We All Have Our Demons

The first thing you need to know about Tate Parker is that he can hurt you.

I was living on the streets when I met him. My family had kicked me out for coming out. I was cold, and alone, and on my sixth day with no home. My dark hair was greasy and sopping wet from the rain that seemed to fall endlessly. I probably looked undoubtedly homeless even though I had only been so for under a week. Chicago weather was unforgivable.

I didn’t see the mischievous undertone in Tate’s eyes when I first looked in them. I saw a man with an umbrella and a bright smile that almost touched his wonderful grey blue eyes. The very eyes that now terrify me. Tate was someone I thought I could confide it. I was a naïve sixteen year-old boy looking for his prince charming. I thought my saviour was the man with the umbrella and a home to go back to who had taken an interest in me.

Tate took off his jacket and wrapped it around my thin shoulders, his broad umbrella shielding me from the harsh October rain. “You look cold.” Those were the first words he ever spoke to me. They were accompanied by a warm smiled, complete with teeth.

I nodded and, as if on cue, shivered rather violently. Tate just smiled most and led me to his car, a black, 1967 Chevy, I wasn’t sure of the model, well taken care of. It was warm, much warmer then out in the rain. I got in without even thinking about it. I didn’t even know his name and I just willingly let him whisk me away into his car. He could have been a serial killer. But no, he wasn’t. He was something much worse.

“So what’s your name?” he asked, pulling away from the parking spot. It was three AM and the streets were empty. If he tried anything, not one would hear me scream.

“H-Harper,” I managed to stutter out. I cursed myself for being stupid enough to stutter, but Tate just laughed. He thought it was cute. He thought I was cute.

“And why were you all alone on the streets at three in the morning, Harper?” Tate asked. He didn’t even ask for a last name.

“I-I was kicked out,” I said quietly. I was ashamed that I was kicked out. I was ashamed that I was gay. I was a worthless fag, that’s what my father told me.

“And why is that?” Tate asked. Now, thinking back, he was asking very personal questions. He didn’t care about the basics, just the good stuff.

“I’m a worthless fag,” I repeated my father’s words to me bravely. I noticed Tate’s hands grasp the wheel a little tighter.

“Bold statement, but I highly doubt it’s true. You’re gay?” He asked, but it wasn’t really a question. It was most like he was correcting me. I nodded. “Well, I am too. Just so you know. My name is Tate. Since you got kicked out, I assume you need a place to stay?”

“Y-yes,” I said. I sounded damn hopeless.

“I’ll take you back to my place,” Tate said, taking his eyes off the road to flash me a smile just for a second. And that’s how I came to live with Tate Parked. That’s how I got sucked into this.

Now that that story is out of the way, the second thing you need to know is that I was professionally diagnosed with dependent personality disorder, anxiety disorder, and mild depression. I used to have all my medication at home, but I had to leave them there. Tate doesn’t know about any of them, so I’ll probably never get any of them back. I’ll never function normally again.

‘My place’ ended up being a two-story house in a small neighborhood on the Southside of Chicago, Back of the Yards. It wasn’t a particularly nice neighborhood, though it once was. I had family that lived there when it was full of descendents of Irish immigrants. Now it was full preoccupied by mostly drunk, lower-class people with idiot gang members as offspring. Even being there made me uneasy. Was Tate in a gang?

As it turned out, Tate wasn’t in a gang. I didn’t think he knew anyone in the goddamn neighborhood. He just resides there. Barely.

“Why don’t you go take a shower? You look like you need it,” Tate suggested once we were in his home. “The shower is upstairs, second door on the left.”

“I-I don’t have any clothes,” I said, not meeting Tate’s eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’ll give you some of mine for now and we’ll get you some actual clothes soon,” Tate assured.

“Thank you,” I said, barely audible, before quickly walking off. I followed Tate’s directions and went up the stairs and to the second door on the left. When I turned on the lights, I could see the bathroom was spacious and pristine. I felt out of place in its sanitation.

Despite feeling inapt, I walked over to the shower. It was one of those showers that didn’t have a bath; it was just four walls- two made up glass and the other two tiles. I opened the door to the shower and started the water to let it heat. While it was warming up, I stripped myself of the still drenched, dirty clothes I had been wearing. I shivered despite the fog that was building up from the water. Once I deemed it hot enough, I stepped into the shower.

The scolding water felt impeccable on my tense joints, smoothing them out. I just stood there, letting it wash over me, for a few seconds. Once I felt even a little bit better, I started to actually wash myself. My hair needed a good scrubbing; it had grown tangled and grimy over the last few days.

Once I was doing sluicing myself, I turned off the water and opened the shower door to step out. I wrapped a towel around my slight frame and turned on the exhaust fan to clear the bathroom from fog. I wiped some condensation off the mirror on the wall to get a good look at myself. My eyes had quite noticeable purple-y black bags under them and my hair hung around my fair, dripping from the shower. I looked tired. Sighing, I opened the bathroom door, a cool gush of wind flowing in.

I braved the cold and walked down the hall, looking for Tate. There was an open door at the end of the hall. My damp feet stuck to the dry, hardwood flooring, making little suction noises every time I took a step. As I came up the door, I peeked in.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, seeing Tate shirtless inside. I caught a glimpse of the tattoos I didn’t get to see in his long-sleeved shirt before. He had scattered tattoos over his arms and a couple torso pieces. I turned my head, embarrassed to walk in on him in such a personal state.

“It’s okay,” Tate chuckled, making his way over to a set of drawers to pull a shirt out. He pulled it over his head before looking at me, “I assume you need clothes now?” I nodded sheepishly and Tate opened another drawer to pull out various clothing items. “I hope this is okay, it’s just some clothes I barely wear anymore, and they should be small enough to at least fit you a little bit.

“It’s fine, thank you,” I said, feeling slightly uncomfortable in just a towel.

“If you say so,” Tate smiled. “I’ll be downstairs, just come down there when you’re done. I’ll make something to eat.”

Tate left without waiting for my response. I walked into the room his just left and shut the door behind me to get dressed. The clothes ended up just being a faded band tee, the words ‘The Wonder Years’ and a pigeon could faintly be seen, what seemed to be an unused pair of boxers, and some sweatpants. The clothes hung off me slightly, being too big, but they were warm and clean, so I couldn’t complain.

That was my first night with Tate; it was close to three years ago. I had slept in the guest bedroom for weeks after that. Tate and I grew close. He took me out to parts of the city I had never been to. He got me clothes and helped me rebuild my life, sort of. I didn’t go back to school to finish off my Junior and Senior years. I didn’t get a job. I didn’t leave the house without Tate. I lived life in a shell.

Tate was sweet, though. He talked with me and really made me feel loved. I felt at home with him; I felt safe. Nearly six months into living with each other, Tate asked me out on a real date. He blushed and stumbled over his words in a very cute, endearing way. I, of course, said yes. He was twenty-one and I was only seventeen, but I don’t think either of us cared. We were happy.

That happiness lasted for a good eight months. Tate acted like nothing but a gentleman, bringing me out on dates and showing me he loved me in every way possible. I let him in and told him about most of my problems, minus my disorders. I was afraid he would reject me for them. I was humiliated by them. Besides, they hadn’t reared their ugly heads in the time I’ve spent in Tate’s company. I let myself be close to Tate, something I rarely did because of my dependency problems. I let myself trust him enough to depend of him.

I even let Tate take my virginity six months into our relationship. For one night, we were a mess of limbs of meeting lips and rocking hips. For one night, we were one. I let him see me in my most vulnerable state: underneath him, writhing in pleasure.

After those eight pleasant months, things started to slowly slip downhill. Tate became more and more distant with each passing day. He left the house for days at a time, coming home smelling like alcohol, but never of sex, thankfully. He sometimes brought home men and drank with them in the kitchen, telling me to fetch them beer or food. I complied with his orders, but he never made me listen to any of the other men. He didn’t let them touch me.

Then one night, close to two years or living with him and a year and a half of dating him, Tate brought home a man just to touch me. He led the man into our room, where I was sleeping. He watched as the man touched me in places I had never been touched by anyone other than Tate before. He watched as I cried as the nameless man raped me. He let it happen. After, when the man was gone and I was left crying and naked on the bed, I asked why. Tate simply said it was because I was of age now, I was eighteen.

In the morning, Tate apologized profusely. He was at the point of tears, not touching me or even meeting my eyes.

“Harper, I’m so sorry,” He said, tears in his eyes. “I was drunk last night and maybe even a little high. I know nothing I can say or do will ever make everything okay again but I’m just so sorry.”

I tentatively walked over to him and wrapped my arms around him, telling him it was okay and that I loved him still and that I could never stop loving him. What else could I do? Not only was I in love with Tate, I depended on him. I needed him to keep me sane.

But things still got worse after that. Tate didn’t bring any men back to the house anymore, but he came back drunk a lot. More often than not, he reeked of weed. He started to snap at me and yell orders at me. Out of fear, I did everything I asked. The sex became spiteful and rough, unpleasantly so. We stopped being lovers and I started to become more like his slave. I did everything for him and got nothing in return.

Despite being eighteen, I couldn’t go. I had to stay here with him. I was reliant of him. I needed him to survive. After nearly two and a half years, I still remembered my brief encounter with homelessness. I couldn’t go back to that. I needed to stay here with Tate.

Staying meant I had to put up with a lot of abuse. It was subtle at first; Tate would slap or push me. It was usually when I did something wrong like drop a plate or bowl or glass. These things were never mentioned later, but they grew worse. Tate punched me one night, hitting me in the nose, making blood spill out. I was horrified by his actions, but I still didn’t leave.

Then I found the source of every problems or relationship had: a bottle of pills. And no, Tate wasn’t addicted to drugs. Quite the opposite, actually. I found a bottle of pills for Intermittent Explosive Disorder, something I didn’t know Tate had. He had hid it from me like I hid all my disorders from him. He should have been taking a pill a day, but all I found were a sea of empty orange containers in a usually locked drawer in a spare bedroom. He hadn’t taken his meds in what I guessed was about seven months.

I was too afraid to confront Tate about not taking his medicine. I knew it would end badly. So I prayed every night for months on end for things to get better, for Tate to come to his senses and start taking his meds again. I prayed so fucking hard, but I never got even a shadow of an answer. Things didn’t get worse, but they sure as hell didn’t get better.

Maybe Tate really loved me, once. Maybe. But his intentions were nothing but malicious now. He didn’t even treat me like a person. But I still couldn’t leave, dammit. I was bound to him, dependent, and desperate. I had my own problems holding me back from leaving. I had the ghost of hope that drew me to Tate.

I guess we all have our own demons. Devils inside our mind that make us do crazy things. Things that are bad for us. Things like hurt our loved ones or put ourselves in harm’s way. I couldn’t blame Tate for the problems he had; I had problems of my own. But I couldn’t leave him either, I was glued to his side. Our disorders were a vicious circle: mine put me in the position to by hurt by him and his made him do it.

Maybe one day things will be okay again. Maybe one day we won’t hide behind masks of sanity and admit our troubles. But for now, we were stuck in hell with the demons of our own minds.