To Love Him is to Need Him Everywhere

You may wonder how exactly I came to be where I am right now. I'm not anywhere particularly unusual - I'm in a bathroom, as it happens, though a rather cramped, untidy bathroom, it must be said. My bathroom. The lilac walls and grimy tiles coating the floor are very familiar, the faux-porcelain toilet and basin are standing quietly against the opposite wall, and the shelves are stacked with their usual array of toothpaste and shaving foam.1

Now so far, you're thinking that not much about this sounds too out of the ordinary, and if I were to tell you exactly where I was in the bathroom, this might increase your suspicions that really, there was nothing strange about the scene in here at all.2

I'm in the shower. That statement alone doesn't sound too weird, I'll admit. However, there are a couple of things wrong in the bathroom which I haven't mentioned yet, the most obvious of which is that although I am inside the shower, the water is not turned on, and I'm fully dressed; albeit in my pajamas. I crouch against the frosted glass wall, my eyes wide and fixed on the door, which is held shut by a stack of toilet paper and a wicker laundry basket. As if to top it off, I'm clutching a silver breakfast spoon in my quivering hands, and looking as though I'm ready to jump up at a moment's notice.3

The balls of my feet are beginning to prickle with pins and needles, and I can feel my heart thumping in my throat. I don't take my eyes away from the door for even a second, not wanting to be taken by surprise. I wriggle my toes absently, the feel of the freezing water, which has been left in the bottom since this morning, not entirely pleasant. Still, I don't allow myself to relax, and try to concentrate on the sounds coming from outside of the room.4

Now, to fully explain the situation, and for you to understand why I'm crouched in the corner of my shower, you might need to learn a few more things about me.5

Something which may be puzzling you at the moment might be my age. You may be thinking that I'm just some kid, playing hide and go seek, or some other stupid childish game with his brothers. Well, the wrong definitely outweighs the right in that suggestion. First of all, I don't have any brothers, or sisters for that matter, though I do share this house with one other person, whom I'll get back to later. It is true, however, that I am hiding, though clearly not very well, because the glass in this shower is as good as see-through.6

Then we get to the main problem, which is that I'm not a kid. I'm twenty two years old.7

I feel something very cold fall onto my nose, and I give a start, which sets my heart racing even quicker. I bring up one hand to wipe the water away, and tip my head back to view the shower head just above me. There are several tiny drops of water still clinging to it. I edge slightly to my right, to avoid any further leaks, and go back to watching the door with increasing anxiety. I grip the spoon tightly, preparing myself to push the shower door open at the first sign of movement on the other side of the room.8

By this point, you may be starting to appreciate that this isn't a particularly ordinary bathroom scene; a grown man, taking asylum in his shower, with a look of fear totally eclipsing his face. You're undoubtedly wondering what I'm doing here in the first place. Well, as you may have already worked out, I'm not playing a game. There is a long version of the events which led up to this moment, but for now, I'll just give you the short answer.9

There is someone in my house.10

The very faint sound of floorboards creaking comes suddenly from the next room, and my head jerks towards it, blood rushing away from my skull. They're closer, I think instinctively, and curl my hands into fists around the metal handle of the spoon, raising it up in front of me at the same time. My chest feels suddenly tight, and I take a deep breath, waiting for the moment when the intruder, the attacker, the killer, comes through the door to find me. I'm scared, really scared, because I know that in about ten seconds...11

But to my relief, and not really to my surprise, the door stays firmly closed, and in hindsight I can't really be sure whether or not I actually heard anything. My heartbeat and my breathing come down to a steady, slow rhythm, and my sweating hands drop back down, my fingers uncoiling, leaving the metal of the spoon clouded over. I jump slightly as I hear a soft drip to my left, but realise a second later that it's only another drop of water falling from the shower head.12

I can't help but feel a little stupid. My problem is that I get caught up in my imagination, and manage to convince myself of stupid things, like a child does. But that's what I am, really. Even though I've graduated high school, left home, and got my own place, I'm still a child.13

Okay, there is something I should probably add to that, and that is that I couldn't live alone. I could still be living with my parents, and up until last year, I was. I've never got the hang of looking after myself very well, and I tend to forget things. Someone always has to be around to remind me to put shoes on before I go outside, or not to use my hands when I'm eating. But no one wants to live with their parents forever, and it's not like I'm mentally handicapped or anything. I hated not being independent.14

And that's where Brendon comes in.15

I've lived with Brendon for about ten months now, and I've known him since I was fifteen years old. Probably from the first moment I saw him I knew I liked him, and it didn't take me much longer to realise that I loved him. We've been dating since we left high school, and last year, my parents thought they could trust him to look after me better than they could. He's my best friend as well as my boyfriend.16

In a way, he was the one who started this whole story off. I get very anxious if things don't happen as I would like them to, and when people are late, it makes me very anxious indeed. Brendon is rarely late for anything, and he knows that I like things to be on time, so he also knows that I can start to worry if they aren't.17

For instance, the time when we went to the supermarket together, and Brendon told me to wait by the counter for him, and that he'd be back in a minute. Well, I waited quite patiently for him, but when I looked at my watch and saw that he'd already been gone for three minutes, I started to feel panicked. I didn't know where he'd gone, and I couldn't go looking for him in case he came back when I wasn't there. I waited for another two minutes. I think people could see that I was worried, but I was so scared that Brendon had gotten hurt that I didn't care.18

Eventually I just broke down and started wailing. I could hear people talking around me, but I didn't know any of them, so I couldn't talk back. Someone tried to comfort me, but I could tell it wasn't Brendon, so I started screaming. Even though I knew I was causing a scene, I couldn't stop, because I was already too scared. I don't know how long this went on for until I finally felt some familiar arms around me, accompanied by the welcoming smell and soothing voice which I recognised immediately. I stopped screaming as soon as Brendon got there, because I trusted that he wouldn't hurt me, and now it was obvious that he was all right.19

Anyone else might have been angry at me, but Brendon understood.20

This may not seem relevant, but I need you to know how my mind works. I spent the day, as I usually do, waiting for Brendon to come home from his job. He wants me to find work, so I'm not just sitting at home all day, but I don't think I could handle being around strangers all day. That's something that really scares me, when people I don't recognise start talking to me. I don't feel safe around them.21

Anyway, Brendon's the breadwinner for the household. He works in an office, which I know he hates, but he says that if he ever wanted to apply for a better career, a bit of office work would come in handy on his resume. One of the upsides to this is that his hours are regular, so I always know what time he's coming home.22

Or at least, most of the time.23

As I already said, I spent the whole day waiting for Brendon. I wasn't really bored, because we have a lot of books and stuff around the house, but I always miss Brendon when he goes out to work. I love talking to him more than anything else. I was getting a little restless as it neared five o' clock, because I was kind of hungry and I don't know how to work the microwave. I spent about ten minutes just looking at the clock, watching the second hand complete its circuit, and then glancing back to the minute hand, to see if it had reached anywhere near the twelve.24

The house was pretty quiet, apart from the ticking of the clock, which seemed to fill the room much more than most small noises do, and the whirring of the air-conditioning, because it's almost summer, and it gets damn hot. I was sure that it should be five o' clock by now, but the clock proved me wrong, telling me that there were still ten minutes to go.25

Just for something to do, I switched on the TV, and started flicking through the channels. We recently got cable installed, so I can watch pretty much anything, and soon enough I got absorbed in some colourful kids' show. I sat cross legged on the floor in the middle of the living room, staring up at the screen like I used to do whenever I got home from school. I hardly notice the time pass, and it wasn't until it was over that I next looked at the clock.26

It read twenty past five.27

I swallowed as soon as I saw the time, feeling my chest start to tighten already. I thought that it couldn't be right, that the clock must be fast. I flicked through the channels until I found the news, and looked in the bottom corner of the screen; it read the same as the clock on the wall. I could tell that I would start to panic if I didn't calm myself down, so I turned off the TV, and told myself that there must be an explanation. Brendon must have got held up in the office, he must have been asked to work overtime. I would know if something bad had happened.28

But how could I? If Brendon had gotten mugged or something, and they'd stolen his wallet, no one who found him would know who to call, and the police wouldn't know who Brendon was or where he lived. He might not even have been found - he could just be lying in an alley somewhere, bleeding and moaning for help.29

Then, I heard something, one of those noises that you hear all the time, but you never notice until you're alone and already a little wound up. I spun around, training my eyes on the kitchen door, which was ever so slightly ajar. It was probably just the pipes or something, but it sounded strange to me, almost as though it wasn't supposed to be there. That almost sounded like a footstep, said a voice in my head. I focused on the patch of light coming through the door, keeping incredibly still, and listening to the sound of my own heart in my ears.30

The sound came again, and even though I was waiting for it, I hadn't expected it. I jumped, now breathing through my mouth, and twisted my head from side to side, looking for who knows what. I was convinced of it now - there was someone in my kitchen, and it would only be a few moments before they opened the door and saw me sitting here.31

Without really thinking, I grabbed the first thing I could find; the breakfast spoon, resting on the coffee table. Brendon must have been using it this morning and forgotten to clear it away. I pushed myself to my feet as quietly as I could, my eyes always on the door, my ears trained for any sudden sound. In the back of my mind, I was slowly coming up with an explanation, thinking that someone could easily have climbed up the building - we only live on the second floor - and come in through the kitchen window, which I wouldn't have heard because I was watching TV.32

Before I could start to contemplate the possibility that I was over-reacting, the sound, which now sounded like a foot falling on linoleum more than ever, came once again. That was enough proof for me, and without further ado, I stepped over to the nearest door, my head over my shoulder, watching the kitchen with the spoon tight in my grip. I was ready to launch an attack on whoever may appear. I almost wanted to call out to them, to ask who they were, but 33

I found myself in the bathroom a moment later, my heart hammering and my whole body shaking, and I slammed the door shut without thinking about the noise. I used whatever I could to hold the door shut (it doesn't lock for safety reasons), all the time listening out for any more sounds. My thoughts were frantic, and images of Brendon's battered body mixed with the idea of being killed in my own house were getting too much. Not really knowing why, I headed for the shower, and closed the swinging door shut as soon as I was inside.34

It's only a few minutes later, and I'm considerably calm, though not quite. My legs are aching from my crouching position, and I can feel the bottoms of my jeans beginning to get wet. I feel foolish, really. I was never too good at thinking rationally. Sometimes, I get sick of it, of not being able to control my emotions, of being so damn scared and childlike. I really can't help but wonder why Brendon bothers with me, when anyone else would get tired of having to tell their boyfriend not to drink milk if it's past its expiration date.35

For a second, I think that water must have fallen from the shower head again, because my cheek feels wet. I raise a hand to wipe it away, but the next second, I feel more, leaking from each of my eyes.36

I hear a clang as the spoon drops from my hand. I lean back against the wall of the shower, no longer caring whether fifty armed men come bursting through the door. I wrap my arms around my legs and rock myself backwards and forwards, ignoring the tears pouring down my face. A weak sob escapes my mouth, and soon my back is shaking as I gasp for breath.37

From very far away, I hear the sound of a door being opened, and then slammed shut. I hear a voice calling a single word, but my cries are echoing too much inside the shower for me to understand it. I don't lift my head up as another door opens, much closer this time - in fact, right in front of me. I feel as though I could just sit here forever and cry for all the things which I hate about myself.38

The sound of real footsteps penetrates my ears. My head is buried in my knees, but as the shower door is pulled open from the other side, I feel a breeze hit the back of my neck. The same voice repeats the same word, very softly and very gently. I love the sound of that voice more than the feel of his hands on my shoulders.39

"Ryan?"40

I want to reply, but I'm still choked by my tears. Slowly, Brendon kneels down beside me, and he encircles me with his arms. He rubs my back, and leans his head on top of mine, stroking the hair away from my face. I feel him place his lips to the top of my head, and the gesture is so comforting that immediately, I feel the tears begin to dry up.41

"What are you doing in here?" He asks me, a mixture of sympathy and humour in his words. Keeping my head close to his chest, I look up at him, sniffing. He turns one half of his mouth up into a smile, and it's impossible for me not to imitate him.42

"Waiting for you," I tell him meekly, deciding that the short version would be best. He laughs out loud, and kisses me softly on the lips. In that simplest of moments, he seems to tell me all the reasons why he doesn't get sick of me, why he always seems happy to comfort me when I'm upset.43

"I love you," he whispers, his eyes gleaming with his smile.44

To lead a better life I need my love to be here...