Final Chapter
Carl had been out to three parties in three days. Exams were over, and he just wanted to unwind. By Thursday, he was too exhausted to go out again. He planned rest, preparing for Friday’s big going-home bash.
Reclining on his bed, he tuned into the end of a movie he’d seen ten times before. As the adverts ended and a car chase resumed, the top corner of his 45-inch flat screen exploded. Showered in shattered plastic, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot rang in his head. Bits of plaster dropped from a new hole in the ceiling; the matching hole in his floor confirmed it.
Carl grew up on Detroit’s western outskirts. Upper middle class, black, his father an engineer, he’d been schooled in recognizing gunfire. He knew this was real, he wasn’t sticking around to find out who.
He grabbed his phone and sprinted for the door, heads poking out along the hall, “What the fuck?” He dialed 911 as he ran.
“Police,” he said firmly.
“How can I,”
“Gunshot at 344 College Drive! Valley Nights!” he cut in.
“Casualties?”
“I don’t know,” he said, closing the bathroom door behind him. “Bullet came through my second-story floor.”
“What’s at that address?”
“A frat house, 28 rooms, bar downstairs. Can you send someone?”
“Already on the way, honey,” the operator said, trying to calm him.
“Where are you?”
“In the upstairs bathroom, shot came from the ground floor.”
*
The police arrived four minutes and seven seconds later, lights off to avoid panic. The bar downstairs looked busy, the crowd spilling onto the lawn, but unaware. Two more units arrived, officers quickly ushering everyone out. Carl stayed on the line with 911, emergency patched to the officer in charge.
“This is Officer Stevens. Who and where are you?”
“I’m Carl, upstairs, hiding in the bathroom.”
“Carl, you said the round came through your floor?”
“Yes sir.”
“What’s below your room?”
“Cory’s… or maybe Glenn’s. Four or six?”
“Exit up there?”
“Yes, at the back.”
“Get yourself, and anyone you can see out. Officers are on their way, move!”
“Yes sir!” Carl ran into the hall, waving others to follow. Panic rippled down the corridor. Six minutes and thirty-eight seconds had passed since the first shot.
Stevens, cautious, eased down the hall, noting the room numbers. Likely a prank, he thought. Still, can’t be too careful. Then a second shot rang out. Everyone froze, expecting more.
Stevens and backup were twelve steps from Cory’s room when the second explosion detonated. Not a firecracker! Ungodly screaming followed, a young guy? Then pounding on the door.
“Let us out! Let us out!” came the frantic voice.
“This is the police! Hands raised!” Stevens thundered.
“Oh god… Cory… he did it…”
“Open the door!” Stevens bellowed again. Silence.
“It’s the cops! Help! Let us out!” the kid screamed. Stevens pushed the door slightly, weapon drawn. Two young men bolted out, one covered in blood.
“On the ground, now!” cops shouted from each end of the hall. The boys froze, then collapsed to the carpet.
Oh, great, thought Stevens. Covered in blood. Crime scene!
He called backup immediately.
*
Letters have no sense of urgency, they arrive when they do.
The hand-written script Kevin had just received, was like something from the dark ages, hand-addressed snail mail.
Hand-written! Who the fuck?
Dear Kevin,
You may not even remember me, but my name is Jake. We hooked up two or three times a number of years ago and I wanted to send you a brief note.
It’s come to my attention that I would have treated you like an arsehole. To be honest, the specifics of our meeting are hazy, but if I met you then, I know I would have treated you badly. In that period of my life, I treated everyone that way.
I just wanted to say that I have gained a new perspective on life and I am truly ashamed of how I used to treat people. Words are just words, but I am sorry for how I behaved. I utterly apologise.
I don’t ask or expect to be forgiven. I know this letter is only a token. Nonetheless, I would be indebted if you could accept it for what it is, an apology.
Sorry,
Jake Roberts
What the fuck? Who is Jake Roberts? thought the young tradesman.
He sat at the computer and searched.
Oh fuck. Him.
He’s right, he did treat me like shit. Best goddamn sex I’ve ever had! What the fuck is going on in his world, thought Kevin. Nice gesture. Unnecessary, but nice.
Fifteen letters, in a similar vein, landed at their various destinations over the following month. Some were ignored as pathetic. One or two provided utter relief from demons of the past.
The one that landed at Josh Jackson’s house two weeks after the shooting, was two pages long. In all its text it never mentioned a moment from college or Cory.
Josh cried for a day and a half.
*
When Jake’s dad returned home after what felt like weeks away, the letterbox was empty. Instead, their mail sat neatly stacked on the kitchen table. They had great neighbours.
The bills kept coming, no matter how distracted you were. He thumbed through the pile. The cards from well-wishers were plentiful, it had been a rough time. Nice to have friends.
A plain business envelope caught his attention. Why would it have a hand-written address?
His blood ran cold. His son’s handwriting.
He sank into a chair, suddenly terrified of what he was about to read. He tore open the flap.
Two hours later he called Officer Stevens.
*
The Dean had been as busy as ten men. End-of-year break was meant to be quiet, but the frat incident, as it had become known, was never-ending.
Just that morning, police had said the house would remain a locked crime scene for at least another month.
It had already been a week. He rubbed his temples. This was supposed to be the quietest campus on the planet, how the fuck had something so wild happened here?
His secretary knocked quietly.
That was odd. Carol never knocked.
He looked up to see her standing in the doorway, holding a few sheets of parent correspondence. Hand-written.
She was white as a ghost.
An hour later he called Officer Stevens.
*
In what he would later think of as three Groundhog Day moments, Stevens found himself summoned to the investigating detective’s office.
Yesterday he’d taken a call from the boy’s parents. They were suddenly distraught.
The day before that, he’d answered a call from the College Dean. The man could barely speak.
Now he’d been asked to attend the third floor. It wasn’t even his investigation; he’d simply been the first sergeant on site.
As Detective Henson gestured for him to sit, Stevens thought him a good man. He’d sort out what the fuck had happened in that house.
The detective held a letter.
“This has been sitting in our fucked-up internal mail system for a week,” he said. “Postmarked the day Jake shot himself. Take a read. In fact, read it twice.”
“Why?”
“You won’t believe it the first time.”
Stevens began. Henson ended up being right.
*
“Wow,” said Stevens, shaking his head. “This case just keeps on giving.”
“Yep,” agreed Henson.
“What have we got on who?” asked the sergeant.
The detective stood beside a photo-covered pin-board.
“Well, the three main players. Jake, Josh, and Cory.”
Stevens nodded.
“Jake, possible rape of Josh Jackson”
“Statutory? Asked Stevens.
“Nah, Kid was eighteen, just, but still eighteen.”
“Why possible rape then?”
“The hook-ups were pretty rough,” answered Henson. Stevens nodded, staying quiet.
“Cory and Josh were fucking each other as well, but, there’s no state law against that.”
“However, they did take to blackmailing Jake, adding potential deprivation of liberty, and confirmed multiple counts of rape.”
Hensen paused to pick up a stack of papers. He read.
“The doc said on the night of the shooting, Jake’s arse had been torn to shreds. Multiple lesions, all bleeding. Two sets of foreign DNA.”
“Cory and Josh?” Stevens asked.
“That’s what the doc confirmed. Also said, he’d testify it wasn’t a one-off. He thinks it’s regular abuse.”
Hensen paused.
“We got the hard drives?” asked Stevens.
“Yep, all three. Jake’s is full of schoolwork, the guy’s been pulling A’s in every subject for two years. College confirmed it. Not much personal stuff. On his desktop we found the abuse video we logged. Looks like it’s from the night of the shooting. IT is confirming the timestamp.”
“The kid cracked under pressure?” Stevens asked.
Hensen shrugged.
“The other drives?”
“Nothing on Cory’s, he’s a lawyer in training. Josh’s though… different story. It’s full to the brim. Looks like he filmed every random hook-up he’s had, except those with his brother.”
“Pity.”
“Yep. Interesting thing though, in two or three early videos, Jake casually asks him if being rough, ‘like last time?’ is ok? The little shit confirms he likes it rough, Sir!”
“So, the brothers had no real rape leverage anyway, it was all bluff.”
“Looks that way, although a firebrand prosecutor might try it on anyway.”
Stevens nodded.
“How’s the younger brother mentally?”
“Parents have him under watch. Apparently, he’s traumatised. You saw him covered in blood; he wouldn’t stop talking. Apparently, that hasn’t changed.”
“The parents?”
“In shock. Had no idea what their sons were doing. They’d never even heard of Jake.”
“The gun?”
“Jake’s. Legal. Receipts and permits. We still don’t know where he got the six hundred dollars to pay for it.”
“So, the brothers cornered him, enslaved him, and rough-fucked him for two years?” Stevens summarised.
“Till he blew a gasket,” Hensen said.
“The letters?”
“Yeah… that’s another chapter entirely.” He held up the pages. “This one outlines the facts, at least as Jake saw them. Even admits to raping Josh.”
“The Dean’s letter is similar, but more of an apology to the school, his hockey team, and the coach for the fallout.”
“The last big one went to his parents. They said Jake had been spending more time at college, didn’t come home last break. That’s probably when he bought the gun.”
Stevens studied the pages.
“What’s with all the smudges?”
Hensen looked at them for a moment.
“I’d guess those are his father’s tears.”
“Jesus,” spat Stevens. “It’s a fucken mess.”
“Yep. The one to his folks is almost all apology, for what he planned. They’ve read the others. They know what he went through.”
*
“What do you mean big notes?” said Stevens, suddenly picking up on the earlier remark.
“When the Captain gave the press conference last week,” Stevens nodded. “He mentioned letters to the parents and the school. We didn’t know about this one then.” He gestured to the one addressed to the police.
“Well, turns out there are at least seven personal apologies sent the same day. Maybe more?”
“Apologies to who?”
“Guys he used to have sex with. Apparently, he thought he’d been an utter arsehole.”
“These guys contacted us?”
“After they saw the Captain on TV. Hard to miss it. A shooting at a quiet college like ours is big news, even without all this slave shit. Thank fuck none of that’s come out.”
“What did they say?”
“That’s the thing. Two of the seven confirmed he’d been a bastard, but nothing they thought of as assault.”
“What about the other five?” asked Stevens.
Hensen laughed.
“They said it had been some of the best sex they’d ever had.”
“Wow,” Stevens said, shaking his head.
“Seems Jake’s view of himself was worse than reality.”
“Suppose being blackmailed into slavery will do that.”
“What happens now?” Stevens asked after a pause.
“Well, everything’s ‘on hold’. I think we’ve got an accurate picture of what happened. The only thing we don’t know is whether it falls left or right.”
“Any word?”
“No. But we’re not alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, his parents are in the same boat,” Stevens nodded. “But the college has plans if it turns out positive.” Hensen paused.
“Something else too. I took a call from the National Hockey League. Seems Jake was on their radar two years ago. Next big thing apparently.”
“What did they want?”
“A month ago, the coach sent them a collage of his plays from last season. The woman I spoke to said it’s rare to find someone with those skills at some down-home college.”
“I used to play myself. How good was he?”
“Ten best on rinks. Seventy-five goals for the season.”
“My god.”
*
The dreams were endless, and disjointed. Worse, I couldn’t grasp them. The only constant was the overwhelming sense that I was trapped.
I don’t think I had ever been so scared for so long.
The first time I woke properly, I remember thinking that this time I would stay awake. Later they told me I had been drifting in and out for two days. Every time I surfaced; I slipped back into the same dream-ridden sleep.
Once I stayed conscious for forty minutes, the doctors decided it wasn’t a drill, and tried to engage me. The questions didn’t make sense. My responses made even less.
Eventually my parents arrived, rushing into the room like it was a Black Friday sale.
A room, I thought. I’m somewhere in a room.
They were clearly overjoyed, but I was still confused. I lay back, needing a minute.
I took two hours.
My first words were glorious.
“Water,” I croaked, sending my mother into a frenzy. She finally had something to do.
I drank awkwardly.
Why couldn’t I use my arms?
Oh my god, I was paralysed!
I panicked, thrashing weakly and pathetically. A doctor suddenly appeared and rested a hand on my chest.
I began to calm.
“Am I an eggplant?” I asked bizarrely. I think I meant vegetable.
The doctor blinked in surprise.
“No, you’re not any type of fresh produce. You are, however, very lucky. Try not to move too much, you’re waking after a long sleep, and you need to take it easy. Can you do that for me, Jake?”
My name. How did he know my name?
I nodded.
“Good. Take some deep breaths. In a few minutes we’ll tell you everything you want to know. Including where to buy fruit and vegetables, if that’s what you need.”
I began to settle.
“No cabbage,” I added.
“What’s wrong, doctor?” my mother asked anxiously. “Why is he talking like this?”
“Nothing’s wrong. He’s waking from the deepest sleep he’s ever had. For a while, his mind will grab onto the strongest thoughts it can, usually things from his past. He must really dislike cabbage.”
“He does! There was this one time,”
“Jules,” my father said gently, “not now, honey.”
“Oh. Of course. Sorry.”
“No problem,” said the doctor. “A bit of ordinary conversation won’t hurt. Tell me about the one time, but speak up so Jake can hear.”
“See, Jerry? I was doing the right thing.”
I saw my father sigh.
The world was becoming more familiar.
A hospital!
Why? Was there a car accident?
Oh fuck, my car. It would cost a fortune to fix. Where would I get the money?
I started crying.
“Oh god, he’s crying,” my mother said urgently. “Don’t cry honey. You never have to eat cabbage again.”
Cabbage? Did I crash into a roadside stall?
What was going on?
Oh. Right. A hospital.
I remembered worrying I couldn’t move. Under the blankets I wriggled my fingers.
I wasn’t paralysed! I sighed.
Why had Mum been talking about cabbage?
Over the next twenty minutes, the world slowly came into focus. I still struggled to concentrate, but it was improving. One fact stayed solid:
I was in a hospital.
“You’ve been asleep for a few weeks,” the doctor said cautiously.
“How long?” I interrupted.
He hesitated.
“You’ve woken up now. That’s good. Very good. You gave us quite a scare. You hit your head and,”
“How long?” I asked again.
“Six weeks. Almost seven,” he said quietly.
“What happened?”
“Can I promise to tell you everything?” he asked. “Just not now. Okay?”
I nodded.
*
I looked in the mirror and turned my head to the left.
Gently I touched the gouge running in a perfectly straight line up the side of my face. The channel stretched from my jawline, over my temple, and up the rest of my skull.
It didn’t hurt.
It wasn’t anything, just a numb strip about a centimeter wide, maybe a millimeter or two deep, in places.
A scar for life.
The doctors said feeling might return to the damaged tissue. Or it might not. I faced the mirror again.
I was definitely looking better each day. My appetite was coming back too.
I thought about lunch.
I’d woken a week ago, and every day more memories were returning.
The police were coming to see me that afternoon. The doctors had given them half an hour. I had no idea what they were going to ask, but a cop named Hensen had spoken to me briefly and asked if we could have a light chat. I was nervous.
I had most of it back together by now—most of what I knew, anyway. I still had moments where my thoughts tied themselves in knots, but even that was improving.
I had planned to kill myself. It was as simple and as complex as that. I could have taken Cory and Josh with me, but I was the one who had put myself in the situation. Anyway, taking them with me would have been who I used to be, not who I had become.
And, I now thought with surprising clarity, I liked who I’d become.
The rest of the events from that day I had no firsthand knowledge of. To me it was all hearsay, although I had no reason to doubt the police report. Mum had slipped me a copy.
I think Mum and Dad were still deeply disappointed in me. When it came time to leave the hospital there was going to be one hell of a conversation. Dad had already mentioned a counselor here and there, casually, but I could see where he was going.
I thought about Josh and Cory and the life I’d been forced to live. I was definitely going to ask Hensen about them. From what I could gather, Josh was having a rough time of it. I didn’t know what to think about that.
Josh’s pure panic the second I pushed the trigger saved my life. He yanked his hand away with all his fear-based strength, and took my grip with it.
The 9mm slug shot up the side of my head like… well, like a bullet. It tore away a strip of skin about four millimeters deep, knocked me out, and showered Josh in blood. Surface blood, mind you, but it still looked terrifying. I’d seen the police photos.
The gunshot wound itself had been dramatic, but not life-threatening. Strangely enough, the real danger had came from the fall. My head hit the hardwood floor before anything else. The speed and weight of the impact struck exactly the wrong part of my skull. Within seventeen minutes my brain had begun to swell. Within forty, I was critical.
The induced coma was the best option the doctors had to control the trauma, along with drilling four holes in my skull to relieve the pressure. Medically everything went roughly to plan, until I didn’t wake up when they stopped the drugs. Apparently, I hovered on a life-or-death edge for two weeks.
Despite the dreams, I guess I chose to come back.
*
Given I had planned to end my life, I’d made no plans for the future.
A year after leaving hospital, I could look back on the whole thing with a strong measure of guilt. The counselor Dad arranged helped a lot, helped all of us, actually.
The police had charged Cory with a raft of offenses. His trial hadn’t yet occurred, but his college life and planned career were over. Josh, facing fewer charges, remained the more fragile of the brothers.
Everyone on campus knew what had happened. It felt like everyone everywhere knew.
The Dean came to see me personally, and brought an incredible offer. The four subjects I had yet to complete would remain open for me, if I still wanted to graduate as a sports scientist.
I had accepted, returning for the second half of the year.
My averages slipped back to around seventy-five percent, as my interests broadened. I still had occasional concentration issues, but I was working on that.
The college aggressively disbanded the frat, largely out of frustration that everyone had known something was happening, and no one had acted.
Most excitingly, I got back on the ice.
It took months to regain my strength, but in my first game back I scored two goals. My touch had returned quickly.
Then came a mind-blowing phone call from a woman named Mary at the NHL. Apparently, I was being offered a place in the next intake draft.
As soon as I heard, I found the coach and we went for a drink. He cried. I hugged him. He cried some more.
*
I had planned to rent a small flat just off campus. I arrived a week early to see what was available.
As I drove past where I used to live, I saw the old frat building was being gutted and converted into a student welfare centre. It was fitting.
I had made my way to the campus library, looking for a quiet place to work through rental listings. I had just started when Carl suddenly appeared.
“Been looking for you everywhere,” he said grinning. “Heard you was coming back.”
I stood and gave him a quick hug. He sat down.
“We’ve found a place on Shen Street.”
“Who’s we?” I asked.
“Dan, me, Alex and Stu.” All ex-frat, I noted.
“Cool,” I said, not really sure what else to add.
“What do you think?”
“I dunno. I already said it was cool.”
Now, he looked confused.
“No… about living there with us?” the words rushed. “We’ve got an extra bedroom, and,”
He stopped, the words catching in his throat. His head dropped.
“Well… we all fucked up over the last few years.”
When he looked up, his eyes were wet. It took him twenty seconds before he continued.
“Just saying… if you wanted to stay with people who are never gonna let that shit happen again… we’d be happy if you picked us.”
He burst into huge tears; this really troubled him.
I was glad the library was empty. I didn’t know what to do, so I let him cry. Eventually he pulled himself together.
“I’m so sorry, man. I knew something was happening and I did nothing. Didn’t know it was that bad… sorry.”
I stood up. He panicked, thinking I was leaving.
Instead, I pulled him to his feet and hugged him. He cried again., harder, longer this time.
“What’s the rent?” I asked when he finally calmed down.
I wanted to move past what they had or hadn’t done. That was history.
“Dean says your scholarship will cover it. All of it. And still leave you some.”
“Let’s do it,” I said.
He blinked in surprise.
“Just like that?”
“Are we doing this or not?”
“We are… I mean, we will.” He was suddenly all smiles.
I shifted in the next day.
Two weeks later, I moved into his bedroom and permanently occupied the left side of his mattress.
*
Four years later, I was nearing the end of my third season with Colorado Avalanche. Based on how both I and the team were performing, I figured on another two contract years, maybe three. The squad was fantastic, I couldn’t imagine playing anywhere else. I’d stay as long as they wanted me, though I had no illusions. Players were still just meat assets.
I was stacking away as much cash as I could. My pay was nowhere near the big names, but it was still insane. I lived simply, in a modest two-bedroom on the outskirts.
The guys’ biggest complaint about me was that I didn’t party with them enough. They constantly tried to drag me out. How could the one guy who got along with everyone, not party? They’d even insisted I bring Carl. I always begged off.
Outside of the ice, being home on the lounge with Carl was the best place I could be.
He’d followed me to Colorado, and quickly landed a mid-sized accountancy role. We’d continued the feather-light Dom/Sub relationship we’d started in college. I loved him more than I could believe.
Coming into the NHL, had turned out to be fantastic. I generated zero headlines, was miles away from being the ‘next big thing,’ and slipped into a great squad completely under the radar. In my second year I found myself seventh on the conference goal-scorers ladder. The guys complained it was because I pushed the puck to them to score when I didn’t have to.
A classic quiet achiever.
I knew my game was still improving. Someone would notice eventually, but whatever happened, I was never playing just for me again.
*
When I first arrived at Avalanche, it was obvious the established squad expected me to be green as grass, cocky, and loud as hell. Like all rookies, they said later.
Instead, I was quiet, skilled, and disarming. I had zero bravado, which confused the hell out of them. Internally, I played it down even more, because I genuinely found their reactions hilarious.
Despite the scar running up the side of my head, rumours about my history of sexual abuse surfaced four or five months after I began appearing regularly in the team stats.
I spoke to the coach; he gave me twenty minutes before training.
By then I’d built a decent amount of credibility. When I asked the squad room for quiet, I got it.
I started by introducing Carl, who muttered an uncomfortable “hello” and sat down as quickly as possible. I smiled and the room chuckled at how obviously freaked he was.
I wasn’t sure the room knew I was gay before that moment, but they did now.
I gave them a condensed version of my history, and explained I wanted them to hear the facts from me. Ten minutes in, the room was completely silent. I knew I was going to run past the coach’s time limit. It didn’t matter, he was just as absorbed as everyone else.
I finished by saying I had no control over what people talked about, but I’d appreciate it if the subject didn’t become constant conversation. If anyone wanted a one-on-one chat, I was open to that too.
“My history is what it is,” I said firmly. “I’m not freaked by it, ashamed of it, or particularly interested in it. But I understand people might be. I just don’t want to keep fuelling it. It’s history.”
In the months that followed, four or five guys pulled me aside for a chat. I answered what was mostly curiosity. There wasn’t much mystery left, my squad-room talk had been pretty confronting.
The main questions were about Cory and Josh.
I told the truth. I didn’t know.
Later I discovered the team had formed an unspoken pact to never discuss the topic. Not at games, not at training, not even during end-of-season drunken parties.
I never heard ‘the pact’ mentioned.
Years later, I learned the squad had created a quiet cone of silence around me. Any outside speculation or questions got shut down immediately.
When I finally heard about it, I cried like a baby.
Because in that moment I realised something.
I truly belonged.
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