All Too Well - Erik Menendez

Our Bodies, Can They Join? [18+]

Portland. Oregon. 1988.

Eriks POV:

"Craig, please help." I mutter through struggled breathing as I attempt to get him off of the floor and onto the bed located in a random room not far off the upstairs corridor.

And yes, I had to carry him all the way up the stairs. That was after finding the little damsel in distress back to her friends. She was easy. However. Craig. His weight – I can't support it any longer. He's too heavy and I am dreading this night more as the minute goes on. The alcohol attacks my body carefully, but it's a gradual process that I feel becomes worse.

Not Craig worse – however, I assume he's also in this state if he's took any other substances. He did disappear for a while earlier so it would come as no surprise if he had went off to the bathroom.

He's drifting in a state of conscious and unconscious. The spectrum fluctuating, changing sometimes in seconds flat. I know that the only way of lifting him is by getting him in that small moment of consciousness and just hoping he lifts his body even slightly. Anything to combat such dead weight. Anything.

So, patiently. I wait. I kneel to the floor and fold his arm around my shoulder, waiting for the moment to come. And eventually it does.

I strain. "Up, up, please." His heavy frame lifts, and with a forceful drag, I pull him up with me to the bed and miraculously, it goes as intended. I sit on the bed and let go of his body, his body subsequently reclines, sinking into the soft sheets beneath.

If we can just stay here until he's properly awake, we can go. Or until I'm sober enough to drive.

There's a pull currently orchestrating inside of me. The ungodly wish to be beside Whisper. This night is cold, unfamiliar, too social, too out-there, just too much for me. And the poignant nature of my heart is an unbearable cocktail for disaster.

I don't know if she'll come for Christmas.
I don't know if she'll come at all.
Perhaps our week of paradise, was just that, one singular week of paradise.
Perhaps she could never forgive me for everything that happened.

Everything that happened.

I cast my eyes to the boy lying beside me. Someone who has seen the uncooth, grotesque side of me. Someone who's witnessed my sins and has happily partaken in them with me.

A person who was once my best friend, my special friend. But it's not like that anymore. That trust, that thing between us – it's now rotting and revolting. His true colours are not the kaleidoscope of wonders I originally hoped for; they're melancholy black and white. Drained, unearthed. Dull.

I gaze to his hand that sloppily lays on top of my leg. The spaces between his fingers; I remember begging him to allow me to hold it, desperate to discover how comforting it would make me – but when he let me, it never was that magical feeling. It never was that surreal experience. It was cold. And lifeless.

I guess that's what has made all this so hard. This constant brawling with sexuality. These monstrous feelings that are so abnormal, but they come in such specific moments.

They don't come with romantic gestures, or holding between his fingers, or being stared at like the centre of the universe.
No. Instead. It's the sinful acts that evoke such real reactions in me. In my body. And I hate that. I hate myself for that. And I hate him for making me into this person today.

Most of all, I hate the feeling of my body.

It's almost been a month since I saw Dad, and it's been a month since his touch has been absent from my body. But it doesn't feel like that.
My body itself might've started healing; but the feeling of his hands on me still radiate where they once lay, the torturous sensations he inflicts upon me still vibrate inside of me.