Am I the only one who gets to make you laugh,
Laugh until you cry?
Am I the only one who asks you to go,
Go on without me?
Am I the only one who loves when you leave
your hair down in front of your eyes?
And who do you think I am?
And who do you think I'll be without you?
Am I the only one who had to dress you up
To see how you fell down?
Am I the only one who needs you to go,
Go on about me?
Am I the only one who loves when you leave
your hair down in front of your eyes?
And who do you think I am?
And who do you think I'll be without you?
~Barenaked Ladies, "Am I the Only One?"

My assailant held the knife level with my belly. One quick move of his arm and I would be dead.

"Fuckin' fags, gotta flaunt it...when no decent people wanna be exposed to your depravity," the man raved, obviously drunk, waving the knife. "Fuckin' homos, no decency."

"Let me go," I threatened. "I'm a hockey player."

"Big fuckin' deal. You're a fuckin' queer and I got a knife." The man smiled, and I could see he was missing teeth.

"Max..." I called out for you.

"Don't worry, we got yer friend taken care of."

I turned to see three men holding you back, keeping you from saving me.

"Let him go!" you cried, fighting against the three men. "Let him go!"

"Please let us go," I pleaded, beckoning to the man with my eyes. "We won't cause you any trouble-"

"Sure as hell won't, since you gonna be two dead fags in a coupla minutes," the man sneered. He raised the knife, daring me to confront him. "Don't fuckin' move."

I did a very stupid thing.

I rushed at him, trying to kick his hand or wrist, and knock away the knife. He slashed at me, catching me in the chest, cutting my jacket.

I cried out, but more from shock at having a knife coming at me than any injury.

"Din't I tell ya not to move?" The man cried, holding on to my arm, holding the knife close to my belly.

"Don't," I begged, "you don't want to do this."

"Like hell I don't! I pay a million fuckin' bucks of MY hard earned cash for me an' my kid to see two fuckin' queers play!" he raged, thrusting the knife at me. "No decent human being's gonna wanna see two fuckin' fags on ice! You should be ashamed! You're goin' to hell! And I'm here to send you two fags on your way!"

"Put down the knife," I said, voice betraying my fear.

Stupid voice.

The man plunged the knife into my stomach. He pulled his arm back, quickly, staring at the blood that sullied the blade.

He seemed surprised that a gay man bled red blood. Stupid ass.

The pain in my stomach burned, like a million tiny suns, and I pressed a hand to the wound, the blood spilling from between my fingertips.

The man tackled me, surprising me, taking my breath away.

"You fuckin' homo, betcha give it to everybody..."

'No... nonononono... This isn't happening. This is a nightmare, a bad dream... Max will make it go away...' I cringed as he forced his face against mine, his beer breath hot against my neck.

"Stop," I begged, weakly, "I'm going to die. Please stop. Save yourself your dignity."

He grabbed away my hand, pulled at the button of my jeans. "Stupid fag, betcha get off on this."

I closed my eyes. Closed my mind. Ignored the words he spoke into my ear.

===

We were together again.

"I can't believe it's the playoffs," you gushed, "and Bowman's playing ME."

I smiled, tousling your hair. "You thought otherwise?"

"I thought he not use me," you said, smiling, eyes crinkling in the corners.

"Well, Freddie O. IS hurt... Who else would he use?" I teased, leaning over the boards to kiss you. "Who else?"

"No body," you replied, responding to my kiss, moving your fingers through my black curls. "Maybe if I beg enough, he put us together as defense pairing?"

I smiled. "I hope so," I replied, touching the back of your hand as you stroked my cheek. "We could only be so lucky."

You smiled back, kissing my lips again.

===

And suddenly I was brought back to reality.

I was laying on the cold hard ground, bleeding my life out of me. Nothing was as it should have been.

I curled into a ball, pressing my hand against the cut. It wasn't that deep, but it was deep enough.

I was empty inside. I closed my eyes again.

"That'll teach ya, fuckin' fags."

A sharp, steel-toed boot kicked me in the side, and I cried out in pain, grabbing my abdomen as the blood started again.

My throat constricted and my stomach heaved, but nothing came out. There was nothing left to expell.

I saw you.

You were laying on the ground too, blood staining the front of your blue sweatshirt, split lip and blue jeans.

Your breathing was shallow.

I tried to crawl over to you, Max, God help me, I did, but I collapsed halfway.

Into a pool of my own blood.

My body was shutting down, it seemed. I couldn't go on.

===

As I lay on the ground, bleeding and broken, I conjured up an image of you, to soothe me.

To comfort me, to will away the pain.

I coughed and held my hand against my mouth. When I drew it away from my lips, I realised it was stained with my blood.

I lay, hidden behind a Dumpster.

I began to hallucinate. See things that weren't there.

"Maxie," I said, to no one, "remember the time you took me to the Sleeping Bear Dunes?"

"Da. Of course," I imagined you'd say. "We had much fun there, no?"

I smiled, despite the pain. "We did, didn't we? I want to go there again, during the summer. You and I. Alone and not alone. You and I together."

"I will do that, Fishy, for you," you'd say.

I closed my eyes and rested my cheek on the cool asphalt. "You'll protect me, won't you?"

"Of course, Fishy. I love you. My love is strong enough for the both of us," you would say, as you'd put your arms around me. I imagine you'd kiss me and move your fingers through my hair.

It seemed so real.

I closed my eyes and slept.

Part 6 | Part 8