Dancing On Broken Glass

You were dreaming. It was not a fantasy, precisely, but more of a replay of memory that had been tucked into the back of your mind and spun with bits of reality. It was sitting on a porch swing in the dead of night and having the realization that you were disgustingly, completely, wonderfully happy. Your toes could not touch the dusty boards of the small front walk and dangled awkwardly like a child's above the cool wooden surface. The stars overhead were relieved sharply by the encompassing darkness and nearly stung your eyes with their unveiled brilliance yet the moon was somewhere that you could not see. It was winter, you knew, for the air that passed between your lips emerged as a thin cough of smoke and the sky was too clear to be summer's. The porch swing was Gregory’s, you recalled even in your dream, and made odd chuckling noises as it swayed gently forward and back again.

A shivering figure of little width leaned against the railing in front of you chatting in a muted, half-giddy voice with a great bear of a man whom you recognized as Gregory himself, while the compact form of Norris peered at the stars while listening to the conversation. You had claimed the swing for yourself and one other because the two of you were small and drowsy and no one wanted to hoist either of you onto their back to nap like a younger sibling awake past his bedtime. Jaden was curled against your side, his head tucked beneath your chin and his downy pink hair tickled your chin like the fluff of a kitten. The recollection of the warmth he burned into your skin through the layers of clothing was as palpable as if it had been truly happening once more and the soft-soft murmur of his voice against your collarbone felt valid and genuine. But then he was slipping from your arms and slamming to the floor of the porch and it was not the porch any longer, rather a clean back-room and the hair that pooled around his agonized (tear-stained, blotchy) face was very long and very black.

You were running to his side with a cry to someone (anyone!) for an ambulance as he struggled to draw breath, touching his face (rounder than it had been previously) and demanding in a panicked tone that he open his eyes and focus on you. And the tear-burnished YELLOW of his eyes was glittering up at you through long black eyelashes dilated by something unnatural. There was a smear of moist blood in the corners of his mouth and his lips were slick with something putrid that you guessed was coppery-colored vomit. You begged him to see you, to know you were there, but the quivering black points of his pupils could not seem to focus on your features. He was dying, dying and you were so acutely terrified that you thought your heart might thunder its way through you ribcage like a jackhammer and flop about on the floor uselessly. And then you were falling, falling, dumped by gravity into the deep mine of Jaden's eyes.

Now your arm was about Melissa’s shoulder, companionably, and she was laughing at Norris fluffing his hair in the faded reflection of the Cafe window. She felt cool and human to your fingers and you thought perhaps all women felt like that (though you honestly didn't know since you had been with only two people in your life). She was a sweet girl, truly she was, and you did love her... but still your gaze was drawn to the small, thin creature slumbering in the uncomfortable leather booth. His breath moved in and out and he looked fragile and white and very, very lonely in the stifling summer heat. Beside you stood your 'girlfriend' who was not properly a girlfriend but was called thus because there was nothing else to call her. It was not as if you had ever had sex or anything so intimate between you. Melissa was so very level-headed, a bit jealous, friendly, and quite sweet when she wanted to be. Jaden was nothing (absolutely nothing) like her for he was quixotic and selfless and insecure and had never been outwardly angry to your knowledge. And at the moment his porcelain skin as run with deep fissures, on the brink of falling into a thousand fragments.

Noticing your staring Melissa prompted her frequent question once more and you answered with a 'maybe sometime soon' to spare her wrath. She would never be your wife because truly, you would never disgrace her thus. She deserved to have a husband who would care for her more than as a dear friend. You did not desire her physically, had never been in love with her, had never wanted to make love to her and spend forever in mutual monogamy, had no intense need to protect and cherish her... you merely had a great affection for her soul. You thought perhaps she knew that. Her frown was ill-humored but she did not shrug your touch away and you were a bit thankful (yet also somewhat bitter). Your eyes wandered again and you were aware that Melissa was angry at you for it. You ignored it for to do otherwise was impossible. Still after all this time you believed that Jaden was too beautiful and too fucked-up to be anything but a fabrication, and because of him you had never been able to believe in pure untainted beauty. You were not certain you knew precisely how to be in love with anyone else, least of all Melissa.

But Melissa was slipping through your wrist and dispersing like fog, becoming an indistinct shape before vanishing altogether. And you were running fast through tall grass chasing a jubilant dog, never pausing to wonder if you would run unceasingly and never catch him. Blades caught in your damp underarms and itched something terrible but all that echoed in your young mind was the heated determination to catch that dog. Your mother might perhaps be worried for your absence at home, as you were often plagued by illness and she felt the need to supervise your state of being. Yet all that lay in your mind was the Here and Now accompanied by a blur of dark fur. The heady smell of wildflowers tantalized your sinuses and you sneezed, falling to the dirt as your bodily balance was disturbed. You thought that the grass was giggling at you. But the dog barked and stopped, leaping in place to urge you into a run once more. Laughing at the linear direction of your canine companion's thinking you scrambled to your feet and broke once more into a chase across the field. The dog barked enthusiastically and resumed its flight. You were good at chasing things, you decided, and rather liked a good stalking. In future you would never settle for a mushy easy love, your romanticism concluded a moment later as the grass continued to itch your toes. You would hunt your love down and hold him (for girls were yet a strange foreign concept) through many tempests. And if he squirmed away as your dog had and ran from you... well, you would pursue him gleefully until you could take him into your arms again. You fell again as your foot caught a mole-hole and this time your dog failed to notice.

You stirred in your sheets, eyes struggling to open through the mucus that had hardened and bound them closed. When at last the sand had cleared sufficiently you stared into the dimly illuminated surface of the ceiling, making a quick judgment of the time. It was night still, though precisely what time you did not know. The kitchen light hummed from behind the curtain that served as a bedroom wall, a bar of dazzling white-gold light slithering through the gap above the fabric. Asia's steady snores from the sleeping bag on at the foot of your bed were a reassurance in the muddled moments between full awareness and the aftermath of dreaming and it occurred to you that the light was far too loud in its lively performance. A figure moved in the space between the curtain and the darkened 'bedroom' beyond, slipping from one space to another with generous caution. The greatest peril of four college friends sharing a one-bedroom apartment was the butchery of privacy that cloth walls and unlocked bathrooms thrust upon them.

Your ears absorbed the kitchen light's constancy and instead you could hear the patter of bare feet and knew that it must be Jaden up and about, for no one but he had the foolishness to walk about in the dead of winter without shoes. Shadows flickered over the wall as they obstructed the light of the kitchen, folded out like a cheerful suburban home. Again you felt that familiar paranoia, that need for Jaden to be close-close lest he be shaken enough to break like china without you there to wield your super-glue. You were tired still and decided to grab him by his delicate arm and yank him to your bed, where you would wrap around him and sleep satisfied. The skin of your feet slipped on the slick floorboards and you nearly crashed most ungracefully to the floor. But your strong arms caught a hold on the headboard and you did not fall.

The floor was frigid cold where the carpet turned to linoleum and you shivered mightily. Jaden must have no nerves in his feet, to walk on this floor! Then again, he also ran in the snow without so much as a sock to guard him from the bitter bite of winter. You realized you must be walking very slow for this journey of several feet was taking much too long. Scratching at your scalp, you allowed yourself a yawn and shuffled to the curtain. Your toes met with something warm and damp, a little adhesive and not very pleasant. In disgust you gazed down in expectancy of something foul. In the dim glow that filtered through the curtain guarding the bunks from the kitchen light there appeared to be a smear of something dark and moist on the linoleum that ran from the kitchen to the first bunk. What the fuck? Was that... it looked a bit like... well, blood. But blood in the vague shape of a foot? That was all wrong! You searched and was instantly met with another footprint of the same sort, this time a right foot. They led into the kitchen and you entered in utter confusion and mild alarm.

A skinny man with terrible bedhead was pouring water into a glass from a bottle. As if hearing your muted footsteps he cast you an acknowledging glance. You gaped at him and he raised his eyebrows, arched inquisitively as usual, in your direction as he lifted the glass of water to his mouth. His knuckles were opened by starbursts of lesions and the blood had run down the inside of his wrist, yet he seemed utterly oblivious to its presence or the markings of something crude on his bare feet. He tripped over the dragging hem of his black pants a bit as he turned to set down the water glass (its smooth exterior running pink with diluted blood) for they were old pants that now barely clung to his sharply relieved hipbones.

“You've hurt yourself.” You murmured, indicating his hand and then his feet.

The reply was only a curious tilting of his head, questioning as if he didn't quite believe you.

“There's blood on the floor.” You continued, dazed and perplexed.

He cast a thoughtful glance at the drying footprints but did not appear to recognize them as his own.

“Oh.” Was all he offered you in acknowledgment, retrieving his water glass and taking a healthy swallow.

“How did you hurt yourself?” You asked in a desperate sort of wanting for explanation.

He pushed at a thick hank of hair that had fallen into his eyes, impatient and maybe a bit reluctant to answer. Or maybe he still did not see the blood?

“I didn't. I haven't hurt myself, Caleb.” He informed you, shaking his head so that the contours of his cheekbones were very prominently displayed to the florescent lighting.

And you wondered why you had never noticed them before, the delicate and unusual nuances of him. You can't say you have ever thought to yourself 'My, how lovely those high cheekbones are!' or anything of the sort, only taken a cursory glance and decided that he was beautiful beautiful beautiful like the frail glow of the moon in deepest night. Maybe you hadn't been looking properly before, or perhaps his previous weight had hidden all but the brilliant glitter of golden eyes and the sharp impertinence of his mousey nose. There was a smudge of blood dried crusty and black on his cheek where you thought he may have wiped at his skin with the back of his hand. You wanted to swab it away because it looked wrong sitting there, a great blemish on the flawless surface of his rosy skin. It used to be translucent, that skin, but is now slightly browned by the summer sun and does not duck behind the protective curtain of long black hair.

You've all changed, you realize, some more than others. Norris is very much the same andAsia has not been here long enough to really know, but the rest of you have transformed immensely and are hardly recognizable as the same men you were five years ago. The thought is depressing and you wonder if perhaps Jaden didn't hurt himself (as he insists) but was merely trying to reevaluate that he was, in fact, still Jaden and not someone else. Blood does not change, after all, as the husk of human form does. Jaden liked blood and he was fond of pain, as you recalled when you had once raked long bloody furrows in his silken back because your fingernails had not been cut that day. He had gasped and arched his body a bit at that, and made it very obvious with a burst of fervor (which had been immensely wonderful for you as well) that pain was a good thing. He had no qualms about opening wounds in his fair skin.

“There's blood on your cheek.” You told him, reaching a hand to touch the spot.

He let you press your thumb into the thin covering of flesh over bone with no more than a slight widening of his eyes, which glowed golden and exotic in the revealing glare of the overhead light. And it made your belly ache to be so close to him and see all that was different, for Jaden looked ten years older rather than six. It might be the drug history, you mused, but was more than likely just his body attempting to compensate for the fact that he had always looked so very much younger than he actually was. His face was rounder than it had been a few months ago but still seemed so thin, so small and fragile in comparison to the cherubic circle of childish wonder that you were accustomed to. You could see this very clearly when you touched him for the flesh was taut over his bones and your fingers could not sink very far in. You scrubbed gently at the smear of maroon and tried to count his eyelashes, which were thankfully still red and long and feathery as they had always been.

“Maybe we should use water?” He suggested, and you were pleased to hear the soft, shy original-Jaden-voice that had not been employed much of late.

“No, I've got it.” You declined as you gently massaged the filth away.

You thought if you scrubbed at that spot hard enough perhaps you would break through a layer of reality and find the man you had fallen horribly, deeply, beautifully in love with. The short, tubby, giggly man with big eyes and bigger dreams and the sort of amazing personality that made one think he couldn't be a real person. The Sorority girls thought him to be more attractive now but you disagreed strongly because they liked this new man for reasons you did not. They were all little girls just learning about hormones and loved this older, more angular creature because those little girls would never want to find their clean-cut bodies lusting after someone so like themselves. You missed him and you missed yourself, but most of all you missed the days in-between tragedy and transformation. When things were so inherently good you knew it would not last (and it hadn't), when Jaden was fey and bashful and your soul-twin Asia was decent and lonely and you, oh you were a happy ball of energy that loved them both.

And maybe you were beginning to hurt him now for the stain was still there but the skin beneath was an irritated red. But this was Jaden, after all, and you knew he would never complain because that was just the way he was. And perhaps you did need water after all to remove the faint darkness from his pores. He did not flinch or make any sort of startled motion when you tilted your face up the two inches he stood taller and ran your tongue over the soft soiled flesh. You lapped gently, carefully and precisely, at the spot and he stood still and obedient like a kitten being washed. The threat of diseases did not occur to you for you were sure that if he had one you would have contracted it ten times over by now. And then you were done, feeling a bit professional and wholly satisfied, with your task and his cheek was smooth and rosy and only a bit pink from friction.

You thought perhaps you might kiss him but decided that you would not, not now, because he might taste blood on your tongue and think it disgusting. You had never known Jaden to think very much was repulsive, actually, and he was probably the most accepting person you had ever met in your life. You had once been obnoxiously drunk and struck your head on the side of the van in your wobbling clumsiness, and blood ran from your forehead as you stumbled into his arms and proceeded to vomit against his chest. He had just rubbed your shoulder and said gently 'Let me see', proceeding to inspect the cut on your head as the rank scent of vomit turned your already nauseous stomach. No, you were certain that the taste of blood in your mouth would not bother him very much at all. But your rationalizing against kissing him when you so wanted to was flawed by the dirty, icky sensation of dried blood on your heels and you shuddered as it occurred to you that the blood was not supposed to be there.

“We should clean up this mess.” You murmured, breaking eye-contact to frown at the trail of deepest red.

“What mess?” He asked sincerely, staring for too short a time at the floor as if there was nothing to be seen.

“The blood. There, all over. Can't you see it?”

The question was repeated silently in your mind as you watched that faint crease appear between his eyes that meant he was perturbed. His gaze swept the linoleum without pausing, his eyelashes twitching like the nose of a frightened rabbit.

“I thought you meant that metaphorically. What blood?” He asked again.

“You're bleeding.”

“My finger is, yes. But it's a very small cut. Asia's left his razor lying in the cosmetic basket again.”

All ten of the pads of his fingers had the dark evidence of blood on them, however, when he held them up. You stared in bewilderment.

“Are you alright, Caleb? Are you seeing things or something? You look worried and perhaps you're still dreaming. I've seen you sleepwalk before. Not quite like this but still... maybe you'll wake up later and never know it happened and you'll realize that there isn't any blood at all. I've read about things like that. Or stress. Stress affects people like that on occasion. Or maybe I'm the one sleeping? If I didn't feel so awake I might suspect that, but I do feel alert and very far from drowsy. Have we been drinking? I don't remember, do you?” An edge of panic was beginning to string his voice too tight.

“Shut up.” You snapped suddenly, wishing to seize him and shove a gag into his mouth.

He looked hurt and his shoulders came up a bit, beaten.

It made you angry how he reacted to being scolded for he had never taken well to anger. He had used to softly laugh at people or obey, but now he was a mess when someone was unkind and crumpled beneath the most inefficient remark. It was ugly and awful and so unlike Jaden that you wrote it off as belonging to the adult and not what you validated at true.

“Stop cheapening the moment. You always do. Why can't you just be quiet?” You demanded and the blood was in your head rushing in a throbbing dam.

Blood. Blood on the floor and blood in your veins and blood still sharp on your tongue. And his eyes were wide and wounded and his lips trembled, wanting to rattle off more nonsense but fighting to stay closed.

“You talk too much.” You sighed, breathing deep to pause the mounting irritation that you suspected came mostly from fatigue.

He said nothing in reply, afraid you would be angry if he spoke again. Hesitantly his fingers reached toward you and touched your cheek like a kiss. You recoiled as the crust of blood on his fingertips rubbed onto your skin and his hand was snatched back and cradled as if you had split it with your teeth.

“Don't. Don't get blood on me!” You hissed, rubbing at the sullied flesh of your face.

Tears were welling in his eyes but you were not sorry, for you were right in being skittish of his dirty touch. He wanted dearly to say something to you but was remaining so silent that you wondered if you had somehow jinxed his vocals cords lame.

Again you tried to call up serenity because really, you loved Jaden more than you had ever loved anything and could not suffer to see him hurt. You rubbed once more at the spots (clean for the blood had been dry) on you and in doing so felt that you massaged away the anger. Gingerly you reached forward and took him into your arms, laying your head on his shoulder and breathing in the scent of melon chapstick and hair-diffuser. Comfort dropped over you like a favorite quilt and you relaxed slightly with the soft familarity in your arms. His hands were curled against himself protectively, sparing you their filth, and you were reminded that Jaden was too gentle and loving to have ever intentionally upset you. His cheek was against your hair and you whispered that you loved him. He returned the sentiment in a sad-sad voice that resounded with much more meaning than your proclamation had.

“We need to clean you off, okay?” You persisted, and again it was with an obsessive impulse that seemed misplaced.

“But I'm not dirty.” Jaden insisted.

Your fingers dig into the skin of his back and it must have hurt. He yelped in pain and you wondered how hard you must have been pressing. You eased up and murmured 'sorry' with a silent resolution to be more careful. It was when a warm, bitter liquid began to seep through the fabric of his shirt that you realized who had been hurting him all along.