Jonathan stared out over the balcony railing into the garden below. His heart ached horrendously over the loss of his best friend. In his mind, he conjured memories of the past years with Peter that only proved to make his pain even colder and harder to bear.
It seemed the vast darkness that surrounded him would quickly swallow him up. He felt caught in a vacuum of utter solitude and aloneness, so isolated now, as if no one could ever understand the pain and hurt he felt. And his mind kept going back to that night at the hospital, the words the man had spoken riveted through his being like glaciers sliding, frigid and heavily over ridges of icy walls.
Without warning it effused from his being. He gripped the railing tight leaning forward as he began to wail. Pain issued from his being with gut wrenching sounds that permeated the night, cutting through the silence like so many double-edged swords. It seemed to hang in the air, surrounding him unrelenting and heavy, tormented where the cries he made. His body shook violently, sweat beaded over his brow and upper lip. Tightly his fingers gripped the railing that caused the knuckles to blanch.
All he knew was the pain he felt and that he was utterly consumed with it. Soon, it became all he could do to stand there, as his legs becoming weak and slowly went to his knees, then finally sat on the cold concrete floor of the balcony. Grasping the vertical bars of the structure he leaned his cheek against one of them weeping soundly for a long time.
***
Peter looked both ways at the airport, before crossing the street and disappearing inside among the throngs of people there coming and going, some waiting for flights, or family coming in from some other origination. His eyes constantly roamed the area around him in search for any suspicious characters standing around, someone he might have known from his organization, or some other that might have been sent to retrieve him.
But, so far, he had seen no one as he ducked into the men's room to put on a disguise. Closing the door of a stall that he rushed into, he set up his little lab from the suitcase he was carrying. For a moment, he thought about Tony, one of the masters of disguise, a very talented man when it came to changing his looks. He had even fooled Maurice when that scoundrel had been arrested in Russia.
His challenge would be to hide his hair; it had always been the greatest problem to camouflage. Concealing it would mean either cutting the length, or affixing it some way on his head and wear a wig.
Dying it now would take much too long,
he thought to himself as he looked into his small round portable mirror.
And Jonathan would be highly upset if I cut my hair at all.
Still, he emerged from the men's room approximately fifteen minutes later, when he heard the final boarding call for his flight. He was now wearing wire-framed glasses, a thin mustache and goatee. His hair was shoulder length and dark brown that was tied back in a short ponytail. The suit he wore made him appear to be a businessman about to board a flight for some meeting with associates.
His gate was purposeful, determined, appearing to be someone of some importance. Possibly a CEO of some 500-club business that was sending him on a very crucial trip. It was well known among Peter's peers that he detested having attention focussed on him, so when a few of the terminal employees converged upon him suddenly to assist him, those that had thought it might be him, turned away looking else where.
Stepping onto the plane, he quickly found his seat, after storing his carry-on luggage. He buckled himself in, then waited for the craft to take off, which was only five minutes later. As it did, he looked down through the small porthole window to silently say his good-byes to the ones he loved so dear.
***
Later that evening, Jonathan stood in the adjacent bathroom, of what once was his uncle's bedroom, staring at the mirror. What he saw looking back at him seemed to him to be the ugliest sight he had ever seen. He hated himself purely, through and through, there was no denying that fact. It was as if all of the love he had once found inside, for himself, he had completely lost somewhere between the hospital and the mansion. Isolating himself in his uncle's room and office, he refused to see anyone, or talk to anybody. He hadn't eaten a bite since he had been home, everything that was brought to him left untouched.
Bruce, Tony and Greg had decided to give Jonathan his space to grieve and work this out for himself. Yet, they were becoming quite worried after several days had gone by that they had not seen him come out of that room. The only way they knew he was still alive was that the maid would make the effort to physically see Jonathan and converse with him each time she took his meal to him, and each day she went in to clean the office, bedroom and bathroom.
The three of them sat at dinner talking about the situation at hand, when she returned from Jonathan's room with yet another untouched tray of food.
"Did he eat anything?" Bruce asked holding his breath afterwards while he waited for her answer.
"No, sir. And I tried to get him to come out of the bathroom, but he wouldn't. His voice didn't sound normal, sir. I'm really worried about him now." She had set the tray on the buffet table to talk to Bruce; her voice fluctuations spoke loudly of her concerns.
Tony was on his feet knowing what was happening now, by what she was describing. Much of what she hadn't said was his greatest concern.
"Tony, where're ya goin'?" Bruce asked pushing from the table as he did.
"I don't have time to explain, Bruce," he stated hurriedly as he rushed to the huge double doors of the dining room. "But, you're welcome to join me, I might need your help with Peter not here to coax Jonathan out of the bathroom." Not wasting another minute, he shoved the heavy door open and disappeared.
Bruce and Greg looked at each other silently for a second, both of them having the same thought at the same time. They stood together and headed for the door in a rush.
Jonathan's hands trembled as he drew long and hard on the cigarette he had lit. Putting it in the ashtray, he took the butt of it, turning the cig to rid it of excess ash. When he was satisfied, he placed the now pointed cherry of his smoke on the small rounded ridge of the disposable shaver. No longer allowed to have the regular razors, he had quickly learned how to gain access to the tiny sharp edge inside the plastic casing of the shavers. There were two places that he would have to melt through to get the metal edge out of the casing. After melting the first ridge he pulled the edge up until it popped lose. Then, he proceeded to melt the other small ridge that was the only thing now holding the assembly together.
All of this took less than a minute to do and he quickly had the tiny metal razor in his fingers tossing the plastic handle and casing into the small receptacle nearby. Sitting on the edge of the toilet seat, he held his arm over the counter and sink, laying the sharp edge to the flesh of the outer edge of his wrist where he bore down with a vengeance.
"Jonathan..."
The sound of his name being called so close to his ear startled him causing him to drop the tiny razor that slid down the sink, into the drain.
"No!" He stood leaning over the sink to reach for the drain; his finger disappeared into it attempting to retrieve his weapon of choice.
"Jonathan..."
Now he stood straight feeling the rush of warm air wash over his ear as his name was called again. Turning he found himself face to face with his uncle again.
"Uncle Jim?" he felt his breath caught in his throat and could hear his excited heartbeat thrum in his own ears.
"You don't need to do that. What would Peter think of you if he could see you now?" The man's voice was so clear, frighteningly clear for Jon's comfort. Mr. Bowman's expression was full of obvious disappointment. The affect of it caused Jon's heart to sink lower than it had been.
"Baby, answer me. What would Peter think of you, if he could see what you are doing to yourself?" the man reiterated his question clearly.
"I don't want to live without him," Jon's voice quivered as the tears came again. He had thought he had cried all there was left in him to cry, but now, he knew differently.
"Baby, he's not a dead man that you will join on the other side. In fact, he is very much alive and doing what must be done for your protection, as well as the same for your friends Bruce, Greg and Tony. If you do this, when he returns, he will be hurt so deeply. You know that. So, why? Why are you doing this to yourself? Answer me now." The last Mr. Bowman spoke firmly as in a demand.
Jonathan trembled knowing that tone of voice all too well. What would follow if he didn't comply would be painful and frightening. At least, that is how it was when Mr. Bowman was alive.
"I am not going to hurt you ever again, Jonathan!" The man's voice boomed, filling the room hanging there like dead weight. "You still have not answered me!" He used the same tone again, firm, imposing, threatening, as he stepped closer to Jon who leaned back, bending over the counter and sink. Unconsciously, Jon felt the fear of God invading his being as he snatched air, and shook violently. But still he did not answer.
Clinching a fist the man brought it up, slamming it down onto the marble countertop. Jim's wrath was always explosive when he allowed it to escape his control. "I told you to answer me, Jon!" He roared at him in apparent anger.
"I don't know!" Jon yelled back courageously. "I don't know why! All I know is it hurts so bad inside, that I have to find an outlet for it!"
"Then find a new one, Jon," Mr. Bowman's voice was so calm and serene it was scary. "Find something less damaging and more positive to release that pain. Workout with Tony and Bruce, take a walk in the garden, paint, draw, write a book about your life, but stop hurting yourself and trying to kill yourself. Your time hasn't come yet, boy. You have decades ahead of you to accomplish so much. Take what I've given you - what is yours to use for good - and do something constructive with it."
"Uncle Jim," Jon moved toward him embracing the man fully, resting his head on Jim's shoulder. "Stay with me tonight. I really miss you so much."
Silently the man pulled Jon closer to his body and planted a light kiss on the top of the young man's head. It lingered there for a long moment, before it ended, then he rested his cheek there. "When will you finally become angry, Jon? When will you hate me for what I've done to you?" Jim almost whispered to him. "You have to stop this, boy. You have to let me go. You have to realize that you are so much better than the way I treated you and the things I did to you. You deserve none of it. In fact, you deserve so much better. You deserve the love and care that Tony wants to give you, that Bruce is trying so hard to show you, and Greg longs for you to know, let alone all the pampering Peter has given you. You are better than I am, always have been and always will be. I'm the one that never deserved you, your love, allegiance, or care, Jon," he paused momentarily. "Are you listening to me?" He asked, as he started to pull away, but Jon latched onto him refusing to be moved.
"Yes, sir. I'm listening." Jonathan returned softly.
"Then let me go, Jon. Go on with your life and forget me. Let me die. Let me go. I'm not worth your time, or the energy to keep me alive in your heart or soul. I don't even deserve to be thought of again by you.
