[NOTE: My dear followers and readers. Once again, I want to thank everyone for the outpour of love and positive feedback. Even the most cunning reviews show me my work strikes a nerve, and that makes me proud. I will be trying to finish “Men Of Honor” and “In All Your Heavy Blue” during the coming month up until March. But I will take a small break afterward. I’ve been working on adapting “His Beautiful Boy” into a novel, and I’m very excited about that. But since writing isn’t (unfortunately) my full-time job, I’ll have to put all my free time into it. I’ll give more information about this project when I can. Love and appreciation to you all.
Sincerely,
Casual W.]
This story is an original work of fiction ©Copyright 2022 CasualWanderer82 – Please do not copy or post without permission.
Chapter 2 – “Writer’s Block”
Samuel sat silently in an empty office room, gazing at the window when the door finally opened. An older man, well-presented, carrying a notebook and a pen in his hand, came in and sat opposite him.
“Sorry for the delay Samuel. Traffic was chaotic.” The man apologized.
“It’s ok.” Samuel uttered, his eyes still latched on the window. The man took a deep breath as he fidgeted in his seat. His body finally came to a stop as he opened his notebook and took a pair of glasses from the pocket on the side of his shirt.
“How have you been?” He questioned, striking the top of his pen with his thumb. Samuel finally looked at him.
“Ok, Doc.” He stated, his voice lagging, tired. “Considering.” He added.
“How’s the knee?” The man asked. Samuel looked down at his leg.
“Better.” He answered. “Final surgery’s scheduled for the end of the month.” He informed.
“What about you?” The man questioned, leaning forward in his chair. Samuel sat tight-lipped, his eyes fleeing to the window. “Samuel, look at me.” The man instructed calmly. Samuel’s eyes twitched and shivered as he tried to contain his tears. “Samuel…” the man spoke, with tactical precision in his tone. “Sooner or later, we’ll have to address it.”
“I know…” Samuel mumbled, his jaw tightening and his whole body now squirming.
“It’s been six months.” The man stated before putting down his pen. Sensing Samuel’s anxiety, he shifted gears. “Have you written anything?” He asked.
“Haven’t really…I don’t…” Samuel murmured, his voice fitful.
“Remember what we talked about, Samuel: unless you say it, we…” The man explained but was interrupted.
“…can’t fix it. I know, Doc.” Samuel concluded. Visibly struggling, he bowed his head to face the man who waited for him with an encouraging smile. “I’m still waking up at night. Sweats, heart racing. The pills aren’t doing shit.” He fired as a sudden glimpse of his old self pushed through his broken self.
“Mind the language.” The man politely suggested. Samuel rolled his eyes. “Is it still the same dream?” The doctor probed. Samuel nodded. “Samuel…” The man beckoned, reaching for his attention. “Have you seen David since the funeral?” He catechized. It was as if he had jabbed a knife in Samuel’s gut. He shook his head, closing his eyes and fleeing towards the window again. “Don’t you think speaking to David would help?” The doctor interrogated. Samuel’s body began quivering again. David’s name was a trigger. The doctor started to backpedal. “Did you finally sell the apartment?” He questioned. Samuel’s demeanor switched immediately, his body decompressing.
“Yeah. Ended up buying a two-bed apartment, can you believe it?” He jested, forcing himself to make a joke. But even that attempt seemed to deplete his energy.
“What about the beach house?” The man asked, his back reclining in his chair, bracing for the upcoming blow.
“I’m keeping it.” Samuel replied with a determination coming through his voice that seemed to catch the doctor off guard.
“Ok. Can I ask why?” He grilled.
“I still love that house…” Samuel answered. The man nodded. “Doc…?” He uttered, his fingernails tugging at his trousers, his eyes scanning the street outside. “Will it ever go away?… This weight on my chest?” He asked, his eyes clamoring for confirmation.
“Yes, it will.” The doctor responded with conviction.
“…When?” Samuel questioned. The man took his fingers to his face and carefully removed his glasses.
“In time, Samuel. In time.” The man replied. Samuel turned his head to face him and let out a soft, sarcastic smile.
As he descended the small steps from the building’s entrance door, Samuel’s right hand was already slipping inside his jacket to grab a pack of smokes. He had, since the accident, taken up the vice. He went from not smoking to smoking a pack a day. Summer was gone, and cold and cruel weather forced its presence like an unwelcoming visit. Samuel stood on the sidewalk, lighting his cigarette as dozens of people dashed by him in the street, when a sense of cynicism overcame him. Everywhere he looked, everything he did or touched just seemed so pointless. üçyol escort Everyone’s lives seemed pointless.
Samuel was a shattered man. There was little left of the person he was half a year ago. He walked around, carrying emotional glass shards inside himself, cutting away at his skin as he slowly bled into numbness. The car crash changed everything. Laura didn’t survive. Samuel’s leg was wounded. And luckily, David scraped by with minor injuries. But as bad as the scars on his body were, they could barely compare to the monumental impact that weekend had on Samuel’s soul. The guilt he carried around corroded his insides, leaving little to the imagination as he became the reflection of his own misery.
Everything had changed. Samuel was lost.
He walked to his car and sat inside, his hands on the wheel, breathing with difficulty. It was still hard for him to get in the car. He started the car and steered off, seemingly without destination, straying away from the city’s center, over the bridge, out of town towards the highway. He drove for around two hours as he finally began approaching a particularly familiar neighborhood. Samuel had found his way to Laura’s in-laws’ house. David’s house. In fact, he had been secretly doing it for the past two months. Everyday. Single. Day. He would drive there and park his car on the street across from theirs. That would give him a better viewpoint of David’s bedroom. He would dock there towards the end of the day as it got darker. David would usually arrive roughly twenty minutes after, walk inside the house and turn the light in his room on. Samuel would sit in his car and watch as the boy paced around his room, doing his daily routine. Sometimes he wouldn’t even look at David. Samuel would sit in the car and fall asleep along with him. Despite what he had told his psychiatrist, Samuel had been seeing David every day, just not to the boy’s knowledge. There were many times Samuel questioned his motive for doing so. Given their short but tumultuous history, one would think this ritual of Samuel’s would spark controversy in his own mind. But after a while, he stopped trying to make sense of it. Seeing David seemed to lift a small fraction of the weight he felt inside. Maybe witnessing the boy go about his daily life after the tragedy they went through helped clear some of his guilt. Or perhaps David just reminded him of Laura in some way. Whatever it was, Samuel had by now rid himself of the shame of driving his car every day for two hours to sit in front of David’s house.
This particular day, David had finished soccer practice. He wore these sports shorts and a black hoodie. Samuel saw when he arrived, opened the front door, and went inside the house. A couple of minutes later, the lights in his room on the second floor came on. From the car, Samuel could see David moving around in the room. The boy stripped off his hoodie, lifting the white tank top he had underneath, enough for his smooth and fit stomach to become temporarily exposed. Samuel couldn’t help but smile. David’s youth and beauty had become a sort of sedative for his pain. The boy wandered around the room for a bit, then took his backpack, placed it on a desk facing the window, and took out a plastic bag. His hand went inside it, and he drew out a book.
Samuel’s mouth gaped. It was “his” book. The boy was holding Samuel’s first novel. He leaned forward and let his whole body fall over the steering wheel as he stared at David holding his book. The boy stepped back, sat on his bed, and began reading it. It must have been roughly thirty minutes when David finally fell asleep, his arms stretched along his body, with the book in his left hand, wilting on the edge of the bed. For the entire time since he lay there and while he read it, Samuel sat silently inside the car, body tilted over the steering wheel, gazing at the boy as he went through the first couple of chapters. Samuel had his first novel committed to memory and would mumble the words while David read them, trying to become a part of the experience alongside him. Samuel almost felt sad when the boy fell asleep, but as he glanced at his watch, his eyes flared when he realized it was 2 am. He relied on his seat, took a deep breath, and started the car, driving it back to his apartment.
The next day, Samuel felt on edge. After a routine appointment at the hospital, where he discussed some issues regarding his upcoming surgery, he strolled a couple of blocks toward a relatively posh coffee shop slash restaurant, where he had scheduled to meet his editor, Jonathan. Along his walk and despite going through at least three cigarettes, Samuel felt anxious and knew the reason behind it. He couldn’t wait to get back to David’s grandparents’ house. As he reached the cafe, he halted near the glass window, took one last puff, and tossed the cigarette on the floor in time for a very uptight woman passing him by to fling him a disapproving look. Samuel just shrugged and went inside. Jonathan was waiting for ulus escort him in the back, his hand already boosted in the air, signaling Samuel his position. Jonathan was 57, a large, bald, tall man. He sat down, slumping on his chair as he smoked a large Cuban cigar. Even though he sat in the smokers’ section, the fumes coming from his table were taking up the entire back room of the cafe.
“Jesus, Jonathan. It’s like a bomb just blew up in here.” Samuel commented in jest as he approached the table and sat down. They were intimate, so the usual shaking of the hands was something they would normally skip.
“Ah fuck it, I come here ’cause it’s still one of the few places in this fucking town that lets me get away with it.” He voiced as a woman in the back row side-eyed him. “I don’t fucking care!” He hollered at her, making her conceal her face in mortification. Samuel chuckled but instantly felt wrong for doing it. Jonathan was old school, and at the end of the day he always appreciated his brass humor.
“Sam, how have you been? You look like shit.” Jonathan remarked, not even acknowledging Samuel’s mouth that had just opened to answer his question. “Two whiskies, one rock each.” He signaled to the waiter coming through. “And I mean one rock!” He yelled again, turning his attention back to Samuel. “Look, I need you to start moving those beautiful fingers. Give me something, for fuck sake.” He whispered as he bent over the table, his rounded face almost glued to Samuel’s. As the waiter approached, he slanted back. “Thanks!” He told the waiter.
“Jonathan, look, I get it. I’m…trying.” Samuel uttered, his voice blatantly unconvincing.
“That’s great, man! Trying is great. But I need you to “do” Sam. Write a fucking book. You need the money. Nowadays, if you stop, you drown. Do you know how many amazing manuscripts new writers send to my office every fucking day? I love you, but you’re no Stephen King.” He coached, and despite his harsh words, you could see on Jonathan’s countenance that he cared about Samuel. “Look, kid…” He noted, trying to measure his words carefully. “If I know anything about this business, I know one thing.” He sounded as he pointed his fat finger at Samuel. “You’re the most brilliant writer I ever came across, but you’re a slacker, Sam. I know things got rough, but pull your shit together.” He continued as Samuel’s back sank further into his chair. “Your best work has always been when you write about stuff that’s happened to you, so…do that!” He said, pausing as he waited for Samuel’s retort.
“I’m not doing that.” Samuel uttered. “I’m not going to exploit Laura’s death.” He affirmed.
“Fine. I’m just, you know, saying.” Jonathan dodged. “Are you hungry?” He asked, trying to deflect the conversation elsewhere. “Eat something. You look deflated.” He taunted. “The barbecue ribs, no salad, mashed sweet potatoes on the side…and some rice.” Jonathan threw at the waiter that casually walked by their table.
“I’ll have the tuna steak.” Samuel informed. They resumed the chatter as they waited for the food. After about twenty minutes, their plates arrived, and for the next five, Jonathan said absolutely nothing as he munched vigorously on his food, which from Samuel’s perspective, felt incredible. But just as Samuel thought it, Jonathan’s voice sliced the pleasant stillness like a sharp knife.
“So…” Jonathan initiated carefully. “What about the kid? Have you seen him?” He questioned, chewing on his meat, his eyes scanning Samuel, who just shrugged.
“Awkward.” Jonathan remarked.
“What is?” Samuel asked, putting down his knife and fork and leaning back on his chair carelessly.
“Well, you guys went through this trauma together, and now it’s like your strangers. I mean, it’s weird.” Jonathan clarified.
“It’s not like we were intimate before.” Samuel mocked as he preened his mouth with the silk napkin.
“Still, it must have been rough on the kid. It would have been nice to have someone around who understood whatever the fuck he was feeling.” Jonathan sounded as he gnawed on the ribs with his greasy fingers. Samuel sat there on the chair, gazing at his friend. He had never thought of it that way. Suddenly he felt his chest tighten. “Eat your food, Sam.” Jonathan uttered, snapping Samuel out of his momentary haze.
“I’m not hungry.” Samuel shot back.
“Yeah, well, you’re also not writing. Eat your fucking food!” Jonathan ordered, almost like a father scolding his child. Samuel looked at Jonathan for a second before his friend lifted his head from his plate, a slick rib between his sauce-covered fingers, gazing back at him. Suddenly, they burst out laughing, chuckling their way through the rest of lunch as two old friends would. And for a few more hours, Samuel forgot how miserable he had been feeling.
The whole afternoon had flown by when they finally parted ways outside the cafe. Jonathan wobbled his way into his car, considerably drunk. Samuel had purposely managed his drinking, knowing ümraniye escort he’d want to drive back to David’s house. He had been anxious to do so since the night before when he caught the boy reading his award-winning book. Along the way, Samuel thought about how excited he was when the book first got published and how overwhelming it felt, despite his innate confidence, when it hit number one on the shelves. A time he recalled fondly of youth and wonderment that seemed far behind him, ostensibly unreachable at this point.
Samuel finally arrived at David’s. He parked the car in the usual spot, lit a cigarette, and waited. Thirty minutes later, like clockwork, David turned the corner, riding his bicycle. He parked it inside the garage and went up the service stairs into the house. A few minutes later, the lights in his room popped. He stripped to his undies, jumped on the bed, and curved to his right to pick something from his nightstand. When he turned back around, he was bearing Samuel’s book again. David almost seemed eager to resume, which made Samuel particularly scornful. He watched as the boy flicked through page after page until he stumbled on a particular one. Samuel, who comfortably slanted on the driver’s seat, suddenly propelled forward. David’s right hand went down to his crotch as his left hand held the book upwards. He started to massage his cock, a mischievous grin taking hold of his face. Inside the car, Samuel chuckled.
“Son of a bitch.” He uttered, shaking his head. “He’s reading chapter 4.” He stated, sinking himself back in his seat and laughing. In the distance, David’s hand became more energetic, so much so that the book kept falling from his left hand. He eventually dropped it at his side and took his free hand to his chest, teasing his nipples as he jerked his shaft vibrantly with his right hand. A couple of minutes later, Samuel saw his body spasm, then his right hand came up and hovered there, opened, cum dripping from his fingers. The boy looked around, attempting to find something to clean himself off, eventually picking up the dirty sock he had dropped over the bed when he came in. He bounced his body off the mattress and hopped inside the bathroom just to the right of his bed. Samuel finally lost sight of him as the steam from the hot water began spewing from the half-closed door. A rush of peacefulness overcame Samuel. Being able to peek inside David’s intimacy seemed to bring him some form of understated joy. There was a calming quality to watching David from afar. Samuel recoiled in his seat, and as he waited for the boy to come out of the shower, he unexpectedly fell asleep.
He tumbled into a deep slumber, waking up later, his eyes heavy and prickling tiredly. He glanced at the clock in the car. It had only been twenty minutes since he fell asleep, and as he leaned forward to peek inside the house again, he found the boy’s room empty. He scratched his eyes, bewildered. As he straightened himself in his seat, ready to stick the car keys in the ignition, he heard a soft knock on his window glass. Samuel’s heart sank into his stomach. He closed his eyes, wishing he hadn’t heard it. But he knew. As he turned his head sideways, David stood there, his tall, athletic, and smooth body towering over his window, wearing a black tank top and gym shorts.
“Fuck.” Samuel grated, unable to withhold his audible response. He begrudgingly pushed the button on his left door panel, and the window began descending slowly.
“What are you doing here?” David questioned, a genuinely surprised expression on his face. Samuel invoked every ounce of his writing talent to muster a convincing enough answer, but failed miserably.
“I was driving past the house…saw your light on and…I don’t know.” He said, finally confronting David’s eyes. Those plunging, mesmerizing blue eyes. “How are you?” He asked, trying to stir the conversation in another direction. David just stood next to the car, gazing into Samuel’s eyes. An inquiring gaze. Samuel felt stripped bare, like the boy was piercing his skin and perusing inside his mind, unveiling all his twisted thoughts. “I know how this looks, trust me.” He remarked, evading David’s gaze. He looked around nervously, finally plunging his body forward and starting the car. But as his left hand went for the wheel, he felt David punch through the open window and grab his hand, laying it over Samuel’s, pinning it down. “David, let me go.” Samuel pleaded, his voice breaking. But the boy just stood there, his wide arm stretched over, their hands locked. For a brief moment, Samuel could have sworn one of David’s fingers grazed the skin on his hand ever so softly.
“What are you doing here?” David asked again, but this time his voice beseeched an honest answer. And Samuel knew he couldn’t bring himself to give the boy what he requested.
“Let me go, David.” Samuel nervously demanded, finally tugging his arm away and starting the car, attempting to drive away. David’s bare feet ran on the cold cement, pursuing Samuel’s car down the street.
“What are you doing here??” David yelled. “Samuel!” He hollered, reducing his stride and finally stopping, standing in the middle of the lane as he watched Samuel’s car drive away. Ten seconds later, it began to rain.
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