After that I never really wanted to go anywhere. Brian treated me the same; better even, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do anything with him. Hell, I didn’t even want to go to the “end of the tour” party. I explained to Brian that it was a pointless celebration because in a few months it would start all over and end all over again. He just looked at me strangely, searching for whatever he saw in my eyes earlier, and wearing this muddled look on his face that didn’t suit him. The look was completed by the slight angle he put his head in. We stood staring at each other again; this was getting to be our ritual when Brian didn’t understand what was wrong. He was trying to figure out if I was serious and I was trying to figure out if he finally understood me. After about five minutes of trying, Brian gave up and grabbed my arm to drag me there. I made a fuss, but I didn’t turn back. If he was still my friend after all I’d done, I owed him that much. To summarize what I said at the beginning – the party sucked.
Leighanne apologized to me after I threw the painting at her. She apologized to me in her special way; she hugged me. That was I needed to tell that she didn’t mean anything she said, but she told me as well. It felt really good that someone cared.
Brian started in on me a lot after that. One time, he somehow got a key to my room: a well-regretted mistake on his part. I was still very sensitive about the hotel incident, but I was getting better bit by bit. It was Brian’s attention that helped me. I actually did miss the little guy, just as Leighanne said. But the day he barged into my room, he could have been the last being on Earth besides me and I would have killed him.
I was in the midst of dressing when he broke in, and I was so enthralled with the inspection of my stomach (a daily ritual of mine) that I didn’t hear him sneak in. My inspections turned to my back, which was still swollen three weeks later. I asked my doctor what was wrong and he told me what I already knew; my back was infected. Of course, my doctor, being the professional he is, asked my how I ever got such scars in the first place.
“Oh, it was such a silly little thing!” I said, “My friend’s dog got in a fight with this huge tomcat and when I grabbed the dog away from there, the cat got at the retreating end of me.”
There was a full-length mirror in my hotel room – a big no-no if you think about it. These people know about my destructive past, yet they put me in a room with a mirror the size of a doorway that practically screams: “See, this is what we have to look at every day.” Pity I didn’t shatter that one too. If I wasn’t so terrified of myself I probably would have.
I was terrified in the first place because of management. They made sure I saw a shrink about my “problems” and they even had a little one-on-one chat with me that scared me out of my witties.
“You can’t keep doing this Nick,” said the voice behind the desk (I wasn’t listening to the introductions, I was plucking at a loose piece of string on my pants), “maybe it was furniture the first time – and we’re glad you only destroyed furniture – but next time it may be a child or an innocent bystander. Then we could have a major lawsuit on our hands. I want you to promise me to see our shrink every day or I’m afraid your position in the Backstreet Boys might be over.”
Suddenly my pants weren’t so important anymore. I looked up at him, trying to train my eyes on his in the dark to see if he was serious. His eyes said, “Sure the Backstreet Boys may lose a couple fans, but so what? We can still make money if you’re out of the picture.” I only nodded.
The shrink was astounded by me. He raved about what an intelligent young man I really was, and that he could see that I had solved any childhood problems I’d had with bullying by myself. But I was fooling him and myself. All the time I kept thinking about how I might kill somebody and how they should just lock me up to be safe. I wasn’t crazy though, but I felt like a criminal lying to this guy. He was so kind and proud, kind of like a father. Normally I’m a terrible liar, but he was just so easy to lie to.
While I stared at myself in the mirror, I feared some of the thoughts that were worming their way through my brain. Nick, you really want to break that mirror don’t you? Your hairbrush is on the table beside it – all it takes is one swift move and that thing is history. It took all of my strength to keep that mirror whole and when I left the hotel it was still there in its place.
Instead I used the mirror for its intended purpose. I traced the lines on my back gently; sighing when I hit healed spots and gasping when I found an open wound. I wondered if it would ever heal, prescription medicine or not. It was hard to find all of the marks, but my arms are long and I could feel most them. The scars were a dull pink, according to the mirror, and the wounds, a scarlet red. While I was inspecting these, out of the corner of my eyes, on the right hand side of the mirror, I spotted Brian with his hand covering his mouth.
By the time I noticed, he had seen everything. From me squeezing my stomach to me tenderly tracing my tri-week-old scars. I grabbed my shirt and wrenched it on, screaming at him the whole time to “Get out!” but instead he came closer. The shirt I had frantically thrown on had somehow come on backwards, but that was irrelevant. Brian had seen everything.
I picked up a nearby hanger and prepared to swing it at him if he got any closer. He did get closer, but I never got the chance to use it, because even I had a bit of heart left. It was Brian who really helped me get better; it was always Brian. I think that’s more than what friends are for, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Nick why won’t you tell me what’s going on? I’ve been trying so hard, but you never give me a chance.” He was shedding tears at full force now, and I could feel my own eyes water at the sight of them.
“I’m sorry Brian, I can’t. You just wouldn’t understand.”
“You always say that! Don’t you realize that you’re torturing me? I’m watching my best friend crumble to pieces in front of me and he won’t tell me what’s goin’ on because I’m not good enough.” I never thought about it that way. I thought a moment about what to say to that, and he sat down across from where I was standing. That’s his way of saying, “Sit down too, I’m too short for us to have an eye-to-eye conversation.” He told me so once too.
“I never thought of it that way before.” I decided then that the best answer would be the honest one. Brian shifted even closer and I took the place on the floor where I was formally standing.
“Will you tell me?”
I sighed deeply and thought of the best way to answer. “Yes,” I said finally. “But I really meant what I said when I said it’s nothing. It…it’s Mandy,” I finally confessed. I told him the whole story about what Mandy did to my back and how she did it. Brian was clearly upset with the whole thing and as my story progressed so did his distress. That was the only thing I really told him about. It wasn’t everything though; I couldn’t blame it all on Mandy. There was something else that I didn’t bother telling Brian, but that was only because I wasn’t sure myself what it was.
When I finished, he replied, “Break up with her.”
I got up from where I was sitting and made a beeline for the door. “I knew you wouldn’t understand!” I screamed at him, with over-dramatized tears rolling down my face. We apologized a day later and I lied to him and said I was joking the whole time. Just playing another one of my practical jokes, was the phrase. Of course he didn’t believe a word of it for a minute, but he said nothing. I think he was afraid to.
After both hotel incidents, I started getting weirder. For example, I began to cry for no apparent reason. I can’t explain now exactly why I did it, but for some reason I did. Mostly I would cry soundlessly, which promoted my ability to lie. “I caught another cold,” or “I think I have hay fever,” worked just fine to ward off suspicion.
One time when I was in my room listening to Journey and crying over my Discman, I could have sworn somebody opened my door. I called out to whoever it was, but no one answered. Wiping the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand, I got up slowly and poked my head out of the tour bus door. To my left, the arena and to my right a bushel of trees. There weren’t many places someone could hide…
After a while, I convinced myself that in my emotionally unstable condition, I must have imagined it. Just as I finished closing the door, a pan greeted the back of my head with a horrible, hollow “clunk”, like the sound of someone hitting a coconut with a baseball bat.
Despite the hard hit, I didn’t lose consciousness. My face was squashed against the door and I could feel warm blood seeping out of my nose and mouth. The blood colored the door as I went down, like a marker would on a piece of paper.
It was a good thing that I didn’t lose consciousness then, because I would have died. I heard the pan being raised with a “swoosh” sound as it cut through the air. Luckily I had seen some “James Bond” movies in my time and I rolled away just in time to see the pan hit the floor where my head had been. Also, to see the face of my attacker.
It was no one that I knew, just another person in the faceless crowd. What I did see was the aggression and hurt in his eyes and I knew he would kill me. He wasn’t a pro either, because he wasn’t wearing a mask or anything to hide his facial features.
The pan was raised again and I stiffened, ready to roll. It came faster than I could move and for a moment I saw my life flash before my eyes. Then there came nothing. The pan never came and the pain never came. He had it poised just above my face, but something stopped him. With a single jerk of his hand, he threw it to the other side of the bus and climbed out the window.
I waited a while, not to push my luck, then I raced out the door to find help. The guys were in the arena, so that’s where I headed. I passed many people who paid me no mind, except to stare a little. Nothing in comparison to how they stare now though. Drops of blood the size of coins fell onto my shoulder and my hand instinctively went to the back of my head. It was sticky with blood and it hurt like a bitch.
Then I found Kevin. Or rather, he found me. My head was throbbing feverishly, so I had decided to sit down and rest awhile, hoping that it would wear off. Then Kevin came, carrying a box of tools and a lunch kit. I remembered that I was supposed to be helping for once, but I didn’t. Naturally, I excepted Kevin to be mad and say, “Serves you right, Nickers,” like he does sometimes. He almost walked by me, but I think he saw my blonde head sticking out and turned back around.
“Well, if it isn’t the hermit himself,” he said cheerfully, “wassup?” Kevin had a good day at work that day oh ecstatic joy! My body flooded with relief.
Still, I looked at him disdainfully, hoping that he would notice what was wrong with me so that I wouldn’t have to explain that too. And he did. I had all the faith in the world that he would. Unfortunately, he missed the point entirely.
“My God! Nick you’re crying!” he exclaimed, “What’s the matter?” He dropped into his “big brother” stance, which was an eye-to-eye crouch. I could see the concern in his eyes and I was starting to wish that he had just walked right past me.
Crying? My hands flew to my cheeks and sure enough, they were soaked with tears. The hand that I had touched the back of my head with was still full of blood when I touched my cheek. In front of me, Kevin was still crouched, waiting patiently for an answer. He’s a really great guy, most of the time.
Kevin bent forward to hug me – I could see that he was getting scared. I was hesitant at first, but then I just let him. The hesitation came with two reasons – the first one Mandy, little miss vicious bitch and the second one came because I am sick of being accused of having homosexual tendencies – I suppose that’s the cleanest way of putting that. Sick, sick, sick I am of that. It’s hard to be independent with a world of filthy mouths out there. There was a time where I couldn’t care less what I wore. If I wore purple pants, then so be it. The clothes I wear aren’t meant to symbolize anything, unless I say they do. Since I turned into a reflexive S.O.B., I’ve never really had a problem with expressing myself.
Chapter 42
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