Date: Fri, 6 Feb 2004 11:53:57 -0500 From: Sean Roberts Subject: The Silver Compass - 5 The Silver Compass By: Sean Roberts Author's Note: Thank you to those who have sent me comments, they are very much appreciated. Please send all feedback to seanr_13@yahoo.ca Jagged Ink His body had become pale. It happened to him every morning. Food and alcohol and cigarettes seemed to revitalize his colour, but during his sleep they drained it, leaving him with pale skin. But though the colour changed, his skin felt the same. Michael found this out in the morning when he woke up first and slipped his hand inside Cameron's shirt. He rested his palm on his stomach, Cameron's navel at the centre of Michael's palm. He moved his hand upwards, pulling the shirt along, and kissed the lower part of Cameron's stomach. He felt Cameron's hand touch his, through the shirt. Michael did not look at him but instead kissed his neck. "Good morning," he said finally. "Morning Mike. How did you sleep?" "Really well actually," Michael said. He kissed Cameron's neck again before getting dressed. They walked back slowly to the hotel, parting only after agreeing to meet for breakfast. As he walked along the path to find the villa that contained his room, he watched the clouds, the sky, and felt the breeze in his hair. It would be a gorgeous day. Matthew had already left the room. His comforter was dishevelled but still tucked in. Michael found the room cold. He checked and saw that the temperature had been dropped considerably. His brother had a rough night. Michael came out of the shower and sat at the desk. It was a thin, rectangular table made out of a dark wood and containing two, small drawers. A telephone and a note pad rested on top. One of the drawers contained a pen. It was a pearl white, with the hotel name and logo printed in green letters. It was brand new. Not many people sent back post cards. The first words he wrote, Dear Sarah, caused the pen to scratch on the page. But the ink flowed more easily afterwards. You'll never guess what happened. His name is Cameron. He's amazing. But Matthew caught us kissing, and he won't talk to me. I don't think he'll tell our parents though, which is good, because I don't even want to know what they would think about it. The hotel is amazing and the beach is a lot of fun. I miss you very, very much. But I need you here; I don't know what to do. I don't even think you'd be able to write me back. I can't wait to see you. I love you. Mike P.S. He's as beautiful as you are. The letter travelled for a week before making its way to Sarah Johnson's post box. "There's a letter for you here," her mother said. It was Friday evening. Her mother was home from work and Sarah was still in her pyjamas. "Thanks." She looked at the envelope. The writing was strange; unrecognizable. There was no return address, but there was a stamp from the Dominican Republic. Mike? It had been only a week but she missed him as desperately as he missed her. "How come you're still in your pyjamas dear?" Sarah looked up. "I didn't go anywhere today," she said. "Umm, do you need help with dinner?" "Oh, no, your father is bringing home pizza. But if you like you can help me clean..." "Great mom." Sarah ran upstairs. The silver letter opener on her desk was a present from Matthew. They always gave each other generic Christmas gifts. She was Michael's friend and he did not want to get in between. She opened it as carefully as possible. The fibres of the paper were sticking out of the slit in the fold. She ran her finger along it, wanting desperately to read the contents but thinking it might be bad news. She pulled it out carefully. There was a single piece of paper, folded in half. She unfolded it carefully. She noticed the green and orange logo of the hotel at the top of the sheet. The writing below was not straight. The S on Sarah was too big for the rest of the letters in her name. Her eyes ran quickly to the bottom of the letter where Michael's name appeared above a post script. She could not recognize the writing; why did it look like this? She read it slowly. She could feel him in each letter and she wanted to make the words last. The post script made her want to cry but she stopped herself. She had to make herself be happy for him. She was his best friend. Since they were born they lived across the street from each other. Her and Michael's parents were friends too; good ones. But she had fallen in love with him a year ago. She did not want this to interfere with their friendship, but it was taking over. * Her parents went out of town for a weekend when they were sixteen and he went to stay with her. Her parents and his parents knew their kids; they did not mind. They were best friends so what was the harm? They sat on her bed; empty bottles of liquor lying on the floor. She was wearing pyjamas – she liked wearing pyjamas. She wore cotton ones with baby colours and teddy bears; or snow men, or penguins with hats and ice skates. Or polar bears – the ones he had bought her. They were baby blue. He thought the colour looked nice on her. It was nearing Christmas though, and she was wearing the ones with the snow men. She was flirting, obviously and crudely, and they were laughing. He kissed her as a joke but it made the laughing stop. He was looking past her; she was staring directly at him. "God I love you," she said. She kissed him the next time – but she really kissed him. It was not the same peck on the lips. "I love you too Sarah." He could not believe what he was saying. This was Sarah, his best friend. They learned how to ride bicycles together; they played baseball together. Sometimes, when they were younger, they fought like a brother and sister. Am I lying to myself? Her eyes told him that he wasn't lying; he did love her. She wanted him to feel her. She did not think of herself as a woman when she was around him – when he was there and she was his friend. She wanted him to see her differently. She lifted his right hand and brought it up to one of the buttons on her pyjamas. He popped it open. Then the next one, and the one after that, until she was naked from the waist up. His shirt was already on the floor. It had been there since the beginning of the evening. Michael was comfortable enough with her to be able to do that. He kissed her neck with his eyes closed. "I love you," he said again, without opening his eyes; without looking at her. He heard a click and the lamp beside her bed turned off. He still kept his eyes closed. He wanted to feel her. While he squeezed her breasts he smelled her perfume. She was wearing the one she always wore. She owned two scents – one for every day, and the other for special occasions. He savoured the familiar smell while he explored her body. He did not need to open his eyes. He felt her legs spreading out underneath him. With his lips on hers he entered her; gently. But he needed to speed up, to push harder, or he would not be able to continue. He heard nothing from her except breathing. He felt her hands on his back; he felt her chest pressed against his. He pushed harder. He heard a moan. He was still having trouble sustaining it. He pushed harder still, knowing that if he was hurting her she would say something; but she didn't make a sound. He began to sweat. He felt moisture on her. He did not know if she was sweating as well, or if it was just his sweat doing it to both of their bodies. She's a virgin, he thought. This has to be hurting her. Still, he pushed harder until he finished. He collapsed beside her on the bed. She was breathing just as heavily as he was. His eyes were open but he was looking in the direction of the ceiling. He could see very little because of the darkness. He felt her hand briefly on his stomach, and then he heard her getting out of bed. He lay still, not moving until she returned. She climbed into bed next to him. She covered them both with the comforter and reached over him to something on her night stand. A moment later Chopin was playing. The second piano note of `Nocturne in E Flat' made her kiss his chest. Neither of them spoke. Michael sat up and lit a cigarette. The smoke and the music kept him away from what he had just done. He said a quick good night before returning home. * At eight o'clock the next morning he was at her door. She was in her pyjamas again; half asleep and trying to open her eyes against the sunlight. "Mike? It's eight in the morning...what are you...are you okay?" Before she had fallen asleep the night before she was thinking about what it would be like to see him again. She wondered how she would feel when they smiled at each other, knowing that they had both connected on such a deep level. But he looked upset. "Come inside." He was on the verge of tears because of what he had done to her the night before. He thought about it one more time, while looking at her, to be absolutely sure he was not lying to himself. "I'm gay Sarah." "What?" He had said it too softly. He told himself earlier not to say it softly because he did not want to have to repeat it. He wanted her to hear it and acknowledge it the first time he said it. "I'm gay." He said it louder. He did not see a reaction. She had heard it the first time but he had been staring at the black and white tiles of her floor. "What do you mean?" "I mean I'm gay. I-I like men. I'm gay Sarah..." "No. You can't be. Last night Mike, what you did last night you couldn't have done..." "You were touching me Sarah. And we were kissing. Touch is all it takes. I'm sorry. I should have told you but I didn't. I know how you must feel just now." "No, Mike, I don't think you do know. I don't think you can possibly understand what it feels like to have just been fucked by a lying bastard like you. So I think you should just fucking leave. Now." She took three steps backwards and sat down on the stairs. She buried her face in her hands. Michael turned around and left the house, shutting the door behind him, the click giving him the realization that he had done it. He had never before heard such pain in her voice. He did not know what to do. He climbed into bed when he got home. Michael wrapped himself tightly in his comforter and closed his eyes, longing to be able to sleep, hoping that the pain he had caused her would disappear when he woke up. Something was wrong. The writing was too messy, it couldn't be his. She always smiled when he paid her compliments, but she did not smile at his post script. There was something odd about the way he had written it. Something she could not figure out. Something she could not even ask him about. She wished she could write him back. But because she could not she reassured herself that he would be alright. She brought the page closer to her nose. It smelled like the beach. How she wished she was there. She suddenly longed to be able to turn back time and say yes to him when he asked her if she would be able to come with them on the trip. She had said no because she wanted a break from him. She found herself unable to date when he was around. Knowing that Michael was there, across the street from her, waiting to hear about her date when she got home, kept her distant from the men she went out with. She had seen nobody since Michael left. She replaced the letter in the envelope and placed it in a drawer. For her, out of sight did not mean out of mind. But she still tried.