11

Marco wakes slowly the next morning when the sun breaks through the window onto his face. He barely opens his eyes and looks at the chair where Dylan is asleep. He half expected Dylan to leave during the night.

He stands up slowly and walks over to close his blinds.

"Is it morning already?" he hears Dylan ask and he looks over as Dylan stands and stretches a bit. "Damn, that's an uncomfortable chair."

"Yeah, I didn't really like it when they got it," Marco shrugs. "Sorry. You… could have left."

"I said I'd stay. Marco… we need to talk about- *this*," Dylan says as he holds up the vodka and pills. "This isn't… gonna help."

"It'll end it," Marco whispers.

"What about your family? Your friends? People who care about you? Huh? Marco, this isn't the answer and you know it. You *know* it, which is why you've been hiding."

"What the hell do *YOU* know, Dylan?! Have you even *had* sex?"

"No, and you haven't either," Dylan answers. "What happened to you? It wasn't sex. It's not something you wanted, it's not something- it's not right, okay? I can't even imagine how horrible it must have been."

"No, you really fuckin' can't, so don't talk to me like you know what it felt like, okay?" he says and grabs the bottles from Dylan. "You don't fuckin' know what I'm going through."

"Because you won't *tell* me!" Dylan counters. "Because you're not talking to anyone, Marco. You can't deal with this on your own. You can't move on unless you start *talk*ing to someone about it, okay?"

"What? You want the details? Will it turn you on?" Marco snarls.

"How can you even *think* that, Marco?" Dylan whispers softly. "How can you even *say* that to me? I… care about you, Marco. I… used to think maybe one day… we'd have a date or something. But beyond that… you're one of my little sister's close friends and I'm her big brother and I'm supposed to protect her. And losing you for no good reason will only hurt her. Okay? She knows what it's like to be raped, Marco. She survived."

"She was drunk at a party! She was in a *BED*! SHE DIDN'T HAVE A GUN TO HER HEAD!" he screams.

He smiles happily when Dylan shuts up- when he realizes Dylan has no response. He places the vodka and pills back on his dresser, where they are waiting for him. They've *been* waiting for him for a few days now and his parents haven't noticed.

"You need to talk to a counselor or something, Marco. If you can't talk to me or your friends, you need someone else to know- an adult- a professional who can help you start… dealing with this."

"I don't wanna talk about this," Marco says and walks out to the kitchen. "It's already decided."

"Then I'm not leaving," Dylan says simply.

"Fine," Marco shrugs and goes about his plans. He spends the morning cleaning because that is his responsibility and he wishes to do it well one last time for his mother. He cleans much more thoroughly than he has before but he wants his mother to not have to worry about it for a while. He also bakes two lasagnas as well. This way they'll have something in the freezer to eat for a couple weeks after.

"Marco," he hears Dylan say as he takes the lasagna out of the oven. "There are places- suicide hotlines to call. They can *help* you. They can help and you don't even have to look at the person- you can just call them every week, anonymously. Please… you… I've watched you starving yourself the past few weeks, hurting yourself, drinking… you're better than this. And if you're not going to talk to anyone or tell anyone, then I will."

"*NO*," Marco says quickly. "No. You can't, Dylan. I won't let you."

"I'm not gonna let you *die*, Marco. I'm not going to let it happen and live with that- knowing I didn't stop it. It's like killing you myself and I won't do that."

"You have no *right* to tell *any*one," Marco says, his heart hurting more, throbbing and aching. If anyone found out- if Jay heard… he couldn't bear the thought of someone knowing- of *any*one knowing, of his father knowing? It was sure to be worse than what actually happened. "*No* one can know."

"Rape happens- it happened to Paige, okay? It's nothing to be ashamed of, Marco."

"I'M A BOY, Dylan. Guys don't *get* raped- only in *prison* movies, okay? My parents- they can't… *no* one can know. What would people think of me? I'd rather them think I'm a manic depressive loser who killed himself than know *this*."

"That's what I thought too, Marco, when I was beat up. I was thirteen and I was realizing I was gay… starting to look at guys in the locker room after practice. A few of the guys… they cornered me in the shower and beat me, badly. I had bruises for weeks, a sprained wrist, broken rib…"

"And I bled for *days*," Marco whispers, "But it doesn't matter now. I can't… do anything about it, except finish it."

"Marco… no, it's not… I know you can't go after him, but… I never came forward. I knew who hurt me and I never said anything. I was too scared. I just said I got jumped. I had the power but I never used it- I let them win. I know you can't… you wouldn't win a case or anything but killing yourself? It's letting him win. It's letting him violate you all over again."

"Only this time, it's my choice," Marco clarifies. He can't expect Dylan to understand. He can't expect Dylan to be able to grasp this because the situations are extremely different.

"It took me a long time to realize that I *shouldn't* be ashamed about it; it wasn't my fault."

Marco just starts doing the dishes because he can't talk to Dylan about this. He can't explain it. He is glad for Dylan knowing it wasn't his fault but this is different because this *is* Marco's fault. He hadn't run. He hadn't screamed. Hell, he'd agreed to it!

Marco turns after starting the dishwasher and notices Dylan isn't in the living room. He walks back to his room and hears the toilet being flushed. He has to find a way to get Dylan out of there so he can take the-

"STOP!" he screams when he sees the pills and vodka are missing from his dresser. He runs into the bathroom, panicked, and finds Dylan pouring the last of the vodka down the sink and flushing the last of the pills. "STOP IT!" he yells and rushes Dylan, shoving him roughly against the wall. "STOP IT! LOOK WHAT YOU DID!"

"I'M NOT GOING TO LET YOU DO THIS!" Dylan screams. "I'm not going to let you do this, Marco!"

"What do YOU care?!" Marco accuses, grabbing the empty bottle of pills from Dylan's hand. "HUH?! What the hell does it MATTER?!"

"*You* matter," Dylan says as he grabs Marco. "*YOU* matter, Marco. To a lot of people and I won't let you hurt yourself. I won't let you die. I *can't*."

"Because you WANT me!" he screams and shoves Dylan away from him. "FINE! Then TAKE me! I WON'T FUCKIN' FIGHT! OKAY?! Just do whatever you want; I'll take it!" he cries. "I have before…"

"What?" Dylan asks, his eyes, his face softening as Marco looks at him. "*What*?"

"Nothing," Marco says quickly. "I want you out of my house. You've ruined EVERYthing."

"I'm not going anywhere. Not until you- what do you *mean* you 'have before'?"

"Get out," Marco repeats, a bit angrily.

"I won't," Dylan says simply and he touches Marco's shoulder softly. "Marco…"

Marco winces a bit and jerks away from the touch. "Just leave me alone, *please*."

"Marco… you said… earlier- he had a gun? You can't… you can't blame yourself for not fighting. He had a *gun*. What do you think you could've done? It was late- there wasn't anyone around to help… you saved yourself- you saved your life."

"I should have screamed. I should have let him shoot me. It would have been better, anything would have been better," Marco whispers. "Anything would be better than this."

"You were scared. You would have done anything to save yourself. I… when they were beating me, I kept begging them- telling them I'd do anything if they'd stop. You make promises- it's survival instinct- do what must be done to survive."

"Am I?" Marco asks, turning to face Dylan. "Is this surviving?"

"It *can* be. You have to *want* to survive, Marco. You have to want to move on. You have to want a graduation or college and a job. You have to want a first kiss, a first love… you have to *want* to survive. If you don't want that… then really what *was* the point of being quiet while he-"

"Raped me," Marco finishes. "I say it… think it- but I don't believe it. I don't… I know it happened but sometimes, it feels like…" he wipes his eyes of tears "it feels like it wasn't- because I didn't fight. I didn't run… didn't even *try* to scream or cry. I just… let it happen- *wanted* it to happen."

"Because the alternative was dying, Marco. You endured something horrible to live, so why do you want to give him what he wants *again* by hurting yourself?"

"He made me say I wanted it," Marco confesses quietly. "He made me say that and I… maybe he was right."

"*No*," Dylan says. "*No*, Marco. You had a *gun* to your head. That's not wanting it- that's *not* wanting it. That's being raped, Marco. You have to know that. In your heart? You have to know that."

Marco nods slowly, thinking about the words: Want to survive.

Does he?

"Dylan…" he squeaks as he starts crying.

"Shh… I'm here," he hears Dylan say as he's carried to the bed and he wraps his arms around Dylan because he feels like the world is falling apart and he's scared to fall off it.

12

Marco lays in bed all afternoon, holding Dylan.

He can't figure out why he's able to have Dylan touching him and not be having a heart attack but after an hour of careful thought, he decides it's because he knows Dylan knows and that he truly believes Dylan would never hurt him.

He feels *safe*. For the first time in what seems like *years*- he feels safe.

"What are you thinking?" Dylan asks softly, after what seems like hours of laying.

"I… was just thinking about stuff… about those lasagnas out there."

"You hungry? You're skin and bones, Marco. You've lost a *lot* of weight."

"I haven't been eating. And when I have- I've been vomiting."

"Understandable, but… will you try? Will you eat some delicious lasagna with me and we could watch a funny movie or something? Maybe it'll help keep it down if your mind is busy."

"It's like… it's always happening," Marco admits slowly. "It's like it keeps running on this loop in my head and I can't *stop* it. It's all I can see, all I can feel… that and the *cold*. It… wasn't winter or anything, but I was so cold…"

He likes how Dylan doesn't really respond. His head is resting near Dylan's chest and he just hears him breathing calmly- almost sadly though. He wonders if that's possible that you can breathe sad.

Can someone breathe sorrow?

He knows the answer is yes because it's all he does anymore.

He breathes sorrow and pain, bleeds it from his veins.

"It hurt," he adds. "*So* much. Just… so much- beyond physical pain. It hurts beyond anything I've ever felt before, Dylan. I… I hurt all the time. *All* the time- like this constant thing in the pit of stomach churning and grinding against everything else I've ever been or known."

"Marco, can… I don't even wanna bring this up, but it's important."

"What?" he asks.

"Do you know if he wore a condom?"

"*What*?" Marco asks, raising his head a bit off Dylan's chest.

"Do you… I mean… you could be sick. If he didn't… or even if he did… you should be tested for stuff- to make sure."

"It's not like I'm not pregnant," Marco smirks sadly.

"You know what I mean. You don't know if he's… done this before- if he's sick… who he is…"

"I can't," he responds. "I can't go somewhere and tell them this. I *can't*."

"I'll go with you," Dylan offers.

"No. I can't… I can't go someplace and- I can't. I can't tell *any*one. I shouldn't have even told *you*."

"Marco, don't. You *needed* to tell someone and I'm glad it was me. I went through this with Paige- some of it… I… I'll go with you. We can… if you don't wanna tell them you- we'll make something up- like… that we were both sleeping with the same girl or something and we just found out she's got tons of other boyfriends. I'll get blood taken too. They won't have to know why."

"What if they wanna look?"

"Look?" Dylan asks. "Are you… healed?"

"I don't know," Marco shakes his head and stands up immediately. "I'm getting lasagna heated up."

"Marco-"

"NO. I can't," he says and rushes into the kitchen.

"Please just think about it? I'll… Paige didn't like the exam either but… you have to make sure you're okay."

"I don't wanna fuckin' TALK about this, OKAY!" Marco practically yells. "YOU CAN'T FUCKING UNDERSTAND, SO STOP IT! You don't know what I'm going through! You don't know what it feels like! YOU CAN'T FIX ME, DYLAN! You can't *heal* me! I'm *broken*. I'm already dead."

He can't think about it like that- in terms of healing. He can't even fathom that because healing is what happens when something is over and it feels very much NOT over.

He can't talk about tests or clinics. He can't stand anyone thinking anything bad about him.

Fuckin' faggot. Gay. Queer. Fuckin' homo. Little faggy bitch. Pussy.

He's already heard enough.

Maybe he's safe if Dylan's here for a night but he's terrified to have that feeling end- to have a moment when Dylan isn't there. Yet at the same time, he's relieved. The pills and vodka are gone now and Dylan must go for him to do what needs to be done because the more he thinks about the word, the more he knows he can't do it.

He runs the word through his head so much.

Survival.

To survive.

The act of surviving.

He knows he hasn't been surviving. Every day since it happened, he's been raped all over again- in his mind, his emotions, the lack of human contact. Every day it's happened all over and he's let it happen like he let it happen that night. That's not surviving.

He tries to imagine it in his head. He tries to imagine a day when he 'survives'. He tries to picture a day when he's holding hands with someone in the movie theatre and feels a spark- like the time Dylan touched him at the beach, before everything happened. He wonders what it would be like to survive to get married, but he can't even imagine another person *ever* kissing him, *letting* someone kiss him, let alone touch him, let alone be naked with someone and have-

He stops thinking about it. He can't think about it.

He can't survive.

How can he? His own *mother* can't even hug him without him freaking out.

He doesn't *want* to survive.  He wished he would have screamed. At least he would have met death knowing he tried to stop Hell. He would have gone to Heaven knowing he tried to protect himself.

He's not sure he isn't in Hell already. Maybe this is his punishment for being gay- for being a sexual deviant. Maybe he really did die in that alley and this is his eternal punishment.

He fears where he will go next. If this is punishment for committing one sin, what's the punishment for committing two?

But since God abandoned him, why should he worry about damnation?

He's already damned.

13

It took a lot of convincing for Marco to get Dylan to leave last night. It took a LOT of convincing and a call from his mother, demanding he come home. Marco had been glad when Dylan left since he wouldn't stop talking.

Marco does not want to talk.

He spent another night laying under his nonna's blanket, blinking, thinking. Thinking about what Dylan said over and over again and thinking about what he feels, what he doesn't *want* to feel.

Thinking about *it*. Over and over again. Going to the alley… reliving it, seeing it- it reinforced the nightmare he was already trying to forget and not believe.

But he's back there again in his mind.

He feels the hands on him, invading him- another body invading him, violating him while he cries and begs and prays. He prayed that night. He knows he prayed a million times that it would end. That it would be a nightmare. That it would stop.

And when it did? He wondered why it happened in the first place.

What all loving God could allow him that pain?

He was being punished for being gay. He was being punished for thinking about wanting Dylan, for wanting to kiss another man or date another man, for wanting to touch another man. For being a 'deviant'.

Marco thinks of this as he walks down the street. It's a bright and sunny Sunday morning. The morning of the eve he was supposed to die. He was slated to die. Signed, sealed and delivered, until Dylan took his method of choice and dumped it. He's upset that tonight will not be his last.

He walks down the street and looks around. He sees a father walking with his child. She has ribbons in her hair and a pretty dress on and she smiles and laughs as he teases her pigtails- tugs on them like she's a little pony. He sees a couple walking out of a diner laughing and holding hands and their happiness hurts him. He looks around and sees people laughing and enjoying a beautiful morning and their joy *hurts* him.

He feels no joy. He knows he'll never feel joy or elation again.

Things that had previously provided joy no longer hold that potential for a soul that feels nothing but misery and agony- devastating and complete.

And the fact that he is doomed to desolation forever makes their exaltation devastate him more.

He walks slowly, careful to look around, look where he's going- be ever aware of his surroundings and it is because he is paying such close attention to everyone else, he does not realize where he has walked until he's standing in front of the building, looking up at all its glory- the glory and majesty it used to hold for him anyway.

He used to find solace within its walls. He used to find hope.

He so desperately craves that hope, he wonders if he can't find it again. He wonders if perhaps seeking its peace once again might wipe clean the memories that plague him and the pain that is so deep and profound, that it tears him apart emotionally, like he was torn apart physically.

He walks up the steps and opens the large door, looking at the stained glass window as he does. It's red, like the blood that- He walks inside and the carpets are red as well, the color of blood- the color of life. But when it's dripping down your thigh, it doesn't feel like life; it feels like hatred. It feels like your soul slipping from your body.

He enters the large room where there are maybe fifty people singing a hymn and he remembers well all the days when his mother and father would bring him in here in a freshly pressed little suit and tell him of the importance of the Lord. They'd speak highly of his love and acceptance.

Is this acceptance? He wonders now as he sits in the back of the room and starts looking around.

Is this what love and acceptance is? He loved and accepted and was told *he* was loved and accepted in the house of God. But where is God now?! Was God in that alley? Was God there with him? Laughing at him? Proving a point about sexual deviancy?

He listens to the priest speak of forgiveness and God's infinite ability to do so and Marco starts looking around, wondering what each person is here asking forgiveness for.

He sees a woman clutching a rosary tightly and thinks perhaps she's praying for the soul of her late husband. Maybe she prays forgiveness from him for moving on with another man. He sees a younger woman sitting with three young boys who are grabbing each other and hitting each other and thinks she's perhaps asking forgiveness for regretting she had the children. He sees a man, sitting in complete reverence, and thinks perhaps he's asking forgiveness for cheating on his taxes or his wife.

Then he starts looking around and wondering if any of *these* people could have been with him in the alley. He wonders if the person was acting in 'God's will'. He starts wondering if any of these people seek ultimate forgiveness for punishing in the name of God.

He begins thinking about how all God's children are forgiven their sins if they repent. He wonders if that man gets his sins cleansed every Sunday and if he will walk in God's Kingdom while Marco walks with the Devil.

The injustice of it all hurts him even more and he rises when the service is over.

He walks back to a confessional and sits in the booth, twisting his hands in his shirt a little.

"Hello my son."

"What is Hell?" he asks.

"Have you sinned?"

"No. I've never sinned. I'm… well, I'm gay, but I haven't… I've never sinned. So why am I being punished?"

"You think you're being punished?"

"Aren't I?"

"What sins have you committed, my child?"

"None. None yet. I… does God punish for thoughts or just deeds?"

"God is all forgiving. God does not punish."

"Even murderers or rapists? Does he forgive them?"

"If they repent and show true sorrow and remorse then yes, even they can earn forgiveness."

"That's bullshit," Marco states, as he stands. "That's such bullshit. God is *dead*."

And he walks out of the confessional.

He thought perhaps someone could help him there but like he knows, he's already damned.

14

Marco walks home solemnly, tears not even streaking his face because he has nothing left inside him. That *thing*, whoever it was, took what was good and pure and calm and happy and he used it and abused it and *raped* it. He ravaged it until there was nothing left, but a hollow shell.

God doesn't want Marco. God doesn't protect him. No one does; only he himself has the power to stop it.

He knows he can't turn to his parents. He couldn't take one more person calling him a fag or queer; he hears it enough in his mind.

Fuckin' faggot. Gay. Queer. Fuckin' homo. Little faggy bitch. Pussy.

How can God forgive the *thing* that did this to him when he can't find one minute's peace? How can he continue on feeling it over and over and over again?

The answer? He *can't*.

He knows he can't do it. He can't deal with this constant feeling of terror and hatred in his gut. He can't deal with the memories or thoughts. He can't tell anyone or ask for help and he can't fix it himself.

And the more he thinks of the word 'survive', the more he knows it's unlikely and unwanted. He doesn't *want* a first kiss or a first love. He doesn't ever want to be touched again. He never wants to do anything again.

He doesn't want to breathe.

You are pretty, aren't you? Almost girl pretty. Little pussy… lemme see what's so special.

He's damned. He knows it now. He used to feel happy and peaceful. He used to feel joy and pleasure. He used to feel love and now he feels *nothing* because it was taken from him.

Marco knows he'll never get it back.

No! No, please no! NO! Not like this! PLEASE NO!

He opens the door to the apartment and walks over to his father's desk. He suddenly just knows what he needs. He needs it done. He wants it over. He needs to be rid of this shell. He's sure now that wherever he'll go next, he won't feel hollow.

Scream all you want, Fag, no one cares. It's not like you're not enjoying it, Queer.

Please, no, stop!

He walks into the bathroom with the razor. Marco plugs the sink and starts running the hot water. He can't do this anymore. He can't live with this pain. He won't. He refuses to live in this Hell; he'd rather just be there.

He's already damned.

It'll be over quick, little bitch. Just stop fuckin' moving.

The steam rises and covers the mirror as he stares at himself. Never has he felt so hollow. He's a shell, trapped forever inside pain that will not end.

He pulls his shirt off and plunges his wrists into the scalding water. He remembers how he clawed at the pavement that night, trying to free himself or stop it. He wanted to crawl out of himself and not be Marco.

He doesn't want to be Marco.

You want this,Fag, don't you? SAY it!

SAY IT!

I want this.

"I *want* this," he whispers as he stops the water and picks up the razor. "I *want* this," he whispers again.

He can no longer do this.

He's already damned.

He damns himself.

His entire body is dying inside every day, hollowing itself out piece by piece. He's still bleeding every day, like he was that night and nothing will ever stop that.

Nothing except *this*.

He presses the blade to his wrist and cries out as it cuts his skin; it's the first real feeling he's had since that night and he relishes it.

No! No, please no! NO! Not like this! PLEASE NO!

He presses it harder and cries as it slices him open, like he was that night, bleeding on the pavement. He drags the blade up his wrist, pressing harder.

No! No, please no! NO! Not like this! PLEASE NO!

SAY IT!

I want this.

He watches the blood seemingly pouring from his flesh- the color of life.

You think I'm done with you?! HARDLY! I'm just taking a break, Baby.

I'll find you again, Fag. I promise.

He will *not* let this happen again. He will *not* let himself be touched ever again, by anyone.

He pushes the blade into his other wrist, slicing up the center.

No! No, please no! NO! Not like this! PLEASE NO!

Marco falls to the floor, life ebbing from his wrists and he lays his arms out.

He turns his head to watch the blood flowing and he smiles.

//Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep//

15

He wonders if this is what being dead feels like.

He feels no pain and no sorrow. Sure, he remembers pain and hollow and empty and misery and soulache, but he feels it not.

He thought the art of feeling had been taken from him.

He feels nothing but absolute completion.

And he feels joy.

Heaven?

Or just death, the peace of having accomplished death.

He feels nothing until he hears, "Marco, Caro Mio, Che cosa avete fatto? Perchè lo avete fatto?"

Then? He feels disappointment.

*NO*, he whispers to himself. Noooo…

"Marco, svegli prego. Dovete svegliare."

Marco doesn't want to wake up; that was the whole point.

"Deve dormire, deve dormire."

He hears his parents leave the room and he hears his mother's tears and once he's sure they're gone, he opens his eyes slowly. Things are a bit hazy still but he knows he's in the hospital and that he failed. He glances down at his arms and he's got bandages covering them and an IV as well.

"*No*," he cries softly to himself. This was not how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to be gone. His parents were not supposed to be home until much later.

He sits stoic on the outside and dying on the inside as his parents come back in the room and cry and beg him to tell them why he'd do something like this. He sits taciturn as his father tells him this is what a coward does. He sits silent as his mother sobs at his side.

He just sits with his heart in his throat, hating himself even more for not being able to end it.

"Marco?" a woman asks as she comes in the room after his parents leave for the night. "I'm Doctor Hathway. I'm a psychiatrist and we need to talk about why you're here."

"Because it didn't work," he laughs pitifully at himself.

"Why did you try and kill yourself, Marco? Your parents say you've been having trouble at school? Maybe a girlfriend or something? They say you've been acting differently lately. What's going on?"

Not a girlfriend. Marco just shrugs and sits quietly looking down at the bandages on his wrists. He remembers being told he has several stitches because of how deeply he cut.

"Marco, you need to tell me what's going on so I can help you."

He says nothing. Marco just stares at his fingers, wondering when it was they healed from the cuts from that night. He desperately wishes he could go back to sleep and never wake up again.

"Listen, if you don't want to talk to me, I can get another psychiatrist down here. We need to know so we can help you best. There's nothing you can say to me that will shock me or make me think less of you. It's very obvious from talking with your parents and seeing you that you're in pain. That pain, whatever it's cause, is fixable. Time heals *all* wounds. Things are never as bad as they seem."

"Spare me the clichés and get the hell out of my room," he says quietly as he turns his back to her and slides down into the bed. He can't even hide under his blanket now. He's more terrified than ever. Anyone could get to him in this room. Maybe that thing *works* here.

He wants to go home. His insides still feel twisted and turned and mangled, just like he felt that night as he bled.

I'll find you again, Fag. I promise.

"I know you must feel alone. You need to let whatever is hurting you *out* so you can start to heal, inside and out. I'll be back tomorrow. Please think about talking to me? Or I can have another doctor here, if you prefer a male?"

He says nothing, just closes his eyes tightly, trying to shut out the world.

Once she leaves, he sits back up. His clothes must be somewhere.

He looks down at the IV in his arm and pulls it out. He winces at the brief pain, but stands up regardless. He feels very woozy but he can't stay where he's vulnerable. He can't stay in this place without his blanket and without a lock on his door.

He can't stay while his heart continues to break.

He needs to find a way out.

He peaks out the window into the hallway. It's late night, maybe eleven and he knows it's his best chance to leave, but he has no idea where he could even go.

"You're supposed to be in bed and where's your IV?" a nurse says as she rushes over to the door. "C'mon, let's get you back in bed." She touches his arm and he jerks away.

"*No*. I can't stay here. I have to go home."

"You can't," she says simply. "You lost a *lot* of blood and you're very undernourished, it's a wonder you can walk around at all. Now please, Dear, you have to get back in-"

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" he yells at her as he touches his arm again.

"Okay, okay. Then walk yourself over to bed."

"NO. I can't STAY here." It's not safe and he knows it. His whole heart is practically flying out of his chest at the thought of being so exposed. What did he *do*? This is *worse* than before. He's trapped, waiting for that thing to come and finish him off. "I can't stay here!" he says, pushing the woman out of the way so he can try and run down the hallway.

"NANCY!" the woman screams and another one comes at him.

"BILL!" that woman screams and he pushes her out of his way too.

"I can't *stay* here! I *can't*. I have to go *home*."

"Bill, we need a sedative!"

"NO," Marco sobs. "No. Please… I need to go home. I can't stay here. Please…"

He tries to fight but he can't.

He's too weak and he feels something prick his neck and the world goes dark as he falls.

16

Marco wakes to the scent of eggs and bacon and he opens his eyes, desperately hoping it's all been a horrible dream and that he'll wake up and be happy.

Only when he opens his eyes, he sees a breakfast tray on a table and when he starts to sit up, he realizes there's a belt around his chest, holding him down. "NOOOO!" he shrieks.

You think I'm done with you?! HARDLY! I'm just taking a break, Baby.

"No!" he screams. "No, please no! NO! Let me up! NO!"

"Marco, calm down," he hears his mother.

"MOM! Let me go!" he screams as he struggled against the restraints. "Please!"

"Marco. I'm Doctor Hathway, remember?" he sees the woman from the previous night. "The nurses had to sedate you late night, remember? Because you wouldn't go back to bed and started getting violent. I can't let you up unless you calm down, until I know you're safe."

"LET ME UP!" he shrieks and flashes to clawing at the ground and feeling that *thing* invading his body. He's shaking and terrified. He can't protect himself this way. He can't keep himself safe. He needs to be HOME. "HOME! I wanna go home! Please! Let me GO!"

He hears the woman usher his parents out of the room and he's still fighting as she stands next to the bed. "Stop fighting. *Stop*. Marco," she says, touching his arm.

"DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!" he screams. This is a worse nightmare than anything else EVER was. "*Please*. You have to take this OFF. *Please*. *Please*. God, *please*," he begs, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Please," he says as he begins coughing and sobbing. "PLEASE!" he shrieks.

The next thing he realizes, his torse is free and he flies up out of bed, his heart racing and his stomach heaving acid all over the floor. He's never felt so violently sick in all his life.

He grabs a basin that's offered to him and heaves into it until his body can't do it anymore. He stumbles back to the bed and sits, staring at the floor.

"Marco, I know someone must have hurt you badly," she says after a few minutes of silence. "You need help dealing with what happened. Once you start dealing with that and we know you won't hurt yourself again, you'll be able to go home."

He says nothing.

"I will not have them restrain you again unless you're violent toward yourself or the staff. That's my show of good faith to you. But I need you to stay calm and eat. Your parents are very worried about you."

He sits stoic, staring at his fingers.

"I need to know you're hearing me and you accept my deal."

"I'm not retarded. I can hear," he snaps.

"You accept?"

"Yes," he says. "Can't they just take me home?"

"It's very evident that you still very much want to be dead and you won't be going home any time soon, not until you *talk* to me."

He realizes he'll never be going home because he can*not* tell this. He can*not* have his father call him a queer and he will *not* let his parents or friends know that- know what happened. He'd rather them think he was a crazy suicidal maniac than to know the real truth. He'd rather be crazy than be a weak fag.

He hears the door close and presses his hands to his face to sob silently.

"What have I done?" he whimpers to himself in the loneliness of the room. "God help me."

But he knows God will not answer. He knows God is not there.

He's damned.

He's being punished. Perhaps *this* is truly Hell.

He looks over at the tray of food and it makes his stomach queasy. He's never felt so lost and alone and trapped. He can't leave and can't be safe and can't go home. He's nowhere.

He walks carefully over to the door and opens it *just* slightly to listen.

"Your son seems to be going through some sort of post traumatic stress disorder or something. His refusal to discuss anything with me is alarming. I believe Marco is still a danger to himself and I think we need to move him to a treatment facility. There are several around the Toronto area, but only one has a really good suicide prevention ward. I actually work out of that center and I'd like to see your son's case through."

"So… what happens?" his mother asks.

"I start the paperwork and he'll be transferred there this afternoon or this evening, if there is a bed. If not, then tomorrow. He'll have a private room and therapy sessions. He'll also be carefully monitored for further suicide attempts and-"

"What is *happening* to my *boy*?" his father asks angrily. "TELL me. What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," the woman says. "But we're going to find out."

"Can we visit him there?"

"He'll be allowed visitors, but it will also be monitored so we can keep your son safe and alive as he tries to deal with what has happened and what is making him feel this way."

"Can he have his own clothes?"

"He'll be able to have some of his own things there, but we have to scan them and look at them from a safety standpoint. He's, I believe, very suicidal right now and we need to make sure the things you give him are safe and can't be used in any self-mutilation or-"

"This is ridiculous! This is crazy! He's my son. He's not- he's not this way you describe him. I'm taking him home. He doesn't need an institution; he needs a knock in the head and discipline."

"Caro mio, prego," his mother coos. "Have you *seen* what he did to his wrists? Have you seen the bathroom? Our son is not alright. He needs help, not discipline. I'll… bring a bag of things for him."

Marco backs away from the door and goes back to the bed. He sits, with his knees scrunched up so he can rest his head on them and curl his arms around his legs.

He's going to be locked up in some *cell*. He won't be able to watch TV or use the computer or- but he hasn't enjoyed them ever since. He obviously won't be going to school. He won't have to see *Jay*. He won't be expected to take out the trash to the alley. He… he'll be in a locked facility. He'll be safe.

He sits solemnly the rest of the day, waiting to leave. The doctor tells him he'll be moved first thing in the morning and he nods. Marco wishes it were sooner; he can't stay in this hospital where it's unsafe.

His mother asks him for a list of things he'd like at the facility. He mentions his nonna's blanket and clean clothes and perhaps a family portrait. His parents leave to get the items he requested and he briefly wonders about the bathroom. The way she said something about the bathroom made him wonder if his blood changed the color of the tiles and if his mother can no longer shower in that room because his blood taints it.

He suddenly feels truly horrible for doing that to his poor mother and for making her find him like that, like how it must have looked and been like. Just because she can't understand what's happening doesn't mean she deserved that. He decides to find some way to apologize to her.

He's still sitting curled up with his knees tucked in to this chin when the door opens. He looks up to see several of his friends coming in hesitantly.

"We um… wanted to come. Your parents said it'd be okay," Paige smiles slowly at him and Ellie does the same. They're joined by Jimmy and Hazel and Spinner and he sees Dylan lean against the door, behind his friends.

Marco doesn't know what to say. He *never* would have wanted his friends there.

He wants them to leave; their friend Marco is dead now.

17

"We made you some cards," Ellie says and places them on the bed near him.

"Just *go*," he says politely. "I don't wanna see anyone."

"Marco, you're our friend, Man. I… I'm sorry about what I've said and-"

"*Don't*," he says, looking up at Spinner quickly. "Don't. You're just sorry for calling me a fag because you think that's why I slit my wrists but it's not, so your guilt is unwarranted. Now *go*."

"Marco, why are you being so mean?" Paige whispers.

"I SLIT MY FUCKING WRISTS! DO YOU THINK I CARE IF I'M MEAN?!" he screams at them all. "NOW GET THE FUCK OUT!"

They all look stunned and hurt and upset and they file out very quickly, all except Dylan.

"Marco-"

"Your guilt is unwarranted too, so just go. You don't have to save me or gay it forward, okay? I'm not gay. I'm not… I'm not *any*thing."

"Marco, you *have* to tell them. You have to tell your doctor about the rape, okay? This place they're taking you to is supposed to be a really good one. I checked it out when Paige mentioned it after she talked with your mom. It's really safe. All the wards and doors are locked. You should be safe there."

"Unless *it* works there," Marco laughs inside. "Please just *go*."

"No, Marco. I think you *need* me right now. I think you need at least *one* person who knows the truth here. You're tearing yourself up. Look at you! Look at what you tried to- how you- you need *help*. Please just… if you have any control over who gets to visit, please put my name on the list? Or send me a letter or something? Please *tell* them."

"*No*," Marco insists. No one can know. "And you can't tell anyone either. I'll deal with this on my own."

"And you're doing a bang up job of it, too, Marco. I'm sure the blood stains all over your mother's bathroom rugs are a testament to that? Least she'd have been able to wash the tub."

"Next time I slice my wrists, I'll remember that," Marco says dryly. "And how do you know I was-"

"I *found* you," Dylan whispers.

Marco looks at him angrily. "*What*?"

"I came over to check on you and you didn't answer. The door was unlocked so- I-"

"Why didn't you let me DIE?!" Marco yells.

"Because I *can't*. Because you're sweet and kind and don't deserve this."

"STOP IT! I'm not a fucking queer! So stop treating me like I *am*. Okay? I'm not your fucking *boy*friend, Dylan. Leave me the fuck alone."

"You're right. You're not my boyfriend, maybe you never will be. But I'm not leaving this alone. If you don't tell someone, *I* *will*. And for the record, you and I *both* know you're gay, but it has *nothing* to do with the rape, Marco. You weren't… it wasn't punishment for being gay, okay? It was just a psychopath."

"Get *out*," Marco says, gritting his teeth as Dylan continues to talk. "Get *OUT*!" he yells louder but Dylan doesn't leave. "GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!" he shrieks and the nurse comes running in and he's soon alone.

He feels so numb and empty inside. The feel is all-consuming. He can't even separate the thoughts and words he hears whispered into his ear anymore. He pulls the bandages off his wrists and stares at the ugly black stitches he finds. He flashes to him cutting them open or ripping them out in the bathroom, but he knows he'd be found and probably strapped to the bed and he couldn't handle that.

He knows the best thing is to go to that place.

"Marco?" he hears his mother's voice and she alone walks in, holding his nonna's blanket. "Oh, Marco," she says, glancing at his wrists. "Caro mio, why? I love you so much. I don't understand why you would do this? Is it because Ellie and you-"

"It's not- Mom, please just… I'm sorry about the bathroom rugs."

"Marco, I don't *care* about the rugs," she says, sitting on the end of the bed. "I care about my *son*. I care about my only baby hurting himself this way and I don't even know *why*. Please, Marco. At this place… this treatment center, they can help you, okay?"

"Yeah," he nods but he knows he will *never* speak the truth there.

"I *love* you," she says and touches his face and he digs his nails into palms as she hugs him too. He does NOT want to be touched, even by his own mother. That's what that thing did to him. How will he ever *live* without a hug in his life from his mother?

That *thing* raped his mother as well. She raped her of her child and now she's as damned as he.

"I have the bag of clothes- Papa has it out in the hallway. The doctor is going to take it. But I thought… you'd like the blanket for tonight."

"Thanks, Ma," he says quietly.

"We won't see you for a couple days while you get settled, okay?"

"Yeah," he nods and she sits for a few more quiet minutes before leaving and he immediately crawls under the blanket. The familiar scent of the blanket takes him back to his room at home and he's safe.

And he sleeps.