Theodore shakes his head, taking the book from me and placing it back on the shelf. “It wasn’t luck, James. You are a wonderful, inspiring, powerful writer. I-I’m struggling to get my head around the fact that you’re…” he trails off, laughing to himself. “JD Simmons is my fucking superhero. I…this is insane.”
Superhero. I’m no fucking superhero.
“Every time I think I’m getting to know you, something happens that makes me realise I don’t know you at all. I wish you could just…” His words fade and he sighs heavily.
“Just what, Theodore?”
Reaching out, he palms my cheek. The contact makes my heart jump in my chest. “I wish you’d show me who you are. I feel like we’re dancing in circles.”
Show him.
Slowly, I reach for the top button on my shirt, my pulse hammering in my throat as I start unfastening it. I can’t tell him who I am, my mouth is too dry, my tongue suddenly paralysed, but I can show him.
I have to.
Theodore’s hand slips off my face as he shrinks back a step. “What are you doing?”
My nervous fingers tremble as they continue to open my buttons. Taking a deep breath, I fix my stare onto his puzzled face and shrug out of my shirt, rolling it down my arms before letting gravity take it to the floor. I study his eyes as they wander up and down my chest. His jaw drops slightly and for a moment I expect him to turn away in disgust, but he doesn’t.
Straightening his arm, his gentle fingertip traces the jagged edge of one of my scars, just above my navel. A gasp of air catches in my throat and my instinctive reaction is to flinch, pull away, run…but I supress it.
“What happened?” he asks, his voice low, barely audible. “Who did this to you?”
“I did.” Two tiny words, yet they’ve popped open the valve on a crushing tyre of pressure that’s been bound around my heart for as long as I can remember.
Removing the pad of his finger, he replaces it with the palm of his hand, smoothing it over my mutilated skin, across the scars, over the burns.
“Why?”
“I’m broken, Theodore. I always have been. I always will be.”
His other hand appears on the damaged flesh and I can’t understand how he can bear to touch me.
“I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder four years ago. It isn’t going to go away. I’m not going to get better. A life with me could destroy you, Theodore. My mind isn’t fun. It’s dark. Twisted. And if you’re going to walk away, I need you to do it now.”
His fingers travel up my body until they land on my neck. “I’m not going anywhere, James,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against mine. “Take me to bed. Not to fuck. Not to sleep. Let me hold you. I need to hold you.”
My heart hammers against the walls of my chest but I can’t make sense of the emotions running through my body. I turn slowly, concentrating on every step as I lead Theodore upstairs. Crawling into my king-sized bed, I curl up on my side and watch with bewilderment as Theodore settles in next to me.
He scoots close, our clothed knees touching, and drapes an arm over my waist, anchoring me to him. “Why, James? Why did you hurt yourself?”
Sighing, I stare at his shoulder, too ashamed of myself to look him in the eye. “Physical pain is easier to deal with. The pain in my head, the ache in my chest, if I don’t release it…transfer it, it feels like it could kill me.”
“Do you still do it?” he asks, his voice strained.
I still can’t look at him. “No. I stopped a long time ago.”
“So…the pain in your head is gone?”
“No, Theodore. It never leaves. I just found other ways to transfer it.”
“By?”
“Fucking. Smoking. Drinking. Distracting myself however I can.”
My replacement techniques worked pretty well until I met Theodore. Now, the thought of drilling my dark thoughts into another man makes me feel sick. I couldn’t do that to him. I couldn’t bear to hurt those beautiful green eyes that are watching me right now with so much compassion, so much care.
So much love.
I’m not sure where this leaves me. The urge to take a blade to my chest, to stub a cigarette out on my skin, has tortured me for the last few days. But I’m winning. I won’t give in. I refuse. Although dwindling, part of me still believes I can be good enough for Theodore. Maybe that’s possible now I’m being honest with him. I’ve spent my whole life being a liar. Hiding. I thought being alone was for the best, but it hasn’t made me happy. Perhaps that’s where I’ve been going wrong all along. Maybe I don’t need to be alone. Maybe I should trust someone enough to share my problems with. Maybe…maybe that’s the key to being happy. Being better.
I want it so badly. A future. A life with Theodore.
“Does anybody know? Please tell me you haven’t been alone through this?”
“Max, to an extent. He walked in on me changing when I was eighteen. Saw some fresh scars. Forced me to see a doctor.”
“I thought you were only diagnosed four years ago?”
“At first, I was told I was simply depressed. They prescribed antidepressants. I took them for a few weeks, felt better, felt amazing in fact, then stopped. Then the cycle started again and continued for several years. At this point I still self-harmed, but I was an adult, I lived alone, and it was easier to hide. Max thought I stopped after he found out. So did the doctors.”
“Why did it take so long to get diagnosed?” He sounds almost annoyed.
“I didn’t talk. I didn’t go to the doctor of my own accord, not once. It always took a push from Max when he noticed me slipping. I’d go purely to placate him because I felt guilty for causing the worry in his eyes. It didn’t take long to learn how the system worked, what I needed to say to obtain a prescription and get sent on my merry way.”