getting angrier, louder.

“You gonna iron his shirts every morning like a good girl? You p***y.”

Jack bit his lower lip, forcing himself not to cry. Even after the movie ended Jack kept his head planted on Quinn’s lean stomach. Quinn ran his fingers through Jack’s hair, smiling down. But the voice got more belligerent and Jack found he was paralyzed with fear. He couldn’t say anything to Quinn. Everything would be ruined. So he just stayed there, quiet and unmoving. After nearly twenty minutes sitting in silence Quinn let out a frustrated laugh. He slid off the couch and kneeled down, looking Jack in the eyes.

“Hey, you awake down here?” Jack couldn’t help but feel slightly better seeing Quinn’s smile. “Look I know first meetings are awkward, and I know it’s easier to type out a conversation that to have one. Why don’t you choose another movie while I go to the bathroom?”  He gave Jack’s forehead a kiss and headed out.

“…he gonna suck your c**k with those lips?”

Quinn sat up, barely suppressing a scream. He wrapped his arms around himself and began rocking, trying to get a hold of himself. Hoarsely, under his breath he whispered, “SHUT UP!” With Quinn gone there was nothing to stop him from running to the shelves. His hands flew over the books and movies, pulling them out of place and then back into place, rearranging and then putting them back into order. He whimpered, his eyes wide, wildly darting all over the collection, looking for imperfections to correct. Sweat formed on Jack’s brow as he switched the movies around, over and over, his chest burning with oncoming tears. He stopped. Quinn was standing behind him. With a shaky hand Jack pulled a movie from the shelf and turned around, trying to seem composed. His face was red, covered in sweat, eyes wide and full of tears.

Quinn did nothing to hide his shock. He shook his head and took a step back. Jack slumped and began sobbing. His only hope was on least lie.

“I just wanted to impress you so badly! I’m a wreck I know! But if you’ll just hold me I’ll try harder.” Jack shook with the intensity of his weeping. Quinn sighed and knelt down.

“You don’t have to impress me. You just need to calm down. It’s alright, ok?” Quinn pulled Jack tight, rubbing his back. When Jack had calmed down Quinn helped him up. They stood awkwardly for a moment, Quinn rubbing his neck. “Look, maybe I should go.”

Jack panicked and reached into the bottom of the barrel, hoping against hope he could fix everything with sex.

“Quinn, I’m pent up, I’m nervous. Don’t hold that against me. Maybe if we just,” Jack summoned up a smile and held out his hand, “go ahead and have some fun we’ll both feel better.” Jack blushed. There was nothing fake about that. Quinn smirked and took a step forward.

“Is that what all this about? I told you I would be gentle, we’d go slow.” Quinn kissed Jack’s forehead again. For just a second the kiss felt cold, odd. Jack flinched again, Quinn didn’t see it.

“I-I believe you. That’s why I want to do it now. I want you to show me.” Jack looked up, his face still flushed. “You go upstairs. I’ll get ready.” Jack leaned in and gave Quinn a legitimately passionate kiss. Quinn pulled back slowly, smiling, and stroked Jack’s cheek.

“Ok sweets.” Quinn rubbed Jack’s belly, turned and headed upstairs, taking his backpack with him. Jack watched those lanky legs disappear up the steps and grinned. It might still work.

“What are you waiting for you f****t sack of vomit? Get up there and defile this house again. DO IT!”

            The time for whispering had ended. The voice roared in his head like a car flipping on the interstate. A jolt ran through his entire body. Jack ran to the kitchen, grabbed a fresh dust rag, and began systematically wiping everything down. Every new object he tried to clean brought a new insult. Still, he kept wiping, kept scrubbing, trying with every twitching nerve to placate the grating voice in his ear. He stumbled against the door frame of the kitchen, leading back into the den. He wiped it clean. One of his sweat soaked hands left a mark on the mantle. He wiped it clean. He looked back and thought he could see his footprints on the floor. Falling to his knees, he began to wipe, wipe, wipe.

            “…NEVER be clean enough…after what you did…MY house…DO IT!...”

            “HEY!” Jack stopped, panting on his hands and knees. That voice had been real. It was Quinn, at the top of the stairs. “I’ve been ready! What are you doing?” Jack mumbled and dropped the rag, slowly looking up. Quinn stood up there, staring down, bare except his 1up boxers. His face was a mask of confusion and hurt. If you stood at the right spot at the top of the stairs you could see into the den, and Quinn had seen practically all of Jack’s meltdown. Jack looked on the face of the man he had adored for more than a year, and the expression settled deep on its surface, and quaked. Quinn stormed back into the bedroom. Jack scrambled to his feet and ran up the stairs, the rasping voice laughing at him with each foot fall.

Jack leaned on the door frame, out of breath. Quinn complained of migraines as he put back on his clothes. Jack opened his mouth to say something but at that moment the voice screamed. It was like his head had been split open. He went pale, gagged, and nearly vomited. He stumbled toward the closet doors. Disgusted, Quinn watched as Jack went into one of his oldest rituals: opening and shutting the closet doors over and over, peeking his head in each time and muttering something. Quinn flinched with every slam of the door, but was so stunned he couldn’t bring himself to move. Finally, Jack smashed the door shut one last time, pressing his back to it, still heaving with labored breath, and declared, “He’s not in there!”

Quinn blinked, mumbled something like “I forgot I have so much to do tomorrow have to be awake so early…” and, in an instant, was down the stairs and out the door.

 

 

            Jack decided it was the closets that had done it. He had opened and shut the doors too many times. Seeing the look on Quinn’s pale face, seeing the insanity of his action reflected in the eyes of someone he so desperately wanted to impress, was just too much. His mind was playing the scene over and over again. Quinn throwing the bright red bed sheet off, knocking a stuffed lion to the floor. Jack wanted to call out to Quinn, tell him to stop, apologize for how he was acting. Instead he froze. His eyes had darted back and forth between the two objects so foreign in his home: a beautiful man, and an inanimate object out of its place. It was a half hour after the front door had quietly closed and the crunch of Quinn’s car on the gravel driveway before Jack moved. He had knelt and placed the plush back in its place and then cried for just as long.

            All that was over now, he told himself. He had texted Quinn, telling him how sorry he was for the day. He said he was sorry for the definite way in which he told his boyfriend-to-be where he could and could not sit, what he could and could not touch, explaining how things had to be in the bathroom, and about the long awkward silences as Jack looked around the house, making sure it was perfect for his (potential) lover. In a whining voice he labored to explain he had been doing this as long as he could remember and that’s why he had never mentioned it before. He was afraid it would drive him away. In the end, it had. Still, Jack, in typical fixated fashion, sent Quinn the same message via Instant Message, E-Mail, and even voice mail. It had been hours, and there had been no response. For just a moment Quinn logged on to one of the messengers. But then, just as quickly, he logged off…or went invisible. After that, Jack sagged and moved to the bedroom for the rest of the night.

            Jack sat on the edge of his bed, the digital clock glowing 1:22 am. He turned his still red eyes to the lion plush at the foot of his bed. The glossy button eyes and forever smile seemed to taunt him. Without any warning, he imagined the lion saying, “Did you think I was going to sit here and watch you?” Jack’s eyes bulged. “Sit here and watch you two perverts f**k?” He flinched at the word, rubbing his temples. “What, you don’t like that word? You don’t like it when I say F**K?”

            “STOP IT!” Jack’s hand flew up, about to knock his favorite stuffed animal across the room. He couldn’t do it. Looking back at the toy, he saw there was nothing but his favorite object of affection. Next to Quinn, that is. The lifeless face of the lion still smiled back at him, a long stitched scar running down its muzzle, not angry in the least he had nearly smacked it across the mane. Jack reached forward and traced his finger along the green thread of the scar on Mr. Lion. He remembered his tears on the cotton padding as it spilled from the wound on his best friend. He remembered mom smiling and saying she would fix it just like new. He remembered telling her…he remembered something about it, how it had happened. But it wasn’t important. Slumping back down on the bed, he looked wearily at the clock again: 2:15 am. The weight of tiredness hung on his shoulders, a mountain piled up with his own failures. He needed sleep so badly. He started to lie back onto the soft mattress. Even with the lights on, Jack’s eyelids began to flutter down. Just as his head began to loll onto the pillow something whispered in the back of his mind…

            …the closet.

            Jack grimaced, looking up, his chin coming to rest on his chest. Two of the walls of his room were fitted with slim white closet doors. Every single night of his life, for as long as he could remember, he had to open them and look inside them. All of the other physical ticks of his existence had shaped out from that one. There had been a time when he didn’t have to lock and relock his bedroom door, or flick the light switch on and off three times, or adjust the rug at the side of his bed. He knew that. But memories were sketchy as to when this all began. The only thing that was definite was that there had been a time when none of this was necessary, sometime when things were happier. But it always blurred when he got close, when he tried to reach it with the fingers of his mind. It would come to him in dreams, but he would awaken from it with a fright, his brow slick with sweat.

            Jack pushed himself up and stared at the doors. His lips pursed, his teeth set, his eyes narrowed to slits. There was nothing for it, he had written on his blog, and that was true. There was nothing for his addiction. He was going to have to give in to it. His chest puffed as he drew in a long breath. No, his heard was starting to hurt, I don’t need this. But he did need it, and before he knew what was going on he was on his feet, stumbling to the left hand closet door. His eyes were wide, he felt like he was hyperventilating. Images of Quinn’s frowning face kept flashing through his mind. With a disapproving scream Jack flung himself down onto the rug. For awhile he lay on the floor, looking up at the towering doors. Quietly, from under the crack of the one on the right, a raspy voice whispered, “What’s wrong kid? Can’t figure out what’s wrong? I think you need to be sent UPSTATE!” A bright red flashed across his eyes.

Imaginationhallucinationimagination-

He stopped muttering and pulled himself up. What did that mean, “upstate”? What was wrong with him? Why did he need to open these doors so badly? As he asked himself his hand was already on the left door handle. Some sobs started to convulse his chest.

I don’t want to do this I don’t want to do this I don’t want to do this!

“But you’re gonna.” The voice under the closet door grunted. Jack’s sweaty hand slipped on the knob. It almost gave him enough time to stop himself and run back to the bed. “You’re GONNA!” The other door seemed to rattle. His hand gripped the closet door and flung it open:

Winter coats and a vacuum cleaner, as always.

“Alright I’m done now!” Quinn’s voice was a little too scared.

“No you’re not.” The other door creaked.

“Yes I am. I’m not gonna. I’m done.” Jack took a few steps back, tears splashing and splotching his t-shirt.

“Get back over here and open the door.”

“…i’m not gonna…” His bottom lip quivered his face red, his nose running.

“If you don’t open the door how are you gonna know if-“

“YOU’RE NOT F*****G IN THERE DADDY!”

Silence thicker than deep drift snow hung in the house. Jack’s mouth hung open. The flood gate opened.

Dad didn’t like Jack. Jack hugged his mom too much, he was too fat, didn’t seem to care about girls, read too much, was always on the internet, didn’t want to play pass. Jack was a “weird little p***y”. Dad stopped trying to fix Jack. Dad started scaring Jack.

Jack’s lunchbox would have bugs in it. Real bugs. Dad would speed into the driveway where he was playing and almost hit Jack. Dad gave Jack a bag of “leaves” to burn that was actually full of fireworks. Dad hid in the closet one day when Jack’s high school friend Will came over, the only friend who had ever come over. Dad jumped out of the closet just as Will was pulling down Jack’s tighty-whiteys.

Jack felt like throwing up. None of this had ever been blocked out. It wasn’t some forgotten memory. It was always in the back of his mind. It never left. Ever. He worked against it every day. His actions were a monument to its pervasive presence. Jack began to shiver, started to mumble about being sorry and being cold. Stumbling to the light switch he flicked it on and off in rapid succession, his numb face pressed to the wall, tears staining the wall paper. The blinking light made the room like an ancient home movie, projected into reality, the scene playing over and over in his mind…

The whir of frenzied movement, the shouting,

(“-send that f****t UPSTATE to that clinic, or camp, or whatever the F**K it is! He’s your kid! He’s not mine!”)

…the slamming of doors…

…the front door quietly (crashing) closing, the crunch of (dad’s) Quinn’s car pulling out (tearing up) the gravel driveway…

Dad was found a week later, the car crushed between two trees. A bottle was found, intact, still clutched in his hand stiff hand. Mother went to her room, laid down in bed, and never got back out. The Church sent money every month. Dad had been the pastor for so long…

The room felt like a meat locker. Goosebumps covered Jack’s body. His breath swirled in front of his face. He had to get to bed. It was his bedtime. Staggering into bed in the dark he didn’t even notice stubbing his toe. The nail cracked and bled. His shaking hand could barely grip the edge of the sheets. Jack pulled the blankets over his nose, curling up in a ball. He tried to close his eyes, even though the room was pitch black. But they stayed open, glaring and unseeing, in the direction of the closet door.

“…you’re not in there daddy…”

A board creaked at the side of the bed.  The mattress shifted with a slight weight. Jack’s hair drifted to one side with a puff of icy breath.

“No. I’m right in here…”

A pair of leathery lips pressed against his forehead with a soft kiss.

“…always.”

Author's Note

Feel free to take all aspects of format and style into consideration when reviewing the piece. If its confusing, boring, etc. I have tried to find as many grammatical errors as I can. But I understand I may not have caught them all.

Reviews

[Jessica E. Hamilton]

All I can say is WOW. I ABSOLUTELY LOVE this. You are so good, so great at catching the mood. At bringing the reader along. You pulled me through the story, I was enthralled, immersed. You need to keep this up. Keep posting these short stories! I look forward to reading more from you. :)

[Michael Doran]

This was almost painful to read, though in the best of ways. Jack first came into my mind as a charming, if eccentric kind of guy. As elements of his psychosis grew, so did my unease. Round halfway through the story my heart was thumping in my chest--already was. Wanted a happy ending for the boys, but you can't deny the power behind how everything played out. Very immersive, very enthralling, and very emotional, too. Good job. =]