Sam Collins - Chapter 5

Sam could see the light behind his closed eyes and winced when the feeling of being run over by a truck hit him.  Where the hell was he?

"This morning, the Army Intelligence base in Kentucky  reported several Plague-related incidents in Clarksville. A Special Unit has cleared the area in the meantime. However, the current line of the barrier needs to be shifted west once again, leaving only Arkansas and Missouri unaffected from the spread of  the Lyssa-V1 strain that originated in North Carolina. The western strain Lyssa-G1, the first outburst of the Plague in the US, has reached Texas in August, as previously reported. Further spreads of this strain have not yet been reported.

The police are instructing residents in Arkansas and Missouri to beware of possible refugees from Kentucky who might accidentally spread the virus further."

The radio was turned down and Sam opened his eyes, slowly adjusting them to the bright morning light. He was in a bed overlooking a big room that served as kitchen, bed and living room in one. A broad shouldered blonde guy with a short crew cut was making coffee on the counter by the window. The morning light put him in a soft haze .
Sam touched his head, groaning from the effort. The stranger turned around.

"Good morning. How do you feel?" He walked over to the bed and placed a cup of coffee on the bed side table.
Crap. Who was the guy?

"Terrible. Feel like I've drowned in booze. Is this your place?" The stranger nodded. Sam watched the worried expression on the man's face. He was handsome, reminded him of his training supervisor at the Academy. The one he had a secret crush on back then. He looked at the coffee cup next to him.

"Who are you? Have we...?" Sam was surprised when the man backed away from him.

"Hell no!" The shocked expression on his face spoke volumes.

"Gosh, was I that drunk?" He tried to laugh, wincing when his head ache made the effort impossible.

"You were drugged last night! I'm Paul, remember?"
The memories almost blinded Sam. The bar. The married bartender. That disgusting asshole who made him drink that shit that knocked him out. He tried to forget what had happened then.

"You're the the bartender. The one with the ring on his finger", he rasped.

"I guess I am", Paul said, concern written all over his face.

"Where's your partner? I didn't mean to cause you trouble." Sam tried to get up, suddenly feeling a hand on his chest pushing him back down.

"You shouldn't get up too quickly." Sam looked at the lines of worry in Paul's handsome face, brown eyes framed by thick brows as blond as his hair.
Sam rested his head back on the pillow. Paul handed him the coffee cup and strode across the room looking out of the window from behind the curtain.

"He's dead", he said.

"Huh?"

"Jason. My partner. He died two years ago." Paul turned his head to look at Sam.

"I'm... I'm sorry", he muttered, a surprised look on his face.

"Are you worried?", Paul looked out of the window again, not addressing Sam's painful expression of sympathy.

"Worried?", he asked uncertainly.

"About the Plague coming closer to Arkansas", Paul explained looking back at Sam.

Had there been one moment in the last five years when Sam had not been concerned about the spread of the virus? It had cost him his love, his career and almost his life. But did it trouble him right now? Seems like he had enough other things to worry about.

"Nothing I can do about it anymore", he replied, settling back against the cushion.  Paul frowned at this.

"You were involved? In the Army, I mean." He walked back to the bed, sitting down at the foot of it.
Sam studied his face, taking in the blonde stubble on Paul's chin, giving him a rugged look. He sighed and nodded.

"I had just finished the Academy in West Point, starting my first commission in Germany when it all began" Sam's gaze drifted off, memories flooding back as he spoke.

"The TV in the barracks was on and we were watching a football game when they suddenly interrupted the broadcast to show a newsflash. It was about an incident in Fort Bragg. Someone was found dead with terrible bite marks and blood all over his body just outside the Airbase. Apparently, the body was highly contagious with some unknown disease that spread quickly among the staff of the base. It had also reached civil residents in the area surrounding the base and anyone who tried to examine them got infected instantly." Sam paused, taking in a breath.

"It seemed like an act of terrorism or something, right here in the US. We applied for instant relocation. By the time we got back to the US, the Plague had already led to ten thousands of victims. I was selected to serve in the Army's first Special Unit."

Paul looked at him with worried eyes.

"So you killed all these people, just like the Army did in Clarksville." It wasn't a question, Sam realized.

"We got trained in bio warfare and were instructed to eliminate any infected carrier that crossed our path. I killed more than two thousand humans in the course of five years." Why was he telling him all this? Did Sam feel the need to confess, all of a sudden? Paul watched him with cold eyes.

"What about you? What's your story?", Sam asked, silently wondering, if Paul contemplated to kick him out after this revelation. Paul hesitated, clearly digesting what he had just head.

"I was in the Antilope Valley when it all first began", he said eventually.

"You're Air Force?", Sam interrupted, interest visible in his eyes. Paul did have the look of an ex-Air Force man, but he wouldn't have believed it to be true. All he lacked were aviator sunglasses.

"I was. Used to work as an instructor in the Test Pilot School we ran there. When the first wave of the Plague began, funds were relocated to Special Units and the Pilot School was among the first facilities that were shut down. We were given the choice to enter a Special Unit and start killing virus carriers - or we were asked to leave... Guess what I chose."

Sam looked down. He never felt ashamed for his choices. Looking back, though, he knew that there could have been other alternatives for him. Had he and Sean left the Army before it was too late, he might be happily settled down with him, instead of waking up in a stranger's bed after one
hell of a night.

"I went back to L.A. With the economy going to hell thanks to the Plague and no family left, I soon used up all my savings and ended on the street", Paul continued.

"And then I did what any gay man in my situation and with my background would do in Hollywood", Paul stated, his voice gone quiet.

Sam had no clue what he was referring to.

"You wrote a screen play?", he guessed. Paul almost laughed out loud.

"No, dumbass! I did porn."
Sam felt the color rise in his face. He was such a fool. Paul didn't seem to be phased, though.

"Anyway, it paid off real well. And I met a guy on one of the sets there. Jason. He was something." Paul looked out of the window again before he continued.

"When the Plague hit L.A., we packed our stuff and left before it was too late. We moved here, because Jason's family used to live here. When we arrived, the house was empty, his family gone to the East. They probably died of the Plague there, we never heard of them again."
Sam swallowed hard.

"What happened to Jason?"
Paul sighed and looked back at Sam.

"He wasn't healthy. He used to take meds in L.A. but when our income dropped, we could no longer afford them."

Sam didn't know what to say. It must have cost Paul more than courage to help him last night. And Sam had just been a bitch and wanted to leave the hospital.

"You need these meds too? Is that why you wanted me to take them?"

"You remember? Yes, I didn't want you to go through this on top of what happened." Paul's eyes
dropped to the floor.

"I will get tested. Maybe he was clean." Sam wasn't sure he could believe his own voice. "So, you're sick too?"
Paul's expression was illegible.

"I don't have any symptoms. Never got tested, though. Still, the Plague is what concerns me more, to be honest. I hope you're not thinking of shooting me already?" He winked, but now it was Sam's turn to be annoyed.

"I'm not a murderer. If we hadn't intervened, the Plague would have snowballed all over the states." At least that's what their superiors had said all those years. Looking back at how many people died from his hands, he wondered if they had been wrong all along.

"Seems like it already does, Sam."
Anger flared within Sam. He ignored Paul's sad eyes when he scrambled out of the bed and got up shakily.

"I should go." Sam felt the blood drop from his head and his knees turned to pudding.  Paul's arms were around his body before his face connected to the linoleum floor.

"You're going nowhere. Not until you feel better." He lifted Sam back onto the bed. The sickening pain in Sam's head lessened a bit and he was able to see things clearly again. Paul went to the counter and fetched a plate with a bagel on it, dropping it next to the coffee cup on Sam's bedside table.

"Help yourself when you feel hungry. I'm gonna take a nap. Just wake me if you need anything."
Paul dropped on the queen sized bed next to Sam, crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes.

Sam watched his profile, studying the square jaw and blonde stubble on his cheeks. Paul must have been about ten years older than Sam. But he still had the fit body of a trained military man which was displayed nicely in the muscle shirt he was wearing. Sam closed his eyes and tried to rest, but the
memories of the previous night haunted him. Maybe it served him right, though. If the Plague was meant to erase mankind for good, all Sam had done was kill a countless number of frightened innocents. He was never haunted by their faces or their screams. He didn't even want to contemplate what that might say about him as a human being.

There was one face, however, that he could not forget. And he never would.

It was the only one he had truly loved.

   

Sam Collins - Chapter 4

The night didn't seem to end.
Paul rinsed a few glasses and threw a glance at his watch. Only 9.30. Seven hours to go.
The couple he had watched make out at the counter had left half an hour ago. At least someone was having fun tonight.
He couldn't believe Soldier Boy had followed the gross hairy guy into the darkroom. He'd have thought a guy like him had standards. Paul suddenly felt old and dated. Maybe he shouldn't feel bitter and just take the next best guy to bed and finally allow himself some fun.

Speaking of fun, Gross Hairy Guy must have had plenty, judging from the smile on his face. Paul watched the man emerge from behind the veil to the dark rooms. He grabbed a jacket from his corner seat and left without so much as glance back at Paul.
The remaining glasses on the counter were the only task that distracted him from the veil, waiting for Handsome to emerge with a similar smirk on his face.
What was taking him so long? Cleaning up? God, Paul hoped not.

Still, after five minutes and no more dirty glasses in front of him, he frowned and ignored Kyle, the 60 year old alcoholic who was around almost every weekday, silently staring at the counter and only raising a finger every now and then to order the next drink. Paul had often wondered if the man was gay at all or if it was just the cheap booze that lured him in. Anyway, what was the young guy doing in there so long?
He dropped his towel and walked over to the curtain.

"You okay in there?" He felt the urge to knock, but the cloth hanging from the ceiling didn't seem to support that idea. No response.

Damn, the last thing he wanted was to walk in on some private moment, but something felt wrong.
Paul opened the veil and stepped inside, the darkness almost swallowing him until his eyes adjusted to the soft beam from the blackened neon light in the corner. He almost stumbled over the body lying on the floor. Shit.

"Hey! Son, what's wrong?" He crouched down and grabbed the guy's wrist. His pulse was slow.
Paul grabbed his cell in the back pocket of his pants and dialed 911. The line was out of service. A common occurrence these days.
He would have to take him to the hospital himself. Paul suddenly realized that the guy's pants were down. Oh God.

"Can you hear me? Say something, man!" He grabbed the guy's arms and noticed the man's feeble attempt to free himself from Paul's grip.

"Lemme go, please, lemme go...", he whispered.
Paul yanked his pants up and lifted him off the floor. He wasn't light, but Paul managed to carry him out of the darkroom and into the main bar area, seating him on a cushioned bench in the corner.
He took the guy's chin in his hands and stared into his eyes. The pupils were dilated. Paul knew the signs of a drugged person too well, unfortunately.

"What's your name?", he said softly.
Soldier Boy sure had beautiful eyes. The bewildered expression on his face made him look so much younger than before when he had scowled at Paul.

"Sam", he whispered, his eyes jumping back and forth between Paul and the floor.

"My name is Paul. I am going to take you to a hospital. You need to help me a bit. Is that okay?"
Sam seemed to understand what he said. He nodded slightly, while Paul held his hand flat against Sam's chest to keep him from toppling over. How was he supposed to get him to his car? The drive to the hospital wouldn't be difficult at all, but reaching the car seemed impossible to accomplish.

"Man, you gotta help me a bit." Paul supported his upper body with his hands and lifted him carefully to his feet. Sam weighed heavily in his arms. His feet were unable to support his body and Paul almost tripped over a chair trying to reach the door. An additional pair of hands suddenly appeared on Sam's other side and held him up. Paul stared into the sad eyes of their unexpected ally.  

"Thanks Kyle, I owe you one."

Together they managed to carry Sam to Paul's car. He jogged back for a moment to lock up the bar and thanked Kyle once more, who was already on his way to wherever he spent the night. 

The ride to the Baptist Medical Center only took a few minutes, thanks to the reduced traffic at this time of night. The nurse at the reception was a hard-boiled elderly lady who had clearly seen worse things than a half-naked drunk guy being carried in by a bar tender - of all people. Paul was aware that he was still wearing the muscle shirt with the ManHole's embarrassingly explicit logo. He didn't even want to contemplate what the nurse might think about that.

"Write down the name and insurance details and take a seat in the waiting area, a doctor will be with you as soon as possible." She seemed to be stifling a yawn.

Paul practically threw the papers back at her, Sam still weighing heavily on his side.

"I don't know his full name. I just found him unconscious. Someone needs to help him now!"

She scowled at him, but noticed the relentless expression on his face and finally gave in. She directed them to a room with an empty bed. An old man lay coughing in the other bed by the window and gave them a quick look over before he turned his head toward the window.

"A doctor will be here soon. Please don't disturb the other patients." The lady walked away and Paul did his best to lower his companion carefully on the white sheets  of the hospital bed. Sam groaned. His fingers found Paul's hand and rested there, holding him feebly.

Paul sat down on the foot of the bed and stared at the young man. He'd seen some shit in his time, but it sure hurt to see a young guy wasting himself away with alcohol and mindless sex in seedy darkrooms. It didn't take a rape to make this life a complete misery.

Sam must have fallen asleep. His breathing was slow and his eyes were closed. Paul slowly pulled on the metal chain around his neck and revealed the dog tag that had slipped underneath the shirt.

"Sam Collins", he read out to himself. A security number was on there as well. The lady at the front desk probably loved soldiers for this. But who knew if it was still valid? Sam didn't look like an active solider. But what did he know? He had just met the guy.

"Thanks for helping me out." The quiet voice startled Paul and he dropped the tag on Sam's chest. His eyes were open again, staring at Paul's hands.

"A doctor should be here soon. Shall I get you something?" Paul tried to sound comforting, but Sam grabbed his shirt fiercely. 

"Don't leave", he whispered, blue eyes big and pleading. 

Paul put his hands on Sam's fingers and released his grip.

"Relax. I'm staying. What about your family? Shall I call anyone?"

He shook his head slightly. A pained expression darkened his features. The dark stubble on Sam's face stood out on the pale skin.

A guy in a white robe walked in on them holding hands. The doctor frowned and glanced briefly at Sam.    

"This is a hospital. not a place to sleep off your hangover", he remarked coldly.

Paul held his stare.

"Doc, he's no alcoholic!" Paul hoped it was true. He didn't know the man at all. "He was drugged and..." Sam's hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him back. 

"Don't. I'm fine", he said stubbornly.

"No, you're not!" Paul knelt down next to Sam, so the doctor wouldn't hear him whisper. "You could have been exposed to all kinds of STDs. You need to take the meds just to be sure." The urgency in his voice surprised Paul. What was this guy to him?

"I couldn't afford it. I'm not insured." Damn, Paul hated to be right. "Paul, I want to go home."

His lip was trembling. It was obvious Sam wasn't used to being weak and vulnerable and it scared the hell out of him. 

Paul exchanged a glance with the annoyed doctor waiting for them to make up their minds. 

"If you don't need a medical opinion, feel free to check out again." He didn't even bother to nod at them, turned around and left.

"That was extremely unwise, Sam." Paul wiped his face with the back of his hand. "Where's home?"

Sam laughed, an act that caused him visible pain. 

"It was just a saying. I haven't found it since I left ten years ago", he replied.

"You're not from Arkadelphia then?"

"I am. But things changed since I left and I can't go back now." He cleared his throat and tried to get up, legs and arms shaking from the effort.

Paul thought of Jason and how tragically his life had been turned around the last time he helped a guy he was slowly falling for. Oh well.

"You're coming with me."

Sam Collins - Chapter 3

Damn wise guy.

Sam almost stumbled over a chair when he tried to get away from the jerk behind the bar. Instead of taking him up on his offer, he had waved a wedding band at his face. A wedding band. In a fucking gay bar.

Did he think he was some green kid who didn't know how to play the game? Sam was fucking 27 years old, a Captain of the US Army for Christ's sake! Okay, make that he was a Captain. What was he now? A pathetic fool trying to get laid in some hillbilly's excuse of a gay bar in fucking Arkadelphia.

"Fancy a drink, pretty boy?" An older guy stared at him from a dark corner.  All Sam could see were sparkling eyes framed by dark hair, a dark beard and lots of dark chest hair peeking out of a white muscle shirt. If only the shirt did cover muscles. That guy sure had seen better days. Sam was down, but not desperate. Maybe he should come back another time, hoping for a more appealing crowd. He thought of his lonely apartment and felt a wave of disappointment wash over him before he addressed the stranger.

"Thanks, but no thanks." He grabbed the back of a nearby chair, missing it by an inch and almost staggered to the floor.

"Easy big guy. You sure look like you need one of those. It'll clear your head." The dark stranger slid the glass in Sam's direction.

"I said no." He turned and headed for the exit.

"Thought so. I knew you wouldn't touch it. Not man enough for something harder than a Mai Tai, huh?" Sam could hear the derision in the guy's voice.

He usually wasn't easy to provoke - that probably came with the military routine and had saved him lots of troubles in his past. But tonight he was way past any mental barriers.

"You know what?", he said and took a seat on the table facing Beard Guy. "Fuck. You." Sam took the glass and downed it in one sip, knocking the glass loudly back on the table. 

"Didn't think you had it in you", the stranger said. "Guess I was wrong." He flashed yellow teeth underneath his dark beard.

Sam stared at him with cold eyes.

"Thanks for the freebie." He lifted himself from the chair and continued to the exit. Where was his damn jacket? He hoped he hadn't left it at the counter. No way was he gonna go back to Mr Happily-Married.

He looked at his hands, strangely noticing how they didn't feel like his own hands anymore. More like someone else's hands. Now wasn't that weird?

A nagging thought in the back of his mind reminded him of his training in bio warfare back when he entered the Special Unit. What did they say about psychoactive drugs? He couldn't remember.

"Lost your way, pretty boy?" Somewhere far away, someone hooked his arm in his and directed him somewhere. Sam couldn't help but trod along, not realizing what was going on. He just saw the world getting darker. Was he falling asleep or just walking into the dark? Who was with him? Someone touched him. He felt a hard surface underneath his back.

Sam's hands tried to get a grip on whoever was manhandling him, but all he could manage was tugging slightly at the other man's clothes. What was going on?

"...so pretty. And so well hung. Guess I'm getting lucky tonight......" The faceless voice scared Sam. For a moment, he lost his usual confidence and started to cry out, but he only heard a soft groan escape his lips.

"No, please. Let me go, please, please, no, no...", he whispered, more to himself, tears running down his face.

The sudden pain almost blinded him in the darkness. As numb as his arms and legs felt, the sudden agony was more than he could bear. What kind of drug was this shit? Couldn't he at least pass out instead of lying here like a living corpse?

The rush of memories that flooded his mind was even worse now that he couldn't go anywhere to escape his emotions.

Sean. Innocent, handsome Sean. He remembered the brown eyes that used to stare at him lovingly in Sam's bed, making him open up more than any words ever could. The things they told each other in those nights. Things they could never share with anyone else. Things that shouldn't be said between soldiers. But Sean was all he had. No life to come back home to, no family happily waiting for him somewhere. All he had was a mother who still cried over her late husband, a mother who would probably never accept Sam the way he was. And a sister who didn't really know him at all, a child's face watching him accusingly the day he left for the Academy. Would she ever forgive him for leaving her behind? Would she accept him the way he was?

The pain of losing the people he had loved was overwhelming. But it was the physical pain he was feeling right now that caused Sam's world to vanish in a cloud of darkness.  

Sam Collins - Chapter 2

A drop of sweat ran down the side of Paul's face. He wiped it away with the back of his hand at stared at the two strangers in front of him, flirting away on the other side of the bar. They looked young, maybe about 25 - and were obviously undressing each other with their eyes.

Wasn't that sweet? He'd probably sigh and reminisce about his own teenage years, if it wasn't for the uncomfortably damp atmosphere of The ManHole and the pot-bellied trucker staring at him with hungry eyes from a dark corner across the room. Paul clenched his jaw muscles and looked down at the beer tap in front of him. Time to flash his commitment ring again, he thought to himself and flexed his finger, the small metal glinting dimly in the muffled light of his counter. 

The ManHole. What a dump. Should have been named 'ManHole No. 734'. Paul was sure he had come across lots of gay bars with that name during his time in Cali. Seeing one in Arkansas, deep in the Bible Belt was something else, though. He wouldn't have expected it back when he got here with Jason to escape the Plague. Damn, was that only three years ago? Seemed like a lifetime. 

Oh well, life had other ideas. And here he was, serving beer and California style cocktails to closeted middle class husbands and eager, inexperienced students, who were out, but not as proud as Paul had seem them back in L.A. Anyway, it was quite an explosive combination sometimes. More often than not he had to settle a dispute between an older guy and his young lover, just because daddy didn't want to leave his wife and elope with Boy Toy. 

He shook his head slightly and took a clean cloth to wipe the surface of the bar, removing crumbs of peanuts. Someone sat down on the stool before him. 

"Vodka, double."

Paul took a brief look at the newcomer. He was handsome for sure. Slipping out of his leather jacket, the guy revealed a bulging biceps underneath a skin-tight muscle shirt, clearly intending to find a hook-up for the night. Paul's ringed finger started to itch, as usual, reminding him that he was too old to be playing this game with the youngsters. He took a bottle and started pouring the drink.

"Vodka, it is.", he said and placed the glass on the counter. Gosh, the guy had blue eyes. Not blue, like the sky, but rather like a field of ice on a sunny winter's day. Paul would have laughed about this corny mental image, but his mind was elsewhere, staring at the man's chest.  A flash of light had caught his eye.

"Thanks." The guy took a sip, gulping down the alcohol as if it were water and caught Paul's stare, squinting his eyes angrily - probably the result of having had too much alcohol before even entering the door. 

"What are ya staring at?", he growled.  

"Why so serious, soldier? Let me guess, an Army man?" Paul winked at the silver ID tag that hung on a chain around the guy's neck.

"Is that your come on line?" Paul was glad he got a smile from that handsome face. The man's eyes lingered on his for a second too long. Who was he kidding? This was a gay bar. Of course people hit on the bartender. 

"Nah. Just me being curious." Paul flashed a friendly smile at him, but the guy's eyes dropped on the counter.

"Ain't none of your damn business. Any chance you wanna have some fun tonight? It's not exactly crowded in here."

Ouch, that hurt. Paul liked the guy, but didn't want to be a stand-in for a potentially better hook-up who just wasn't here tonight. Even though this particular guy sure had something pleasurably familiar on him, Paul lifted his hand and watched the guy's face fall, when he saw the golden ring glinting on his finger. He couldn't help but notice the smile on the two youngsters nearby watching the scene unfold before them.

"Sorry, dude, but I'm faithful to my man." Paul flashed his most charming smile. He knew people usually didn't get mad at him that way. Not so Wonderboy, though.

"Suit yourself!" He pushed the empty glass over the smooth surface of the counter and watched as Paul had to drop his hand to catch it before it fell of the edge. He left the bar and staggered across the room.

"Why don't you go home, son? Maybe another night you'll come sober and get lucky." Paul tried to speak quietly, but he was sure everyone in the room had heard him. Handsome just raised his middle finger.

"Fuck off!"

Fine. Another one biting the bullet. Just what Paul needed tonight.

Sam Collins - Chapter 1

"What do you mean, you're gay?"

Sam thought about the last time he heard this tone in his mother's voice. It was the day he had informed her that he intended to follow in his father's footsteps . Become a military man, like dad. 

"Mom, you know what that means", he said quietly.

"Are you sure? What makes you say that all of a sudden?"

Sam smiled sadly. Unfortunately, his mother could not see him at the other end of the phone line.

"I have known for a long time. I haven't told you before, because I knew you would get upset." 

This should make her think. Okay, probably not.

"Why are you telling me this on the phone? Your father would have ..."

"Keep Dad out of it",  Sam growled.

The conversation was just as uncomfortable as he had feared. Sam stared at the tempting vodka bottle on the window sill. Maybe he should just hang up.

It took a few seconds for Sam to register that his mother was silent, waiting for him to explain himself.

"I don't want to be trouble. I just wanted to tell you. Bye, Mom."

Sam threw the phone on the unmade bed in the corner of his small apartment. Since his release from military service, his life had gone downhill big time. The vodka burned in his throat and he threw the empty glass bottle with a clank into the sink. For a split second, the world swam before his eyes. Leaning on the tiny dining table, he smelled the sweat that stained his green undershirt and looked down at the rags he was wearing. Probably smelled worse than it looked, but there wasn't much hope in that.  He knew he had to leave his place at some point, if only to get groceries. But not right now. Right now, he just wanted to curl up in his bed and cry. Not that there would be tears. There never were. It was all he had left inside himself - a blank void that made him forget why he ended up here, back in Arkadelphia, where his life had begun almost three decades ago. Home Sweet Home. 

Sam straightened up. Time to get a grip on his life again. If he allowed himself to be this miserable, he might as well allow himself a little guilty pleasure. He stripped out of his dirty clothes and hit the shower. The water was freezing, big surprise. He needed to move out of this this apartment as quickly as possibly, but right now it was all he had. Unless he wanted to move in with his mother.
Yeah, right.

He briefly glanced at his soaked reflection in the mirror. His military career may have broken him, but it shaped his body for sure. The sudden rush of memories hit him like a truck. Lt. Davis. Sean. On his knees in the pouring rain. Red-rimmed eyes staring at Sam pleadingly. A shot that rang through the night. Sam shook his head to get rid of those haunting images. It was time to let go.

He flashed a smile at himself in the mirror. Big chance to get laid tonight, he thought and pulled on a skin-tight sweatshirt. Adding a Levis and leather jacket, he was good to go.

Blätter im Wind

Die Bänke der evangelischen Kirche waren teilweise leer. In der Nähe des Pults saß die Familie des Verstorbenen mit senkten Köpfen, dahinter wurden die Reihen lichter und einzelne Trauergäste bevorzugten einen einsamen Platz im Hintergrund.

Mein Blick fiel auf die schwarz gekleidete Familie des viel zu früh verstorbenen Mr. Andrews. Ein schweres Krebsleiden hatte den Mann im Alter von 42 Jahren aus dem Leben gerissen. Es war tragisch, doch leider nichts Außergewöhnliches. Ich arbeitete als Pfleger in einer Einrichtung für Patienten mit schweren emotionalen Traumen und hatte Menschen an den unterschiedlichsten Dingen zugrunde gehen sehen. An einer Krankheit zu sterben schien mir immer eine der normalsten Arten zu sein, um aus der Welt zu scheiden. Aber ich hatte ja leicht reden, immerhin betraf der Todesfall mich nicht direkt.
Ich suchte Richards Hand, die auf seinem Knie neben mir lag und nahm sie in meine. Sie zitterte und war eiskalt. Seine Augen waren gefüllt mit Tränen, die jeden Moment seine Wangen hinunterfließen würden. Er reagierte nicht auf meine Geste des Mitgefühls.

Richard hatte nie über seinen Vater gesprochen. Aus seiner Reaktion auf meine Fragen am Anfang unserer Beziehung schloss ich, dass er zu seiner Familie keinen guten Draht hatte. Ich kannte ihn erst seit vier Monaten, wusste aber, dass er keinerlei Kontakt mit irgendeinem Mitglied seiner Familie hatte. Umso mehr überraschte mich sein emotionaler Zusammenbruch, als er die Nachricht vom Tod seines schwer kranken Vaters erhielt. Ich konnte mir ausmalen, was in ihm vorgehen musste. Im Streit auseinander zu gehen und dann niemals die Möglichkeit zur Versöhnung zu bekommen konnte einen Menschen zerstören. Ich war bereit, ihm durch diese schwere Zeit zu helfen.

Als ich ihn das erste Mal traf, war mein Interesse an ihm eher auf das Bett beschränkt. Mir 37 Jahren konnte ich einen 23-Jährigen nicht wirklich als ernsthaften Kandidaten für eine Beziehung sehen. Richard war zwar freundlich, zuvorkommend und reif für sein Alter, doch ich war sicher, er war lediglich auf der Suche nach dem nächsten Abenteuer, als er meine  Einladung auf einen Drink annahm und sich im Boots and Saddle zu mir setzte.
Das Abenteuer mit ihm war tatsächlich heiß und erfüllend - und zu meiner Überraschung nach der ersten Nacht nicht vorbei. Richard blieb und schien mit dem Leben mit mir zufrieden zu sein. Der geheimnisvolle junge Mann hatte aber von Anfang an etwas zu verbergen und es überraschte mich nicht, als er mir nach wenigen Wochen von seiner schweren Depression erzählte, die er seit Monaten behandeln ließ - mit wenig Erfolg, wie es schien.

Das Begräbnis seines Vaters würde nun bestimmt nicht zur Besserung seiner Verfassung beitragen. Seine Augen begannen zu zittern und Tränen rollten hinab, die er nicht mehr zurückhalten konnte. Richard bemerkte, dass ich ihn besorgt anstarrte und zog die Mundwinkel zu einem erfolglosen Lächeln hoch. Ein Schluchzen entkam seiner Kehle, das er nicht mehr unterbinden konnte. Einige Trauergäste blickten sich zu ihm um.

Plötzlich zog er mich von der Bank und stoplerte hastig nach draußen. Der Friedhof außerhalb der Kirche war menschenleer, ein leichter Regenschauer polierte die Marmor-Grabsteine auf Hochglanz und ließ das Gras und die bunten Blüten auf den Gräbern glitzern.

Ich erstarrte vor Schreck, als Richard plötzlich neben mir zusammenbrach und laut zu Schluchzen begann. Ich zog ihn hoch, damit seine Hosenbeine nicht nass würden und legte einen Arm stützend um seine Schulter.

"Sollen wir nach Hause fahren?"  Er lehnte sich schwer an mich und nickte.
"Ich bin sicher dein Vater weiß, dass du ihn geliebt hast, auch wenn du es ihm nicht mehr selbst sagen konntest." Ich hoffte, ihn damit zu trösten, doch plötzlich zitterte er und wurde von Muskelkrämpfen geschüttelt, die er nicht kontrollieren konnte. Ich lehnte ihn gegen die efeubewachsene Friedhofsmauer und er übergab sich zitternd.
Ich reichte ihm ein Taschentuch. Richard blickte mich mit verschleierten Augen an.
"Du musst mich hassen.", sagte er heiser lachend, immer noch nach unten gebeugt. Ich rieb meine Handfläche kreisend auf seinem Rücken.
"Natürlich nicht. Trauer ist schwer zu bewältigen. Er war schließlich dein Vater."

Richard richtete sich auf und holte tief Luft.
"Ich wünschte ich könnte um meinen Vater trauern so wie er es verdient hätte, aber ich kann es nicht."
Die Offenbarung überraschte mich. Auf mich hatte seine Vorstellung sehr überzeugend gewirkt, falls er mir damit sagen wollte, er hätte alles nur gespielt.
Er ging langsam weiter und schwieg, bis wir zu meinem Auto gelangten. Ich wollte gerade den Schlüssel in das Zündschloss stecken als er zu erzählen begann.

"Du weißt, dass ich keinen Kontakt zu meiner Familie hatte während ich auf die High School und aufs College ging. Aber einiges habe ich dir bisher verschwiegen.
Ich hatte nicht nur keinen Kontakt zu meiner Familie. Ich hatte keine Familie, zumindest wusste ich nichts von ihr. Ich wuchs im Bronx Family Center auf. Angeblich wurde ich von meiner Mutter nach meiner Geburt abgegeben. Meine Kindheit und Jugend verbrachte ich bei verschiedenen Pflegeeltern. Ich war kein schwieriges Kind, denke ich, aber die Verhältnisse meiner Pflegeeltern änderten sich häufig und so wurde ich weitergegeben an die nächste Familie, die gerade ein Bett für mich übrig hatte.
Als ich 18 wurde begann ich mich für diverse Dinge zu interessieren, die mit diesem Alter kamen. Unter anderem für meine Zuneigung zu Männern, besonders zu Männern die älter waren als ich."

Ich nickte. Es überraschte mich nicht, dies von Richard zu hören.

"So lernte ich Nick eines Abends kennen. 37 Jahre alt, eisgraue Augen, pechschwarze Haare und gut gebaut. Er war mein absoluter Traummann und ich hätte alles getan um ihn ins Bett zu kriegen. Er war alles was ich mir gewünscht hatte. Zärtlich, zuvorkommen und sein Lächeln berührte mich auf eine Weise wie ich es noch nie gefühlt hatte.
In seinen Armen war ich geborgen und frei. Mein erstes Mal mit ihm war unglaublich. Er gab mir die Zeit die ich brauchte und zeigte mir in den folgenden Wochen die schönsten Seiten der Liebe zwischen Männern. Ich wollte mein gesamtes Leben mit ihm verbringen und er auch mit mir.

Seine Familie fand sich schließlich damit ab und akzeptierte mich als seinen Partner. Wir verbrachten Urlaube gemeinsam, hatten einen gemeinsamen Freundeskreis und machten Pläne für die Zukunft. Ich absolvierte das College mit Bravour, ständig wissend, dass Nick und unser gemeinsames Bett auf mich warteten wenn ich nach Hause kam."

Richard begann wieder zu weinen. Ich fragte mich, worauf er hinauswollte.

"Dann kam der Abend, als Nick mir mit bleichem Gesicht sagte, dass sein letztes Blutbild nicht gut ausgefallen war. Ich dachte an HIV und war am Boden zerstört, doch Nick beschwichtigte mich und erzählte mir etwas von dem, was der Arzt ihm gesagt hatte. Ich verstand nicht viel davon, aber es schien definitiv keine HIV-Infektion zu sein. Wenige Tage später brachte er einen Befund nach Hause und offenbarte mir seine Diagnose: Lungenkrebs.
Er meinte er hatte in seiner Jugend vielleicht zu viel geraucht, aber was immer der Grund war, die Diagnose blieb die Selbe.
Ich raffte mich zusammen und versprach ihm, ihm in dieser schweren Zeit beizustehen. Ich würde eine Auszeit nehmen um mich um ihn zu kümmern, sobald er die Behandlung begann."

Richard schniefte und wischte sich mit seinem Ärmel über das Gesicht.

"Dann kam der Anruf. Eine Mitarbeitein des Bronx Family Centers hatte einen Brief von einem Notar bekommen. Eine verstorbene Frau hatte ihn hinterlegen lassen und verfügt, dass der Brief nach ihrem Tod an meinen Namen unter der Adresse des Centers zugestellt würde. Sie hatte sogar den Tag notiert, wann sie mich dort abgegeben hatte, damit man mich zuordnen konnte.
Ich brannte vor Neugier, die Zeilen meiner vermeintlichen Mutter zu lesen. Bestimmt würde sie sich entschuldigen, mich weggegeben zu haben, dachte ich mir. Als ich dann jedoch las, was darin stand, brach meine Welt zusammen.

"Ich erinnere mich noch genau an den Moment, als ich Nick - vor dem ich niemals Geheimnisse hatte - den Brief aufgeregt vorlas und dabei auf den Namen meines vermeintlichen Vaters stieß, den meine Mutter in ihren letzten Zeilen an mich nannte: Nicolas Andrews.

Ich lachte und dachte an einen schlechten Scherz, doch Nick nahm den Brief aus meiner Hand, sah den Namen unter der Unterschrift meiner Mutter und ließ das Schriftstück zu Boden fallen.
'Ich war mit Vera an der High School', gestand er mit kreidebleichem Gesichtsausdruck.
'Sie hätte mir doch gesagt, falls sie schwanger gewesen wäre.' Ich blickte ihn entsetzt an und schüttelte ungläubig den Kopf.
'Es tut mir so leid, Rich' Er streckte seine Hand nach mir aus, doch ich starrte den Mann nur ungläubig an. Nick, an dessen Körper ich mich nachts schmiegte, war für mich plötzlich verschwunden. Ich liebte Nick, liebte jeden Zentimeter seines Körpers, den Geschmack seiner Küsse, seines Samens auf meiner Zunge. Seine starken Arme, die mich zärtlich festhielten während wir uns irgendeine Romanze im Fernsehen ansahen.
Von einer Sekunde auf die nächste war dieser Mensch verschwunden und vor mir stand jemand den ich nicht kannte, nicht kennen durfte.

Ich drehte mich um und ging. Es kostete meine gesamte Kraft, mir selbst eine Wohnung zu suchen, meine Sachen zu holen während Nick arbeitete und einen Termin für einen Vaterschaftstest mit ihm zu koordinieren. Das Ergebnis war nicht mehr überraschend für mich.
Ich beantwortete keine Anrufe oder Nachrichten von Nick. Er konnte mir keine Briefe schicken, denn ich verschwieg ihm meine neue Adresse.
Die folgenden Wochen verbrachte ich im Bett und schämte mich. Tränen hatte ich mittlerweile keine mehr. Ich verlor meinen Job und suchte dann endlich Hilfe. Die Therapie war... anstrengend, aber ich wollte wieder leben. So lernte ich dich kennen. Mit Nick hatte ich keinen Kontakt mehr und mied seine....unsere.. Familie. Er hätte mich gebraucht. Jetzt ist er tot."

Ich blickte ihn erstarrt an. Ich wusste nicht was ich sagen sollte.

"Ich wünschte ich könnte um meinen Vater weinen, Alan, aber ich weine um so viel mehr. Ich weiß nicht ob ich jemals darüber hinwegkommen kann. Ich habe alles falsch gemacht." Er legte seine Handflächen auf sein Gesicht.

Meine Stimme klang heiser und angestrengt als ich sagte: "Nick hat dich geliebt. Es ist nicht deine Schuld, dass er gestorben ist. Es gibt Dinge, die kannst du nicht beeinflussen."

Sein Lächeln war beinahe mitleidvoll, als täte es ihm leid, mich mit seinen Problemen zu belasten.

"Hasst du mich jetzt?" Seine Hand griff nach meiner Hand. Diesmal war ich es, dessen Hand zitterte und fror.

Ich schüttelte den Kopf.
"Nein, Rich. Ich hasse dich nicht. Und Nick hasst dich auch nicht. Dessen kannst du dir sicher sein."

Ich wischte seine Tränen mit meiner Hand aus seinem Gesicht. Er blickte mich nachdenklich an.

"Können wir wieder hineingehen?" Er deutete zur Kirche hinter uns. Ich nickte und öffnete die Tür.  Der Kies knirschte unter unseren Schuhen während wir über den Kirchhof gingen. Entschlossen griff ich nach seiner Hand. Wir würden gemeinsam Abschied nehmen.

© Copyright 2014, Jiroh Windwalker 

Alle Rechte vorbehalten.