All American Boys
Chapter 36: Bread and Circuses
I noticed on our drive back to Bethlehem that Cyril seemed a bit agitated – his hands trembling as he held onto the steering wheel, and he seemed to be needing to make some deliberate effort just to breathe. There was a bruise on his left cheekbone, turning a patch of skin a faint reddish purple. I had to admit, it kind of looked good on him.
I didn't bother asking him if he was alright. I had my own problems to worry about. I felt drained after all that had happened, so I just resigned to just sitting there, staring at the road ahead of us. With the adrenaline rush gone, I had time to process everything that had happened. I don't know what happened to those two men back there. And I don't particularly care either. I did what I did, it's not like I could change anything. If they're injured, great. If they're dead, great. Who gives a shit.
Instead I thought about Isaac. He was still unconscious in that hospital bed, being gone in limbo, unsure if he would ever return. I felt bad for leaving his side. I'd do anything for him to wake up.
We parked at the beach house, and Cyril's hands trembled as he fumbled around in his pocket to fish out his keys. His fingers were shaking so badly that he dropped them onto the porch. I had to pick them up for him.
"Thanks," he managed to muster under his breath.
The moment his keys unlocked the door he flung it open, before immediately rushing inside. I was the one who had to lock the door behind us as he scrambled to the coffee table and grabbed a remote control from underneath it. He was hyper ventilating, the sound of his heavy breathing filling the entire room. He pressed a button on the remote, and the blinds slowly came down, covering the windows. He held onto the chair for support as he let out loud, shaky breaths – one after another. It almost felt like he didn't even have time to exhale properly before he quickly took in the next one.
I was thirsty, so I walked over to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water while Cyril struggled to get himself into the seat. I brought the glass to my lips, feeling the cool liquid go down my throat.
Cyril cupped his palms around his mouth, trying to slow his breathing down. By the time I sat down on the sofa beside him, he had calmed down a bit, and his breathing had begun returning to a more normal pace.
"Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry you have to see me like this."
I only smiled at him, not really knowing what to say.
"I just - " he shrugged. "I just don't know how to feel about what happened. I feel so. . . overwhelmed."
I wrapped my arm around his shoulders, and he instantly collapsed onto my chest. I could feel his body trembling as he clung to my chest. We just stayed like that for a while, the boy clutching onto my sweater as I held him close, his grip tight and desperate. I nuzzled up against him. As distant and far-removed as I felt from everything that happened that day, Cyril here feeling so vulnerable in my arms hit close to home.
It reminded me of the time when Isaac held me as I cried. I missed him, I really did. He was the only one who made me feel safe. Some days I wished he'd hold me again, tight and snug in his arms.
Cyril finally let go after a while, taking a deep breath as he sank, exhausted in his seat..
"I'm sorry," he apologized again. "I should've listened to you. We should've just left there at the first sign of trouble."
I almost replied with an 'I told you so', but held my tongue.
"It's fine," I replied. "It's a. . . learning experience."
"And I'm sorry you had to deal with me like this. . ." he continued, chuckling nervously. "Well, I uh, get these from time to time."
"Panic attacks?"
"Yeah," he said as he slumped into the sofa. "Oh well, I uh- I should've controlled myself better."
"Hey, don't say that," I told him.
"I don't know," he shrugged. "I've been struggling with some things ever since my mother died, and my sister's accident just made it worse."
I only kept quiet, letting him continue.
"Sometimes I get gripped with these intense feelings, and sometimes I just wake up from my sleep gasping for air," he said. "I've been getting help for it, but my dad's a really important man and image is really important. So I've been trying my best to keep it together when I'm outside, because you know. . .there are people who would try to use it against me, against my dad. I have to be careful."
"You must be pretty strong," I replied. "Putting on such a brave face like that. Everybody thinks you're basically perfect."
Cyril only sighed and shook his head as he let out a slight chuckle.
"They can believe what they want," he answered. "I'd say it doesn't matter to me, but as a matter of fact, it does."
He turned to look at me with eyes that just seemed so exhausted. I totally understood him – emotional breakdowns and having to constantly put up a front had the potential to suck the very soul out of you. I knew. I probably knew It more than anyone.
"You know, that day when I saw you in the locker room," Cyril said, gazing into my eyes. "I was there because I needed some peace and quiet to calm myself down. I think it was because it was the first day of school and I had to face everyone again and put on this mask so I needed to mentally prepare myself. And that's when I heard you crying."
"I guess we're more alike then we think," I remarked.
Cyril smiled.
"With just you around I guess I don't have to wear that mask anymore," he replied.
I reached out and caressed his cheek. He flinched when I moved my hand, and I realised the bruise that was on his cheekbone.
"Right," I said, getting up. "Do you want me to get an ice pack? For your cheek."
"It's fine," he replied, shaking his head. "I just need to rest."
"What about a warm bath?" I suggested. "Well, we sure need to get cleaned up after all that. And it'll help you relax."
A slight smile curled up Cyril's lips.
"Fine," he muttered.
"Do you want anything while I prepare the bath?" I offered. "You know. . . something hot to drink, anything?"
The young man chuckled as he slowly got up.
"I'll go make it myself," he said with a tired smile. "Thanks for the thought though."
I only returned the smile and headed to the master bath. It was a rather large bathroom, fitted with luxurious furnishings and tiled with marble that felt cool underneath my bare feet. The bathtub was large and spacious, enough to comfortably fit two people in there. I turned the water on and let it fill up.
Meanwhile, I walked over to the mirror and leaned over the marble top sink. I looked at myself in the mirror – I was a mess. My hair was all ruffled, and there was a rather fine scratch on my cheek. There was some dried blood on my sweater. I didn't even know if they were mine or not. As the water rose in the tub and steam wafted through the air, I headed back downstairs to let Cyril know that the bath was all ready for him.
"Well," he said. "Why don't you join me?"
I looked at him, biting my lip. His eyes seemed to practically beg me to say yes. I could recognise those eyes anywhere – full of loneliness, dread and the desire for someone, just anyone, to look into them and tell them that everything was going to be alright. I know it too well. It was the same set of eyes I used to wear.
We headed upstairs and into the bathroom, where the warm bath was waiting, all ready for us. I took off my clothes, and Cyril did the same. As my gaze crawled all over his naked skin, I noticed the bruises that he had gotten from the fight. He got pushed down to the ground anyway.
"What happened to your side?" Cyril asked.
I looked down, and it was then when I realised that a patch of skin on my stomach had turned a reddish blue. I didn't even realised I had gotten bruised over there. I guess it must've happened in the struggle earlier and I never even realised it.
"Probably from earlier," I said, shrugging. "Well, it's nothing major. You sure you don't need an ice pack for yours?"
"I'm pretty sure," he replied, as he dipped his toe into the water.
Cyril got in first, before I followed suit. We sat there facing each other on opposite ends of the tub. I eased myself into the warm water, letting out a deep breath as I felt myself relax.
"You look pretty beat up yourself," I remarked.
"Ah, it's nothing," he replied. "It's not the first time I got into a fight."
"At least we got out of it alive," I said as I leaned back, resting my arms on the edge.
There was a heavy silence as I lapped warm water over my arms.
"I don't know," Cyril said, breaking the silence. "I keep thinking about it. . ."
"Thinking about what?" I asked, sensing where this was going.
"Those two guys that attacked us," he said as he ran his fingers across the surface of the water. "Do you think they're gonna be alright?"
I only forced myself to smile as I reached out and held his hand within two of mine.
"I'm sure they are," I told him.
"I really hope so," he replied. "But. . . from what I saw, you really did some work on them."
He seemed a bit uneasy as he let go of my hand.
"You think I overreacted," I said, as I leaned forward, inching ever so slightly. "That's what you think isn't it?"
Cyril couldn't meet me in the eye.
"I kicked him away," he began. "Because I thought you wouldn't stop if I hadn't done otherwise. Because I thought you were just gonna keep stabbing him."
I stood up, and carefully stepped across the water and sat beside him. My leg wrapped around his as I placed my hand over his toned chest.
"Cyril," I said, my voice soft and gentle. "Cyril look at me."
I caressed his cheek with my other hand, and he finally turned to meet my gaze.
"I already told you this, but they were going to kill us," I said. "I couldn't just stand there and watch them beat you up. I. . .saw that they had a knife, so I just grabbed the first thing I saw and jumped in. You were in danger and I had to do something. And if that meant I had to hurt them, then so be it. I couldn't let them do anything to you, I just couldn't."
My boyfriend kept quiet for a while, while I snuggled up against him, planting a kiss to the soft skin on his neck. I had to admit that my heart was racing as I waited for his response, not knowing what he was going to say. I could only pray that I didn't scare him off. I wasn't entirely lying to him anyway. I just conveniently omitted the bits where I felt like they deserved it for the scum that they were. I did it out of necessity, and any sadistic pleasure I got out of it for unleashing justice was merely secondary.
"Thanks," he finally replied. "Thank you for. . .saving me back there."
"You don't have to thank me," I said as I traced my palm down his abdomen. "I'd do it again a thousand times if I had to."
"I don't know what I'd do if it wasn't for you," he muttered, his voice soft.
He leaned closer, his forehead touching mine, the bridges of our noses brushing against each other.
"Just don't think about it anymore," I said. "It's over. All that matters now is that we're alright."
He leaned in and kissed me. As our lips touched, I could taste the faint trace of blood on his lips. We finally let go after a while, and I rested my head on his chest. I could hear him breathe softly as I held him.
"So," I said. "You've been like this ever since your mother died?"
"Yeah," he replied.
"What's your treatment like?" I questioned him.
He frowned slightly as he looked at me with his brown eyes, almost as if he wasn't really comfortable
"I mean, I understand if you're not really comfortable telling me, or anyone for that matter," I continued. "But I just want you to know that I want to be there for you when you need me. And it'll help me if I understand everything better."
Cyril seemed a bit reluctant, but in the end he told me everything. He told me he had breakdowns sometimes, behind closed doors, when nobody could see him. He takes two tablets of escitalopram in the morning. He visits a therapist an hour's drive away from Bethlehem, mentioning something about how his father said it was one of the best therapists in the area. I wanted to raise an eyebrow, but held myself back. It sounded more like Hugh was trying to hide his son's mental illness from the prying eyes of society. Sure, there was nothing to be ashamed of, but I wondered why the Crawfords were so intent on covering it up. But knowing Bethlehem, it was kind of understandable. People talk.
The conversation soon moved onto his mother – his real mother, Allison Crawford, not his stepmother, Naoko.
"I still remember that day so clearly," he said, his sad eyes staring off into the distance. "I was twelve, and I've just gotten back from school. Usually my mom – my real mom, would pick me up, but that day she told me that she arranged for me to stay at a family friend's. Well, in the end, an emergency came up for that said friend, so I was dropped off at my house after school."
I had a feeling this wasn't going to go anywhere good.
"I looked everywhere, but I couldn't find her. The house was empty," he continued. "I looked in every bedroom, every bathroom, even the garden, but I couldn't find her. Then I realised I haven't checked the garage.
Cyril let out a deep sigh.
"I didn't know what I expected, as a stupid, stupid, child. I should've known, I should've seen it coming. Maybe if I did something, maybe if I told someone. . . Then she wouldn't have locked herself in the garage and turned on her engine. She wouldn't have just given up on everything like that."
I noticed his voice breaking, as the tears began to fall down his cheek.
"You couldn't do anything," I told him, trying to comfort him. "You were twelve, for goodness's sake."
"I've always felt like it was my fault," Cyril replied after a while. "When my mom died. When my sister died."
I couldn't help but feel a bit bad for him. Whatever it was, he didn't deserve to experience such a thing. I couldn't even imagine coming across a dead body at such a young age, what more of your own mother. It's terrible.
"Don't say that," I told him. "Don't."
Cyril was silent for a moment, before he turned to me again, looking at me with glassy eyes. Eyes that hid so much sadness behind a cheery and bright façade. A façade that I've grown too accustomed to. This was the Cyril that was behind that mask that he wore everyday.
This was the real Cyril Crawford.
"It should've been me," he muttered, shaking his head. "It should've been me."