The horror I feel is indescribable. The words ooze from him like pestilent slugs; dripping from lips that are cracked and broken. Each one is more deadly than the last, telling a story of pain and depravation so deep and so painful that I can hardly bear to hear it. But I must. If it is so hard to hear how much more difficult must it have been to live?
I grip more tightly, the hand that trembles in my own and, much as I want to run, I stay; much as I want to cover my ears, I listen; as much as I want to close my eyes I keep them steady, fixed on the ravaged beauty before me.
As the words slowly degrade to incoherency I let go of the hand and take the heaving body into my arms. Tears soak into my shirt and sobs shake the frame that was once to strong and now feels frail, strangely empty. I want to cry too, because my heart is breaking. But now I must be the strong one. I must be the one who bears in silence, in respect, in honour.
Suddenly he pulls away and stares into my eyes, gripping my arms with strength I didn't know he still had.
"You do believe me Jake? You do, don't you? You do believe?"
He is desperate and I don't blame him. He has lived with scorn and disbelief for so long. So many people have dismissed him, choosing to believe easy lies. We live in a small community and there is always someone ready to point the finger. In recent times all the fingers have been pointing in one direction.
"Of course I believe you. I was there wasn't I? I was there. I saw."
"You... were? You... did?" His eyes are wide, surprised, shocked even.
"Don't you remember?" He shakes his head and winces. It hurt. I'm sure that everything must hurt; it looks as if it does. "I was there. I've always been there."
And I have, almost. I was there when his dad beat him. It was my home he came to and my mother who rubbed salve on his wounds and eventually called Social Services. I was there when his foster father abused and then raped him. I was there when he and his brother ran away from foster care and it was me he came to; me who helped them find shelter at a local squat, me who babysat his brother while he went to work, wondering what kind of job paid so well for only a few hours work.
But I hadn't been there when the other members of the squat thought it was funny to get him high and then take turns at him while his brother watched. I hadn't been there when he held his brother while he sobbed and shook with fear because they had told him he would be next. I wasn't there when he turned his first tricks in desperation to buy them off. I hadn't been there when his tricks abused him, drugged him, and hurt him. I hadn't been there when the police picked him up for hustling then forced him to 'please them' in return for not arresting him and leaving his brother alone and vulnerable.
He'd looked like an angel then; with hair as golden as sunshine and beautiful cornflower blue eyes. He was the golden boy, the bright flame always burning, always blazing, blessing everything he touched. The angel Gabriel. He's not an angel now, except perhaps a fallen one.
Now it is my turn to wince. Yes, I was there, at the last. Last night I was there, but it was too little, too late. At the time I thought I was a knight in shining armour rushing in to save my friend but all I did was almost get us both killed and it was Gabriel, again, who saved us – but at what cost?
I barely recognise him. In the last few weeks he's gone downhill fast. Thinking back it has been coming for months. He has been losing weight and condition, his eyes getting bigger as his face got more and more sallow and sunken. I had no way of knowing it was because he was starving and desperate, because the corrupt police officers had been forcing him to work for them and, after giving them their cut and paying off the would be tormentors of his brother, he didn't have enough to feed them both and so he starved; barely managing to stay alive from what he could find in bins and scrounge from friends. Not that he had many friends left.
The whole community knew what he was; what he did, but none of them cared why. He was dirty and unkempt because his clothes were hanging off him and he was too depressed and exhausted to take care of himself. He didn't go to school anymore.
He'd been to my house for dinner fairly regularly. I think my mother saw what was happening even if I didn't. She always had a soft spot for him and always made sure that when he came to us he was well fed and had a long bath which always transformed him. Perhaps that's why I never saw it, because he was more his old self when he was with me. He never stayed over though because he had to be back at the squat to make sure Michael was safe. Very occasionally he brought Michael with him and he added to the image because when he was with his brother, Gabriel still lit up. He was very protective. He lived for Mikey.
There is very little of his old self left now. His eyes are dull and his face is ravaged by starvation, exhaustion and abuse. He's lost so much weight he feels insubstantial in my arms. I can see every rib and hollow far too easily. He used to be so big and strong, always the protector. That was his one great fault... he had to protect everyone; everyone but himself.
How Social Services have not got involved I really don't know. I will never understand. Okay, Gabe was seventeen when he ran away, and an adult now, but Mikey is still only fourteen. God knows how he did it but his experiences in foster care made him prepared to fight tooth and claw to keep Social Services away from Mikey. He would have died for Mikey, he almost did; maybe he will.
I look into his eyes and he blinks slowly and heavily. I can't look away. They may be dull eyes but they are still beautiful; he is still beautiful. There is nothing in his dazed expression that suggests he's aware of it or that it would have mattered if he was. I feel strange. It's been a long time since I have been this close to him. He stopped coming to see me weeks ago.
Gabriel frowns as if he is trying to remember something; his eyes darkening. "I don't remember... What happened? I don't..."
"It's alright, Gabe. They said it was normal for you not to remember. You remember before that so it's okay. Probably just as well."
The frown deepens and he blinks again, then sighs and closes his eye, slipping from my arms to sink back onto the pillows.
"Gabe?"
For a moment he doesn't answer than he opens his eyes and manages a weak smile. "I feel like I got hit by a train."
"Huh. Not quite." He is giving me a very direct look and I feel very uncomfortable.
"I remember... you. Did you save me?"
For a moment the urge is almost irresistible but I have never been able to lie to him.
"Nah. I tried to; I really did, but I messed up and you ended up saving me... again."
"I did?" He looks startled, surprised and confused.
"Fuck man, you were amazing. I was crapping myself and you were so cool, so controlled. I was scared of you myself." His eyes brightened, infected by my excitement.
"What did I do?"
"You only fucking shot him. He never thought you would. Fuck, we both thought you were dead. You wiped the smug look off his face right enough."
"I did WHAT?" He is staring at me open mouthed and I can't help but grin. This time he grins back.
"Don't you remember anything?"
He shrugs. "Not much; kind of vague bits and pieces. I don't remember shooting Blackwell though; not at all. You'd think I'd remember that."
"You were pretty banged up by then." Memories surface unbidden. Blackwell slamming Gabriel's head into the concrete floor again and again until he was lying in a pool of blood. Gabe, his hand shaking but strong, holding the guy, his face a terrifying mask of blood, dirt and pain. Gabe lying in my arms, bleeding and cold. At that moment I had truly believed he was dead and it was hours before I allowed myself to believe that he wasn't, in fact, either dead or dying. It was a long, lonely, scary night and even now I'm not wholly convinced.
