By Woolhats Traveling Mood
Beside him was a book by the Latin poet Catullus, which had been recommended to him by a friend. Mike found he had a lot in common with the poet, namely their ambition to present work that was faultless in every way. Mike shook his head and flicked through a couple of the pages. Then it dawned on him, the one thing Catullus had that he didn't - a muse.
Catullus had his mistress, the luscious Lesbia, and Mike had his own form - Micky. Mike slammed the book shut and rested his guitar on the floor before climbing to his feet in search of the inspiration he desired. If there was any creature in this world that could provide him with all the love and enthusiasm he needed, it would be Micky. The drummer was Mike's ultimate aspiration - perfection. There was no fault to be found in him (except his unmentionable love for Star Trek and how he always seemed to use references to the program in various metaphors).
Mike ambled lazily around the empty living room, Peter and Davy were off at some club somewhere, and searched for his best friend and companion. Didn't take long to find him, it was impossible for Micky to ever be silent. At that moment in time he was humming the chorus to 'Last Train to Clarksville' over and over, while busily polishing the hi-hat on his drum kit.
Mike smiled, mostly to himself and perched beside the preoccupied drummer.
"Hey Mike," Micky gave his warm, almost innocent smile and was met with a kiss.
"Will you be my muse?” Mike looked deep into his lover's eyes.
"What?"
"Will you be my muse, the embodiment of inspiration? You will be the sight that will send melodies flowing from my fingertips..."
"Something tells me you've been reading too much of that poetry."
"And what if I had, we must try and be romantic sometime in our lives."
"I agree,"
"Then why not start now?” And with that, Micky was swept up in strong arms and melted in a deep and yearning kiss.
The evening was warm and Micky was contented just to lie in Mike's arms. The Texan was asleep, but even then, his face held a smile. Micky smiled back and snuggled closer. There was nothing between them, literally. They were skin to skin and Micky loved every moment of it. His fingertips trailed Mike's burning chest, tickling the occasional patch of black hair he found. Everything seemed so right, so
natural. He felt like he was living in a fairytale, the warm summer night, the music , the poetry, and his strong Texan prince. He curled up closer still so he could feel the warm breath from Mike's lungs pour over him and immerse him in such a warm feeling that it sent shivers up is spine.
It was in this tranquil moment, amongst an overwhelming feeling of love, that Micky suddenly felt the
twang of unease. He sensed something was wrong immediately and listened carefully. There was a creak of the floorboards downstairs, then another. On any other occasion Micky would have decided that it was either Davy or Peter and would have gone to sleep again, but his gut instinct told him differently.
He knew deep down that he should wake Mike, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, telling himself that he was just being paranoid. Slowly, he unhooked himself from his safety cocoon within those arms and crept towards the bedroom door.Peering into the darkness below, Micky saw nothing and drew breath in order to give a sigh of relief, but he felt he needed to go down the stairs, just to make sure. He
thanked himself mentally for remembering to put on some pajama bottoms, just in case there was someone there, and he tiptoed down the stairs and into what seemed like an abyss.
Mike yawned and pried his eyes open. The sudden coldness had woken him and he looked at the bedside clock. Half past one in the morning. He had felt Micky get up and leave his bed just moments before and smiled at remembering how perfect his lover was. He suspected he had probably gone to answer his stomach's pleas for food, as he sometimes did in the middle of the night, much to Mike's
bemusement and occasional irritation. There was silence for a moment. Mike's ears seemed deafened by the silence, but not for long.Nothing could have prepared him for what he heard and he knew he would never forget that sound.The sound itself told everything, there was no need for a large number of words.
"MIKE!"
Mike leapt up in his bed at the blood-curdling scream and leapt to the door, grabbing his pajamas as he went. He stumbled into them as he came crashing down the stairs. Darkness, complete darkness. His breathing was heavy, but he could hear other breathing too. Teary breathing, angered breathing, threatening breathing.
Before he could make up his mind on what to do, he felt pain surge through his arms as someone from behind grabbed his wrists and forced them behind his back. He struggled but to no avail, they overpowered him and he realized there was more than one of them. He felt himself thrown into a chair, his arms still painfully behind his back. Then there was the feeling of burning as rope was tied to the point of pain, around his arms, keeping him in that chair for as long as they wanted.
Mike tried adjusting his eyes, trying to focus on something he could see. Just as he began to pick things out there was an almighty blast of light. Someone had turned the light on and his eyes stumbled under its power. He blinked for several seconds and was confronted by the face of fear itself.
There were five of them, all wearing balaclavas, all waving some form of blunt instrument, except one. He was obviously the leader, by the way he had the others attention and the fact that he was the most powerful - he had a gun. Mike squinted in fear and nausea as he watched the weapon press against his lover's rights temple.
"Gag him.” Came a blunt order and a piece of rag was immediately forced into Mike's mouth, making him feel sick.
Mike never took his eyes off Micky's face. The drummer's eyes were flooded with tears and he wrung his hands nervously as he stood; his life in someone else's hands.
"Right," The gunman asked for complete co-operation, just by using this word, "Where's your money?"
Micky looked sideways at him and then regained eye contact with Mike. Mike nodded; he would never risk Micky's life for money, even if it was all they had.
"In the soup can under the icebox.” Micky mumbled. One of the gunman's droogs rushed over and pried out the can, retrieving $80.
"Ok, where's the rest of it?” The gunman barked.
"That's all we have.” Micky pleaded, failing miserably at hiding his tears.
The man backhanded him and turned his attentions to Mike. The rag was removed and Mike gave his best glare.
"Where's the rest?” The gunman growled, squeezing the trigger slowly.
"We haven't got anymore," Mike spoke slowly and calmly, "We're not millionaires,"
Mike received a slap too and he was hushed into silence by his throbbing jaw. Micky looked with sympathy upon him and forgot his senses. To him, Mike was all that mattered and he broke free from
his invisible prison and collapsed at Mike's side. The gunman turned a pillar-box red as his gang dragged Micky away, kicking and screaming.
"Bastards!” Was all Mike could yell, over and over again. This time Micky was hit so hard that he was thrown to the floor, blood pumping from his lower lip. "You touch him again and I'll smash your skull!” Mike hadn't realized that it was him yelling. It came so natural and he scolded himself for it when he concluded that he and Micky would only suffer because of it.
The gunman was now irate and Mike wished he could hide from that waving gun. There was a sinister silence that fell on the group as the gunman pondered their new situation. Slowly a small smile crossed his lips, and it grew. It grew into a snigger and then an explosive laugh. His followers began to laugh with him, even though they had no idea why he was laughing. "Don't you get it?” The ringleader yelled to the others, "They're a pair of gays!"
Silence.The gunman's laughter subsided as he pointed to Mike with a gloved finger.
"Acting so concerned, think I'll hurt your little boyfriend?” He smiled smugly and grabbed a fistful of
Micky's curls.Micky's tears streamed down his face as he tried to break free, but couldn't. Mike's head was bowed, as if in shame, but in reality, he was hiding his tears. "I bet if you go up there," The gunman continued, pointing to their bedroom, "You'll find only one bed has been slept in - they're obviously queers!"
Mike felt anger grow up through his spine, pound in his ears, make his breath ragged. What he would have given then to ram that pistol right up that man's ass. Mike heard a whimper escape Micky's throat as his hair was pulled mercilessly.
"Are you gonna tell me where the rest of your money is?" Another question aimed at Mike.
"We haven't got anymore!” He told the floor, not daring to show his tears.
The gunman was growing tired of this game, and decided to end it all. "If only you had co-operated!” He snarled, ceasing Micky by the shoulders and sending him sprawling across the kitchen table.
Micky squirmed but there was no time to escape. Mike felt the now familiar rag forced into his mouth and he choked, but he never took his eyes off of his lover. "A little lesson.” Were the last words the gunman said before tearing off the meager clothes Micky had left. Micky screamed, but his head was cracked against the table, sending stars into his vision and choking him with his tongue. He had no energy left to fight.
He could feel every touch of that gloved hand as his assailant touched him everywhere, violating every area, just for the fun of it. Micky heard the rustling of his clothing and knew what was going to happen. He was pinned down by more than one man now, and escape was impossible. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember to breathe as the pain came. He had made love with Mike so many times before, but this was agony. The table edge forced itself into his stomach with every thrust as his assailant plunged deeper and deeper. Micky screamed again, this time through shear pain rather than fright.
There was no soft caress, no rhythm. Just pounding, the bare roughness and grinding, making him wish he could die then and there. Tears stained his face at the thought that all he could was lie there and take it. He felt so dirty and sick, especially knowing that Mike was there watching.
The Texan's anger reached new heights, but so did his guilt. He watched as agony was etched out on Micky's beautiful features, and the grunts from his rapist made Mike want to vomit. Mike felt that it was his entire fault, that it might as well be him literally causing Micky all this pain.
Micky could feel a gloved hand reach under and stroke him and his body was in turmoil. Pain and a small hint of pleasure spilled over him and pushed him to the edge. There was nowhere left to go, nowhere to escape to, and with that in his thoughts, he came, painfully and guiltily. The gunman came shortly after, thrusting as deep as possible just because he liked to hear his victim groan in pain.
Mike lunged his eyes to the floor, trying not to encourage the gunman further, who knows what he would do next. Once the rapist had withdrawn, Micky crumbled to the floor, slowly curling up and hugging his stomach. The gunman looked around at astonished faces. He could not see that they were astonished because their faces were covered up, but he could tell, you could cut the atmosphere with a knife. He smartened himself up and grabbed the $80 that was lying helplessly on the couch.
"Time to go," His voice held a tone of false cheeriness as he gathered up his cronies and headed for the door, stopping briefly to give Mike one final slap. Then they were gone.
The pad was once again filled with a deafening silence, save for the occasional sob that could be heard from beneath the table, where Micky had seemingly curled up to die.
Mike shook his head, trying to loosen the gag, but couldn't. His arms felt red raw and he longed to hold Micky and tell him that everything would be ok. A few minutes past and the bedraggled drummer finally
gained enough energy to stand, walk over to his lover, and untie him. Just as the last knot was untied Micky collapsed, falling into Mike's waiting arms. Mike wrapped his arms instinctively around his lover, pulling him close so he could kiss his ear and whisper over and over, "It's alright, everything's alright."
Micky's tears started up again and he cried into Mike's shoulder. The two huddled on the floor for over half an hour, just quietly sobbing together without exchanging any words. Finally Mike raised Micky's head so that their eyes met and he let out a long and painful sigh.
"We need to get you to the hospital.” He began but was abruptly cut off by Micky's sudden attempts to escape.
"NO! NO!” Micky screamed like a small child, shaking his head wildly.
"You could be seriously hurt, internally..."
"NO! They'll touch me and ask questions! No!"
Mike relented and was silent, the last thing he wanted to do was upset Micky anymore. Slowly he rose to his feet and dragged a wary Micky into a tight embrace. "Ok...shhhh.” He whispered, caressing Micky's cheek soothingly.
Micky quieted down and Mike felt him relax in his arms. He sighed mentally as he thought of the struggles that they were about to face. They would have to explain to the other two, they couldn't lie to them. They couldn't possibly go to the police, not with Micky how he was. And to think, just four hours ago, they were peacefully together, with no cares and no pain. Mike closed his eyes and kissed Micky's curls. He was already beginning to dread the morning light and the agony it would bring with it.
Back
to Index
