Personal Narrative-Tom

Three minutes later...

The trickle of water winding a slow trail down his face was the sensory trigger Tom needed to fight the fog and claw his way back to reality. For the briefest of moments, he wondered if he’d fallen asleep in the shower, but as his eyes fluttered open, he realized he was lying on the floor of his living room, his upper body supported by an unknown object. Flashes of chrome distorted his vision, the tiny flickers falling into rhythm with the pounding in his head. He shifted his gaze and was immediately confronted by a visual halo dancing around the overhead light, the multicolored glow compounding his confusion. He had no idea what had happened, and squinting against the disorientating luminance, he sank back against the comforting warmth behind him, a low moan escaping from between his lips.

From above, an ethereal voice spoke from the heavens as a gentle hand continued to wipe the blood from the back of his head. “I’m sorry, Tom-Tom, but you know how I feel about strangers. I saw the way he looked at you, and I can’t lose you...not now, not ever.”

The words made no sense to Tom’s addled mind, but rather than fight to understand, he closed his eyes and took comfort from his brother’s tender touch.

**

The

following afternoon...

Perched on a stool at the counter of Nino’s Pizzeria, Booker swallowed a mouthful of beer, his gaze focused on the novelty pizza clock reflected in the tiled mirror splashback behind the bar. Tom was thirty-five minutes late, and he was beginning to think the young officer had stood him up. Not that he was surprised, he’d pretty much railroaded his new partner into agreeing to meet him for lunch, which wasn’t his normal style. His usual ethos was far more casual when getting to know his colleagues, but Hanson was unlike anyone he had worked with, and desperate times called for desperate measures. Tom was an introvert who appeared to lack the social skills needed to form any type friendship. Therefore, Booker reasoned it was up to him to pave the stepping stones necessary for them to create a mutually beneficial working relationship. Otherwise, life at Jump Street could prove more challenging than he had first envisioned.

“Sorry I’m late.”

At the sound of Tom’s voice, Booker turned in his seat, a ready smile forming on his lips. But his friendly expression quickly transformed into one of concern when he noticed the pallor of the young officer’s skin. “Geez, Hanson, are you okay? You look kinda pale.”

A nervous tic twitched at the corner of Tom’s right eye. “I’m fine,” he lied, his anxious gaze sweeping around the café. “I’m just a little hungover.”

“Uh-huh,” Booker replied, his non-committal response masking his skepticism.

Unless Tom had tied one on after leaving the mayor’s party, he couldn’t see how the young officer could possibly be feeling the aftereffects of too much alcohol. During the time they’d chatted, Tom had barely touched his champagne, and according to Penhall, he and Will had left not long after, which explained why Booker couldn’t find him after using the restroom. Once again, the dark-haired officer's spider-sense was tingling, and he wondered what secret his partner was hiding. But rather than blurt out the question in his usual, boorish manner, he decided to play detective—which was his forte—and wheedle the information out of him through clever

manipulation.

With his plan in place, Booker offered Tom a genuine smile. “So, do you want to sit inside or out?”

“In,” Tom replied, even though the fresh air would help ease his headache. He was jittery enough without running the risk of Will driving past and catching him having lunch with his new partner. Not that he thought he was doing anything wrong, it was only a work meeting after all, but his brother’s protective nature made it necessary for him to sneak out under false pretenses. The previous night had taught him a valuable lesson, and he knew he needed to watch his step, or risk provoking another attack.

After ordering a jug of beer and a large pizza, the two officers sat at a table toward the back of the restaurant. Tom sipped at his beer, wary of drinking too much after suffering a head injury. Alcohol and a concussion were a dangerous combination, but he wanted to fit in, to be ‘one of the boys’ for the first time in his life. However, he found it difficult to ignore the dull pain throbbing behind his left eye—the beginnings of a migraine—but he did his best to ignore it, to focus on Booker’s moving mouth, even though he was having trouble making sense of the words. Then, to his dismay, an unpleasant warmth gushed from his nose. “Shit!” he exclaimed, his hand swiping at his nostrils. His fingers came away bloody, and he stared in horror as the sanguine fluid splattered an abstract pattern over the front his T-shirt.

Booker immediately stood up, and grabbing a napkin from the table, he rushed to the young officer’s aide. “Here,” he instructed, gently pressing the cloth against Tom’s face. “Lean forward and pinch your nostrils together.”

Curious onlookers watched on, adding to Tom’s embarrassment, and he screwed his eyes closed, trapping his tears behind the lids. But just when he wished the floor would swallow him whole, a gentle hand caressed his hair, the unexpected touch sending a delightful shiver down the length of his spine. He couldn’t remember the last time someone other than his brother had shown him affection, and he basked in the contact. It was the comfort he’d craved since losing his parents...it was the longing of an innocent child. But when Booker’s fingers grazed over the tender lump on the back of his head, he winced, the contentment of the long-forgotten memory shattering into shards of reality. Panicked, he instinctively pulled away. He’d let Booker get too close, endangering both his and Will’s existence, and he knew he’d have to think on his feet or risk detection.

The hand on his head paused mid-stroke before pulling away completely. The scrape of a chair echoed in his ear, setting his teeth on edge, and he kept his eyes closed, praying for a miracle. But God wasn’t listening. Moments later he sensed Booker’s body leaning in close, and making sure he was out of earshot of the other diners, the dark-haired officer spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice. “Did someone hurt you, Tommy?”

The assumption immediately put Tom on the defensive, and he jerked away, the bloody napkin falling to the floor. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he snapped, his stained fingers wiping the blood from beneath his nose. “You don’t know me, so don’t pretend you know anything about my life.”

For Booker, it was obvious he’d struck a nerve, and Tom’s angry rebuttal pretty much confirmed his fears because he was certain the young officer would have laughed off his concerns if he’d misread the all the signals. But what surprised him the most was the ferocity of the young officer’s response, and he marveled at the complexity of his character. It appeared there was more to Tom Hanson than met the eye, which only added to his intrigue. However, while he admired Tom’s moxie, he wondered who he was protecting. Despite bearing witness to Will Hanson belittling his brother, Booker doubted he would actually cause him any physical harm. That left a mysterious third person as the culprit, the concept of which captivated the dark-haired officer’s imagination. But before he could solve the mystery, he needed to go into damage control. His bold question had upset his new partner, and it was up to him to make amends. But, as he was not used to admitting he was wrong, he took a moment to gather his thoughts before laying a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Sorry.”

It was a simple apology because while Booker regretted asking the question, he did not regret wanting to know the answer. Having endured endless teasing throughout high school because of his bisexuality, he was a defender of the disenfranchised, the first to speak out against any form of bullying. But he realized he’d overstepped the boundaries of their fledgling relationship. However, that did not mean he would let the matter drop. There was definitely something odd about Tom, and it was his hope that one day, the officer would trust him enough to confide the truth.

Torn between telling Booker to go fuck himself and not upsetting a potential friend, Tom weighed up the pros and cons before finally accepting the dark-haired officer’s apology with a stiff nod. “Okay.”

Pleased the fight was over before it had a chance to escalate, Booker reached down and picked up the bloody napkin. “Here,” he offered quietly.

The corner of Tom’s mouth twitched. “Thanks.”

“Do you want to leave?”

Although a tempting proposition, Tom shook his head as he dabbed at his bloody nose. “No, but, um...I should probably get cleaned up.”

In the hope of lightening the mood, Booker returned a cheeky grin. “Good idea, you look like an extra in a horror movie.”

Unaccustomed to the playful teasing that often occurred among friends, Tom ducked his head, the alluring curve of his lips pleasantly inviting. He pushed back his chair and stood up, desperate for some time alone. “Be back in a minute.”

“I’ll be here.”

The soft resonance of Booker’s voice sent a flutter through Tom’s chest. His face burned under the intensity of his partner’s gaze, and averting his eyes, he hurried toward the restroom.

**

Rolling up his shirtsleeves, Tom washed the blood from his hands. Once clean, he leaned over the sink, and cupping his hands under the running faucet, he splashed cool water over his burning face. He took a moment to scrub at his flesh around his nose and mouth, being sure to remove all traces of blood from his skin. After several minutes, he turned off the faucet and lifting his head, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror. Beads of water clung to his hair and skin, the paleness of his cheeks highlighting the dark smudges beneath his eyes. He looked like shit, he felt like shit...in fact, he was nothing more than a piece of shit left smeared upon the bottom of an unsuspecting jogger’s shoe. His low self-esteem was only a part of his self-loathing, and he wondered why Booker was bothering to take the time to get to know him. Not that he would ever really know him, his life was shrouded in secrets and shame and what little he did reveal about himself was a lie. But what Booker didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, and he would keep up the charade to the best of his ability.

Grabbing several pieces of paper towel, he dried his hands and face. When he tossed the discarded waste into the bin, he caught sight of his bruised wrist, and he stared at the contusion for a moment before rolling down his sleeves and buttoning the cuffs, effectively hiding his shame. He covered his blood-stained T-shirt behind his shirt, and feeling slightly less disheveled, he once again stared at himself in the mirror. His ghostly imaged gazed back; empty, devoid, the haunting apparition was a mocking caricature of what a twenty-three-year-old man should look like. But it was not a shock, it was the visage he’d lived with for nearly twelve years, and it was as familiar to him as his own voice. He was what he was, and he accepted it.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten, and when he finally got his nervousness back under control, he threw one last glance at the mirror and walked back into the restaurant.