Unraveling Read online

  A NineStar Press Publication

  www.ninestarpress.com

  Unraveling

  ISBN: 978-1-951880-16-3

  Copyright © 2020 by Rick R. Reed

  Cover Art by Natasha Snow Copyright © 2020

  Published in January, 2020 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at [email protected].

  Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-951880-17-0

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content, which may only be suitable for mature readers.

  Unraveling

  Rick R. Reed

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  In memory of John Y. and Curt E.

  Both gone too soon.

  “…an unraveling—a time when you feel a desperate pull to live the life you want to live, not the one you’re ‘supposed’ to live. The unraveling is a time when you are challenged by the universe to let go of who you think you are supposed to be and to be and to embrace who you are.”

  ―Brene Brown

  “The most terrifying thing is to accept oneself completely.”

  ―C.G. Jung

  “I’m nothing great. But I’m a rose… I’m a rose whether I’m admired or not, I’m a rose whether anyone’s crazy about me or not… Like I said, nothing great. Just a rose… But, do you know what it means to be a rose, my friend? Being a rose means ‘freedom.’ It means not existing by the praises of others or not ceasing to exist by their disapproval.”

  ―Serdar Özkan

  1986, Winter

  Golden Slumbers

  Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,

  Smiles awake you when you rise;

  Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,

  And I will sing a lullaby,

  Rock them, rock them, lullaby.

  Care is heavy, therefore sleep you,

  You are care, and care must keep you;

  Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,

  And I will sing a lullaby,

  Rock them, rock them, lullaby.

  By Thomas Dekker

  Chapter One

  RANDY

  I have my death all planned out.

  Unlike the thirty-two years that have gone before, I want my passing to be peaceful and free of the discord and pain I’ve lived with for as long as I can remember. I want it to be easy. Effortless. Guilt-free.

  Whether it’s any of those things remains to be seen.

  I’ve rented this hotel room at a small boutique hotel off Michigan Avenue. The Crewe House has been standing on this same ground on Oak Street for at least a hundred years. The rooms are small, fussy, and charming, with flocked wallpaper, four-poster beds, and claw-foot tubs and pedestal sinks in their black-and-white bathrooms. It’s charming, and I deserve something nice to gaze at before I close my eyes for good.

  I have some sandalwood-scented candles lit, and the fragrance is warm, enveloping. Their soft flicker is the only illumination. Outside, the winter sky darkens early. Dusk’s cobalt blue makes silhouettes of the water towers, train tracks, and buildings to the west of the hotel. Near the horizon the sky is a shade of lavender that mesmerizes me, makes me think of changing my mind. If a sky like this can exist, with its electric bands of color, maybe the world isn’t such a horrible place.

  Maybe I can go on.

  No.

  What else have I done to ease my passage into whatever comes next? I have a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, my favorite champagne, uncorked and resting in a silver ice bucket, filled with melting ice. A flute stands next to it, waiting.

  I’ll wash the sleeping pills down with the bubbly.

  Before getting into bed, I’ll turn on the cassette I have in my boombox, Abbey Road. I have it queued up to “Golden Slumbers.”

  I’ve been carrying this weight for such a long time.

  I long for smiles.

  At last, I’ll undress and stretch out on the four-poster. I’ll pull the eiderdown duvet loosely over me and close my eyes.

  The plan is I will slowly slip under, my brain becoming a soft velvety fog, and I’ll simply fall into the arms of a comforting—and obliterating—slumber.

  I will not dream.

  It won’t take long.

  And I’ll leave a beautiful corpse.

  That’s the plan, anyway. Some of my research into this method of offing myself runs counter to this gentle fantasy, but I don’t want to consider the downside of overdosing on strong barbiturates.

  I want to go to sleep.

  I want to forget the impossibility of being able to become the man I know I should be.

  Husband.

  Father.

  I blink back tears as I sit on the bed, staring out at the deepening twilight. They don’t deserve this: what you’re going to leave them with. I know the voice inside, the one that’s always made me do the right thing, at the expense of my very being, is right. And even though they don’t deserve it, you know they will hurt, of course they will, but in the end, they’ll be better off.

  Who wants a husband and father who can’t seem to make himself straight, despite trying therapy, the Catholic Church, the Buddhist faith, self-help groups, and self-help books. A group of pathetic married men meeting once a month and thinking they can change. Nothing works. If I could change, I would.

  And since I can’t change, I’m left with three options:

  Accept myself as I am. How can I do that? I’d be a failure as a husband, a father, a son, a brother. I’d go on wearing this suffocating mask. I’d continue to live a life that’s essentially a lie.

  Everyone who loves me doesn’t even know me.

  They love a façade, a projection, a mirage made of wishes, impossible hopes, and self-hatred.

  No, acceptance is not an option. It never was.

  Second, I could resist. I could knuckle down and brace myself against the attractions I feel, the dreams that pop up in my sleep despite my desperately not wanting them there. I could hold myself back from falling prey to the temptations I feel on the streets, the subway, the locker rooms—everywhere I encounter a beautiful man.

  The reason I find myself here is because I can’t resist. Not anymore.

  And the third option is simply the one I have to choose—remove myself from the pain. Remove myself from existing as this broken thing that God nor man can fix.

  Yes, Violet and Henry both will find a way to move on, and they’ll be happier, more anchored in life without me.

  Who needs a gay dad? Or a husband who, deep down, doesn’t want what his
wife has to offer? Or worse, a dad who contracts the death sentence of AIDS?

  Enough of the grim thoughts. They were not part of my plan. Tonight, I go out peacefully. I’ll shut my eyes and remember things like my joy six years ago when Henry was born and seeing him take his first breath. I shouted, “We got a boy!” and fell into the deepest, most effortless love I’ve ever felt. I’ll remember proposing to Violet when we were both college sophomores and the thrill when she accepted the cheap diamond-chips ring I gave her. Things will be okay now, I remember thinking. I can change.

  I really believed that. And I know I love Violet as best I can.

  It’s sad when your best simply isn’t good enough.

  I reach over for the bottle of sleeping pills on the nightstand. There are thirty of them, and I intend to take them all, two or three at a time. If it takes the whole bottle of champagne to get them down, well, things could be worse. No?

  I tip the bottle and look at the tablets against the dark wood, so innocent, yet so lethal.

  I’m just reaching for one when there’s a sudden knock on the door. Loud. Forceful. Urgent.

  “Randy? Randy? Open up, please.”

  The door knob turns as Violet’s voice penetrates the heavy wood of the door, making her sound muffled.

  I close my eyes. I could ignore her, hope she goes away.

  How did she find out where I was anyway?

  She wasn’t supposed to know until she got the letter, the one neatly folded and an arm’s length away on the nightstand.

  Pounding. “Please!” Violet calls.

  I gather the pills, shoving them back in the bottle, then hide the container in a nightstand drawer.

  How will I explain?

  I get up, cross the room, and open the door.

  Chapter Two

  JOHN

  My friend Vince listens in sympathetic silence as I clue him in to the details of my latest breakup. In the past year, this latest one marks the fifth time I’ve been dumped. Hey, if being knocked down a peg or two is good for the old self-esteem, then I should be in great shape, mental-health-wise, right? A real shining example of self-love.

  Then why do I feel so shitty?

  Vince asks, “So what happened this time?”

  I smile a little because I know my best friend’s secret. He’s hoping he sounds concerned as he asks this question, but I can hear the lust for gossip dancing around the edges of his wanting the details.

  I sigh. “Ah. Same old story. Like the guy last September?”

  Vince groans sympathetically or at least fake sympathetically. “Married dude?”

  “No, nah, not exactly. But he was still with this older guy.”

  “The one he said was just a roommate? That they’d—”

  I finish for him. “That they’d broken up a while back, and he was just staying with him until he could find his own place.”

  “There are tons of places in Chicago. I found my apartment in a day.”

  “I know that and you know that, so why didn’t he?” I picture Christopher in my mind’s eye. He was a big hairy guy, balding at twenty-eight, which only made him more masculine and sexier. And Lord, he was a chef too. He was hot and he could cook. I’d thought I’d found my Prince Charming, the one who could rock my world, feed my soul, and more importantly, feed my belly.

  Ah, but Christopher had someone else’s soul, belly, and nether regions he was rocking all along, despite what he told me. Thinking back now, I recall an old phrase my grandmother used to apply to teenagers, “You know how you tell when a kid is lying?” she’d ask someone, maybe my mom. Mom would shake her head even though she already knew the answer. Grandma would then say, “Their lips move.”

  Yeah, Christopher was far from being a teenager, but when his lips moved, I had to wonder if they were ever forming truthful words.

  “Anyhow,” I cut the story short with Vince, whom I hate to admit is probably reveling in the details. He’s always been pretend happy for me when I meet someone and then pretend sad when it all goes to shit, as it always does.

  Vince is in love with me. He thinks I don’t know. But I’ve known since we first met, back in college at Northern Illinois University, down in DeKalb.

  “Anyhow, we’re in bed, getting ready to do the nasty. I mean, I’m rolling on a rubber, when the intercom sounds. Guess who?”

  Vince gasps, “No!”

  “Oh yes, honey, the boyfriend is at my front door. Buzzing and buzzing and screaming like a baby for Chris.” I shiver a little at the memory.

  “What did you do?”

  “What do you think? We kind of froze, at first, in a panic.” I shrugged. “Then we got dressed. I opened the door for Christopher and told him I hoped it all would go okay.”

  He’d asked me if I’d see him again. There were tears in his eyes. Sorry, buddy.

  I simply shook my head as I closed the door behind him.

  “Since then, he’s been calling. And calling. But I just let the answering machine pick up. His tears don’t move me. He begs me to reconsider. He tells me how Patrick, his sugar daddy, threw all his clothes out on their lawn up in Kenilworth. He says he really loves me.”

  “You gonna give him another chance?” I detect that Vince hopes I’ll say no. I give him his wish.

  “Hell, no. I don’t trust him. And when trust is gone, there’s nothing.”

  Vince breathes out a sigh of relief. “You got that right.”

  “I’m always right.” I laugh. Unfortunately. Like in the way I believe every guy I connect with is gonna be the one, until he isn’t anymore. I always know. And it makes my stomach turn.

  I pray I’m not always right when I think I’m a bird with a damaged wing who will never, ever find love…only gossip with a best bud who hopes I realize he’s the perfect man for me.

  Sorry, Vince, not by a long shot.

  I do a quick mental check before I tell Vince I need to go, and I’ll see him this coming Thursday on Halsted for comedy night at the video bar, Sidetracks. We never miss comedy night because even if we don’t meet a man, at least we have some laughs.

  My mental check reveals that hope is still there, its heart beating a bit fainter, but still hammering away, waiting.

  Chapter Three

  VIOLET

  When Randy finally opens the door, I’m shocked. My heart feels like it’s twisting in on itself. I let out a shaky breath. I want to cry, but I grit my teeth and hold back my tears. I know this is not my time.

  He needs me.

  He doesn’t know he needs me, and he may not ever need me like a husband needs a wife. But I love him, dammit, and I’m here to save him.

  His handsome face, usually a lovely Mediterranean olive tone, is pale and ashy. His dark brown eyes are red, the area around them puffy. He looks like he’s heading into the worst flu of his life.

  But he’s not heading into a physical sickness. He’s poised straight for mental anguish; the kind of despair someone feels when they abandon hope. The kind of thing when darkness fades into black.

  “Randy?” I manage to whisper. I reach my hand out to touch his dark grizzled cheek, but he moves back like a frightened animal.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The question is said as a kind of moan, born maybe of frustration, sadness, rage, regret? I don’t know. I’m here to find out.

  “How did you find me?”

  I cock my head at him. “Really, Randy? Is that what matters? How I found you?” I move a step or two into the room, testing. I’m grateful he moves back and opens the door a bit wider.

  I move past him into the room. It’s dark. The only illumination are rows of flickering candles. It strikes me not as sad or somber, but creepy like something out of a horror movie. My gaze moves to the bed to check for a corpse, all laid out. I stride over to a floor lamp next to an overstuffed leather wing chair. I turn it on to lend some warmer, yellow light to the room.

  The curtains are open and the night outside presses in
like some dark, living thing. In the glow of a streetlamp just to the right of the window, snow falls in an illuminated cone.

  Randy cowers near that window. I want to take him in my arms, but again, common sense and my own instincts tell me now is not the time.

  I do, however, manage a smile. “Do we have to stand?”

  In response, he sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t look at me. Instead he regards his fingernails, which I know he’s chewed to the bloody quick.

  I take the wing chair. I notice the ice bucket and the bottle of champagne. Veuve Cliquot. It’s always been Randy’s favorite. I lean forward and gesture toward it. “Going to share?”

  He looks over at the ice bucket and the bottle, and it’s as though, for the briefest of moments, he’s wondering how it got there. He gets up from the bed and sighs. Maybe he’s disappointed he’ll have to share. “Sure.”

  He pours a glass for me in the single champagne flute set out. He looks around for another one and ends up pouring himself some in one of the plastic cups from the bathroom. He hands me the champagne and then turns to go back to his place on the bed.

  We’re not going to toast.

  He takes a sip and asks me again, “What are you doing here?”

  I swallow a bit of the champagne. The bubbles tickle my nose. I drink some more, and finally, I drain the whole glass in a quick swallow. I stand, despite the tremble I feel in my knees, and refill my glass. I blow out a big breath and sit again, pulling at a loose thread on my jeans. I set my glass down and hug myself. “It’s cold in here.”

  Randy simply nods. He’s waiting.

  I came here for a reason. I know a lot more than he realizes. It’s time to start to tell him the truth, what I know, what I’ve known now for a couple of years, but buried in my own wishful thinking and denial.

  I force myself to meet his gaze—those dark brown eyes I fell in love with as a sophomore at Miami University in the charming little college town of Oxford, Ohio. Randy was in the lobby of my dorm with a girl from my floor, Kathy Burt. At first, I despaired, thinking they were a couple. To my relief, I found out quickly they were best friends. There was nothing romantic between them.