“Okay, I’m sorry,” he mumbled as he pushed himself upright.
“There’s no need to apologize—”
“Yes, there is! You’re mad. I’m sorry. I just feel funny,” he cried. “I’m not some gay guy trying to hit on you. Just because some guys fucked me doesn’t make me gay; if that’s what you’re worried or mad about.”
My heart broke that he even thought that. The damage these people had done was deep. I pulled him into my arms and held him against me. I put my hand on the back of his head and the other hand on his upper back. I could feel his body relax. He needed some love and care.
Brandon let me put him back to bed, and this time I stayed on the bed with him. I propped up a few pillows and stroked his back while he drifted off to sleep.
“Ohana, pup,” I whispered.
During the rest of the night, a stray word or two tumbled out. While I couldn’t make out most of it, I made out one word that I had heard more than once. Eli.
* * *
Each nightbefore he fell asleep instead of telling him goodnight, I would say ‘Ohana.’ He’d smile as much as he could and would repeat it back to me. I thought it gave him a sense of security and confidence that he wasn’t alone. ‘Ohana’ became our thing, and I absolutely loved making this young man smile and feel secure.
During the night, though, the nightmares would consume the bit of security he had. While I slept, Brandon would appear, looking for comfort or a friend to help him. He was always quiet and never woke me up. Something would wake me, however, and I’d find Brandon curled up on the floor in the doorway. Sometimes he’d have his bear blanket, and sometimes he’d bring his pillow. My heart always ached over the trauma and fear that pushed him out of bed and brought him to my room in the dead of night. I had told Brandon that if he woke up in the night that he could come wake me up. I was more than happy to sit with him while he relaxed, but he never woke me up and always remained silent.
I couldn’t stomach knowing that he woke up during the night from reliving the horrific events and curled up on the hardwood floor in my doorway. I picked up one of those oversized circular pet beds and put it on the floor next to my bed. It was covered in soft beige fleece, but I added a couple gray fleece blankets and set a pillow on it.
Brandon knew that this was his, and if he woke up in the night, he was allowed to lay on it. The huge pet bed became his quiet safe place. Since Brandon was still so used to sleeping in a tight, curled up ball, he fit perfectly on the pet bed. If I heard him come into the room and get on his bed, I’d wait until he was settled, and then I’d get out of bed and cover him up.
Tonight, was no different. I laid awake, listening to him settle on the bed. When the noises had stopped, I got out of bed and crouched down next to him. I stroked his head with one hand while I pulled the blanket up over his shoulders.
“Ohana, pup,” I comforted, and set my hand down on his bed.
“Ohana,” he murmured as he scooted himself closer to my hand. The material from his white t-shirt separated his chest and the side of my hand.
I thought he was moving his arm out from under the blanket to reach for his sore mouth, but in a surprise move, he covered my hand with the blanket. Under the blanket and with his eyes closed, he moved even closer until he trapped my hand between him and his bed.
“You like being close to me, don’t you, pup?”
He nodded, tugging at my heart even more.
The longer Brandon was in my house, the more attached I inadvertently became to him. There was something in him that pulled me toward him, and given his background, I was always very cautious and mindful of him. I badly wanted to help him.
It had been close to the end of his first week with me when I witnessed something that both broke my heart and made my stomach drop. It wasn’t a bad kind of stomach drop, but more of one that made the sadist in me leap. It led us to a very interesting conversation that shot my mind off in all sorts of directions.
I had just come in from my morning jog, and as I walked down the hallway toward my room, I could see Brandon’s legs and feet stretched out on his bathroom floor. This worried me greatly and as I hurried into the bathroom, I found him sitting in his bright blue boxer briefs on the floor with one leg bent and the foot under his thigh. His hands and thigh had blood smeared on them, and a disposable razor laid within his reach on the floor.
He looked up at me with his blue eyes and tear-streaked, frowning face. I crouched down and looked at the cut on the inside of his thigh and assessed the damage. While there was some blood, there wasn’t much, and none was pooled on the floor. As I gazed at the several scars on the inside of his thighs, it dawned on me that those scars most likely weren’t from his time in captivity. They were from him.
“I’m weird,” he mumbled. “Sick in the head.” Brandon pulled his eyes away from mine and looked down at his leg. “I like … pain.” He paused and took a deep breath before asking, “Do you want me to go?”
Pain.
It took me a fraction of a second to piece together what he had said with what I was seeing—the scars on the inside of his thighs. I was almost certain that Brandon was a masochist.Give me your pain, my little pup. I’ll give you my protection. Instantly, I saw Brandon through a slightly different lens— mine to protect. I had to slow my mind down from the racing thoughts of what little gem I might have found. But right now I needed to calm Brandon down, because I didn’t need him to panic or feel guilty about this need of his.
“No, Brandon. Not at all. I want for us to sit and talk a little, but first, I’d like to clean and bandage this cut.” I let it sink in that I wasn’t angry or freaking out, nor did I want him to leave. I also wanted him to feel like he had a choice in whether or not he wanted my hands on him. “May I clean your cut, Brandon?”
He looked up at me with a shocked expression. Maybe he was expecting me to be angry. Perhaps someone had been angry with him in the past. Brandon nodded and said that it would be fine for me to help him. From under the sink cabinet, I retrieved a first-aid kit, opened it, and found the items I was looking for. I pressed a few damp wipes over the slow bleeding cut, while I used another wipe to clean up the smeared blood on his thigh. After I tossed the wipes in the trash with the disposable razor, I swiped an alcohol wipe over the wound.
“Do you think I’m sick because I like some pain?” he finally asked.
I looked him in the eyes while my hands opened a bandage.
“I absolutely do not think that you’re sick, Brandon.” I looked down at the reddish cut and applied the bandage. “Quite the opposite, Brandon.” When I looked up from his wound and into his eyes again, I could tell he wasn’t sure if he had heard right. I smiled at him and said, “We’ll talk, pup.”
