It's Only Love
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CHAPTER 3: Delusions
Moonlight, slipping past the billowing curtains that were brought to life by the summer-evening breeze, cast the room in an eerie glow. Naked to the waist, John shut the window, leaving the room silent and still. Though it was merely 8:00 p.m., John had excused himself early from dinner, citing fatigue from the day's events. This allowed him to escape to the sanctuary of his room, where he could close out the rest of the world, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Unfortunately, there was no respite from those thoughts, which haunted the exhausted John to the point where he could not rest.
Illuminated by the light of the full moon, John stared at his reflection in the window. His unkempt hair framed a handsome face, but a face that seemed aged with worry, showing none of the usual charm and upbeat demeanor that was typical of John Dixon. The eyes that stared back at him were sunken and weary-the eyes of a man troubled by things beyond his control.
John let out a deep sigh, causing his reflection to be obscured by the heat of his escaping breath. "I did the right thing," John thought to himself.
Turning away from the window, John surveyed his surroundings. The only light that illuminated the room was that of the moon, filtered through the now lifeless curtains, and the thin line of light creeping under the door to the hallway. With the limited light, John could make out the shapes of some of the objects in his room, most notably the unmade bed, blankets crumpled by a man who had been trying in vain to find the respite that only sleep could offer him. Beside the window, which would more aptly be described as a small glass doorway, stood John's desk, cluttered by the unfinished schoolwork that lay waiting for his attention. Tossed on top of the pile of books was the Basingstoke School Magazine, which lay open to the word "CENSORED" on an otherwise blank page.
John picked up the magazine, and leafed through the pages, until he found the one he was searching for. Under the title "Millennium Generation" lay the picture of Steven, his lips in the form of a playful grin, his eyes, even in the monochromatic photo, bright with a mischievous glint.
Feeling nothing but bittersweet longing when looking into those eyes, John closed the magazine and tossed it back onto the desk. Throwing himself onto the bed, John lay on his back, hands behind his head, staring up to his ceiling.
"I know I did the right thing," John repeated in his mind. Grabbing the blankets, and turning onto his side, John added aloud, "So why do I feel so miserable?"
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Veronica Dixon wore a thoughtful expression as she carefully polished the trophy, placing it gingerly onto the mantle. As she admired its shine and delicate engraving, Raymond walked up behind her and held her in a loving embrace. Instinctively, Veronica leaned back into her husband's arms.
"Are you ok?" Raymond whispered into her ear.
"Oh, I'm fine," was her tired response. "Just a little exhausted after all of the day's events."
Raymond grunted in agreement, as Veronica continued. "You know, I'm proud of our son."
She turned around in her husband's arms, allowing her eyes to meet his. "Even after all of his lies?" Raymond asked, a hint of a smile creeping onto the edges of his lips.
"He didn't do anything you wouldn't have done," Veronica chided, knowing that her husband agreed with her sentiments. "After that Carter boy's . . . dramatic confession, a lot of things have certainly been cleared up."
Her husband nodded in agreement. "Still, I wish he would have been more up front about it all," Raymond said, half to himself. "He must know that we would have supported him in his decision."
"Well what did you expect? John to come running to us, announcing that this boy . . . fancied him?" Veronica asked. "The male ego is a very powerful deterrent," she chided, a knowing, almost accusatory smile creeping across her lips.
Raymond chuckled. "I suppose you're right," Raymond agreed. "What is this world coming to, that our son has to deal with such an experience?"
"It's experiences like these that test a person's character," Veronica stated with a wise tone. "And quite frankly, I think our son handled it well."
"It does seem like John to take in someone like that Carter boy," Raymond acknowledged. "Remember that injured bird that he begged us to take in and nurse back to health?'
"He always wanted to help those weaker than him," Veronica agreed. "It makes me so proud of him."
"Well, if anyone was in need of guidance and a good influence, it's that Carter boy," Raymond muttered.
"Exactly. That's why I think it's a good thing for our son to spend time with him. Help that poor misguided soul find his way back to a decent life."
"Still, I don't know if I fancy the idea of John spending time with that . . . queer . . ." Raymond said, a worried look creeping onto his face.
"Raymond, what are you so worried about?" scolded Veronica, an incredulous look on her face. "We've raised our son to be a strong and decent man! Do you really think that our son is in any danger of being--" she laughed at the thought, "--corrupted by that boy?'
Raymond chuckled, albeit somewhat half-heartedly. "You're right, of course." With that, Raymond embraced his wife tightly, the expression on his face conveying the fact that he wasn't quite so sure of his own words.
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John rolled unto his back and stared up at the ceiling. His mind wandered back to the conversation earlier in the evening.
"Mom, Dad . . . I guess I haven't been completely truthful . . ." he had begun.
Silence followed those words, as his parents both had stifled the comments that were about to leave their lips, waiting for their son to continue. The muffled roar of the engine was the only sound that had accompanied John's pounding heart, as he continued.
"St- . . . Carter did come over that weekend, and it wasn't just to return a book." John had glanced at his father's eyes in the mirror, which seemed locked on the road ahead. His mother's eyes had remained downcast, and he could still see her gloved hands clutching tightly at his trophy. Not being face to face with them had made what he had to say next easier.
"I met him about a month ago, about the time when he took those pictures," he continued. "I guess we sort of began a friendship after that. He didn't seem to have many friends . . . I guess I thought I'd be nice to the poor chap, being Head Boy and all."
"Why did you lie about it, John," demanded his father, his face a grim mask.
"Let him finish, Raymond!" chided his mother.
"Well, you see . . . when he came over . . . I guess it was clear that he had something more in mind than just being mates." It wasn't a lie, John had told himself. It certainly was clear that night that Steven wanted to be much, much more than just friends. So had John. "I just didn't quite know how to handle his . . . advances-"
His mother had let out a relieved sigh. "I told you there was a good explanation for it all, Raymond," she had said, almost cheerily. "You must have been so embarrassed, John!" she said to her son.
"Yeah . . ." John had muttered, relieved that she had taken the bait.
John rolled back onto his side, still reminiscing about the evening's events. At that point, his mother had gone on a tirade about how sad it was for Steven to have become so confused, and how it was a good thing for him to have met John, so he could see what it was to be a good and decent person. She surmised that Steven had probably mistaken hero-worship for love. Words tumbling out of her mouth faster than the speeding car, she said she understood why John felt like he needed to lie, knowing that he must have felt so embarrassed about the incident that he wouldn't want anyone to find out about it. She surmised that Steven was probably jealous or awestruck of John, and she even suggested that he spend more time with him to show him what it is like to be "a respectable and decent gentleman." Throughout her ramblings, which had continued the remainder of the drive home, both John and his father remained silent.
As she continued her tirade, Raymond had interjected. "So there's nothing more to it than that, John? That's your reason for lying?"
"I had to protect my reputation," declared John, trying to be as convincing as possible, in the hope that the conversation would be left at that. Mustering as much of the "John Dixon" confidence, he chuckled. "It's not every day that a boy puts advances on you in your own home!" He had hoped that his father would be convinced by the little ruse that John had played.
But his father had persisted.
"And this Steven is nothing to you?" questioned his father.
That question had left John momentarily speechless. It was the sudden realization that his father would accept nothing less than John's word that Steven was nothing more than a friend that caught John off-guard. For a split second, John considered telling the truth. Could he defile the love that he had only just realized for Steven less than an hour before? Did he have a choice?
One look at his mother's eyes answered that last one for him.
"Of course. Steven's nothing more than an acquaintance to me." The lie sounded preposterous to his ears. John was counting his blessings that his parents were unable to see his eyes, as he was sure that they would have seen through the feeble ruse he had played.
At that point, Raymond had let out a sigh, and a hint of a smile crept onto the corners of his mouth. Veronica's grip on the trophy seemed to loosen just a tad, probably just realizing the death-grip she had placed on it. They had believed John's story.
Once again John had been grateful that they were unable to see his eyes. Only that time it was because there were tears in them.
John let out a sigh, as his thoughts returned to the present. It's remarkable how easy it is for people to believe what they want so desperately to believe. "Aren't you pleased with yourself, John Dixon," he said aloud. "How brilliant and clever and intelligent and . . . utterly stupid you are, John Dixon!" He closed his eyes tightly, fighting the tears that threatened to overwhelm him. He was unsuccessful.
Tears flowing down his cheeks, John buried his face into his pillow. "What have I done," he sobbed into the damp pillowcase. "I love you, Steven . . . I HATE you Steven . . . I hate you . . . I hate you . . ." The words faded away to nothing.
Sobbing uncontrollably, John finally found sleep. As he slipped into unconsciousness, a part of his mind wondered just who it was those last words were directed to.
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