Restless Spirits
By: Henry Higgins
(Copyright 2007 by the Author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

The voices rose and fell, ascending to a crescendo, falling into whispers, and then rising again. This time they were sparked by angry shouts that bounced off the walls and fell in shards to the floor, where they flopped around helplessly. The boy wanted to help, but knew there was no point. He could not.

Now came a crash, a gasp, a wail, and more angry shouting. He couldn't stand to listen to this; but neither could he stand not to listen to it. So he stood naked in the dark corner at the top of the stairs, quietly invisible -- melted into the corner so that he blended into the house -- listening as his parents fought.

This was the bad time of year when most kids looked forward to the holidays, made wish lists, and thought about snow and reindeer and huge meals. That was for most kids, but not him. The closer it got to Christmas, the more his parents fought and the more he faded into the woodwork. Like he was doing just then.

Finally, one last epithet didn't shatter on the floor, but stuck into the wall, quivering and dripping blood. When he went downstairs early the next morning to leave before his parents woke, he would be able to see the hole in the wall and the dark red spots below it on the floor. If they should already be awake, he knew how to work his way down quietly and slip out.

The slam of the front door, the roar of the car engine, his mother's quiet sobbing, the rustle of small pieces of pottery being swept into the dustpan all told him that things would be quiet for a while -- long enough for him to rest so that he could go into town the next day.

The boy retreated into his room and lay on his bed. Witnessing these arguments always left him exhausted, but at the same time, keyed up. He didn't dare drift into sleep without first erecting his wall. Forming his hands into a tent over his pubis, he visualized the wall around his bed rising from the floor to form a protective dome. As the protective hood rose around him, energy coursed through him, focusing in that part of his body that lay protected under his hands and that had erected along with the wall. The good feelings mounted and vibrations intensified until he shuddered as the sensation overtook him. He could feel his butt twitch and relief flow through his body. Only then did he let himself drift into rest in his cocoon, his hands still protectively mounded over himself.

He rested on his back. That position would leave him alert enough that he would be aware of the slightest noise in the house. Once before, he had needed that alertness, as his father and mother argued in the middle of the night. His father had burst into his room, but the boy had gotten enough warning to slip away as his father's eyes adjusted to the darkness. The man saw that his son was not there, and so stumbled back into his own bedroom, sobbing. It had been a close call.

As he rested, the boy's mind drifted, his awareness soaring out the window of his room and into past and happier times -- times when his parents did not fight and argue, but took him on picnics, shopping trips, and to the movies. He liked to recall the love that bound the three of them tightly together in its protective embrace. He had been younger then -- before things had become so complicated.

He remembered when he was a little older helping out in the locker room at the YMCA, where he helped distribute and collect towels for the men and boys to use after their showers. He felt again the thrill of seeing other males naked -- the men hairy and pendulous -- the boys smooth and bouncing and jutting -- his own organ swollen and throbbing under his shorts. He felt the love of old Angus, the Scottish locker room attendant who took such protective interest in him. Tomorrow he would revisit the YMCA.

Tonight, however, his spirit floated free -- past the playground where he had found his first mutual love and gushing sexual release one warm summer night; past the school where he had so hesitantly come out; past the park where he had been attacked; past the house where his lover lay awake, weeping quietly and still feeling alone and incomplete; and past the lake where he had done it. On he soared to the cemetery at the edge of town were his awareness hovered over one grave marked with a stone that read, "Thomas Raines Traynor, 1990-2006. Rest in peace beloved son and adored friend, until we all shall meet again." He felt the tightness in his throat, the swelling of his eyes, and the heaving of his sobs even though no tears fell.

He drifted back the way he had come, pausing at his friend's house, floating through his window, and doing his best to embrace his lover. But of course, he could not. So he blended into the bed, embraced his lover's soul, and lulled him gently to sleep. Weeping, but still shedding no tears, the boy drifted back out of the window, over the sleepy town, and back into his own room where his form lay at rest. If only he had known then how little his death would solve anything, if only he had known then that the only way to conquer his anguish was to confront it and move through it, if only…

Yes, tomorrow for sure, he would revisit the YMCA.

Posted: 11/23/07