[Author's Note: Well part 1 of this little tale doesn't seem to be doing to hot in the ratings department, but that's okay, let's carry on with part two, shall we? I'd definitely love to hear what you all think of the story, and suggestions are always welcome.]
Chapter 6: The Ruins of My Life
That night was not an easy one. Much of the food in Tristan's fridge had gone bad and he'd been forced to throw it out and order a pizza for dinner. / Not a terrible fate, really./ But dinner was not the problem. He turned on the television to try and relax, to shake off the gloom that his sudden freeze-up had left on him. It made him feel like, even though he was free, the girls still had a hold on him. And that sensation disturbed him more than he could have imagined.
The television didn't much help to alleviate the tension, though the warm and wonderful pizza did put him in somewhat better spirits. When he'd finished his meal, Tristan decided that he needed to take a shower. But as he stood, naked inside the tub, the warm water washing over him, he couldn't shake off the feeling of hands.
He remembered what each of them felt like, each of the girls who had, until just the night before, bathed him. Crystal's touch was so cold, so unfeeling, like she was scrubbing clean a tool or instrument of some sort. Hilja was deliberately rough with him, her hands prodding and squeezing him, delighting in his squirming and yelps of discomfort. And Mai, gentle Mai, so tenderly bathing him, so softly caressing his flesh. He could still feel them, all three of them on him at this very moment, as if they were there now, all standing in his bathtub-shower, clustered around him, bathing him in that way that never left him feeling clean.
It took Tristan a while to realize that he was crying, just standing there in the shower, bawling like a child. He sank to the bottom of the tub, sitting there with the water raining on him, his knees tucked up to his chest, and he cried without end. Some moments he just sat there, shaking and letting the tears come. Other moments, great sobs wracked him, making his chest hurt with their force, making his throat ache. He was screaming, he realized that too. He wasn't screaming loudly, just louder than typical talking. Over and over, he repeated it, "Why? Why? Why?"
When Tristan finally pulled himself together and cleaned up, before emerging from the shower, it was much later. He stood in his room, feeling a wave of elation wash over him. How badly had he needed that cry, that outpouring of raw emotion? He felt lighter now, he felt more free for having expressed himself. And, on top of all of that, he finally felt clean.
Without donning any clothes, Tristan threw himself into bed, wrapping up in blankets and cherishing the fact that he could sleep without any of his limbs shackled. And on the wall over his bed, his Milla Jovovich poster watched over the room, looking tough and beautiful. / But not like Hilja./ Not that kind of tough. Milla looked strong, she didn't look evil, not scary. Tristan reflected on that as he drifted off into a deep, dreamless, and truly restful sleep...
The next morning, Tristan awoke. He looked up and around. / Where/ /am/ /i?!/ He didn't recognize this place at all. The walls were decorated, the bed was softer, he couldn't feel his shackles. He sat up sharply. Then it returned to him, he was home, he was free. His necklace was the only thing he wore, no collar or shackles. He was home and safe. A smile crossed his face briefly and he rose from bed, dressing in his typical clothes: black pants, boots, and a metal band shirt. This particular day he selected a Sonata Arctica shirt. A lighter band, but a good one. / It's nice to think about metal again./
Attention had to be paid, he realized, toward salvaging his school career for this semester. He was going to have to contact his teachers and explain... what? Explain why he had disappeared for a month? He'd have to come up with something. Failing this semester was not so much a possibility as an inevitability, but he had to make sure he was still in good standing for the coming semester. But all of that could wait for now, as it was Saturday and his teachers would not be likely to check their email. One thing was for sure: this would really piss off his parents, he'd have to work fairly hard to calm them. The tentative lie of a lost cell phone battery wouldn't explain his absence from class. But one thing might help matters, one thing might show that he was trying to be responsible. If he was gainfully employed.
Discs and Records, or Records for short, was a little music shop south of Pine Ridge University, on a street lined by little shops and restaurants. To Tristan, it was always special because it actually housed a respectable, if not commendable selection of heavy metal albums, both on CD and vinyl. Tristan made many of his purchases there, and his friend Dave worked there, a manager employed by the shop's owner, an older, bald man, named Tony. Tony, the few times that Tristan had met him, seemed like a nice enough guy, very gruff in demeanor though, which is why he seemed to get along with Dave so well.
"Tristan," Dave's raucous voice erupted from across the shop, "you son of a bitch I thought I was never going to see your ass in here again!"
"Hey man," Tristan said, striding across the shop and into a rib-cracking embrace, "how have you been?"
"Good as Hel," Dave replied, "can't complain."
Dave was large in every respect of with word. He was tall, broad shouldered, and fairly big around. Today he wore a sleeveless shirt, a cloth wristband that read "Fuck You, I'm Irish," and a Mjolnir pendant large and heavy enough to debilitate a lesser man. His hair was long and his arms were adorned with a number of tattoos, some better than others. He patted Tristan on the back, hard enough to make the smaller young man nearly fall over.
"So you come by to pick up the new Sonata Arctica live disc?" Dave asked.
"No. Well yes, I'll take it, but no I was actually coming by to ask about the job."
Dave thought about it for a moment, then he looked Tristan over. His face fell.
"Sorry man," he said grimly, "but you're not going to get it."
"Why not?"
"Because we don't hire dudes whose moms I've slept with. Store policy!"
Dave erupted with laughter at his own crude (and thankfully entirely fictional) joke. Tristan couldn't help but smirk. / The world could be thrown into the depths of a tempest the likes of which none have ever seen, upsetting civilization as we know it, and Dave would still be a hilarious ass-hole./
"Seriously though," Dave said, "I'll hook you up with an application and push it through to Tony, okay bro."
"Yeah, that would be great. Thanks."
On his way back up to the front register, Tristan caught sight of the new Sonata Arctica live album. It had come out in October, he remembered hearing about it and seeing some previews for it online. He wondered what had been happening to him the day the album came out. Which of the girls was having her way with him on that day? What torture had he been enduring? Dave's sudden intrusion cut into his thoughts.
"You going to buy that or just ogle the lead singer." he chided.
"Whatever dude," Tristan muttered, "yeah I'll take it."
Dave rang up the album and Tristan paid him for it. Dave also gave him an application, a simple form with name, contact information, and a few questions about potential work schedule-effecting factors. Tristan took the time to fill it out and hand it back to Dave, who assured him that Tony would see it and it would come with a strong recommendation.
Then Tristan bid his friend farewell and walked out of the store into the chilly November day. He found himself wishing he'd brought a jacket, yet likewise not wanting to go back home to retrieve one either. He didn't want to be alone, in a room, in any room right now. Seeing his friend just reminded him how much he missed human contact. His late-night talks with Mai didn't properly count, given that they always came after she was done taking what she wanted from him. So to the end of not wanting to go home quite yet, he wandered into a little restaurant that sold pizza by the slice, amongst other things.
The interior of the restaurant was quiet, relatively unoccupied, and some accordion-based music floated down from speakers mounted on the walls. Tristan had never much anticipated liking the accordion, but ever since he discovered folk metal music, he had grown to quite love the instrument, especially when backed by electric guitars. But this was just quaint folk music, though Tristan still found it pleasing to the ear. He ordered some warm soup and a cold drink, a winning combination, and sat down at a booth to eat by himself. But he was not alone for long.
Alan Jefferson was an older man, but not terribly old, early middle-ages at the oldest. He had short, dark hair and tan skin. He was a teacher at Pine Ridge University. More specifically, he was Tristan's English literature professor. Professor Jefferson spied Tristan sitting alone and hurried over to join him.
"Tristan," he said excitedly, "where have you been?"
"I've been," Tristan started, feeling suddenly and inexplicably compelled toward honesty, "I've been in a uh... in a really bad way."
"How so?"
"I can't talk about it really." Tristan replied. "I've failed your class, haven't I?"
"You were dropped, it's policy." Professor Jefferson replied. "Sorry man, I hate to have to do that. But it was a whole month."
"Yeah, I know."
"So uh... are you okay now?"
"Yeah," Tristan replied, "I'm okay I guess."
"Good," the cheerful professor answered, "but hey, don't forget that we have counseling up at the university, okay? Free for students."
"Oh? Oh yeah, thanks Professor."
"No problem, I'll let you get back to your meal."
Professor Jefferson left Tristan to his lunch, which he ate slowly, enjoying the atmosphere of the restaurant. What his professor said got him thinking: /Do I need some sort of counseling?/ Maybe it would be good for him, to talk to people, to let someone know what had happened. It had felt nice being somewhat honest with his professor. Maybe that would be good for him. / Well, if I'm dropped from everything I might as well spend my days on campus doing something of use./ He was still a little anxious, nervous about telling someone everything, but he could always try. / Right?/
At last he could sit around no longer without seeming to be loitering. And so Tristan rose and made his way through the afternoon chill, crossing his campus and returning to his apartment building. He let himself in and lay down on the couch, feeling consumed by a lethargy that he'd not noticed earlier. He felt like he had nothing he could do. They'd taken everything from him, his time, his academic pursuits, he couldn't just sit here all day, but what else was there to do?
Tristan fell asleep on the couch that night and stayed there for much of Sunday. There was little point in doing anything else, save for sending a few emails to his other teachers, all of whom replied with apologies for whatever circumstances had kept him out of his classes for a month, but informing him that he'd been dropped. Dropped, from everything. He was going to have to work really hard to explain this one to his parents. Maybe that counselor he was hoping to get would help out, somehow. Only time would tell, and hopefully lift this shroud of ruination that seemed to blanket him when he wasn't actively distracting himself with work of some sort.
Chapter 7: Working Man
The next week started out as a hard one for Tristan. He started counseling that Monday, having happened upon an available appointment with a friendly female counselor named Amy Morales. She allowed him to call her Amy. Amy was a young woman, seemingly calm in all situations, professional, but sympathetic and nice. That first day in her office, Tristan sat across from her and fumbled awkwardly with his words.
"I went to a concert in September," he explained, "and I left and went for a bus but I..."
"You missed the bus?" she prompted.
