Self-Destruction

The first time he hit me, I laughed it off.

And with good reason. It was a joke, after all. We were sitting on our tiny apartment porch. It normally overlooked a busy street dotted with cars and lined by a few green trees. Not that day, though. That day, the temperature happened to dip below thirty, thus a sheet of soft white coated the landscape before us. In that town, everyone was used to mild weather; sun and the likes. And because of that, no one was outside. No one except us.

I woke that morning to Jaime's ear-to-ear grin and his voice, laced with a childlike excitement, whispering in my ear.

"Wake up, Vic," he said. "Look out the window."

I protested at first. Why the hell would he want me to get up so early? The sun hung low in the sky, barely grazing the tops of the mountains. But when my eyes focused properly, I realized that those mountains were snow-capped and white tufts were floating to the ground just outside.

"Holy shit," I breathed, bolting upright.

"I know," Jaime beamed. "Come on. Let's go."

So we bundled up, brewed some coffee -- hot chocolate for me -- and tiptoed onto the back porch. The air stung my face at first, but I soon grew numb. Besides, who could complain about a little cold when there's an excited, pink-cheeked Jaime Preciado mere inches away?

We settled in quickly. He sat first, setting his mug of black coffee down beside himself and holding his arms out to me. I offered him a grin and curled into his side. Through the wooden bars of the porch, we gazed at the scene, all bathed in a soft orange glow from the sun peeking out behind the clouds.

Everything was silent for awhile. Comfortably so. No cars ventured out onto the street what with the inevitable ice, not to mention the early hour. The only sound I could hear was Jaime's steady breathing next to my temple.

Once the sun had risen enough to take refuge behind the overcast sky, a few children escaped their cozy little homes armed with hats, mittens, and sleds. Their delighted shrieks sharpened the air, coaxing a few words out of the man holding me.

"We should build a snowman later," he murmured. I could sense his excitement without looking.

I chuckled, "Sure thing, kiddo," and that's when it came. Just a little sock on the shoulder. It didn't hurt, not with the layers of sweaters I wore, as well as his gentle intentions.

"Who you callin' kiddo?" he sneered. "I'm the man in this relationship."

And just like that, it was over. We exchanged some banter, I burrowed deeper into him, and we sat like the star-crossed lovers we were. I had no idea that day would be the beginning of something sick. We built a snowman around noon. His name was Tony and he looked more like a neglected pile of tighty-whities than a man, but we were proud of him anyway. The day was essentially nice. No omens, no signs, although I sure as hell could've used a warning. Hit count: one.

The second time he hit me, I was too busy being angry to notice anything was wrong. It was a petty fight, really. It started for the lamest, most cliché reason.

Family.

I had told Jaime that my brother wanted to visit us. He reacted by expressing his distaste through a few choice words directed at Mike. That surprised me. They had never had problems with each other before. When I asked him about it, Jaime snapped, "I've seen the way he looks at me. He hates me."

"Are you kidding?" I snorted. "Mike loves you. He's told me himself that I've made a good choice, and he's the most honest guy I know."

"Honest? What about when he cheated on Sandra?"

I rolled my eyes. "He was twenty. She was a bitch. She was cheating on him, too. And besides, he never lied to her. Like I said, he doesn't fucking lie."

"He doesn't have to lie to pretend he likes me!" Jaime exclaimed. "Just tell him he can't come, it doesn't have to be a big deal."

"No, dammit! Why are you being so insecure?"

That's when a frighteningly calm expression captured my partner's face. I had no idea what was coming next, but I had enough common sense to be suspicious. We held eye contact for three...four...five seconds, my visage undoubtedly growing more and more nervous.

"Did you just call me insecure?" he finally muttered. I swallowed and replied.

"Don't act so surprised. You know you're being a girl."

Another step, and suddenly, a blazing pain flared up on my cheek. It took me a moment to realize that Jaime had punched me.

"A girl?" he roared. "You're the one who always wants to cuddle and share food and all that shit. You're a fucking girl -- not me."

"Well, if you dont like it, why haven't you said anything? I had no idea you were so opposed to affection."

"There's a reason I'm into guys," he snapped, and then he stomped to the door and left.

My cheek stung, but I thought nothing of it. Why would I? We were men. And sure, we were gay, but we weren't the type to obsess over scarves or anything. If you put two dudes in a cramped apartment for a couple of years, regardless of how much they love each other, a few punches are bound to fly. Jaime would come back later, I'd nibble his ear and apologize; he'd tell me to invite Mike over and I'd protest at first, but he'd persuade me with his lips. Pain is just a message, and Jaime decided to tap into a little human nature. No big deal. I was okay.

My expectations were soon fulfilled when my lover returned. I had to be the first to apologize, of course -- Jaime never said sorry -- so I wrapped my arms around him, nuzzled his neck, and whispered how dumb I was. He sighed into my hair and said,

"I should apologize." But that was it. I didn't expect a real apology, obviously; even that was a stretch. I knew I needed to do the mending.

"I'll tell Mike he can't come," I offered. "I'll say you have pneumonia."

"No. No, Vic, it's fine. Even if he doesn't like me, I don't want to keep you two apart."

"He loves you," I whispered, but it was too quiet for Jaime to hear. Louder, I said, "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"Really, Victor. Do you want me to call him myself?"

I chuckled airily, and he bent down, slung his arms around my thighs, and lifted me over his shoulder. I let out an embarrassing squeak of surprise, but it was lost in Jaime's quick footsteps to the couch. He threw me down, climbed on top of me, and searched my eyes for a few moments before stooping his head down to meet my lips.

In a way, that day was just as wonderful as the time it snowed. It was spring, and the air wasn't quite so laced with coziness, but I felt how much Jaime loved me that night, and I did my best to show my love to him. That feeling would prove to last for awhile, but there would come a time when I'd forget. I'd be forced to. It was April that day, but come July, when the sun scorched everything in sight, things would change for the worse. Hit count: two.

The third time he hit me, I finally figured out we had a problem.

We both worked during the day. I was employed at a shitty record shop two blocks away from our apartment. It was a chain store, but just barely. Riley's Records originated in South Carolina, establishing a weak trail up to a city just east of Seattle. That's where Jaime and I lived. More and more were closing every year, but our shop seemed to be doing okay. The hipsters dig us. I knew Eric, the owner, before he hired me, so he automatically knew I'd do well. Music was my passion. It may have been a dead-end job, but I excelled at it, and I brought home a little cash.

Jaime, on the other hand, drove the car into town every day to the county's newspaper headquarters. We met at college, both majoring in journalism, but he was the only one of us to graduate. His favorite professor recommended us to this town, and they adored his writing, so he was practically hired on the spot.

Now, because his job was actually important, Jaime began to carry home a lot of stress. It wasn't too bad at first. I could soothe his nerves with my special boyfriend powers. But as months progressed, he only became worse. And then all at once, he slipped into a dangerous routine.

It began at the end of June on a Friday. I didn't have any specific shifts at the record shop. I went home whenever Eric decided we wouldn't get any more business for the day. Sometimes it ended at four, sometimes it ended at eleven, and I was paid accordingly. Jaime had the typical nine-to-five hours. He was home every day no later than 5:30 -- until that day.

I returned to an empty apartment at six. I wasn't worried; he probably just needed to finish a story for the next morning's paper. I whipped up some pasta, making sure to save an extra plate for Jaime.

But time progressed. He was an hour late, and that hour turned into two, and then three, and they just kept piling up. I was anxious by then, obviously. I tried calling him, but no one answered. I sat on the living room couch all evening, even debated calling the cops, until well-after midnight when the lock turned and the door squeaked open.

"Jaime!" I yelped, but I got no response. I stood up to see him slowly pushing the door closed and struggling with the deadbolt until he managed to lock it properly. When he turned around, I hardly recognized him.

I'd seen Jaime drunk before. Just about every holiday we'd both end up getting wasted, and there were a few nights inbetween. But it was different then. When you drink to celebrate, it's all smiles and adrenaline. You drink to add a little edge, a little power, to something that already exists. There are other times when you have a different goal. What already exists hurts, so you want to take the edge off, to forget. And of course it's never enough if just an ounce of pain lingers, so you down drink after drink until everything escapes you and you escape everything. I knew how dangerous that was, so I had safer ways of dealing when I needed them. Jaime, though...he didn't know how to be careful like I did. It's a wonder he even ended up home.

My first look at him was enough of a blow; I didn't need the one that would come a few weeks later, but I suppose no one had any idea then. My eyes drank the sight of him in horror.

I should've been used to seeing Jaime with those bloodshot eyes as we drank together often enough, but with me, they were always disguised by the way he squinted his eyes when he laughed, not to mention the fact that I was normally also drunk. Now, they were raw and wide, so full of an emotion I couldn't interpret. His jaw hung slack as if he gave it the night off so that he could make room for more alcohol. He always claimed I was gayer than him, but you should've seen how long he took on his hair each morning. It was always spiked on top and gelled carefully everywhere else. Not that night. It lay awkwardly in various places, never quite reaching that angle he worked so hard for. I was used to the stunningly handsome Jaime, not this broken one.

And he was still handsome, really. He was the same man. He had just been hollowed out by the chemicals and tinkered with before he came home. I could see a trace of the sadness that must've haunted him earlier, the one he tried to drown with booze. The pain and the emptiness danced together to create an unnerving and cruel beauty. It broke me, but I couldn't tear my gaze away.

Besides that, there isn't much to tell about that night. After we held eye contact for a few moments -- well, I studied him in shock and he looked blankly at a point to the left of my shoe -- I helped him into bed, prodding him with questions, to which he either ignored or couldn't understand. When I accepted that he wouldn't respond, I dragged the trash can over to his side of the bed in case he needed to purge himself of the poison in his stomach. Without another sound, and being careful not to touch him, I crawled into bed beside him and fought the burn behind my eyes.

That was June, and I promised you some action in July (not the good kind, either). The hit count then remained at two. But that doesn't mean nothing went wrong until then. Jaime began to come home drunk every Friday after midnight. I couldn't get him to tell me what was wrong, nor could I convince him to stop drinking. I even suggested he come home after work and drink with me, but he wouldn't have it. I guess he figured I'd somehow throw off the high, or whatever the hell you call it when you forget your own name.

One Friday, I was struck with an idea. Eric let me off work early, and I was about to walk home, but I found myself going the other way, covering at least three miles until I reached Jaime's workplace. I almost went inside, but instead, I sat myself down on a bench and hid my face behind a book until five. It took him a few minutes, but eventually, Mr. Preciado left the building and climbed into the car. My stomach bubbled with a bittersweet satisfaction. Maybe I'd fnally figure out how to end this fucking problem. I waited until he pulled out of the lot to follow, and then I sprinted after him. I caught a glimpse of the blue shit-mobile rounding the corner, and continued with the same routine for countless blocks. I lost track of him toward the end, but my body was on autopilot and I was on a familiar stretch of road. It was only when I approached the apartment complex that I realized I was home. My heart dropped in disappointment. Looked like I wouldn't be saving Jaime tonight. I lost him.

But then I spotted the car in our parking space.

"What the hell?" I muttered. I fished the key out of my pocket, climbed the three flights of steps to apartment 48, and entered my home. The living room light was on.

"You're so goddamn shady, Vic," spat a familiar voice.

Oh.

I raised my eyebrows at his malice, but closed the door, folded my arms, and managed a decently firm response.

"I'm shady? Well, I wouldn't have to be if you didn't have to get drunk all the time."

He let out a belt of laughter that held no trace of amusement. "You're supposed to ask about things like that. You don't just stalk me after work!"

"I did ask. God, I tried so hard. You fucking know that, Himes. What else was I supposed to do?"

"That's when you give up, you persistent little shit. Don't fucking try to fix me."

This time, I let my pain and my fear bleed through my expression. "I'm not trying to fix you. You're not broken, baby. I just want you to be happy. God. I love you."

"Well, stop."

"S-stop what?"

"Stop loving me."

That phrase made my head spin so hard I took a step backward. Jaime took one forward.

"Why?" I asked, although I already knew the answer. He didn't love me anymore. Obviously.

Nope. Wrong.

"Because," he spat. "I'm worthless."

Okay, that wasn't exactly an 'I love you,' but it wasn't an 'I don't love you,' either. Still, it hurt to hear him say that.

"You're not worthless," I breathed out. "God, Jaime. You're a thousand times the man I wish I was and more. Don't ever think you're anything less than perfect. I would've left a long time ago if I didn't think you were the one. And -- "

"See, there's the problem," he interrupted. And because his speech was a little drawled, his eyes a little unfocused, I realized he may have drank a little that night after all. I'd have to check the booze cupboard later. "There you go, setting these standards. I'm supposed to be perfect for you? Why the fuck would you expect that? What happens when your tastes change? Am I supposed to change, just for you? It's no wonder I like to get wasted. I can forget for awhile that I'm in love with a perfect man who fucking expects me to be perfect, too."

I struggled with my words for a few moments, but once I swallowed my shock, I choked out something to say.

"I don't expect you to be perfect," I growled. "Hell, nobody's perfect! That's the biggest goddamn cliché on earth, and you don't get it?"

"I don't mean literally, you thickheaded dick!" he roared. The rest of the argument was spiked with a mutual anger. Insults and defenses zipped through the air at blinding speeds. I projected my worry and desperation through all the shouting my wimpy vocal chords could muster. Though his words were essentially the same, Jaime's anger was different. It almost seemed...deliberate. As if he covered up his own pain with a hell of a lot of noise. It reached a point where I was certain the neighbors could hear every word.

And when he couldn't get any louder, something awful happened.

"How's this for perfect?" he shouted, before he sent his fist flying through the air. It made contact with my nose. I heard the bones crack, felt he blood pouring out, but my mind didn't register anything. "I said I'm a fucking screwup!" Jaime threw in. His hand connected with my eye, my chest, my nose again, and finally my stomach before I doubled over and collapsed onto the ground. He stormed off, but at least it was to the bedroom and not the bar.

Jaime never said sorry.

He didn't drink after that. He didn't need to. He had found another way to cope with the pain. If I wasn't home with dinner ready by the time he arrived every day, I'd get a little beating. If I said something he disagreed with, he'd call me an imbecile and bruise the hell out of my arm. Even when we fucked, he was several times rougher. He made me bleed almost every time.

I should've gone to the cops. I should've filed a domestic violence report. But I couldn't. I loved him too much. I didn't want him to go to jail. I couldn't live without him. And he wasn't poisoning himself anymore. That was what I wanted. I knew how to take the bruises, and I was okay if my nose never looked the same.

I won't have a hit count for you anymore. I've lost track.

It soon became necessary for me to wear long sleeves, especially when I was going to work. That made it easy for me to slip back into something I hadn't done for awhile. Nothing serious. It was only dangerous if I got carried away, and I was the master of self-control. When I got off work early, I'd slip into the bathroom, making sure I had dinner in the oven, and indulge.

I had a nice routine for awhile. It was September by then, and the shop was becoming less and less busy. Only rarely did I have to go without it for so long that the craving became unbearable. I learned to take my tool with me to work on the weekends, just in case. And somehow, it made the punches feel sweeter. I knew it was wrong of me to feel that way, but at least I had found a way to deal with it. I was allowing Jaime to get rid of stress without causing too much for myself. Though they may have been few and far between, we even had some nice moments every once in awhile.

One day, a Tuesday, if I recall correctly, it went a little awry. I had forgotten to lock the door behind me. I had lost track of time. I had become careless.

Only when I heard the front door open did I realize all of my mistakes. I had gone a little farther than usual that time. I cursed under my breath, shoved my sleeves down, and turned on the faucet. The bathroom door opened just as I put my hands under the water.

"Evening, Victor," Jaime muttered. I nodded at him as he walked past me and unipped his fly to take a piss. He didn't notice what was on the counter. I discreetly slid it into my pocket, and he still remained oblivious.

I rushed out of the bathroom and quickly prepared Jaime's pork the way he liked it. I had just finished when he came up behind me.

He grunted as he spun me around by my waist and grabbed my forearms. This was typical of him. He tended to avoid my face when he needed to release his anger, but he slipped up sometimes. He needed to inspect the bruises. I held his gaze calmly, very aware of the pain where his hands were.

Suddenly, he pulled back. When he glanced at his hands, coated with a sticky, red substance, his eyes widened in horror.

Without hesitation, he pulled up my sleeves and saw the cuts decorating them. Pale scars that had healed, scabbed-over ones from the past week or two, and the fresh, crimson ones I had carved just minutes earlier. I winced. I hadn't seen him look scared in all the time I had known him, but he wore an undoubtedly terrified expression that night. It chilled me to the bone.

"Vic," he said, voice cracking. Slowly, he met my eyes. I didn't know what to say.

He wrapped his arms around me in the most loving touch I'd felt from him in months. His body shook, and I realized he was crying. A massive wave of guilt washed over me. I returned the embrace, doing my best to make him feel safe. I didn't know this would hurt him.

"I don't want you to hurt yourself," he whispered. "I love you."

And it may have been cruel, but the only thing I could think to say was, "Then why do you hurt me?"

As I said before, pain is just a message. I received plenty of messages from Jaime in the past. Love letters, I called them, but I'm the only one who thinks that was funny.

I was also that loser who sent letters to myself. Maybe they helped me get in touch with my inner masochist. I was never sure exactly why I cut, and I still don't know. I probably never will. It doesn't matter, though. I've stopped sending those messages. Jaime's stopped sending his. It only took a little bit of fucking couples' therapy.

We're okay now. We are no longer messengers. We've both been clean for a year, and since the State of Washington finally legalized gay marriage, I have a feeling he'll be proposing soon. Yeah, maybe I am the girl in the relationship. Whatever.

I'm not much of a story-teller (that's Jaime's job), so I'm not sure exactly how to end this. I'll just leave you with this:

When life gives you lemons, you probably deserve them. Go talk to a shrink and make some fucking lemonade.