is chilled by it. He’s dumbstruck, nauseated, yet tantalized by James’ confession. Tortured? Flash images of James restrained and gently sexually assaulted were some of Martin's bondage fantasies, though he’s had no desire to see them realized. Guilt for conjuring such twisted scenes consumes him. Again, Martin’s lost for words.
James stares at him. For a second Martin is certain he’s pleading for salvation, direction maybe. Then the mask on many returns, and he looks back outside.
“Details of my torture play into your fantasies, Martin?” His tone is impassive, not accusatory, and he doesn’t look at Martin with the question.
Martin blushes, face and body flush and he breaks out in a sweat. James doesn’t seem to notice. Bless him. “Do you hate me?” He blurts, unable to contain his guilt.
James smiles, but still doesn’t look at him. “No. Seems you’re not alone, Martin.” A quick shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter to me what you think, only what you do.”
Now Martin smiles. The old James stands before him—the brutally perceptive, fluid philosopher. He runs his hand through his hair and it tumbles back into his eyes and onto his shoulders. All these years Martin believed James was a narcissist: doing what he wanted, when he wanted, because he could. But it suddenly occurs to him that James was actually a solipsist. Unless you were of immediate concern, he didn’t know you existed. “You know, that you don’t have music to shelter you anymore may not be such a bad thing.”
James shoots him an irate glare. “Go to hell, Martin.”
“I’m trying to help you out of it.” The tension grows between them but Martin feels a need to give him direction out of the tunnel he’s seemingly stuck in. “Think about it, James. Just imagine the possibilities when you let people in.”
His black eyes flash irritation, but Martin is certain he sees humor, perhaps enlightenment as James looks back outside.
“Tell me what’s going on, and between you, me, and John we can figure out how to help you. Resolve your past, take what you learned and start with a clean slate—recreate yourself, become whoever you want to be.”
“I want my fucking life back. I want it to be how it was.”
“And what was that? Where did it get you?”
Quick laugh. Sad smile. He stares out, but Martin gets James heard him.
Ice balls gather in the corners of the five square panes that top the three long bay windows. Pinging grows louder, and harder, and combined with the resonance of the wind creates a soft but audible symphony.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” James whispers in wonder.
“It is.” Martin watches him. He's expressionless, inside his head again. “I’m sorry for whatever you’ve been through, James. And I don’t mean to seem harsh, but you’re here, now, and have to play it as it lays. You have a choice, right now. Keep running, or stop and deal—get a lawyer, a team of them, whatever it takes.”
James shakes his head then fixes his black-eyed stare on Martin. “No.” He brings his hand back to his ribs, his long fingers extending around his slender side. “I can't afford to lose. I told you, I’m never going back there, Martin.” His jaw tightens with his resolve.
Martin feels apprehensive about pushing James further. “John will be all over me if he finds out you’re out of bed. You should lie back down. Get some rest.”
No response. James stares out as moonlight breaks through the clouds, the vineyards suddenly awash in silver droplets against royal blues. Locks of fine hair spill over his brow and brush his long lashes. He blinks repeatedly, as if to keep his eyes open.
“You really ought to rest. We’ll talk in the morning. You’re gonna have to fill in a few blanks for us to help you out of the mess you're in. But for right now, get some sleep, James.”
He stares outside. “Thank you, Martin.”
“No problem. Hope I helped.”
James does not comment.
Hail
James stares at him. For a second Martin is certain he’s pleading for salvation, direction maybe. Then the mask on many returns, and he looks back outside.
“Details of my torture play into your fantasies, Martin?” His tone is impassive, not accusatory, and he doesn’t look at Martin with the question.
Martin blushes, face and body flush and he breaks out in a sweat. James doesn’t seem to notice. Bless him. “Do you hate me?” He blurts, unable to contain his guilt.
James smiles, but still doesn’t look at him. “No. Seems you’re not alone, Martin.” A quick shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter to me what you think, only what you do.”
Now Martin smiles. The old James stands before him—the brutally perceptive, fluid philosopher. He runs his hand through his hair and it tumbles back into his eyes and onto his shoulders. All these years Martin believed James was a narcissist: doing what he wanted, when he wanted, because he could. But it suddenly occurs to him that James was actually a solipsist. Unless you were of immediate concern, he didn’t know you existed. “You know, that you don’t have music to shelter you anymore may not be such a bad thing.”
James shoots him an irate glare. “Go to hell, Martin.”
“I’m trying to help you out of it.” The tension grows between them but Martin feels a need to give him direction out of the tunnel he’s seemingly stuck in. “Think about it, James. Just imagine the possibilities when you let people in.”
His black eyes flash irritation, but Martin is certain he sees humor, perhaps enlightenment as James looks back outside.
“Tell me what’s going on, and between you, me, and John we can figure out how to help you. Resolve your past, take what you learned and start with a clean slate—recreate yourself, become whoever you want to be.”
“I want my fucking life back. I want it to be how it was.”
“And what was that? Where did it get you?”
Quick laugh. Sad smile. He stares out, but Martin gets James heard him.
Ice balls gather in the corners of the five square panes that top the three long bay windows. Pinging grows louder, and harder, and combined with the resonance of the wind creates a soft but audible symphony.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” James whispers in wonder.
“It is.” Martin watches him. He's expressionless, inside his head again. “I’m sorry for whatever you’ve been through, James. And I don’t mean to seem harsh, but you’re here, now, and have to play it as it lays. You have a choice, right now. Keep running, or stop and deal—get a lawyer, a team of them, whatever it takes.”
James shakes his head then fixes his black-eyed stare on Martin. “No.” He brings his hand back to his ribs, his long fingers extending around his slender side. “I can't afford to lose. I told you, I’m never going back there, Martin.” His jaw tightens with his resolve.
Martin feels apprehensive about pushing James further. “John will be all over me if he finds out you’re out of bed. You should lie back down. Get some rest.”
No response. James stares out as moonlight breaks through the clouds, the vineyards suddenly awash in silver droplets against royal blues. Locks of fine hair spill over his brow and brush his long lashes. He blinks repeatedly, as if to keep his eyes open.
“You really ought to rest. We’ll talk in the morning. You’re gonna have to fill in a few blanks for us to help you out of the mess you're in. But for right now, get some sleep, James.”
He stares outside. “Thank you, Martin.”
“No problem. Hope I helped.”
James does not comment.
Hail
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