A Past, Unburied

 📅 mid-March of 2020

〚ᴛᴡ ғᴏʀ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ sᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴀssᴀᴜʟᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʜᴏᴏᴅ sᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴀʙᴜsᴇ〛

        The sky outside had gone red with the hyper-saturation of dusk, and the crimson arrival of evening rang through to Kohao as it being time to go: Something needy and self-loathing both was itching under his skin, had been for hours, and the bar was calling now. Loudly. He beelined for the front door from his room, grabbing his cigarettes off the breakfast bar as he passed, when a voice from the living room faltered his steps.
       “...Kohao?” Chey called waveringly from the couch. His voice was strangely hesitant, a little nervous at the edges—uncharacteristic as hell, and it was that difference that made Kohao pause on his way to the door and turn around. Normally when he was dead-set on going out, getting wasted and picked up, he’d brush off whatever came his way from his friends; a worried tone, an outstretched and comforting hand. But Chey didn’t sound concerned in the usual way—he sounded almost reluctant.
        “...What’s up?” Kohao asked. 
Chey chewed on his lip for a moment, looking like he hadn’t expected Kohao to turn around, looking like maybe he wasn’t sure he wanted him to have done so. 
        “...You’ve been going out a lot lately, K-O,” he said finally, with tentative eye contact, “And shit...Shit’s getting wild out there, you know? I’d be worried just about you going out even if it didn’t involve anything else...But are you at least being safe in that regard?”
If it had been anyone else asking, Kohao would have bristled. But it was Chey, who had more reason than anyone to care, and Kohao felt shame pool in his stomach.
        “...Not consistently,” he said, quietly, haltingly; “I’m normally not in a state to…request anything, once I get...ya know. Picked up. Taken home.” He hated talking about it, about what he let people do to him, and he folded his arms protectively as the compulsion to shower off the conversation tugged at him. 
        “...Why do you do it, Kohao?” Chey asked, as if he could read the insecurity and felt compelled to chase it, “Why do you seek that out? Try and find people do that to you? If you’re blacked-out you can’t want it or enjoy it, so why—”
        “It just feels like I should!” Kohao snapped, though there was no venom in his barked words—just profound discomfort; “I wake up and I can’t remember, but I know I was something useful for a night, okay? I was good enough. Worth something. Or at least worth fucking.” 
Chey made a pained noise at Kohao’s words that only deepened his sense of shame. He expected a worried lecture or a plea for him to be safer, but really, he should have known better than to believe Chey to be predictable.
        “‘Something useful’?” Chey asked. The pain in his voice was aching and audible, but he shook it off and straightened up. “...I want to ask again. Because...we’re friends now,” he said, haltingly, “...Kohao, who told you that you were a thing?”
It was unexpected, an echo of one of their first conversations, and made Kohao’s throat burn with sudden, unanticipated anxiety.
        “I don’t know,” he said, caught off-guard and tucking his arms tighter against his chest, “No one. I can’t remember. It—it might just be something I think. Please don’t ask me that.” Fear was flooding his body but he couldn’t quite place its origin—he just knew it was pitching his tone upward and making his heart race. He suddenly felt young and scared and the impulse to flee was clawing at the inside of his rib cage because Chey had decided to make eye contact and there was an air of understanding in his expression that felt nothing less than terrifying.
        “Kohao…” Chey said softly, standing up from the couch; his voice was soft and sad and half-apologetic, as if he knew already the fallout his next words had the potential to cause, “...When you were a little kid...did someone touch you?”
        “No!” The word ripped out of Kohao’s throat, sounding desperate, sounding terrified, sounding—and Kohao realized this with dawning horror—scarily like a lie. 
        “I mean—I don’t think—I can’t remember—” he stuttered, faltered, became suddenly aware that he was crying. Tears were flowing down his cheeks and he felt sick to his stomach and his hands were shaking—and suddenly his mind went blank and the world around him dulled. It was as though he stepped out of his body; stepped away and was standing just a few inches to the right of himself, detached and confused by the emotions his body was displaying. He watched from there, from A-Bit-To-The-Right-Of-Himself, as Chey walked over, said something Kohao couldn’t hear, and outstretched a comforting hand.

        The second that Chey’s fingertips touched his shoulder, Kohao snapped back into himself so hard it felt like he was risking spiritual whiplash. He collided with his own consciousness and reality fractured; splintered apart at the seams of time and memory. He felt real but broken, present but lost, and he wrenched away from Chey’s hand on instinct: Throwing himself backwards as though burned.
        “Please, don’t touch me!” he cried out pleadingly. It was a scared, young, desperate tone, one he’d normally view as weak—but now, backing away until he hit the kitchen sideboard, he couldn’t care about how it sounded. Unable to retreat any further, he sank to the floor, hid his face, curled into himself.
        “Don’t touch me,” he said, his voice cracking, “I’m sorry.”
        “No, Kohao, please don’t be sorry,” Chey said, his voice strained with concern, “I’m sorry. Can I come closer? I won’t touch you, I promise.”
Kohao curled into a tighter ball but still choked out a scared “Okay”, and Chey slowly approached; crouching down a couple feet away, worry etched across his face. He tilted his head and hesitated for a second before speaking.
        “I used to get like this too,” he said, cautiously, “Before I got therapy. I’d lose track of where I was, when I was. I’d find a corner to hide in, thinking I was a kid again, that I was in danger.” Chey paused again. “...How old are you right now?”
        “Six,” Kohao whispered, then his eyes snapped open wide and he went rigid with fear as he realized no, that was wrong. “N...no, wait, fuck, I’m not. I know I’m not, I swear, I just—Nothing’s right—” he stumbled over his attempt to correct himself and tugged at his hair, feeling frustrated and terrified in equal parts. He strained for the right answer but choked on numbers he couldn’t grasp, on the fact that when he tried to search his mind and memory, all he got was darkness and the feeling of cold tile and fear filling his throat like ice water. 
        “I know!” he cried out desperately, feeling seasick as incomplete memories hit him like waves; “No no no, I swear, it’s not happening! It’s cold—”
        “You’re in a flashback, Kohao,” Chey said softly, “That’s all it is though, okay? It’s in the past: You’re twenty-four. Whatever it is, it’s over, I promise.”
        “I’m not in a flashback!” Kohao snapped, feeling fearful, feeling like a liar, “I can’t be! Nothing happened when I was six! It never happened! None of it!”
        “What never happened?” Chey prompted, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible.
In the excruciating silence after Chey’s question, Kohao felt the door of his memory slam shut on him again—but the aftermath remained and drew a soft, keening noise from his throat.
        “...I wanna go home,” he whimpered, tears blurring his vision again, “I wanna be safe. It doesn’t exist.”
        “It does. It’s right here,” Chey said softly, reaching out an open hand, “Home’s right here. Safety’s right here. I promise.”

        Kohao hesitated, fear still choking his lungs, hopelessness filling his chest, but finally he reached out to take Chey’s hand and his reality started to repair itself. His hand was just about as big as Chey’s; tattooed, with healing Russell’s signs on his knuckles. It wasn’t the small and unmarked hand of a child or the hot-brass burned hand of his sixteen-year-old self. 
        “Fuck,” Kohao whispered hoarsely to himself as things fell back into place, clutching Chey’s hand like a lifeline, “Just...Fuck.”
As soon as Kohao’s grip tightened, Chey pulled him forward into a hug, comforting and protective despite the awkward positioning, the way Kohao’s knees must’ve dug into his chest.
        “I’m sorry, Kohao,” Chey said, “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked—”
        “I’m not ready to talk about it,” Kohao cut him off, his tone still pitched with residual fear, “I’m not going to talk about it.” He took a shaky breath as he pulled back slightly and unfolded himself from the fetal position; dropped his knees to the side, relaxed his shoulders, pushed away all thoughts of what he now knew—or almost-knew. 
        “I don't remember anything and I’m not ready to, okay? I’m not...I can’t,” he said, his voice slightly calmer, something less fearful but more defensive taking its place.
        “Of course,” Chey murmured, his tone thick with apology, “You don’t have to.”
Kohao leaned back into the hug, his desperation for closeness pushing aside his discomfort, and he let Chey hold him for a few quiet moments while he battled with his thoughts; with the instinct to panic. He focused on Chey’s thumb gently rubbing circles against his back, though, and on the fact that he could feel Chey’s chest rise with each breath. Kohao tried to breathe in time with his friend and gradually calmed, even if his throat still ached. He pulled back slightly to look at Chey, and finally managed to find his voice again.
        “Thank you,” he said softly, “I…I’m not right now, but if I am ever ready to talk, I’ll come find you. If that’s okay. I don’t…I still don’t trust that many people. But I trust you.”
Chey offered him a touched, tentative smile, though his eyes were still dark with worry. 
        “Whatever you need, Kohao, whenever you need it—I’m here for you,” he said. Kohao nodded, Chey’s palm warm and gentle against his own. 
        “I know.”