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Johnny had cut his fingers on a piece of glass, which pooled and snaked its way through crevices and cracks as deep as small valleys upon the frames face. By the time he had begun a shallow sort of choking sound, the blood had begun to stain the white of Gyros lab coat, his smile and closed eyes came next. His hair was short. How long ago was this happier time? He seemed a lot happier than he was now.
A fragment of glass crunched under the weight his legs. But, Johnny didn't care, it wasn't as if he would feel it anyway. The sound brought him back to the nights of flipping through pages of thick textbooks, mostly used as doorstops and paper weights these days. Gyro's glasses, his hair tied up and a blue ink pen between his teeth.
"Johnny I could fix your legs! Imagine that, all these new trials in this journal. Science can do all kinds of amazing things now. Maybe someday I could be the one to repair the nerves down there, then you could walk again!"
Did Johnny need fixing? He realized that Gyro hadn't meant it in that sense of the word, the words stuck around none the less. He pulled the dead weight of one of his legs from the floor, glass shards sparkling like small diamonds in the dim light of the night. Diamonds, like the earrings of some oil tycoons daughter at a stuffy gala somewhere in South Carolina. Johnny hadn’t gone to one in a while; the invitations seemed to stop arriving in their gold encrusted envelopes after the accident. Was he bleeding elsewhere? The drops of blood might have been from his palm though. He didn't seem to care.
Johnny remembered the day a track horse had broken its leg. The way she limped back to the barn like nothing was wrong, the way she begged to be spared from the shotgun. He could see the pain in her eyes. There's a certain sort of glimmer that can expose any emotion. Like the glimmer of hope as the bottom of a new mother eyes crested with tears, or a glimmer of infatuation as you leaned in for a first kiss. This was a glimmer of inevitable death. It teetered on the edge of exhaustion; a hard, stubborn sort of thing. It reminded Johnny a lot of himself.
Then maybe someone should just put Johnny down. He slammed his fist into his knee cap, he wanted pain. But nothing would come. He wanted to destroy himself, make sure there was nothing left if Gyro repaired his L1 or L5 or whatever the fuck he said. But, it didn't matter now. Gyro had dropped out of medical school and Johnny was still lame and useless. Maybe that's why Gyro didn't take him places anymore.
Why couldn't Gyro just put him out of his misery? Was every morning kiss, or the fingers raking through his hair just delaying the inevitability of their separation? He remembered when that horse died, they sedated her, pumped her through of something that stopped her heart. Johnny couldn't see her eyes; they were clouded over like a thick fog. Was she even alive, or had she passed long before this?
Johnny contemplated suicide, but could he even kill himself at this point? He wasn't crying, did he even care? He didn't know anymore.
"You should be happy Johnny. What if it had been further up? At least you still have your life."
He should be happy. What if it had been further up? At least he had his life. At least he had Gyro, who figuratively loved him; at least Johnny pretended he did. He couldn't recall if Gyro had actually said it. Johnny tossed the already broken frame which broke apart against the wall. He should be happy he still has his life. In a daze, Johnny pulled his jeans from his waist, awkwardly maneuvering them towards the carpet. A bruise had already begun to form around his kneecap. It was dark and burned of purple and blue and pooling blood, going nowhere. What was he going to tell Gyro?
How did Gyro manage to make love to him? What about this was erotic to him? Was it the sick pleasure of taking something that couldn't fight back? Was Johnny just some sick fetish he sought out? Like those patients in the hospital he used to take care of? Was this a joke? Was he-. Johnny stopped himself, he held his breath. That wasn't true and he knew it. Gyro actually treated him like a person when they made love, when they still did these days.
Once Gyro had kissed his bullet wound, it made Johnny want to vomit.
The clock was in military time, a fluorescent red reminder of how he wasn't home. But, did he want to be home anymore? Johnny thought about the horse again. Maybe he could have ridden her if she hadn't have fallen. She could have gone on to win the Kentucky Derby. Johnny hoped he'd be remembered as an inspiration. Things didn't happen like that though.
A key turned in the front door, echoing through the single room in a muffled shriek. Johnny looked down at his hands, calloused and bloody. There was still a chunk of glass that he hadn't pulled out yet. He couldn't feel it. Gyro opened the door, he had groceries. His voice almost sounded like singing, and it tuned in and out of Johnny's ears as he stared down at his hands. Gyro would be disappointed.
Something clattered to the ground with a thud; Johnny figured Gyro had seen him. He looked up, hands still raised as if he were asking for offerings. Gyro's eyes, they looked like that horses. That's all he could think about was that dying horse. Johnny moved his cupped hands toward him. All he could make out was
"Ah-"
Gyro's hair was clouding his vision, when had he gotten over here? He was in his palms, picking out shards of glass like some sort of beggar sifting through garbage. That's what he was, garbage. Johnny couldn't cry anymore. Gyro cupped his face; he could taste his breath, the sweat that was beading off of his forehead now.
"What did you do?! Did you do this to yourself?!"
Gyro was angry, but he was still planting kisses onto Johnny's forehead. Blood was pooling in his cupped hands, this was his offering for all the sins he had committed. Johnny choked out another "ah" in response. He was in the kitchen now, moving too fast for Johnny to follow. Gyro was probably getting peroxide and bandages, Johnny would have to see those for a long time. His cuts would reopen every time he used his chair. Maybe he just shouldn't move.
Gyro was dressing his wounds now, the gashes were deeper than he expected. The pain started to simmer down into a void from the peroxide; blank and empty like the one below his waist. Maybe he'd lose his hands too. Was Gyro crying? He couldn't tell if those were tears or more disinfectant being poured into his cuts. Johnny hoped he'd lose his hands.
"You're stupid Johnny, don't you know people care about you?"
Gyro was grabbing his cheeks now, pulling his face up to face his own. Gyro used to push his cheeks together, it used to make Johnny angry and he would swat Gyro away. Gyro used to laugh, but eventually he just stopped altogether. It was just another thing on Johnny's list of regrets.
Gyro was crying, was Johnny really that beat up? The other man’s hand was resting atop the bruise, it had grown. Gyro was such an ugly crier. His eyes were clouding over like the horses. This is probably how she felt.
"Why can't I make you love yourself?"
Gyro was scooping up his body now, something that Johnny hated. It reminded him of doctors and physical therapy and those weeks in the hospital undergoing surgery after surgery. Sometimes he'd let Gyro pick him up, just to see how happy it would make him. He didn't mind when Gyro picked him up, Gyro didn't remind him that he was broken. Sometimes, in his arms, he felt like he was standing again.
Gyro had placed him on the bed, and Johnny sat up quickly, disregarding the blood that was beginning to pool and soak through the bandages. Gyro had the remnants of the picture frame in his hands, he looked confused. Johnny hadn't thrown the photo of them together; it was just the one of Gyro.
Johnny thought he might be crying again. But he didn't know if he cared enough to ask.