The Healing 1

Dear readers: what follows is the continuation of a story called "The Last Chapter" found on this site. Hope you love Sam, Edward, and Kila as much as I do.

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When you sleep with Edward Warren, you never sleep alone. The intimacy between you is always shared. There are others in the bed with you. You can't see them, but you know they are there. You can feel them around him, ethereal to you, but so significant in his mind, that they become almost corporeal.

The fixer, mutilated and dropped on the doorstep of the bureau's office; the young woman in her burkha who immolated herself in front of his car; the young boy, desperately crying out in pain, as he bled to death in his mother's arms. These are the people who share the bed with us. His thoughts, while never constantly engaged in these horrors, never seem to stop drifting back to them, touching delicately on the grotesqueries of his past.

Sometimes, I feel him looking through me, as though I am not even there, and I know that he is seeking escape from the vivid, visceral memories of death through the most primitive of life-bringing forces we can share. It is in these moments that I offer up my body in sacrifice, trying to cheat death and drive those specters from him, exorcising them from his soul. Sometimes, it works. Most of the time, he remains constricted, bound, by a nascent compulsion that drives him into me hard and viciously, begging me to save him, rescue him. And I try. God, how I try. I would bargain away my very soul if I thought it would make a damn bit of difference. It won't; it hasn't.

I did make my own deal with the devil, shortly after we came together in the desperation of his loss. I offered up my very being, freely and willingly, to keep him alive, and whole. The loss of a dear friend three months ago to suicide, scared him and scarred him. I know I took advantage of the moment, but so did he, and my life has changed irrevocably, for better or worse, since the first moment his lips touched mine, in a frenzy of lust and need. What has happened in the interim opened my heart to him, and freed me from my past; our love affair continues.

"Hey, what are you doing out there?" Kila asked me. She was peering through the blinds at me as I stood on my balcony. Well, not quite a balcony, more like a ledge with a railing around it. I looked over my shoulder at her, squinting at the reflection of the sun on the window.

"Watering my plants," I answered. She stuck her head out the window, and shook it at the sad assortment of plants I was attempting to grow. I had never had much of a talent for keeping things alive, but this was the sorriest state I had ever seen the poor things in.

"Get back in here, I want to talk," she demanded, getting a little curmudgeonly with me. I put the watering can through the window, and then stuffed myself through the tiny opening, tripping over the radiator. Kila was looking very pleased with herself, and seemed to be glowing from the inside. Her lithe, blond frame looking healthy and strong with her tan legs. I looked at my own legs, pale on the front, sunburned on the back, and felt a bit awkward. "I met someone," she gushed at me.

"You did? When? Who?" I demanded. Kila never got excited about her conquests and I assumed this was a big deal.

"Over the weekend. Where were you by the way?" she answered evasively. I told her that I had made a trip down to Camp Lejeune to interview some of the Marines getting ready to redeploy. It had been a long, tiring weekend, and I was very glad to be back. My documentary was coming along, and I was hopeful that I might actually finish it in the next couple of weeks, but it was exhausting emotionally. The dead look some of those boys had in their eyes was far too reminiscent of a look I saw almost every day.

But I didn't want to consider it, and I asked her again who the new lady in her life was; she blushed. "She works at a publishing house here in the city. She loved my show-- which you missed by the way," she pouted.

"I didn't miss it! I went early Friday, before we left. God, Kil, it made me cry," I told her, because it had. Kila had spent a lot of her time in Iraq, and subsequently Afghanistan, taking pictures that she knew the paper would never use. She had the eye of a goddess, turning the rutted streets and bombed out buildings into art. The photos of the children were especially touching. One photo showed a young boy sitting on a stoop, crutches at his side. His face, alight with childhood joy, juxtaposed with his missing lower left leg. Yes, Kila was an artist in every sense of the word, and I envied her gift.

"Yeah, it made Lisa cry too. We artists get laid a lot!" She laughed.

"Lisa, hmmm?" I prompted. Kila told me everything about her, and then she told me again. She resembled nothing so much as a fifteen year old girl with a major crush, and I laughed at the joy I felt to see her happy. Kila had been single; very single for a long time. She had a short fling with Edward, and one afternoon with me, but other than that, and a couple of one night stands, she had been alone. I was glad she had finally met someone.

"You're not thinking of nailing Bill Davis are you?" she asked out of nowhere. I gaped at her, and sputtered. "Your mouth is hanging open, Sam. I guess you're not. Thought I'd check though, for Eddie's sake. He thinks you might." This was news to me, and I was getting pretty angry. Bill Davis was the cameraman working with me on my documentary. A few years older than I was, he was a former Marine, and looked like it. It was one of the reasons I had chosen him, thinking he would get me in to places and conversations I wouldn't typically have had access to, and he hadn't let me down. But Edward had never said a word about Bill to me, so I was quite taken aback by her pronouncement.

"Why does he think that?" I asked calmly, not wanting to reveal the ripple of anger I was feeling.

"Oh I don't know, something Bill said to him. You know Eddie though, he never trusts anyone-- especially not men who go away on trips with his girlfriend." She scolded. Somehow, I felt like a child under her, less than tacit, rebuke. I wondered what Bill could have said, and why Edward would even consider the possibility.

We were sitting at our favorite restaurant, eating Pad Thai and crispy, flaky spring rolls, enjoying the melding of the uniquely Thai flavors, in a companionable silence. Periodically, Edward would look up at me and meet my eyes, and I would feel myself melting into him, bared internally to him, and a brief thrill of something much more basic. He had that effect on me; my body responded to his without my conscious thought or permission, my stomach rippling in that familiar way.

But something was off tonight; something was different. We had spoken about Kila briefly; he seemed as genuinely happy for her as I was, but then he had lapsed into this odd silence. It wasn't his normal silence-- that I was familiar with and felt, if not comfortable with it, used to it. I looked at him, quizzically, asking him the question with my eyes. He shook his head; in answer? In denial? I wasn't sure, but wanted to give him some space if that was what he needed.

"How do you think it's coming?" He asked me, referring to my current project. I put down my fork, stuffed, and thought for a moment.

"It's coming along, but it doesn't have the power I want yet. I'm missing an enormously important piece, but what that is eludes me at the moment. I think that the interviews don't have any... bang. A lot of the guys just don't have the vocabulary to talk about what it feels like; they simply don't have the words. And what I need is the words. You haven't given any more thought to sitting down for me, have you?"

I had asked him, off-handedly, trying to seem nonchalant, if he would let me interview him for the documentary. I knew two things about Edward regarding my film, he knew what PTSD was like, and he had the words to talk about it if he chose. A brilliant writer, his words would give my film the life and power I wanted; I marveled at his clever and easy manipulation of vocabulary; his ability to conjure images in my mind, and stir feelings I hadn't known existed, solely with his words. I was utterly familiar with that power, both in his daily conversation, his writing, and in the bedroom.

At the time, he had told me he would think about it, and had continued to forestall any discussion of an interview. He sighed, finally putting his fork down; sometimes I wondered where he put all that he ate. He wasn't thin; rather, he had a body that testified to healthy use, muscled from activity as opposed to a gym. Somehow, even though he ate enough for two people, he stayed the same weight he had been for years, give or take a few weeks of kabobs in Najaf. I hated him for it, having gained ten pounds in the last few months.

"No, Sam. I honestly haven't given it any thought. I promise I will." I bristled at this reply. Sometimes he seemed completely blind to what I thought, felt, desired. I angrily wondered how he could overlook how much this film meant to me; the implications it held for forcing people to look at an uncomfortable issue they would prefer to ignore; the trauma of war. I had recently come across a frightening statistic that told me a third of the men diagnosed with PTSD, experienced sexual dysfunction which prescription meds, what the guys call 'boner pills,' won't do anything for. It seemed horrific and intolerable to me. Our men --boys-- come home from a situation so raw and ugly, scarred inside, and they are unable to perform the life affirming act that so beautifully conquers pain and need; at least for a moment.

It was their pain. The agony that seeped from them into the very air around them. It was what had prompted my book, and it was now driving my documentary. They were all so brave, clinging to their dignity, never letting themselves go. The emotional control they exerted, exhausted me, and I could only imagine the bone weary tiredness that must threaten to overwhelm them at times. It was also what drew me to Edward; his rigid control over his emotions; the look in his eyes that belied his cool, casual demeanor, his know-it-all condescending grins. He gave me one now.

"It's not that I haven't considered thinking about it, Sam. I just know how much it would mean to you, and I don't want to realize that I can't do it, and have to let you down." He clearly did know what I felt, and I was suddenly shamed by my earlier assumption. I nodded assent; pleased that he didn't want to disappoint me. He got up to pay the bill, and we left, indulging in a slow, leisurely, summer evening walk through the city. "Are you coming over?" He asked me warily.

"I thought I might, but if you'd rather I went home..." I trailed off, hurt and wondering at his reluctance.

"I'm exhausted. I haven't been sleeping well." I guessed this was an understatement. I knew how elusive sleep was for him, and that when it came, it wasn't pleasant; but I also knew, when he slept with his arms around me, he was calmer, less disjointed in his unconscious mind.

"Okay. Do you want me to go home?" I didn't want him to say yes.

"No, I just wanted to warn you that it wouldn't be a... satisfying evening for you," he winked at me. That, I didn't mind, and I said so. He put his arm around my waist, and pulled me into him, holding me snugly against the safe warmth of his side as we walked.

"You know I don't care about that," I answered. He looked down at me, cocking an eyebrow and his mouth in a doubting grin. "I mean," I stammered, "of course I care about it, but I don't mind." And I truly didn't. I loved his body, and everything he made me feel, physically and emotionally, but I loved to just sleep next to him, to be wrapped in the heavy weight of his embrace, hearing him snore softly into my hair.

We got back to his brownstone about forty five minutes later, it had been a long walk, but the night was warm and smelled of life in the way only a city does. He unlocked the door, and stood aside for me to pass, and I did. He walked in behind me, pausing to pick up his mail. Sorting through it in an absent way, he smiled as he came across one with an airmail stamp, decorated in childlike handwriting; a letter from his niece in Germany. The daughter of his only sister, his niece was the favorite of his relatives, and he doted on her mercilessly, frustrating his sister in her attempts to say 'no' to her daughter.

He moved around the first floor of his home, determinedly straightening out things I didn't perceive to be in disarray; putting his home to rights, trying to bring some control to his world. As he finished, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, a nightly ritual consistently destined to fail in its attempts to numb him. He turned to me saying, "I've got to go to bed, I can barely stand anymore."

I nodded. It was still early, but not too early. I thought I could probably sleep. He led the way up the stairs, and found me a pair of his underwear and a t-shirt. Both looked ridiculous on me; they hung on me like a child playing dress up, but he always said I looked cute. I went into his bathroom, and stood before the sink, washing my face. He came in behind me, opening the cabinet and reaching for something. He held it out to me in his hand, "I got you something." It was a toothbrush.

"Are you insinuating something about my dental hygiene?" I joked, recognizing the deeper significance of the gesture. He smiled, and I felt the familiar warmth of lust between my legs, cursing his exhaustion silently. We brushed our teeth in silence, our eyes meeting in the mirror, sharing a very intimate moment. There is a strange sort of privacy contained in rituals like brushing your teeth, and doing it with another person affirms an undeniable connection beyond the physical.

He finished before me, leaving me spitting in the sink. When I walked back into the bedroom, he was propped in bed with his laptop on his chest, "checking my email," he said. Sliding myself between his sheets, smelling his scent on them, I held them to my nose to breathe him in deeply. I was very aroused by his smell; I had been since the first time I had been close enough to him to experience it. He smelled like warm sun, and more faintly musky. I looked at him, wondering what my chances were of talking him into it, and saw the shadows lurking under his eyes. Instantly, I changed my mind, feeling guilty about wanting him when he was clearly in no shape to perform.

Instead, I threw back the covers, baring his legs, and moved toward him. He slept in boxer shorts, allowing me ready access to quickly kiss his stomach. He peered at me quizzically around his computer screen. I merely grinned slyly in return. I heard a few quick taps, and he was closing the laptop, putting it on the floor. "You don't have to do this you know," he told me. I flashed him a look that fairly screamed "idiot." and started to run my hands along the band of his boxers. He never took his eyes off me, and I looked up at him before lowering my head to tease his belly button with my tongue. He laughed: "that tickles," he said huskily, but made no move to stop me.

I ran my fingers lightly up his legs and under the fabric of his shorts, his thigh muscles contracting at my touch. Grabbing hold of the material keeping me from my conquest, I pulled, and he lifted his hips to let me take them off. He was naked before me, in all his male beauty, and I blew out my breath in appreciation of his body. I trailed my hands along his stomach, and tugged gently on the trail of hair below his navel. He sighed, still watching me.

He wasn't fully erect yet, but I took him in my mouth anyway; I knew he liked the feeling of being completely surrounded by me, something I couldn't do when he was hard, and I loved the feeling of him, soft and vulnerable. His sharp intake of breath told me that my lack of foreplay didn't really bother him. Placing my hand on his shaft, I began to massage him in a gentle twisting motion, as I slowly moved my mouth around him, tickling his tip with my tongue.

I glanced up at him, surprised to see his eyes still open and on me. They were intense, but dark with lust. I tasted the promise of his future pleasure on my tongue, and felt a thrill of pride in myself. It was silly, I knew, but I did feel proud. As he became fully erect, I started to do the things I knew he loved so well; I flicked my tongue, softly and slowly at first across that little spot right below his head, then, when I heard him groan softly, I started to do it faster and with more pressure, never releasing him from my mouth. I began to lower my mouth over him, while pulling my hand upward, then reversing the motion; pulling my mouth upward, and my hand lower. His breathing was heavier, and peaking at him, he still watched. I loved the picture in my mind of what he must be seeing. My hand on him, my mouth around him, my curls dancing on his thighs and stomach, softly teasing the sensitive skin.

I felt a rush of wetness between my thighs at the thought, and lowered my hand into the waistband of the shorts I wore, to begin to try and find my own relief from the tugging need I was feeling. He put his hand on my face. "Wait," he said. "I want to watch you touch yourself." I nodded, a little embarrassed at the thought. I had figured I could take care of it quietly and quickly, without him noticing. He dropped his hand back to his side and just kept looking at me. I was uncomfortable at the attention, and feeling very insecure. I lost my balance in the attempt to get my shorts off gracefully, and he chuckled at me.

Back on my knees, sitting on my heals, I began to lower my head again, but he said, "no lay on your side. Put your feet up here by me." I instantly recoiled at the thought of letting him watch that flagrantly. I had assumed it was more the idea of it that he liked, but he was saying he really wanted to see what I was doing to myself.

Regardless of my embarrassment, I complied, becoming more turned on at the thought of being on such vivid display. I once again lowered my head over him, taking him into my mouth while now also lowering my left hand between my legs. I felt a jolt of fire when I first touched myself, and began to massage the hard little nub laying between me and my own pleasure. Edward grabbed one of my knees, raising it toward the ceiling, exposing me fully to his gaze, and my embarrassment and excitement increased.

I let him gaze right into me, so private and secret a spot, and so intimate an activity, displayed before him. My lips were starting to feel numb, and my lower lips were starting to swell. I slipped a finger into myself as I sucked on him, swirling, twirling my tongue across the tender spot directly beneath his tip; he inhaled through his nose, and I felt the hunger coming off him in waves. Encouraged by his response, I started to search for that soft, spongy spot deep inside me that would send me reeling, while trying to keep the rhythm of my mouth on him steady. I found the spot within myself, and started to tap on it with my index finger, moving my hips slightly to increase the sensation.

I felt his shaft tighten and I glanced up to see his eyes locked on my hand and what it was doing. I felt the waves of pleasure start to overwhelm me, slipping my finger out, I started to vigorously move my clit around in circles, faster and faster until I was racked with the spasms of my orgasm overtaking me.

The sight of my orgasm seemed to push him almost to the brink, I raised my hand toward his face, placing my finger, now heavily scented and tasting of me, on his lips, he took it into his mouth, sucking on it. I loved the pressure of his mouth, and enjoyed the sounds of pleasure he was making. I noticed his sack pulling up toward his body, and I snatched my hand back from his mouth. Feeling naughty, I decided to try something I had only read about in magazines.