Crossroads

by Ty Marton

  They passed a sign – “ROSETTA – 3 mi.” Colby knew time was running short, each second taking him further and further from the one place he wanted to be. Every inch of his being felt wrong… he didn’t belong back on the road, he belonged with his Master.

  “Stop the truck,” Colby said, looking desperately to John. “Please, Master, just… talk to me…”

  John frowned, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “There’s nothing more to talk about,” he finally said.

  Colby cringed at the words, but shook his head, refusing to give up. “When I left school, I didn’t know what I was looking for,” he said. “But I know now. I was looking for you, John.”

  John let out a heavy sigh, the words landing on him like a punch to the face. He brought the truck to a stop, pulled over to the side of the lonely road, then turned to look Colby in the eye.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his gaze piercing Colby’s. “I never should have put you in this position. It was a mistake.”

  “No it wasn’t!” Colby cried out, tears overcoming him.

  “Yes,” John said, resolute. “It was. It was my mistake. I know that you’re disappointed, and you have every right to be. But know that you aren’t half as disappointed as I am.”

  “It doesn’t have to end like this,” Colby insisted. “Please, Master…”

  “Don’t call me that…”

  “You want to tell me what to do?” Colby snapped, practically snarling as he unbuckled his seatbelt, leaning over to better get in John’s face. “You want to tell me how to feel? You can. You can do whatever it takes. You can lock me up, punish me, push me… I’ll never fight you. I’ll be as patient as you need me to be. You can make us work.”

  “It’s not that easy…”

  “It is that easy!” Colby cried out, the tears flowing. “Tell me it isn’t what you want, then. Just say the words, and I’ll get out of this truck right now.”

  John let out a breath, swallowing a lump in his throat.

  “Say it!” Colby demanded. “Tell me that you don’t feel the way I do. Tell me you don’t want this just as badly as I want it.” He stared at John, a desperate fire burning in his eyes.

  “At least explain it to me,” Colby said, his voice cracking. “Explain why you won’t even try.”

  “I did try,” John snapped, frustration boiling over from within. “And I just… can’t. You deserve someone who can.”

  Colby’s shoulders slumped, John’s defeatism confounding him. He reached out, taking John’s hand in his own. “I know what I deserve,” Colby said, giving John’s hand a gentle tug, turning the man towards him. Then, the gravity of the moment overcoming both of them at once, they came together, Colby practically falling into him, their mouths connecting in a slow kiss, a kiss that carried the weight of their collective emotions. Reluctant at first, John soon found his hand upon Colby’s upper arm, squeezing it tight and pulling the boy in close. Colby surrendered completely to the kiss, offering all of himself to John in that moment. It was his final plea, a kiss that begged, ‘don’t do this,’ a kiss that said, ‘stay with me.’

  But for John, it was a kiss that said, ‘goodbye.’ Gently closing his lips and pushing the boy back towards his seat, John opened his eyes, staring deep into Colby’s gaze.

  “This is just how it has to be, boy,” he said softly. “I need you to accept that.”

  Colby cringed. John had called him ‘boy,’ a word that had sent happy shivers down his spine just hours before. Now, it only made him want to sob. He looked at John, wishing things were different, wishing he were at the man’s feet, or in his arms, or even in that damned cage again. “I’m just supposed to… give up on you?” he asked, half incredulous.

  “You’re supposed to move on,” John said, a sad smile coming over his face. “You can take the way you feel with you, but… you have to move on.”

  With that, he reached for the ignition, turning the key and starting the truck back to life. But before he could even pull the truck out of park, a suddenly spry Colby had bolted from his seat, opening his door, slipping outside, and slamming it shut.

  “I’ll walk the rest of the way,” he said, peering in at John through the open window, a new distance between them. “…Thanks for the ride, I guess.”

  They held each other’s stare for a few moments, a thousand silent thoughts and emotions passing between them. Finally, John gave a little nod, and Colby grabbed his stuff out of the back, standing back as the man made a quick u-turn.

  “Colby,” John called out, leaning his head out the window. “Check your backpack, all right?”

  “My backpack?” Colby answered. But that was it. John drove off, a small cloud of the dust still hanging in the air from where he had pulled out of the gravelly shoulder. His truck grew tinier and tinier in the distance until it finally vanished from sight, Colby watching it until there was nothing left to watch. After everything he’d been through, Colby was back where he started, back out on the open road, alone.

  His curiosity overcoming him, Colby swung his backpack off of his shoulder, setting it down in the dirt and opening it. There, sitting on top of his things, was a white envelope, addressed to him. He opened it, gasping a little bit at the sight of thick green. It was money, and lots of it, at least a few hundred in twenties, easily more than Colby had seen since first setting out. He looked around, needlessly worried that someone was watching him, then explored the envelope further, finding a single piece of paper folded into thirds. His mouth went a bit dry – part of him was afraid even to open it. But, of course, he did.

  Colby,

  I know you must be confused, even hurt, and I can’t blame you. If I could have handled the way you make me feel, things would be different. Some people are just meant to be alone, I suppose.

  Please know in these last twenty-four hours, you made me so very happy. You were a good boy, a better boy than I deserve. Stay safe, and stay true to yourself. I won’t forget you.

  John

  Colby let out a deep breath, emotions washing over him that he felt too exhausted to handle. He folded the letter and placed it into his pocket, then returned the envelope to his backpack, slinging the gear back over his shoulders. For a few moments, he stared back down the desolate highway, back the way they had come, back towards John. His most submissive instincts wanted to go to him, to return home, but Colby knew that, as John had put it, it wasn’t that simple. And above all, Colby knew well enough to obey. So he turned on his heels, turning to face a new direction. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining John giving his ear an approving tug. Then, a smile on his face, he took his first step towards town.

  **********

  Epilogue

  John gritted his teeth, sweat dripping off of his brow. He heaved, letting out a loud grunt of exertion, lifting the heavy Apollo carving up another step, then setting it down to rest on the second to last step of the stairs to the dungeon. Just one more to go, he told himself, breathing heavily for a few moments and re-gathering his strength. Somewhere inside, the rational part of his brain was screaming at him to stop, warning him that he could throw his back out, or worse. John ignored it.

  With a noisy holler, his face burning red, he lifted once more, desperate to finish what he’d started. His fingers had grown sweaty, and he began to panic that he might drop the thing, leaving the fragile statue to tumble back down into the dungeon, possibly taking him with it. But no, the statue was out of the basement, dropping down onto the cement floor of the workshop with a heavy thud. John, in the process, couldn’t help but fall backwards onto his ass, nearly reaching the limit of his physical capabilities. He sat there for a few moments, looking up at the statue’s face, emotion welling inside of him. He knew that it was time, even if a large part of him didn’t want it to be. It never would. Colby had helped him see that. Colby had helped him realize what he needed to do.

  Dragging the statue outside was considerably less difficult than lugging it up the steps. Soon, Jo
hn had it in the backyard, with Leo. The dog barked, confused and excited at the sight of its master. “Quiet, Leo,” John snapped. The obedient dog gave a soft whine and quickly dropped onto its belly, chastened.

  In the back of the yard was a ring of cement blocks that John had occasionally used as a makeshift bonfire site. He towed the statue over, tipping it over and letting it drop on top of an already arranged pile of firewood and tinder. The stink of gasoline was in the air – everything was ready. John had wanted this to be as quick a process as possible, lest he change his mind.

  He fished a pack of matches from his pocket, then lit one, holding it up in front of his face. This was it. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for it, but he knew that it didn’t matter whether he was or not. It was simply something that needed to be done.

  But still, he hesitated, something inside of him paralyzing him a little bit. Before long, the match had burned down, giving his fingers a brief singe. He would need to light another one.

  He suddenly realized that there were tears welling in his eyes. Doubt began to overcome him. He couldn’t do this, not now, not ever…

  No. He grimaced, furious with himself, and practically roared with anger as he lit another match, quickly throwing it into the soaked wood before allowing himself to think twice about it. In an instant, the bonfire erupted in flame, the gasoline igniting the wood and with it, the statue of Apollo.

  Once it was fully engulfed, he reached back into his pocket, pulling out an old photograph, the bright, orange light from the fire illuminating it. It was a photograph of John a few years younger, clad in his best leather, a proud, stern expression on his face, his bicep curled around the bare shoulders of a young man with long brown hair and a collar around his neck, his eyes closed, his content face cradled against John’s chest. John thought back to that night out at the club with his boy, remembering the intense scene they had shared in one of the bar’s back rooms. It was a happy memory, a memory of a time when John felt invincible, loved, and capable of loving in return. Less than a week later, the boy would be gone.

  He looked back to the statue, its face starting to smolder in the flames. It was the same face as the one cradled against his chest in the photograph. It was Brady’s face. John could fool anyone into thinking that it was a carving of Apollo, but he’d never fool himself.

  Sighing deeply, the tears still rolling down his face, John hung his head, breathing deep, resigning himself. After a few final moments, he was ready. Stepping forward, he reached out, placing the photograph on the top of the pile, the flames licking at it. Before long they were consuming it, the memory smoldering into ash in front of him. If only real memories were that simple to get rid of, he thought.

  John was tired, his body sore and his mind exhausted. He lowered himself down to the ground, sitting in the dirt before the flames, watching the statue burn. Leo tentatively trotted up beside him, lying down and resting his chin on John’s leg.

  “That’s a good boy,” he said, his gaze transfixed on the fire.

  **********

  Rosetta was a quaint little city, with homey early 20th century architecture in its once bustling town square, all of it built around a large, cascading fountain. As Colby passed through, he couldn’t help but imagine it in better days, with more people out and about, and a few less closed down shops. Despite its charms, it was a city that clearly needed to move on, to step forward into a new age.

  A few cars had passed him as he had made his way into town, but Colby hadn’t had his thumb out. One kind motorist had stopped anyway, asking Colby if he was all right, and if he needed a ride somewhere. Colby had politely declined. A ride wasn’t what he was looking for.

  He came to a green bench in one of the corners of the town square, where a bearded old man in ragged clothing was sitting. The cardboard sign in his lap made it clear that he was homeless.

  “Excuse me,” Colby said, “do you know this town pretty well?”

  The man looked at Colby, seeming somewhat surprised to find someone acknowledging his existence, let alone talking to him.

  “I… sure, I suppose,” he said. “Been here pretty much all my life.”

  Colby nodded, happy to hear it. “I’m looking for a bar,” he said, “a place called Nixx. Have you heard of it?”

  The man squinted at Colby, sizing him up. “Sure, I know Nixx,” he said. “Kind of a… rough place...”

  “I need to find it. Do you know where it is?”

  The man frowned. “I don’t think you want to go there,” he said. “Kid like you might get into trouble at a place like that.”

  “Please,” Colby said, ignoring the man’s warning, “can you just point me in the right direction?”

  The man eyed Colby for a few moments more, then sighed, shaking his head. “You head down that street,” he said, pointing at one of the four roads leading away from town square. “Baker Street. Follow it for a few miles until you hit the corporation limit. Nixx is just beyond that point. Just… be careful, yeah?”

  “I will,” Colby said, “and thanks.” He reached into his backpack, pulling out John’s envelope. “Here,” he said, tossing it to the man, “for your trouble.”

  The man opened it, his eyes quickly growing wide. “Are… are you sure, kid? This is a lot of money…”

  Colby gave the man a reassuring smile. “I don’t want it,” he said. “And here,” he added, pulling his sleeping bag off of his backpack, “you can take this, too, if you want it.” The confused man didn’t object, so Colby set it down on the bench beside him. “Thanks again,” Colby said, setting off without another word. The man, too stunned to even count the money, just watched Colby walk off, baffled.

  Colby smiled to himself, rounding the corner onto Baker Street, the load on his back a little lighter. He wasn’t sure of what was in store for him, but he knew one thing for certain…

  He was done drifting.

  **********

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ty Marton lives in Los Angeles, CA, where his active exploration of the local BDSM scene perked his curiosities about the creative expression of dark, kinky fantasies. He wishes to thank all of his many friends in the fetish community for their support, encouragement, and inspiration, and encourages all of his readers to find a safe, sane, and consensual way to explore their own fantasies.

  He welcomes all questions, comments, and feedback regarding his work at allotrike@gmail.com, and humbly encourages anyone who enjoyed this story to help support him by posting their review on the Amazon website. Reviews make a HUGE difference, and are always greatly appreciated!

  Thanks for reading!