Cutting Cords

by Mickie B. Ashling

  I looked at my legs as if they belonged to someone else. The song had ended and there were probably ten gashes on each leg. They were shallow, the logical part of my mind acknowledged that. No emergency room for me tonight, just a lot of pain.

  I crawled over to the toilet and flipped the lid open, throwing up the tons of coffee I’d ingested after running out of the house earlier today. That and the two Xanax I’d taken to counteract the shakes had started me on my downward spiral to this inevitable conclusion. I was shaking again, from the shock of what I’d done to myself, and the fresh wound that festered deep inside, thanks to Cole’s hateful words. He may as well have plunged a dagger into my heart. That would have hurt less.

  I knew he’d deny the attraction and blame it all on the weed. I just knew that it would be impossible for him to be gay, for one, and attracted to me, for another. The man was a fucking breeder in need of a blowjob, and I was handy. What I didn’t understand was the rest of it. The anger that exploded out of him wasn’t all about me. That was years in the making, and I wish I knew where it was coming from. Surely he couldn’t have been serious about throwing me out? Where would I go? My dad would have a meltdown and bring me back to San Francisco, something I didn’t want.

  I thought I’d be happy here, make a fresh start at Pratt, try and meet new people, maybe even find somebody to love… what a fucking joke! Here I was, forty-eight hours into my New York adventure and already cutting and crying, neither of which I’d planned on bringing along as baggage.

  I got up and made my way to the shower, but not before I got a fresh washcloth and cleaned up all the blood. The last thing I needed was for Cole to find out about my cutting: the word that no one in my family could say out loud. This need I had to punish and hurt myself was a living, breathing demon inside of me that continued to torment on a daily basis. I could never let my guard down because it’d be there in a flash, just pouncing on my one moment of weakness, whispering nasty thoughts in my ear. Cut yourself, scratch your skin till the blood washes the hurt away and your soul is spared.

  COLE WAS in front of his computer, surfing the net and killing time until his parents showed up. They usually came once a week, and tonight was their night. He hadn’t even prepared a meal, relying on the fact that his mother would bring something. She always did, so why should now be any different?

  He supposed that they would even go all-out and bring more food since he now had a roommate. A roommate he’d hurt because he’d given into the moment.

  Sloan couldn’t stay. The thought of having him around on a daily basis was unbearable. He would be a constant reminder of his need, a need he’d buried deep inside himself. Cole allowed himself to think about the incident for a minute and was shocked at how quickly his body had responded.

  His recollection of the encounter with Sloan was overshadowed by a deep shame, but underneath it was the memory of the indescribable pleasure he’d felt, wrapped up in Sloan’s arms. But he pushed the memories away, as quickly as they appeared. He could not afford, nor did he want, to give in to this most disgraceful secret. He was Cole Fujiwara, for God’s sake, a man’s man. He wasn’t gay or even bisexual. This was a random incident that should have never happened.

  His girlfriend of three years could attest to that fact. They had sex on a regular basis, although lately, it had become boring and predictable. Juliana was mothering him and that was putting a damper on his sexual interest. .

  He used to think she was the perfect partner for him. Even his parents, who’d set up the first meeting, because she was a daughter of a friend, thought she’d be the right choice. Her background was similar to his, only in her case it was her mother who was Japanese and her father Caucasian.

  She was a beautiful girl, but lately, much too accommodating for his taste. She’d never once challenged him on anything, and after a while, the novelty of her beauty had worn off. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t make the ultimate commitment and marry her. Aside from all the other issues he was dealing with, the thought of spending a lifetime with someone who just went along with everything he said was incredibly boring. He liked a challenge, enjoyed a good mental fight. With her, he knew his life would be bland, predictable, and comfortable—most assuredly—but without a single moment of passion.

  And passion was something he needed to feel at the moment. Everything else that gave him pleasure had been taken away by this disease—this crippling, invading disease that was ruining his life. He had to recapture the joy of living, to start feeling again, or he knew that he’d never move forward. John Butterman was right in that respect.

  He heard the door of the bathroom open finally. Sloan had been in there for the longest time, and he’d been holding the urge to pee, refusing to knock on the door or have any kind of contact with Sloan until he had no choice.

  He walked into the bathroom and was immediately assaulted by the smell. It smelled of vomit and cigarette smoke, but underneath that was the smell of blood, something he’d come to recognize from his days of playing baseball. That odor was unmistakable: a sharp, metallic tang overlaid with the human smell of sweat and fear, a common thing in a locker room full of men playing a physical sport. Not so common in a bathroom in the middle of Manhattan.

  He looked around, hoping he’d see something, but of course he couldn’t see two feet in front of him. All he had left was his central vision and that was miniscule. He looked down on the floor expecting to see some color at least, but saw nothing except the white tile.

  He pushed the small window open; grateful for the cool air that blew into the room. He reached for the can of air freshener underneath the sink and sprayed it liberally. Finally, he moved over to the toilet, peed, and flushed it, hoping that Sloan had cleaned it up after he’d hurled into it. Obviously he’d been sick, but Cole wasn’t about to run his fingers over the rim of the toilet to make sure it was presentable. Not without gloves.

  Cole walked out of the bathroom, hoping the smell would dissipate by the time his parents arrived. He had no desire to answer any questions that involved Sloan. He also had to make sure they kept their information about him and his blindness to themselves. The very last thing he needed was for Sloan to find out. He much preferred to deal with his hostility and anger, than to be pampered and coddled like some porcelain figurine.

  THE TREMBLING in my limbs was subsiding, and I felt that it would be safe to put on my clothes without having the blood leach through the denim. The cuts were starting to clot and the bleeding had all but stopped. I was so pissed that I’d given in and done this to myself. It had been several months since my last cutting incident, and I thought I had this way under control, but this was twice now in the last forty-eight hours that I’d hurt myself. I’d have to go back on antidepressants if this kept up. Hopefully, once I started school, I’d be too busy to do this anymore. I snorted out what could have passed for a laugh, but the idea of me controlling this demon was ludicrous. It was as realistic as the Cubs winning the World Series; pipe dreams if nothing else.

  I heard the buzz of the doorbell and wondered who was there. It was around six-thirty in the evening on a Sunday night. Family time for most, so I assumed that Cole’s parents had come by to check out the new roommate. I walked over to the dresser on one side of the room and stared at my reflection to see if I looked any different.

  My appearance had not changed, despite my abuse. The face that stared back at me was calm, and if I had been in a better frame of mind, I’d have admitted that I wasn’t half-bad in the looks department. I’d been told many times that I should model. My bone structure was supposed to be perfect for photos. They said that my gray eyes were arresting and dominated my face, a fact I found rather surprising since they looked damned ordinary to me. They were nothing like the deep blue eyes that attracted me to Cole. And my body, well, a better clothes hanger you couldn’t find. I was model-thin, to put it nicely. The body they thought was so perfect for photographs was the bane of my existence and the reason I was a cu
tter.

  I turned away, but not before running a brush through my hair and then shaking it out like a dog after a bath. It was still damp and tendrils clung to my face. I sprayed myself with a bit of Calvin Klein to try and cover the stink of the day while putting on a happy face for the sake of our visitors, whoever they might be.

  7

  “WOULD YOU like another helping, Sloan?” Eileen Fujiwara asked.

  “No, thanks,” he said, shaking his head.

  Eileen was a little disappointed that he seemed so unenthusiastic about the lasagna; in fact, Sloan looked as if he might be sick. He was quite pale, and there were tiny beads of sweat dotting his forehead. She could tell he wasn’t a big eater, and his attempts to clear off his plate were more about pushing the food around than actually eating.

  “How’s your dad doing?” Ken asked, trying to make small talk. He didn’t really know what to say to this kid who hadn’t said much since they’d sat down to eat. Cole wasn’t helping matters, either. He was silent and grumpy.

  “My dad is fine. So is Junior,” Sloan replied, fighting the urge to run to the bathroom and lean over the toilet.

  “Tell us about your career choice,” Ken urged, trying again and hoping this might get him to open up a little. “I never met anyone who went to Pratt. Isn’t that where all the artsy types go?”

  “I’m a graphic artist, Mr. Fujiwara.” Sloan’s reply was rather cold, almost as if he’d taken offense to the artist statement.

  “I understand you’re here on a partial scholarship. You must be very good at what you do.”

  “I won a few awards, so that got me the scholarship,” Sloan said, thawing a little.

  Apparently, Cole knew nothing about his chosen career either, and he appeared interested in the conversation suddenly. “What do graphic artists do?” he asked, addressing Sloan for the first time that evening.

  “There are many areas of work that are available to someone in this field.”

  “Such as?”

  “Animation, for one. Disney has a scout hanging around the school waiting to entice the good candidates, from what I understand.”

  “Cole, do you want more?” Eileen interrupted, reaching for his plate.

  “I’m fine, Mother. Please, don’t get up.”

  She got up nonetheless and took his plate, spooning more lasagna into the center, adding some green beans and another slice of garlic bread. “Here you go, dear.”

  Cole sighed heavily and resumed eating, irritated by his mother’s solicitous behavior. He’d clearly said no to more food, yet she had ignored him. It wasn’t the first time tonight she’d gone out of her way to make sure Cole was comfortable, which only made his mood worse.

  “Have you had a chance to explore the city yet, Sloan?” Eileen asked, seemingly oblivious to her son’s ire.

  “No.”

  “Mother, he’s only been here for two days,” Cole snapped.

  “Oh, that’s true. Maybe you can take one of those bus tours with him, dear. You know the kind I mean?”

  “I don’t think so,” Cole replied. “I have plans tomorrow.”

  “Well, maybe another time,” she suggested.

  “It’s fine, Mrs. Fujiwara,” Sloan answered, trying not to make waves. “I can do it on my own.”

  “Please, call me Eileen.”

  “Yes, let’s dispense with all this formality. You call me Ken, okay, son?”

  Sloan nodded and shoveled lasagna into his mouth. Cole could tell that Sloan was starting to calm down; his body language had improved markedly since the Fujiwaras had walked through the door an hour ago. Sloan had been vibrating then, emitting this hostile aura, but now that the evening was progressing and Cole hadn’t said anything to his parents about booting him out, he seemed to relax a little.

  Clearly, there was no way Cole could ask him to leave without causing problems for both of them. He’d just have to learn how to live with Sloan and try to get past this. What had happened was a drug-induced encounter, something Sloan had instigated, and Cole wasn’t going to dwell on it anymore. He’d made his position very clear.

  “Do you have a girlfriend, Sloan?” Eileen asked.

  Cole turned to Sloan and practically held his breath. If he could have seen Sloan’s eyes, he would have noted the stricken look; however, Sloan was too far away for Cole to see him that clearly. He just waited for the reply that would send his parents into outer space.

  “No, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure you’ll meet someone here. You’re a very good-looking young man.”

  “No, I’m not,” Sloan disagreed.

  “Oh, you’re being very modest, Sloan. You have nice features and your eyes are stunning. They’re just like your mother’s.”

  “Did you know my mother well?” Sloan sounded surprised.

  “We were thrown together a lot while your father and Ken were playing baseball. I was saddened to hear about her passing. Was it quick?”

  “It took about a year from the time they diagnosed the cancer until her death,” Sloan answered softly.

  “I’m sorry, dear. It must have been very difficult for you.”

  “Can we change the subject, please?”

  “Yes, Mother. Let’s move on,” Cole interjected. “Have you and Dad finalized your summer plans?”

  “Oh, we couldn’t possibly leave you, Cole. Not now.”

  “Why the hell not?” Cole was being rude, but no one said anything.

  “Come on, son,” Ken interjected. “You know why.”

  “There’s no reason for you to postpone your vacation! I’m sure my sisters will be upset if they have to stay in the city instead of going off to Hawaii,” Cole’s attitude was cold and left little room for argument.

  “We’ll see,” Eileen replied, preferring to change the subject now herself. She stood to retrieve some of the plates that were no longer in use and made her way into the kitchen.

  I WATCHED this whole exchange with interest, trying to read between the lines. Cole looked like he was ready to explode, he was so angry. Again, I wondered where the anger was coming from. His parents seemed very nice and super-solicitous of his needs. In fact, the man was damned spoiled if you asked me. I don’t recall my mother waiting on me hand and foot like Eileen did for him. It was kind of weird in a way; she almost treated him like he was a child, practically cutting up his food for him. He didn’t ask for anything, but she did it automatically, anticipating all his needs. No wonder he was the way he was. Everyone kowtowed to him, but I wasn’t about to fall into that category. The last thing I would ever do is be his little bitch; he could fucking fend for himself.

  They stuck around for a few hours and finally left at eleven o’clock. I was glad to see them go. My legs were killing me and I wanted to take my jeans off because they were rubbing against the wounds. Cole and I barely said two words to each other. I heard him go to the bathroom and I waited my turn, knowing he wouldn’t be very long. He was done and out in about ten minutes, and I heard him go to his bedroom and lock the door. Fucker… did he think I was going to rush in there and rape him?

  I decided to ignore Cole from now on. Treat him like a roommate and nothing more. If he ever got his head out of his ass far enough to treat me with some respect, I might consider speaking to him again. In the meantime, he’d have to settle for monosyllables.

  THE NEXT morning, after Sloan left for school, Cole sat in front of his desk and contemplated his next move. He could continue to procrastinate and keep hoping that his eyesight would remain at its present level, or he could start making attempts to act like a man who was visually impaired and learn everything he could from Dr. Butterman and the Lighthouse. The first order of business would be to make an appointment. He needed to apologize to John for his behavior the other day and work out some sort of game plan, as well as get advice on how to handle things here at home.

  Many months ago, when he’d first met the doctor and was subjected to a batt
ery of psychological tests, he’d been asked point-blank if he’d ever had a same-sex encounter. Cole remembered his outrage at the time. He’d tossed his pencil at the doctor and walked out of the room. The anger and humiliation had continued all the way into the next week, but eventually, he made his way back to John’s office, never mentioning his outburst again. It seemed to be a pattern with them, the probing and the pulling away before he could face a situation. He had gotten quite adept at skirting around the more important issues in his life, always falling back on duty and responsibility, afraid to start the ripple that could turn into a huge tsunami.

  Cole considered his attraction to other men to be a phase from his youth, a carryover from the brief encounters he had experienced while attending the all-male boarding school his father had insisted on. Ken was concerned that Cole was growing up in a household filled with women. It was one of his regrets that he and Eileen never had another son, although the three beautiful daughters that came with each attempt were precious and much loved; however, they were all female, and would not offer his oldest child the male companionship Ken had hoped for. His schedule with the San Francisco Giants put him on the road constantly, and he was rarely home for longer than three days in a row during baseball season.

  So he and Eileen had made the decision to send Cole to a prominent school for boys in Marin County, assured that he would be surrounded by everything male. And it all worked according to plan… except for the groping in the dark when lights went out. The camaraderie between young men in close quarters always included contests. Who had the biggest dick or who could burp the loudest? Jerking off in a circle of friends was a pretty common occurrence. What was not so common or acknowledged was when two guys hooked up in earnest. These clandestine encounters were never mentioned in the bright light of day.