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Cries of a Shadow	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2757 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
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The superintendent turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. “Welcome home, Tom,” he greeted softly.
By ducking his head, Tom managed to conceal his embarrassment behind a curtain of hair. “Thanks, Jerry.”
Removing his key, Jerry placed a hand on Tom’s arm. “If you need anything…”
The unfinished sentence hung suspended between them, the sudden silence sending a prickle of heat rippling over Tom’s skin. There was no doubt in his mind the super had witnessed him lying in a puddle of his own urine...naked...bloodied, and with his dignity stripped bare for all to see. The reality of his life had spread further than he had initially realized, and he wondered if the whole building were now privy to his dirty little secret. It was a sobering thought, and his chin sank closer to his chest, his shoulders slumping forward in shame. How could he ever hold his head up again, knowing everyone was talking about him? His status as resident doormat had intensified tenfold. No one would take him seriously because he’d proved himself a weak, ineffectual man too afraid to stand up to his brother’s abuse. His humiliation was palpable, and he lowered his head a little further, tears of shame stinging his tormented eyes. He’d thought he’d find peace in the familiar surroundings of his apartment, but in truth, it had only brought on more heartache, and it was then the realization hit him. Not only would he have to leave the job he loved, but he would also have to abandon the one constant in his life...his home.
Sensing Tom’s need to escape the super’s well-intentioned offer of support, Booker ushered his friend inside. “Thanks, we’ll let you know,” he responded over his shoulder, and with a nod of his head, he closed the door.
Safe from the unwanted attention of others, a metaphorical weight lifted from Tom’s shoulders, and he exhaled an audible sigh. He was finally free from prying eyes, free to relax without fear of ridicule. But as he stared around his apartment, a cold sweat spread over his body, dampening his skin. Then, as if on cue, a collage of multi-colored memories burst open inside his head, overriding all his other senses. The vivid images brought to the surface all his anguish and pain, the tortuous flashbacks working their way down into his throat, suffocating him with the truth. Panic squeezed his heart and closing his eyes, he started to count, his balled fists thumping his thighs in rhythm to his anxious mutterings. “One...two...three...four…”
“Hey, man, are you okay?”
The unexpected contact of a warm hand gripping his shoulder had Tom jumping in alarm, and spinning around, he stared into Booker’s worried face. “I-I…” he stammered, the words lodging painfully in his throat. He was drowning in a sea of memories and unable to cope, he squeezed his eyes closed, and wrapping his arms around his torso, he started to sway.
Lowering his hand to his side, Booker rubbed a nervous hand over his mouth. Although the odd behavior gave him cause for concern, he remained where he was, unwilling to invade his friend’s space during such an emotional moment. And so, he watched on, the long, drawn-out pause hanging uncomfortably between them, waiting for the sound of a voice to cut through the leaden shrill of silence thickening the air of the stuffy apartment.
It took several minutes for the distressing images in Tom’s mind to clear, and opening his eyes, he stared down at the floor. “Sorry.”
The single-word apology sounded like a pistol shot, the vibration of Tom’s voice ricocheting off the suffocating stillness, bringing life back into the room, and with it, the opening Booker needed to continue their dialogue. Clearing his throat, the dark-haired officer offered his friend a smile. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”
The left side of Tom’s mouth twitched at the edges. He felt the need to explain himself, but he found it difficult to articulate his feelings. “It’s just...overwhelming, you know?”
Booker didn’t know, how could he? He’d never experienced a sexual assault, nor had he suffered at the hands of a deviant brother. But he made sure to keep his expression neutral while craftily changing the conversation to more mundane matters. “Are you hungry? If you are, I could make you a sandwich.”
A slow, appreciative smile danced over Tom’s lips before vanishing beneath a wave of pain. The tidal spasm engulfed his brief moment of serenity, and he closed his eyes for a moment before refocusing on Booker's face. “No, I think I might lie down for a while, I’m kinda beat.”
“Have you taken your meds?”
Tom’s fingers toyed with a telltale bulge in his pocket. “Not since this morning.”
“Gimme,” Booker commanded, his outstretched hand beckoning impatiently.
Suppressing a sigh, Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of pills. He stared at them for a second before reluctantly handing them over to his friend. Booker took a moment to read the pharmaceutical label stuck to the orange vial. Once satisfied he had the dosage correct, he unscrewed the cap, tapped two tablets into his hand and held them out to Tom. “Here.”
With no choice but to comply, Tom took the pills and placing them on his tongue, he swallowed them down with a grimace. Taking any form of prescription medication went against his principles, but he’d made a promise to his friend, and he was a man of his word. And while he hated bowing down to pressure, a small part of him welcomed the relief the pills afforded him. He found the sharp, jagged pain ripping through his insides exhausting, and he longed for some respite from the physical and mental suffering he’d endured since his assault. It was a cop out, of sorts, but he was past caring. All he wanted was to go to sleep and not wake up until everyone had forgotten the crimes his brother had committed against him.
Happy he had things under control, Booker placed the container of tablets on the coffee table. “I was thinking of ordering pizza later. Do you want me to wake you in a couple of hours?”
“I’m not really hungry,” Tom replied in a soft voice. “But you go ahead, the takeout menus are in the kitchen drawer.”
Disappointment shone in Booker’s eyes, but he accepted Tom’s decision. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
Tom managed a forced smile. “Yeah, see you then. G’night.”
“‘Night,” Booker murmured, even though it was only four o’clock in the afternoon, and exhaling a weary sigh, he watched his friend walk into the bedroom and close the door.
**
Left to his own devices, Booker took the time to explore Tom’s apartment. He found some bed linen in a wall cupboard and taking out two pale blue sheets and a pillow, he set them aside ready to use on his makeshift bed, a.k.a. the sofa. As he started to close the cupboard door, he spied what looked to be the corner of a wooden box partly concealed beneath a pile of neatly stacked towels. Squatting down, he pulled the box from its hiding place. Small in size—approximately five inches by seven inches—the first thing he noticed was the mahogany-colored chest’s convex decorative lid. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he traced his fingers over the ornate engraving, the feel of the finely carved woodwork beneath his hand triggering an artistic awakening. It was a work of supreme craftsmanship, a testament to the mastery of its creator, and he briefly wondered where the box came from and which Hanson brother it belonged to. Curious, he tried to open it, but the lid remained stubbornly closed. Turning the container in his hands, he noticed a tiny keyhole, the scallop-edged brass plate matching the two hinges at the back. Intrigued as to the box’s contents, he held it up to his ear and gave it a gentle shake. A soft rustling resonated from inside the chest, the sound reminding Booker of Fuller shuffling a stack of paperwork. But without the key, he had no way of knowing what secrets the box held, and with a sigh, he placed it back beneath the towels and quietly closed the cupboard door.
Looking at his watch, he was surprised to see it was nearly five o’clock, and on cue, his stomach growled. With pizza now on his mind, he glanced at Tom’s bedroom door, and he briefly considered checking in on his friend. But as he didn’t want to risk waking him, he decided against it. When his stomach growled for the second time, he came to the conclusion that eating was as good a way as any to pass the time and hauling himself to his feet, he went in search of a menu.
**
Six hours later
A dull, aching throb inside Tom’s bladder gradually dragged his mind back to consciousness. Opening his eyes, he squinted into the inky darkness until his vision adjusted to the gloom. He lay for a moment, contemplating the urgency of nature’s call. But after a couple of minutes, he knew he couldn’t put it off any longer, and gritting his teeth, he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and sat up.
The sudden movement caused an unexpected drop in his blood pressure, leaving his head swimming and his vision tripling. With a moan, he flopped back against his pillow and waited for his head to clear. Not wanting to make the same mistake again, he took his time before slowly pushing himself back into a sitting position. Black spots danced before his eyes, briefly disorienting him, and he gripped the edge of the mattress as he wondered if it were the medication making him feel woozy or the effects of a deep sleep. Either way, he silently prayed it wasn’t a harbinger of ill health. Since childhood, he’d always prided himself on his ability to stay fit, and he rarely suffered from any physical ailments apart from the common cold. Emotional ailments, on the other hand, came hand in hand with his abuse. Even those too wrapped up in their own lives could see he was a nervous wreck eighty percent of the time. Of course, no one had known why until his spectacular fall from grace. His rape was a turning point, and whether he liked it or not, he no longer had the luxury of ignoring the facts. People would expect him to get help, and that meant, opening up to a therapist about his and Will’s incestuous relationship. The thought terrified him, not just because he was a private person, but because he didn’t want to have to acknowledge the painful reality of his life. After all, the truth hurt, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear out loud what he already suspected in his heart.
Not wanting to dwell on the uncertainty of his future, Tom rose to his feet and walked over to the window. Unaccustomed to wearing boxers in bed, he readjusted the underwear so it wasn’t giving him a wedgie. It was then he noticed a damp stickiness adhered to the soft folds of material, and moving his hand in front of his face, he studied his bloody fingers beneath the light of the waning half moon. His shoulders slumped forward, pressed down by an unseen weight, and he wondered when the indignity of it all would end, if ever. But there were more pressing issues at hand than lamenting the unfairness of his life. He needed to pee, and if he didn’t hurry up, he’d make a bigger fool of himself than he already had.
Wiping his fingers on his soiled boxers, his eyes scanned the room, looking for his robe before remembering he was wearing it on the night of his assault. Technicolored memories flooded his mind once more, the unwanted parasitic images feeding on his will to live. It was all becoming too much, too painful, and he briefly considered opening the bedroom window and jumping out. He wasn’t certain a twenty-six-foot fall would kill him, but the pull was so strong, his fingers hovered over the window’s latch, daring him to man up and take matters into his own hands for once in his life. But as he grasped the cool metal lock, a vision of Booker’s panicked face chased away all the other thoughts inside his head, and his hand dropped to his side. He couldn't do it. He couldn't lay the burden of guilt onto the only person who had stood by him. He couldn’t and he wouldn’t. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a selfish sonofabitch, and Booker meant too much to him to hurt him in such a deliberate way.
Moving away from the window, he spied Will’s robe hanging in the open closet. He hurried across the room and pulling the terry cloth gown from its hanger, he put it on. With his need to urinate becoming more urgent with each passing minute, he grabbed a pair of clean boxers and shoved them in his pocket. Time was of the essence, and clutching the edges of the toweling robe in his hand, he opened the door and tiptoed out into the living area of his apartment.
The soft sound of breathing reached his ears, the slow, steady tempo soothing in its regularity. By the faint light of the pale crescent moon, he could just make out the shape of Booker’s body stretched out on the three-seater sofa. His heart fluttered against the wall of his chest, the unexpected sensation sending a shiver over his sleep-warmed flesh. Turning away, he moved toward the bathroom, but as he approached, a slow rising panic crippled his weakened body, forcing him to a standstill. Wide-eyed, he stared at the door, his body incapable of movement. Behind the innocuous looking paneling, the ghost of his past lived on, and he could almost hear his own tortured screams echoing off the tiled walls. The crime that had taken place was so horrific it was only spoken about in whispers, and yet inside Tom’s head, it reverberated louder than his own voice. A part of him had died that day, and his spirit remained trapped within the bathroom’s four walls, reliving his ordeal over and over again...unable to break free...unable to put the nightmarish reality of his past behind him.
Too terrified to proceed, the frightened officer did the only thing he could think of, he switched on the living room light. Flashes of color invaded Booker’s dream, the luminous glow jerking him back to full awareness. A disgruntled groan rumbled in the back of his throat and rolling over, he threw an arm over his eyes, shielding them from the harsh glare. “What the hell?”
Tom danced from one foot to the other, his hand cupping his genitals. “S-Sorry,” he muttered. “I n-need to pee.”
“So, pee already,” Booker mumbled, his eyes fluttering closed.
“I CAN’T!”
The desperate scream had Booker bolting upright, his expression one of confusion. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I CAN’T GO IN THERE!” Tom yelled, his face contorting in discomfort as he struggled not to wet himself.
It took Booker a moment to understand the problem, but when he did, he knew exactly what he needed to do. Jumping to his feet, he walked swiftly across the room, and opening the door, he turned on the light.
“Then I’ll come in with you,” he stated in a calm voice, and taking Tom by the arm, he ushered him into the bathroom. As soon as Tom’s bare feet hit the tiled floor, he ran across the room and flipping open the lavatory seat, he emptied his aching bladder.
The steady stream of urine hitting the toilet water awakened a need inside Booker, and he jiggled up and down, his own desire to pee becoming stronger with each passing moment. Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, Tom pulled the chain and moved over to the sink. Booker immediately took his friend’s place, a loud sigh exhaling from between his lips as he relieved himself into the bowl.
Embarrassed by the public display, Tom exited the bathroom without having a chance to change his boxers. Outside, City Hall’s clock struck eleven, but rather than return to bed, the young officer went and stood by the large living room window. Mesmerized, he stared at the haze of neon lights showcasing the city’s skyline, but the bright colors failed to chase away the shadows blanketing his mind. His bleak mood intensified as a light rain started to fall from the night sky, the misty drizzle creating iridescent rainbows on the pitted asphalt below. Drawn toward the oppressive misery of the inclement weather, his vision blurred, the abstract pattern of raindrops forming on the window waxing and waning as his eyes went in and out of focus. A weighty sigh expelled from his nostrils. He was tired...tired of not fitting in and tired of feeling inadequate. But most of all, he was tired of feeling alone.
“Is everything okay, Tom?”
At the sound of his name, Tom turned, the faint light emanating from the window casting half shadows across his pale face. “Yeah,” he murmured, his distant gaze coming back into focus. “I...um...I was just...I never thanked you for cleaning up.”
The memory of the shit-covered bathroom sent a shudder of revulsion rippling down Booker’s spine, but he managed to keep his disgust under wraps. “It wasn’t me,” he answered truthfully. “I employed someone to...anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s done, let’s forget about it.”
“How much do I owe you?
“I said forget about it, Tom,” Booker reiterated a little too loudly. “It’s not important. You can buy me a couple of beers next time we go out.”
Turning away, Tom stared at the ghostly image of his reflection mirrored in the rain-splattered glass. “It wasn't supposed to be like this.”
A look of sadness passed over Booker’s face, and taking several steps toward the window, his reflection joined Tom’s. “No, I don't suppose it was.”
“My parents were good people,” Tom continued in a soft voice, his expression a picture of wretchedness. “And my brother...my brother always took care of me. He was my best friend. He was my everything, and I know he didn't mean to hurt me.”
There was a hint of uncertainty in Tom’s voice, and it was this slight hesitation that fueled Booker’s decision to speak his mind. “But he did hurt you, Tommy,” he murmured. “What Will did was a crime, and he needs to be punished.”
Tears glistened in Tom’s tortured eyes. “I know,” he whispered, his fingers anxiously plucking at the oversized terry toweling robe. “I know but...I can’t, Dennis, I can’t b-betray him! I can’t I can’t I can’t...”
Tom’s strangled cry tore through the small apartment, the pain reflected in the younger man’s voice sending chills through Booker’s body. His friend was hurting, really hurting and throwing caution to the wind, he stepped forward and pulled the distraught officer into a tight hug.
Tom stiffened, his distressed sobs freezing on his lips. But as the soothing heat of Booker’s body enveloped him, he sank into the embrace. The simple gesture offered more comfort than words, and he felt an unexpected twist of his heart, the flip of his stomach sending a series of delicious shivers up and down his spine. It was a strange, indescribable feeling, another rousing introduction to his body’s awakening. He was so removed from real human contact, he rarely experienced the intimate touch of another person—except his brother—and the sensation was electrifying. Flesh on flesh...heart to heart...blood flowing...warm...zoetic...their bodies speaking the same language without the need for words. It was surreal in its artistry, a tactile invasion of the sensors, if only fleeting, but unlike his breakdown at the hospital, there was no fear associated with his body’s reaction. For the first time in years, he felt truly alive, and breathing in Booker’s scent, he committed it to memory so he could relive the moment, over and over again, and gain comfort from the recollection.
The sensation of Tom’s slender body pressing against him sent an unexpected thrill through Booker’s groin, and releasing his hold, he took a step back. Two dark, soulful eyes met his flustered gaze, and unnerved by Tom’s sated expression, he raked a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.“So, um, are you okay?”
It was a difficult question for the young officer to answer. If he looked at the bigger picture, he was far from okay. But if he dissected the volume of his feelings into tiny slivers of time, at that exact moment, he felt better than he had in days. So, he had a choice. He could dwell on the negatives or embrace the positives, and for the first time in a long time, he chose the latter.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Thanks to you,” and without further explanation, he walked past Booker and disappeared into his bedroom, leaving the door open behind him.
Booker remained standing, a look of bewilderment arching his eyebrows. He had no idea what had just happened, but he had an uncomfortable feeling, things were about to get very complicated.
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Cries of a Shadow