Page 1 of Only the Small Bones
“What makes him so special?”
“He reminds me of someone I once knew…”
As the founder ofFreedom Fighters, famed music composer, William Mayes, is often the first port of call when the FBI needs assistance with human trafficking victims.
After receiving such a call one night, William abandons everything to catch the next flight home. Arriving at Manhattan Memorial, he finds a beautiful young man restrained to a gurney. His eyes are wild with fear, and blood stains his skin. No one has been successful in getting him to speak.
When even he can’t get the young man to cooperate, William does something he may later come to regret—he extends an invite to his home.
The young man is non-verbal, angry, and at times openly hateful. All of which gives him control over William’s emotions.
William slowly begins to spiral from his own struggles with his tormented past. His nightmares return, sleep becomes a lost cause, and the dark voices in his head are out for blood.
Amid their co-dependent isolation, William’s feelings evolve. Lines are blurred, and then crossed altogether as they start down a path riddled with secrets and lies of omission.
The only thing that can set them both free is the truth. But maybe some things are better left buried. Because if the ugliest parts of William are ever unearthed, no one will be spared.
“The marks humans leave are too often scars.”
~John Green
William
Traffic wouldn’t have been an issue at this time of night under normal circumstances. The onslaught of rain and wind made the drive from the airport into the city twice as long though. Time wasn’t a luxury I could afford tonight. I’d had to call Davidson twice to assure him I’d be at the hospital soon. He confirmed someone would be waiting to escort me upstairs.
“How much longer?” I asked the Uber driver.
“GPS says ten minutes.”
I nodded, resuming my pensive stare out my window while pressing a palm against my knee to keep it from bouncing. Lightening arced across the night sky, and the roar of thunder drowned out the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears. My nerve endings were firing up, twitching with anxiety for what lay ahead. The heartache would soon follow.
My phone vibrated with an incoming text from Xavier, jarring me from thoughts of guilt and impending pain.
Xavier:Are you okay? Is everything alright?
I’d had to rush out in the middle of a performance after receiving the urgent call from Davidson, leaving Xavier to fill in for me while I raced to catch the short flight home. I hadn’t even stopped at the hotel to change out of my tux and collect my things, or scheduled my usual car service to pick me up at the airport. I should’ve hired an assistant to handle those types of things, but I feared it would make me feel as important as everyone else believed I was.
According to Davidson, a trailer truck was found idling a few miles inside our border. Upon further inspection, border patrol discovered several young Americans inside—bound, gagged, and barely lucid—hidden behind crates stuffed with cargo.
So no, I wasn’t okay, and nothing was right. In all fairness, I hadn’t been okay, and life hadn’t been alright in a very long time.
Xavier knew he’d never get the answer he truly wanted from me, so I ignored him instead of lying, like I ignored everything else in my life in these situations. I was a man determined to burn for his sins. No one could stop me.
“Where should I drop you off?” the driver asked ten minutes later.
Leaning forward, I squinted past the rapid back-and-forth motion of the windshield wipers, reading the signs posted along the hospital’s exterior. “Straight ahead. That building just past the main pavilion.”
He eased the car toward the spot. Two unattended police cruisers were parked, forming a barrier that prevented us from pulling in close to the entrance.
I thanked him then hopped out of the sedan, narrowly avoiding a huge puddle as I jogged for the protection of the building’s portico.
One of the uniformed cops holding court inside the vestibule let me in out of the rain, but wouldn’t permit me to go any further until I’d shown identification. “Tenth floor, east wing,” he said, handing me back my ID and pointing down an empty corridor. “There’s a bank of elevators around that corner.”
“Thanks.” I set off at a quick pace in the direction he indicated, as the other officer reported my arrival through his comms unit.
I jabbed at the elevator call button repeatedly, as if doing so would make it come faster. I used the same flawed logic onceI stepped inside, pressing the number ten and the ‘door closed’ button simultaneously until the elevator started moving.
This never got any easier. In fact, the heartbreak I experienced with each call seemed to deepen to a point where it felt like the organ in my chest might give out. My mother said it was the empath in me. That I’d never known how to not absorb someone else’s pain. She said it was one of the qualities that made me rare and special. I didn’t see an ounce of good in myself, so I’d had to take her word for it.
