Everything Ever

Dulcimer shennaningans (part one that is)

He woke up, and in the bed there was blood puddling around him. It had already seeped through the sheets and into the mattress, forever staining it a sanguine red. He panicked for a moment, wincing as he stood and stared down at the bed: At his side, which was covered in blood, and then at his lover's side, which was pristine. He looked at his arms—at his shoulders, both crusted with blood and other liquids he couldn't identify in the dim morning light. And finally he touched his lower back—which was naked—eventually bringing his hand a little lower down to find that he was bleeding there, too.

It was humiliating, he thought as he showered, washing away yesterday's mistakes. He felt so sore he ended up sitting down, wishing someone was there to help him, yet knew that if he called his partners name it'd end in sex. First against the wall, then on the floor, and then eventually he'd be yanked back to bed to have sex there, too, until eventually Ferko left for work and he was left alone to drug himself into numbness. And then when his partner returned home they'd eat dinner together and drink wine until he was tipsy, because then everything was easier and things hurt less, and once dinner was finished they'd have sex until he cried out that it hurt too much, because him begging Ferko to stop wasn't enough. And then he'd wake up the next morning covered in blood again, and he'd shower and then he'd have sex and then he'd take drugs, so on so forth.

It wasn't that bad, he thought as he got dressed and made breakfast for himself. He could live with it, he said to himself, because when they weren't having sex things weren't so bad. They kissed and cuddled on the couch, and when Ferko had to leave for work he'd say ''Five more minutes, please'' and Ferko would stay.

Occasionally he got slapped, or hit, and once he'd gotten beaten so badly he had a black eye for a week. ''Cover that up, please'' Ferko had told him, and he had obeyed. ''You know I'm sorry, right? I had a bad day at work, I promise I didn't mean any harm. I love you Dulcimer, you know that, right?'' He'd said later that night, and Dulcimer had nodded, kissing him on the lips. ''I know, Ferko, and I love you too. It's okay. It was my fault.''

One day he had broken a plate, and Ferko had been so angry he'd screamed at him. Dulcimer didn't mean to, but he screamed back, until he was hit so hard he flew to the floor. ''Fuck, shit, I'm sorry Dulcimer, are you okay? Do you need some ice? I'm sorry!'' Dulcimer had gotten up and shaken his head. ''I'm fine, it's okay, just leave me alone. Get out of here. I don't want to see you ever again, Ferko. Fuck you. I hate you.''

The next day his face looked a sea water sort of green, with hints of yellow on his cheeks and darker blue around his eyes. Ice had helped with the swelling, but the bruises didn't fully disappear until a couple of weeks later, and neither did the cuts that his partner had inflicted on his arms in a fit of rage. The scars blended in well with the ones he'd gotten himself, he thought as he brushed a hand over his forearm, his skin no longer feeling like skin, but rather just a field of scar tissue.

''You're so pretty Dulcimer'' Ferko said occasionally, caressing his cheek. He hated it, despised the way he said his name and touched him, yet he started to cry, tightly hugging his partner. ''I love you so much Ferko—You're the only one who's right for me—I'm nothing without you!—Please don't leave me—I'll do anything for you.''

At work people asked about his bruises and scars, and he always came up with new stories. ''I'm the coach for a football team.'' He'd said to a young lady who had ordered a whiskey on the rocks, one late Saturday night. ''I fell while ice-skating.'' He'd said to an older man who had ordered a bloody mary, on a thursday. Eventually, he tried being a little more creative. ''I was drunk and tried fighting a light pole.'' He'd said to a couple of girls, who were all taking shots, and all of them had laughed. Once he had slipped up. ''Well... I was beaten up.'' He said. ''By who?'' Alice—his ex girlfriend, now his best friend—had asked in return. ''Drunk guy. Come to think of it, he was probably high, too. So it wasn't a surprise, it was my fault anyway.'' Alice had frowned, grabbing his hand so he'd stop trying to walk away. ''Did Ferko do that to you? Dulcimer, you have to tell me the truth: Does he abuse you? Sexually, too? You always seem so frightened when you're around him. What is he doing to you...?''

Dulcimer had been at a loss for words back then, staring down at the blonde as she continued asking questions which he would never answer. It ended in him screaming at her, telling her to shut up and leave him alone, and she had, and since then they hadn't spoken to each other.

Sometime in late early december Dulcimer had been at work for much longer than usual, and when he came home he expected Ferko to be asleep. He was, or so he thought until he heard the moans and whimpers and gasps from a woman, eventually united with Ferko's grunts and groans. ''Ferko..?'' He had called out into the dark apartment, ''Shit- Fuck! I didn't think he'd be home, fuck!'' The woman had left so quickly he hadn't gotten to see who she was, but even if she had stayed he wouldn't have seen, because he was crying so much everything was blurred together. ''Don't you love me?'' He had cried, sitting on the floor. ''Of course I do!'' Ferko had replied. ''Am I not enough anymore? I- I promise I'll be better, I promise I'll be better for you, I promise—please don't leave me Ferko- Don't go!''

Ferko hadn't left, and after that they had sex even more. Every night when Dulcimer came home from work he was immediately pinned up against the wall, or pressed down on the couch, or shoved onto the floor, or pushed over a counter. He was sore then, his legs and back and arms constantly aching. He was exhausted, too, sleeping while Ferko was at work so he wouldn't fall asleep while Ferko used his body.

Eventually he got so sick of it he started making plans to end things—not only his relationship, but things in general. He wrote a letter to Alice, telling her how much he loved her and how sorry he was. He wrote letters to his brothers, explaining to the younger ones that drugs weren't the solution, and that sex wasn't supposed to be horrible. He wrote a letter to his mother and a letter to his father, thanking both of them for doing their best raising him. And finally he wrote a letter to Ferko, letting himself be overcome by rage as he wrote down everything he felt and everything he thought.

He didn't die. He was found in the shower with his wrists cut open so deep it looked like he had holes in them. He was close, but he didn't die. And in the hospital, he regretted even trying. Deep down he knew he'd fail, yet he wanted so desperately to try, just to write those letters where he could express how he truly felt. Ferko was furious, disgusted because of how selfish he had been. ''How could you do this to me, Dulcimer? You're so selfish, so pathetic. I wish you had died in there, I wish I hadn't found you so you could've bled out and died.''

Later that week he was homeless, strolling down the streets of Hungary until a week later he wasn't, because he had begged and cried and Ferko had accepted him back into his home.

And so the cycle continued. He woke up covered in blood, showered, had sex, took drugs, drank until he couldn't feel anything, had sex, fell asleep, woke up covered in blood. And every day he wished he had succeeded, every day he longed for the eternal rest which he hoped he'd eventually meet.