Reasons Why
by elfin


People make fun of him.  They don't mean to be cruel.   

Like the ladies; suspecting him, judging him.  No one knows him, not really.

No one's ever asked. 

Sometimes he wakes up screaming; when he's lucky enough to wake up.

He remembers with crystal clarity the night he was changed by violence.  The rough hands tearing at his clothing, the taunts and jeers, and fingers pulling at his hair. 

Burning pain and the taste of blood, the crack of his nose breaking as he was pushed hard, face first, up against the wall.  Brick scraping the skin from his temple and cheek.  Nothing compared to the hard, dry rape.

He'd endured steel-tipped kicks to his chest, stomach and groin, and afterwards he'd lain in such agony he'd hoped he'd die, there in the filthy alley, his blood mixing with the cat piss and alcohol-laced vomit. 

Eventually it had become obvious that he wasn't going to take the easy way out.  So, carefully, when the streets had fallen quiet, he'd dragged himself up and back to the hospital through the cold, dark night.  There he'd snuck in through the service entrance, dressed and cleaned his own wounds, found some painkillers and swallowed them dry.

The walk to his home - thankfully - was a short one.  The tiny terrace cottage his parents had left him was warm and its familiarity of some comfort as he'd crawled fully clothed under the heavy duvet, curled his arms around himself and sobbed until he'd fallen found some respite to sleep. 

For many long days and nights he'd hidden from the prying eyes of the town - calling into work, telling them he was sick and unable to go in.

Finally, one sunny morning, he'd opened the latch on the wooden front door and stepped out onto the pavement, walking blindly towards the park. 

The spot he'd chosen was private and quiet save for the birdsong.  He'd pulled his knees up under his chin, rocked himself as he'd wept silently.

John had found him like that some time later.  Without a word he had lowered himself to the warm grass and simply sat there - a somehow comforting presence in a place which had always been home until suddenly he'd felt like a stranger here. 

He'd hoped his tears would eventually dry up but instead they'd come steadily, falling to the ground, leaving him without the energy to even lift his hand to wipe those that followed from his eyes.

When a hand had touched his back he'd started, had jumped, his first instinct to run as far and as fast as he'd been able. 

But instead he'd released a shuddering sob, had given up, and had leaned into the offered comfort.  He'd been enveloped in gentle warmth, held in safety while his bitter crying had subsided and drained, and he was slowly rocked to something close to sleep.

 

He'd known John then, when he'd come to the hospital that afternoon.  Had taken the opportunity to thank him for what he'd done, for the unspoken comfort and the silent strength he'd selflessly given.

 
When John had passed away, he'd mourned; remained at the back of the funeral crowd, said his own goodbyes after they'd all moved on to the wake. 

And when they'd asked him to photograph them for the calendar, he'd said yes.  In memory of John.   

The man who had saved him with nothing more than a hug. 


fin




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