BROKEN

By Wes Leigh

 

This is a work of fiction intended solely for the entertainment of my readers; any resemblance to any real people or places is purely coincidental. Readers who would like to chat are encouraged to contact me at weston.leigh@protonmail.com.

This story is the property of the author and is protected by copyright laws. The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent.

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Chapter Twenty-Five

 

I'm in a dream. Or maybe I'm awake and it feels like a dream.

Monty is kissing me, but we're not in bed. Wet grass is under my back. It's dark and rain is pouring down on my face. Why would Monty kiss me here? Why is he blowing into my mouth? Why am I gasping, spitting out water, struggling to breathe?

Monty is holding me in his arms. Rocking me. Crying over me. I don't want him to cry.

The dream changes. There's a gentle rocking motion beneath me. I think I'm on a horse, walking somewhere. It's still very dark all around me, and rain is pounding my body. Strong arms are holding me, or I'd fall off the horse, because I can't even hold my head up.

So tired. Sleepy. I close my eyes. Why am I closing my eyes in a dream? This is weird.

Voices are shouting around me. Scared. Concerned.

Hands are grabbing me and pulling me sideways, carrying me. The rain stops. I'm so cold. Something warm and soft wraps around me, but I'm still shivering. I can't stop. A warm body lies next to me. Strong arms wrap around me. I hear Carson's voice in my ear, whispering from a mile away, "Hold on, Truman. The paramedics will be here soon. Hold on." Why is he saying that?

Bright lights are above me. Someone is prying my eyelids open, shining a light into my eyes. It hurts and I try to look away, but hands are holding my head still, keeping me from moving. "What's your name, son?" voices shout inside my head. "Do you know your name?" Of course, I do. I'm Truman Nathaniel Greene. Why wouldn't I know my own name? I open my mouth to tell them who I am, but my voice is a croaking whisper. What's wrong with me?

The bright lights flicker out, like a candle. The voices echo for a moment, then fade away. Finally, I stop dreaming and simply sleep.

͠ ͠ ͠

"He's awake, Momma."

It sounds like Carson talking, but his voice cracks with emotion.

I take a deeper breath and open my eyes. The room is dimly lit. I don't know where I am. The wall in front of me is white with a nice picture hanging there, showing a tree on a hill. And next to the picture is a whiteboard covered in scribbled information.

Carson moves in front of me. He leans over me, places one hand gently on my chest, and says, "Hey, Squirt." His eyes are red, and he looks tired.

Momma moves up next to Carson. She touches my cheek with her hand. "How are you feeling, Truman?" she asks.

I say, "Okay." Well, that's what I intend to say, but it comes out as a strange, strangled rasp. What's wrong with my voice?

Momma holds a small spoon to my mouth. It's filled with chipped ice. I take a small bite and suck on the ice until it melts, soothing my parched throat. "More," I mutter. The second bite tastes as good as the first.

"I'll let the nurse know," Carson says, and he walks out of the room. I turn my head to watch him go and see Monty in the bed next to mine.

Monty is sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in a hospital gown. He slowly stands up and walks toward me. I lift my hand, and he takes it, pressing my fingers to his lips, kissing them. Why are his eyes so sad, so worried, so concerned?

A woman in bright green scrubs walks up next to Monty and scolds him, "Should you be out of bed? Get back on your side of the room, Cowboy!"

I can't laugh very loud. It sounds like a frog croaking when I try, but I think it's hilarious that she's telling-off Monty and calling him cowboy. That's his special name for me!

Even though she's bossing my boyfriend around, she seems like a really nice lady. She takes my temperature, blood pressure, and checks to see if my heart is still beating. I'm just kidding. I know she's measuring my pulse rate. She also looks in my eyes and asks me a few questions I can answer just by nodding or shaking my head.

She smiles and pats my shoulder. "For someone who went through what you went through yesterday, you look like you're doing pretty good to me." She turns to Momma and adds, "But the doctor will have the final say on that. I'll let him know how Truman is doing. He should be in shortly."

I tug on Momma's sleeve. "What ... happened?" I squawk.

Momma's eyes dart from side to side. She's thinking about what she should tell me, and I think she might keep it from me, to protect me.

"Tell ... me," I plead.

She sits on the edge of my bed and takes my hand. She looks at Monty, who hobbles over and sits down on the other side of me.

Monty places one hand on my shoulder and gives me a gentle squeeze. "Truman, lightning struck near where we were standing. It knocked me on my ass. When I sat up, I saw you face down in water. I dragged you out, but you were unconscious, and you weren't breathing."

Monty is struggling to continue. I can see it in his eyes. Just like he lost Jonas, he almost lost me. I can't believe I've put him through so much pain, again.

Momma sees that Monty is having trouble continuing, so she takes over the story. "Monty resuscitated you, Truman. He got you breathing again and then lifted you up onto Amber. He held you in front of him, riding all night in the storm, until he got you back home again."

I close my eyes, thinking about the dream I had. It wasn't a dream, I suppose. Then I remember something and struggle to sit up, eyes opening wide in alarm. "Misty?" I ask.

Carson moves to the foot of the bed and squeezes my toes under the blanket. "She's fine, Squirt. She's safe in her stall next to Amber. Poppa checked them both over carefully. They're scratched up, but okay. Eating a big meal and happy to be home."

I lean back and close my eyes. I'm suddenly very, very tired. Monty saved me and Misty. He saved our lives.

They stay with me—Monty, Momma and Carson—holding my hands, gently touching me, reassuring me. I drift off to sleep, feeling safe and loved.

͠ ͠ ͠

I wake up and look around me. The room is quiet. It's late at night. The doctor visited sometime this afternoon, checking Monty and me both. He said we're recovering nicely, and he'll send us home tomorrow, as long as we continue improving.

Monty is asleep in his bed. I can see him there, and I don't quite know how to feel about him right now.

Should I be grateful?

Do I owe him a debt I'll never be able to repay?

Should I be in awe of what he did? Is he a hero now?

I slide my feet out of the bed and stand up. The floor is freezing on my bare feet! I walk quickly across the room to Monty's bed. His eyes are closed, and he's breathing slow and deep. His right arm is in a sling again, so I bet he's re-injured his collarbone. I walk around the bed to his left side and lift the sheet so I can climb into bed with him. Even though he's asleep, his left arm wraps around me, pulling me into his side.

I think I know how I should feel about him.

I definitely should be grateful that God brought Monty into my life.

I'm also indebted to him. Not just for yesterday, but for this entire summer and all he's done for me.

And he'll always be my hero. That will never change.

But that's not what I'm feeling right now. Instead, I'm feeling overwhelming love. It may seem silly to say this, but we've come through the storm together and survived. I cuddle against his chest and nuzzle him with my cheek. He sighs and falls deeper into sleep.

I hear a noise. The nice lady in green scrubs is peeking around the corner. She sees me in Monty's arms. She smiles and turns and walks out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

I shut my eyes and welcome sleep.

͠ ͠ ͠

After we're released from the hospital, Monty and I are supposed to stay in bed for one day. The doctor didn't say whose bed, so Monty and I spend it together in his bed, which is actually more like our bed since we're both sleeping there every night.

It's not what you think. We didn't have boners all day, and we didn't jerk each other off a dozen times each. It was only twice. Once while we were taking a shower after breakfast. And once more in the afternoon just before we took a nap, and that wasn't jerking off, because we didn't want to get cum on the sheets, so we gave each other blowjobs.

Most of the day, we spent resting. There were a few kisses and a lot of cuddling. And there was love, lots of love. We didn't talk about the camping trip or the storm. We didn't talk about me almost dying or how Monty saved me. I think we're both ready to put all that behind us and focus on the future.

And that's what I intend to do.

Momma comes in to check on us while Monty is in the bathroom. She doesn't say anything about me being in Monty's bed. I decide it's time to talk about stuff. I whisper, "Can I talk to you and Poppa about something? It's important."

"Of course, dear," Momma says. "Should I bring Poppa over?"

"No. I want to talk to you two, privately." I glance at the closed bathroom door.

Momma sees where I'm looking and understands. "I think Poppa is finished with his chores. He would probably like a glass of tea right about now. Do you want to walk over to the house with me?"

I nod and stand up. I'm feeling fine. Weak, but otherwise okay. Momma helps me put on shoes and slip into a bathrobe.

"I'll be right back, Monty," I yell out. "I'm walking over to the house with Momma for a minute."

I hear a muffled, "Okay, Cowboy."

"Let's go, Momma," I say with a sigh. I'm not looking forward to this conversation.

͠ ͠ ͠

Poppa and Momma are sitting across the table from me. Poppa is sipping his tea. Momma is holding my hand, smiling encouragingly.

I take a deep breath and say, "I know you both love me ..." I stop, because I'm not sure what to say next.

Momma nods. "With all our hearts, Truman. And we always will."

That helps. I take another deep breath and start again. "I need to tell you something, and it's going be difficult for me to say this, because I don't want to disappoint you."

Poppa leans forward and tilts his head to one side. "I think you'll find it very hard to do that. You're our son. You've never disappointed us and always made us proud."

"I think that might change, after today," I reply, looking down at the table.

I feel Momma squeezing my hand. I look up and see her looking at me with unconditional love. I look over at Poppa. His eyes say the same thing.

I realize in that moment that I'm blessed.

I have the best big brother ever. Carson has been teaching me to work out, building my muscles and my confidence.

I have an incredible, loving, heroic boyfriend. Monty has been teaching me to train horses, showing me that I have skills I never even suspected were there. Some on a horse. Some in his arms. And he's shown me that being gay doesn't mean you're broken.

But it's these two people, Momma and Poppa, who have been a solid foundation in my life, who've taught me to accept myself for who I am, who've made it clear that they love me as I am. How could I ever think they'd reject me?

I clear my throat and say, "Momma, Poppa, I'm gay."

They both nod knowingly.

I add, "It's taken me a while to accept it, and now I want your acceptance too."

Nodding, Poppa says, "You've always had that, son."

Momma adds, "And our love."

I sigh in relief. Was it so easy? Why was I worried? There's one more thing I need to say, one more issue I want to clear up with them. "I also want to let you know that Monty—"

"Hold on, son," Poppa says, interrupting me. "Before you say anything more, I want to remind you of something I've taught you kids often before. If you want to share something with me that you're dealing with, that's fine, but sharing something that someone else is dealing with is gossip. Before you finish what you were about to say, ask yourself if it's something that Monty should have the right to share, not you."

Momma nods in agreement. "Monty has a right to his privacy, Truman. He's a terrific young man and a part of our family now. He's good for you, and we approve."

She doesn't say anything more, but I think they've both just told me what I needed to know without telling me much of anything at all, and I believe they know everything I was going to say without me having to say a word. My parents are definitely telepathic.

͠ ͠ ͠

Monty is waiting for me in our bed when I get back to the bunkhouse.

I pull the curtains closed, climb into bed with him, and kiss him tenderly.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

I nod. "Just wanted to chat with my parents about something." I slide my hand down his body and gently caress his cock. It feels so comfortable, lying here with him, holding him as if his cock is mine anytime I want to touch it. His hand slides down to my butt cheek and grips me. The same is true for him. My body is his.

Yes. This is how it should be.

͠ ͠ ͠

A few days later, I'm exasperated. "I can't find it," I say.

"Find what?" Monty asks.

"My black leather belt. I made it in Crafts class last year. I want to show you the cool design I stamped into the leather. I thought I put it with my underwear, but it's not here."

"Could it be in your bedroom in the house?" Monty asks.

I nod. "That's gotta be where it is. Be right back," I say, running out the bunkhouse door and across the gravel driveway to the back door of the main house. I dash inside, dodge around the kitchen table, and run up the stairs, three steps at a time. Momma says I shouldn't do that, but I'm so excited to show Monty my belt that I'm practically flying up the stairs. I reach the hallway outside my bedroom and hear Momma and Mattie talking. I'm not sure why they're in my room. I suppose they're cleaning or something. I trot down the hall and stop outside my bedroom door.

I can hear Mattie. Her voice is loud, shrill, and angry. "It's wrong, Momma. Wrong and sinful and illegal. Monty is raping your son, and you don't seem to care!"

I stop where I am, one hand on the doorknob to my bedroom. My heart leaps into my throat.

Momma's voice is calmer, but I can tell she's angry too. "That will be enough of that kind of talk, young lady."

"Why, Momma? Why can't I say these things? Is it because they're true?"

"Are they, Matilda? Are they true? Or is this simply petty jealousy talking?"

Mattie' voice climbs an octave, which I know means she's losing an argument, so she's getting frustrated. "You've seen how they are around each other. Truman practically drools every time he's with Monty. And what about the beds in the bunkhouse?"

"What about them?"

"Come on, Momma! You've seen it yourself. Truman's bed is never slept in. He messes up the blankets a bit, but it's obvious he doesn't use the bed at night, but Monty's bed is always torn up from them both sleeping there."

"That means nothing, Mattie."

"How can you say that? If you weren't turning a blind eye to what those two are obviously doing, you would see that I'm right!"

"Matilda Dawn Greene! I will say this only once. I do not turn a blind eye to anything my children do, whether it is under my roof or behind the barn. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I hear no response from Mattie. I think she's stunned into silence. When she finally begins speaking again, her voice is subdued, but defiant. "You and Poppa have attended the same church since you were children. You've heard the same sermons I've heard all my life. Monty and Truman are gay, and what they are doing in the bunkhouse is wrong in the eyes of God and cannot be compared to what I've done with boys behind the barn."

"I'm not sure you and I have been hearing the same message in those sermons, young lady." Now Momma sounds sad, disappointed. "I hear the pastor talk every week about how much God loves us and how we are to love each other. I don't hear any love in your words right now, but I see love between those two young men every time they are together."

"That's just it, Momma," Mattie hisses. "Truman isn't a young man. He's a boy. And every time Monty has sex with him, they're breaking the law. Monty should be in jail for what he's doing to Truman."

I've heard all I can bear to hear. I turn the doorknob and walk into the room. Momma and Mattie turn, surprised by my sudden entrance. I ignore them, walk to my dresser, and kneel down. Opening the bottom drawer, I push my winter clothes to the side and find the black leather belt at the bottom of the drawer, right where I must have left it. I take it out, coil it in my hand, and close the drawer.

I walk past Momma and Mattie, but I stop at the door and turn to face Mattie. "Last year, I was boy. This summer, I became a man. Who gets to decide when I'm a man? Is it some clueless lawmaker in the state capitol? Is it a judge in a courtroom? Is it you, Mattie?" I shake my head and add, "You haven't experienced anything like I've been through this year, Mattie. Not many people have. A boy wouldn't have been able to do what I've done. You're wrong. I'm a man."

Mattie's face is a strange shade of purple. She opens her mouth to speak, but Momma shushes her. "I think we've heard quite enough from you, Matilda," Momma says. Momma's eyes are flashing, and I think Mattie finally realizes just how precarious her position is in this moment.

I turn to leave, then realize there's one more thing I need to say. I look back at Mattie. "A man is not a man just because he's passed some artificial age limit the rest of the world has chosen, any more than a boy is still a boy because he hasn't."

I turn and walk away.

 

The end of BROKEN, Chapter Twenty-Five