December Writing Challenge: "Have Faith"

The Boy in the Bubble (Miracle and Wonder)

The faucet in the master bathroom wasn’t quite tight enough. The dripping kept him awake. The dripping kept him awake and footsteps on that one step that creaked caused him the bolt upright in bed. His two bed companions didn’t notice either sound; they also didn’t notice the bed shifting. So exhausted from the evening’s activities, they remained deeply asleep. One moved into the warmth of his spot after he left the bed.

The telepath grabbed his robe and quickly donned it as he exited the bedroom. He tried to be mindful of the two in his bed, but he also didn’t want to let the person on the stairs slip away.

As luck would have it, he caught him at the front door. Seeing who it was, he shook his head and sighed wearily. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The teenager jumped, not having heard anything behind him. He turned around, glanced up at the tall man briefly as a sheepish expression settled on his face. “...going out?”

“It’s one in the morning.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“So the obvious solution is drag racing?”

“I wasn’t going to-”

“What have I told you about trying to lie to me? Not only does it damage your integrity, not only is it a waste of time, but it’s insulting to both of us.”

“I’m sorry.” The boy had the humility to look sincere.

Another sigh. He brought his hand up to rub his eyes. “Drag racing isn’t just dangerous; it’s stupid. We’ve talked about that.”

“I know. But it’s-”

“A rush. Yes, I know.” He shook his head and then moved his thumb back, jerking over his shoulder. “I’ll make some cocoa; we can talk.”

The trip to the kitchen was quiet, and the lights flickered on in anticipation of their arrival. He immediately went to the cabinet and pulled down the kettle, filling it with water from the tap. From a tap that didn’t leak.

The boy settled at the island and watched the man’s back for several long moments. Finally, he said, “You don’t get it.”

He set the kettle down on the stove and turned on the burner. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

“Then you used to go racing?”

“Of course not. I like being alive.”

“Then you don’t get it.”

“I don’t have to have done this to get it. You like the rush; you like feeling invincible, and you’re friends are into it. Plus your brain isn’t fully developed yet.”

It was the boy’s turn to sigh, and he rolled his eyes. “I hate it when you talk like that.”

“Talk like what?”

“So smug and superior. Like you’re somehow above everyone and everything.”

“It comes with the territory. ” He pulled down two mugs from the cupboard. “And believe it or not, I have felt like you do before; I just grew out of it and grew into this. And you will too, if you make it that long by not pulling stunts like this.”

“What did you do when you were my age?”

“Drugs, mostly.”

The boy looked surprised. “Really? What drugs?”

The man sighed and opened another cupboard, pulling down the tin of cocoa mix. “Narcotics. Anything that made my head fuzzy.”

“Why?”

“Because it silenced the noise for a few hours.”

“Oh.” The boy didn’t know what to say to that.

Silence settled between the two of them until the kettle whistled, signaling that the water was ready. The man filled the two mugs with water and stirred in the cocoa with a cinnamon stick. He then handed one to the boy and settled with the other on the opposite side of the island.

The boy blew on his mug and then took a sip. Then another. Finally he spoke quietly. “Everything feels dead unless I’m going fast. It’s like nothing is real except when I’m racing.”

“I know how that is, but it won’t always be that way. Some day you’ll calm down, and you’ll be able to appreciate all the little details in life.”

“When?”

“When you’re older. College will help.” College had helped him immensely. The man took a sip of his cocoa and smiled reassuringly at the boy. Then his face contorted into pain and the cup slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. He followed a second later, slamming against the linoleum tiles.

“Dad!”

He could see the boy’s lips move but he couldn’t hear any sounds. Then everything went black.

***************************************

The faucet in the master bathroom wasn’t quite tight enough. The dripping kept him awake. He didn’t enjoy consciousness, because every waking moment was one in which he thought, and he didn’t like being alone with his thoughts.

He didn’t like being alone period. The bed felt empty, now that it was only him. Despite his massive frame, the bed was too large; he felt as though he might drown. It was strange to feel as though he might lose himself in something physical, rather than in his mind like he used to. Was this how normal people felt?

Not that he could remember being normal; not that anyone would describe him as normal these days. He used to wish he was normal. Then he had stopped caring. And now...if it would make the pain disappear, he thought he might want to be normal; at the same time, he wouldn’t trade his past few years for all the white picket fences and houses full of children in the world.

But he didn’t want to be alone in this bed.

What is he up to? He couldn’t help but wonder. Did they watch the same news program tonight? Was he as upset about the poverty rates as the telepath was? Had he gone down to a bar and picked up some twink to spend the night with? That wasn’t a fair thought, and deep down the telepath was aware; that had never been his M.O. Still, had he been with anyone since their breakup? Did he still think about the telepath the way that the telepath thought about him?

Probably not, for if he did, he would have called the telepath and they would have reconciled. The telepath wouldn’t have even given him the opportunity to finish his apology before he kissed him.

Yet that hadn’t happened, and they remained apart. Always apart. Always alone. Always consumed by these thoughts.

How could he live with himself? How could anyone live split in half this way? Or had their connection been part of his imagination?

This was why he couldn’t be alone with his thoughts; they threatened to drag him down into darkness and suffocate him.

He rolled out of bed and went downstairs, settled in the living room. He wanted to call him, although he knew better. It was an unholy hour of the morning where no sane person was awake – which was why he was still awake. He didn’t think the other man wanted anything to do with him, certainly didn’t want to receive a telephone call out of the blue.

That thought pained him, and he did what he could not to dwell on it. It was difficult, because all he did was dwell on his thoughts. Particularly at night when there was no safe refuge in the company of others or the demands of the daytime.

He remembered how they used to spend so much time together, how he had been so happy to talk until the wee hours of the morning. How they used to pull all-nighters together and then go down to a diner for breakfast afterward. He remembered the phone conversations when they were separated, back home with their families instead of together. How his voice had never failed to send a thrill through his chest. The mere memory started that sensation but ended with a cold longing.

Because he was weak, he reached for the phone.

******************************
The faucet in the hall bathroom wasn’t quite tight enough. The dripping kept him awake because he shared a common wall with the bathroom and he was sure that his bed was right up against it. Or it was his imagination. Or he was reading Mike’s mind and had to deal with his super-hearing. Whatever the cause, he didn’t sleep well.

The bathroom faucet wasn’t the worst of his problems. Even after a year at Hammel, he still didn’t feel at home. He missed his parents and his sister; he missed his friends back on Long Island and his neighbors. He missed barbecues and seeing baseball games and going to the museum and going to his neighborhood church.

He missed having friends period. He missed being alone. And he didn’t think the two were mutually-exclusive.

He had no friends here. He was too shy and too unstable to make friends; he was afraid of approaching other students because he was gangly and awkward. Other students were afraid of him because he read their minds – even though he didn’t want to – and because sometimes he made them forget things. He heard all the rumors; the worst part was that most of them held some degree of truth.

He missed being alone in his own head. Every moment he felt like he was forced to watch a movie he didn’t want to see, or like he was on the subway and it was crowded and loud and nobody would shut up. He couldn’t handle it because it felt like he was suffocating. Then he felt like he couldn’t breathe and the panic attacks started.

Then someone would call for help and he would get pulled out of class. Or gym, or the library. Whatever it was he’d been doing.

The closest he had to a friend was his trainer. His trainer didn’t count because he was older than fifty, and he was paid to work with him. Plus his trainer was just...more. More than he was, more than he could ever hope to be. He had a job and so many friends and a family that made him happy. He was respected and well-liked and confident and at peace.

And he was just a gangly scared boy.

But his trainer liked him. He didn’t just profess to like him, but he really did, because he could hear it and he knew the sincerity in his words. His trainer made life a little more bearable, because he helped. He helped with the pain and the panic attacks and the loneliness and the voices. When he needed some silence, his trainer could shut off the noise, banishing the voices like the sun banished darkness.

But it was always fleeting, and the break never lasted long enough.

“You’re having those thoughts again.” It wasn’t a question. It was never a question, not with him.

“I know.” The boy was contrite, his voice soft, ashamed. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

“I know.” Those same two words sounded light and sincere when the man spoke them, rather than heavy and shameful like when he spoke them. “But one day you will. One day, they just won’t be there anymore.”

“No.” The boy shook his head, couldn’t believe it.

“Yes. You’ll be peaceful and happy. You’ll have people who love you the way I love you, because they’ll see you the way I see you.”

“How do you know?” His voice trembled and his eyes were wide with wonder and longing.

“Because I have faith in you. Because I know what you’re capable of.”

“What if it doesn’t last forever?”

“Nothing lasts forever. But I know everything will work out in your life.”

“I wish I had that kind of faith.” He had faith in the Lord’s wisdom, and he had faith in this man, but all his faith was spent between those two, leaving none for himself.

“That’s all right.” The man put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Through the touch, the boy suddenly felt calmer. “I have enough for both of us.”