I kiss him softly in the mornings – softly and sweetly against his eyes, his mouth…In the morning, he tastes of cinnamon and thick honey spiced with cloves, and the delicate flavour of his breath seeps through my skin and taints my day with him…I kiss him softly in the mornings and if I’m careful, if I’m good, and don’t linger too long against him or drag my fingers through his thick, dark shocks of hair, he stays asleep and I kiss him again. It’s a game I play in the mornings – to see how many times I can kiss him before his dark enchanted eyes flutter open and his cheeks turn three shades of red because he knows what I’ve been doing.
And he smiles. A soft smile – soft and beautiful – like silk or petals, or cotton clouds…I love to see him smile…It makes me happy.
“Are you happy?” I say.
“Of course I am happy,” he replies and smiles again, and brushes lavender from my cheeks with his slender fingers, and then he kisses me.
He was once my father’s love, my father’s possession; my father’s one and only desire. Now, he is mine.
My love, my only desire.
Wrapped in pretty ribbons and delicate bows, my love was left chained and bound to my doorstep; half naked, scared and confused, cold from the rain that blew down like ice overhead. Curls of red were placed within his hair, swirls of pink and blue behind his ears; his fingers coated in golden rings and neck collared with precious bells and silver chimes. I untied the reins from the railing – a tight double knot – and led him inside, and bathed him, and clothed him and fed him. He was crying – tears that shone like mercury and diamonds, just like my father had described so long ago, just as he had told me…
“Have you ever seen him cry, son?”
“No. Not that I can remember.”
“His tears are beautiful.”
He was a broken thing then – damaged and shattered, devoured and destroyed…He was a sad thing, lent to silence and days of staring out windows and doors; listening, watching, waiting…He was a scarred thing – battered, bruised…
I still can’t understand why he never stopped my father. But then, I suppose, he never knew love in any other way…
I remember the sound of breaking glass, the deep, dark voice of my father filling the house, and then the sound of struggle, of crashing walls and struck furniture, and then silence…I was five…I was scared…I wasn’t supposed to be home…I was supposed to be at school like all the other little children, but I had gone home…complained of a stomach ache and a sore throat, and went home – video games were far more important than social studies…and the yelling started again, and the sound of breaking bones, of metal clashing against the floor, and the falling of bodies…I was five…I was scared…
My father stood in the centre of the room; naked, sweating, enraged…and at his feet was Gohan…chained and bound Gohan…bloodied, pale, crying Gohan. He knelt at my father’s feet, his head dropped to the floor, his hands lashed behind his back, and he was crying; shivering, shaking…and my father stared at him…stared at the blood that flowed from the wound on the back of his neck, stared at the glass still splintering from his spine…the tears, the torture, the grief. He stared in silence…
He lowered his hand – gently, smoothly – cupping Gohan’s narrow chin, and then he bent to his own knee and pressed his forehead against the dark shocks of wild sweaty hair entangled in Gohan’s eyes. He smoothed the slim jaw-line, held it, as if it were treasure – the only treasure…and he found those dark sad eyes, filled with fear, wonder – child-like and innocent – love…He found those eyes, and my father was saddened by them, guilty of them…
“You are precious,” he said, his voice low – soft, sweet – like a melody the stars would play. “You are perfect,” he said as he kissed the damp eyes that stared back at him. And he kissed Gohan then, kissed him deeply – thoroughly – as if to devour fears and ache, as if to take back dealt damage and pain…He kissed him…and Gohan fell into the kiss; lavished himself inside, drank it, consumed it…
My father continued, wrapping the chains around his arms, pulling Gohan against him, tighter and tighter, until breath was choked and hollowed…Gohan remained silent, still, unmoving as breath fled him, as his eyes blacked and rolled behind his eyelids…
I must have screamed, or made some movement…or something…something that drew attention, for my father snapped awake. He looked at me with those dark eyes of his, those dark proud eyes and released his hold on Gohan. “You’re home early,” he said, without a hint of shock or worry, or anything other than annoyance. He picked Gohan’s collapsed body up from the floor, gathered the chains in his hands, and placed him on the bed.
I ran.
It was never mentioned. Their relationship was never spoken of again – until Mom died, and then only twice. I had been invited to the mansion for dinner. It was rare to receive an invitation to dinner there…outside, yes, that was common – to restaurants, to diners, to late night noodle stands…to talk, to chat, to discuss, to mourn…but to the mansion…The mansion was my father’s domain, his home, his privacy…He did not entertain there, as Mom had…He did not allow them to grope and gape at her collections, or his…he did not want their questions, their answers, their sympathies – he did not want them to intrude…but I received an invitation, so I went…
There was little conversation, other than: “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“The meal is delicious.”
“Gohan worked hard on it.”
“He’s a good cook.”
“Yes, he is.” But there was tension…
My father had prepared a show for me, a presentation of sorts…I had expected as much, for it had only been four months before that I had tried to relieve him of his most precious possession…but I do not think this was revenge, or maliciousness, or anything other than a lesson for me – a lesson that his possession was his and his alone, and nothing, nor no one would change that…
Gohan was ushered in after dinner, after we had retired to the sitting room. He was walked in, slowly, meaningfully – a grand entrance to the ball…He was tired, bruised, quiet, but he smiled – smiled brightly upon seeing me, and he hugged me and shook my hand and welcomed me to their home…chains, leashes and all…
And we talked, the three of us…of weather and events, of jobs and careers, of sunsets and journeys to the stars. And my father held him close, next to his chest, and smoothed the soft hair above his ear, and held the reins loosely in his hand – as if to prove that Gohan could leave anytime he wanted to; that Gohan was no prisoner, that Gohan wanted this…
Strange how a person’s voice can make the sun shine and the rain fall, how it can control the world…or how it seems like it can. How that voice makes the world revolve and the planets die…and for Gohan, that voice was my father’s. “Go to sleep,” was all he said, all he uttered, and Gohan was asleep; curled against my father’s thigh, hands laid gently under his chin, knees curled to his chest – like a child…a child afraid of dreams and shadows…
For long moments my father watched him, his eyes suddenly deep and melancholy…sad. “Sometimes,” he said softly as he traced Gohan’s dark lashes, “I’m afraid I’ll go too far.”
“Then why don’t you stop?”
“I can’t,” was all he said before the silence filled the room, before he kissed those dreaming eyes, and let loose the reins upon his lap. “I don’t know how.”
“It’s easy. Just don’t – that’s all there is to it.”
“I’ve tried.”
“When?” I challenged.
“What do you think Videl was for?”
“Gohan loved Videl.”
“Because I told him to.”
“He made her happy.”
“Because I told him to.”
“He cried at her funeral.”
“Because I told him to.”
“He mourned her loss, Dad. He mourned her for a year.”
“Because I told him to.”
He looked upon Gohan then, whispered satin in his ear; sending him further into butterfly dreams. He looked so peaceful then, asleep by my father. Like the evening sky when the clouds have all but faded into red and the sun sits idly on the mountaintops looking down at us. Breath taking…Heart wrenching…
“It was everything I could do that day not to take her life, to stop her from taking my love from me,” he said, his voice like smooth-edged gravel. “I gave him to her, to hold and keep safe, but I did not do it willingly. If you knew how hard I fought for control when I saw them there…”
I remembered that day too…I remember hating her and loving her at the same time – for freeing him from my father and chaining him to her instead…but I also remember the look in his eyes…There was nothing left for him in the world save for her – that day and everyday until she died.
“And he loved me enough to stay,” my father continued, “He knew what I was trying to do. He knew I was trying to leave him.”
“Then leave him again. Leave him with someone who will keep him safe.”
“Like you?” he snarled.
“Like me.” I defended.
“I can’t live without him, son. I can’t live — I need him. I need to feel him…to hold him…to -”
“To hurt him?” I was disgusted, angry, wrecked…I could see the scars of my father stretched down his arms and around his neck. I could see my father’s love for him.
“I only want him to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“And you think he’s happy now? You think this is happiness?”
“For him?” he asked, his voice subdued and choked. “Yes. And that…He doesn’t stop me, never says enough…never warns me or screams or yells…never so much as whispers one word of disagreement. He’s so loyal, so willing…I’m afraid for him. The day is coming when I forget myself, when I forget him – when I forget that he will go through hell for me.”
I left him then – without a word I left. I received more invitations, but I never accepted them. Never again did I set foot inside the mansion.
My father and I still talked, but of other things; of life and the world. And I made it a point to see Gohan more often – poor, sweet Gohan; loyal, willing Gohan…I ate lunch with him twice a week and took him out to dinner on Saturdays when my father made plans with Bra. And we talked – or rather, I talked. Gohan preferred listening, or watching, or sitting silently next to me and breathing…just breathing – like he was afraid he would forget, or that he would get it wrong…or that he didn’t get to very often. We would go to the park a lot and I would let him feed the birds as I talked, and he smiled…
My father and I only spoke of Gohan one other time and then never again – too much fire and angst, I suppose. Too much desire.
It was raining that evening, the last time we spoke of him. A torrential downpour in the middle of West City. We’d scrambled for cover under the eaves of a coffee shop. I ordered a chocolate mint brew, he had herbal tea. He always had herbal tea.
“Coffee and mint only taste good after the sun has set,” I explained, and he nodded and returned to his tea.
We sat for some time on the veranda, watching silently as the people floated beneath us. Silence rarely held such power between us. We normally filled the space with words, flooded ourselves with sounds and syllables, but it was nice. Sometimes I like silence.
“Do you love him?” he finally asked me, as he stared into his tea, swirling and sloshing it in his mug.
“Yes. You know that I do.”
He nodded softly. “Would you fight me for him?”
“I would fight you to the death father, if I knew that he loved me in return.”
And then the conversation moved on to other things – Capsule Corp, decorating plans, the new high-rise being built near the mansion…
Years later, my father took up with some exotic woman from the coast with lush dark hair and smooth dark skin. In the morning her eyes glisten gold and in the evening verdant bronze. She speaks with a thick accent – she rolls her r’s and clicks her t’s. She knows nothing of books and pages, nothing of cars and apartments…She knows only her surroundings, her flowers and shells, her sunsets and oceans. She weaves hand-dyed fabrics of blue and purple and red and orange into blankets and hats and socks, and sends them with her brother into town. He returns with food and supplies, and little trinkets for her hair. And she enjoys my father – she likes the way he laughs and grumbles, and has taught him to make necklaces out of reed and vines. They built a house there on the coast, a big house in the trees and they grow herbs for tea.
And Gohan was given to me. My father’s present…
Gohan was a damaged thing then, and broken…A sad thing, a small thing, dead inside…his eyes were hollow and his voice invisible. It took a week before he would speak to me openly…a year before he would look me in the eyes without my reminding…two years before he would kiss me without command…
He’s beautiful. He’s everything I ever wanted.
In the mornings I lay in bed as he washes and dresses himself for work. I am the president of Capsule Corp now – I set my own hours, but he is a professor of Science. His hours are set for him. He chooses dark coats and white shirts, beige pants and brightly colored ties. His choices are conservative – boring, comfortable. He places the glasses upon his face and my love is now disguised and nervous, afraid to step clear of our doorstep, nervous to find his way into the world.
He doesn’t like to leave me.
He doesn’t like to be without me.
That makes me happy.
There are days, like today, when it seems as if he’s disappeared too soon, and my desperation for him gets the better of me. I feel crazed and all my thoughts, all my will, is of him. I go to him then, slip past his secretary, his students, and into his office. He is shocked to see me – he always is – and he stumbles his greeting, stutters, and blushes until I lock the door.
I guess my father never came to him like this – so desperate, needing…or maybe he did, maybe he was shocked then too, and stumbled and fumbled until the door was locked behind him. At the second click of the shiny metal piece, he grows quiet, calm; a dam for the sudden rush of my desire, of my mania, my confusion…
I slam myself against him, pour myself into him; my thoughts, my wants, my self. I crawl inside his mouth, under his clothes, until I am soaked with his sweat, his scent, and he holds me against him and becomes my bones and structure, and I stand again…
And though I am unsatiated, I leave…I understand the importance of his work, how much joy it brings him…and though my chest aches as the tie is wrapped around his neck, and my love is once again disguised, I leave.
In the hours after, I am stone – I am resolved. I sit in my chair and fill the papers in front of me with my slanted black ink signature. I close myself to him, to the scent that still lingers on my hands and the taste in my mouth – menthol and lemon from long days of speaking…
And the clock moves slowly like an ancient curse, and by the end of my day imprisoned behind the desk, I am irritable. I can no longer ignore him – my desire for him, my need of him.
I know what desire is. Desire is Gohan.
He returns to me a mirror of my desperation. He twines himself around me – blanketing me – as if it is only through me that he can hold breath. He comes to me like a maniac, wrenching and clawing, ripping and tearing at my clothes until I am glistening and revealed. And I love him.
I find my way beneath his clothes and help myself to him – to the soft spot behind his ear that makes him shiver…to the hollow of his ribcage that makes him close his eyes and hold his breath…to the inside of his thighs that makes him moan and pant and curl his hands through my hair…
I know what desire is.
For hours I toy with him, his fingers, his ears, his hair…For hours I make him wait, make him anticipate as I have all day, make him issue forth deep groans from the bottom of his throat. I make him sweat and pant, and gasp for air…I make him shake and tremble. I make him want me, want every single piece of me, want me more than anything…as I want him…more than anything…
I fill him with myself – I want to be inside him, to live inside him; to breathe for him, to move for him…I want him to see me as I do him – beautiful, precious, perfect…
I am as deep as I can be, wrapped around him as tight as I can; my mouth against his ear whispering how much I love him, how much I want him, how much I want to crawl inside him and remain forever…how sweet and soft and wonderful he is…
But sometimes, like today, it becomes too much, this desire of mine…
My fingers run bright red with pieces of him…He drips from the corner of my mouth, and coats my thighs. I can take him with me now – wherever I go – these pieces of him underneath my nails, between my teeth…and at once I am happy at this thought – that he will always be with me – but I am also disgusted.
I know now what desire is…
I stop – I have to – when I see what I have done…when I see my own desperation…And I fall against him, fall into him, and wait for the madness to pass. I breathe against his ear, his neck, and I whisper how sorry I am – how I didn’t mean to do it, how I’ll never do it again…
There are those that say I am like my father…and on these days, when my father is all too close to the surface and I fear for Gohan, we stop. I lay back upon the floor and wince at the blood pooling at Gohan’s feet. Then others…my father is easily subdued, chased back underneath my skin, beyond anyone’s reach. And he says nothing either way, he simply smiles at me and wipes the dark hair from his eyes. Either way he’s happy, as if I can do no wrong for him…
After, he tells me of his day. It brings him great joy to tell me of his day, and he is bright and animated, and excited. He talks rapidly and smiles. I don’t think my dad ever did this for him, ever listened; ever knew him like this. I don’t think he ever saw how happy Gohan could be – how happy he wanted to be, how bright and shiny. I don’t think he ever saw beyond the scars…
But then, sometimes I don’t either.
It’s been eight years now since my father gave him to me, and I must say he’s gotten better. He’s learned to think for himself – like what movie he wants to watch, or what he wants to eat. He’s learned not to apologize when he’s late getting home from work. He’s learned that he can leave the room without my permission, and return without my acknowledgement. He’s gotten better. It makes me happy.
I kiss him good night. He tastes of coffee and mint. He tastes so good in the evening, and I linger inside his mouth for one last drop of him…
“Are you happy?” he asks me when the lights are out and he’s curled under my arm.
“Yes. Of course I’m happy. Do you want me to be happy?”
“I need you to be happy.”
I wish he’d say want. I want it to be his choice, his own decision to make me happy – not a need, as if something else depends on it…
It’s been eight years now since my father gave to him to me, and I must say that I’m afraid…I cannot live without my father’s present. I am saturated with him, soaked and filled – my every thought, every desire is for him, of him, by him…but I am afraid…
Humans don’t live forever…
