December 27th, 2019
December 27th, 2019
Minneapolis, MN
Henry Davidson sat cross-legged on the cold tile of a bathroom stall. In one hand he held a picture of his ex-boyfriend, and in the other he held a glass shard from a broken beer bottle. When his flight had disembarked, Henry navigated directly to a bar. He drank until the world spun, he shoved the bottle of his last beer into his pocket, and he stumbled to the bathroom where he smashed it against the wall. The shard he now held was the largest remnant.
He wanted to be alone, but privacy was a sparce commodity in an international airport. The small bathroom near gate A27 was the best he could find. Other than the occasional whir of piss and grunts, he was alone with his thoughts, his weapon, and his picture of Ian.
Ian had been the one to convince Henry that Seattle would be a good place to spend Christmas. Neither of them were close to their parents, so it seemed fitting that they would run away for the holidays and spend it somewhere cloudy. When their weekend was over, they would return to Boston together. Henry had sat next to an empty seat on the plane out to Minneapolis, however, and he was going to sit next to an empty seat on the connecting flight. Ian’s Christmas present to Henry had been heartbreak, and it was followed by loneliness.
Why did this always happen to him? Why did it always end the same way? He would fall madly in love, end up completely enamored with another individual, and then they would say that they “need space.” Henry was too “moody,” too “touchy.” He “drank too much,” he “kept too many secrets,” and he was simply “too much.” They didn’t appreciate that Henry was “hot one moment, cold the next,” and that he “pushed them away” whenever they tried to get close. Sure, he might not be the best at expressing his love, but he did love. He loved, and he loved deeply. It always ended the same, though.
Deep, seething pain. As if the dull, constant torment he endured each day wasn’t enough. A cherry on top of the cake was the exact push he needed to do what he had wanted to do for so, so long.
Henry pulled the glass shard closer to the wrist of his opposite hand. There was no time like the present to break free of the pain. Finally, after years of torture, he could be free. He could float away from this hateful world, and whatever afterlife welcomed gays and sinners would teach him how to love. The Devil, maybe. The Devil would teach him how to love.
The door of the bathroom creaked open, followed by a grunt and the unzipping of jeans. Henry could see a pair of feet shuffle towards the urinals. Then came the piss.
With a roll of his eyes, Henry pulled the shard away from his wrist. He couldn’t commit such a lofty sin while somebody was pissing a few feet away from him. No. Not now. If he was going to do it, he was going to do it right.
While the stranger was busy shoving his dick back into his pants, Henry turned to the face of Ian. He was handsome, alright. Henry had snapped the picture three months into their relationship. They had taken a vacation up to Canada to visit Niagra Falls. The moment Henry had captured was one where Ian stood near a railing, wearing a raincoat as water drenched him from above. He smiled so wide that his eyes were closed. Bliss. Pure bliss.
Henry reached behind himself and threw the picture into the toilet. Swiveling onto his knees, he flushed it before he could have a second thought. Ian swirled away.
The stranger left the bathroom, and the door creaked a goodbye. Henry was alone again. More alone than before, though, because now he only had the company of the glass shard. The other remnants of his bottle were already gone, shoved deep down into the trashcan near the sinks.
Just Henry and his glass shard.
Just Henry and his shiv.
The door creaked again. Henry rolled his eyes. He wanted to scream, “get out! Can’t you see I’m busy trying to kill myself? Can’t a man get a moment of privacy during a layover from the sixth circle of hell to the seventh? Can’t you just fucking leave. Me. ALONE?”
If the stranger had scuttled to the urinals like the last man had done, Henry might have gone through with his wish. What did he have to be ashamed of, anyway?
The stranger’s feet didn’t leave the doorway, though. Henry could only make out the tips of the shoes from beneath the walls of his stall, and they were solidly stationed where they had entered. Waiting.
Waiting for what?
“You’re not alone,” Henry grumbled, thinking that the man may be trying to sneak a smoke without having to go outside.
The man didn’t reply. He didn’t leave either. His feet stayed put.
For the first time since leaving Seattle, Henry wasn’t thinking about killing himself. His eyebrows perked up in curiosity. “Hello? Can I help you?”
Again, nothing. Then the lights went out.
Henry’s eyes never got the chance to adjust to the darkness. The door of his stall slammed open, the shard was knocked from his hand, and something hard collided with his head. When he awoke next, he was staring at a beast with ferocious teeth.
He had arrived in Hell.
