Monday, October 17
(Kate)
Clayton texts me on my way home from the cafeteria. Come with me to Spectacle tonight? Pretty please with a cherry on top.
It's been so long since I've hung out with Clayton. I text back, OK ;)
Spectacle is packed as usual. Morris is working so I get Clayton to myself most of the night. I've missed him. We sing, dance, and laugh for hours. Before we know it, it's two o'clock: closing time. We wait for Morris to lock up so we can all walk to the parking lot across the street together.
Just as we walk out the back door into the alley, Morris realizes he's left his phone in his office upstairs. "I'll be right out. Ya two wait out front on the sidewalk. I don't want ya waiting 'ere in the alley."
The alley is dark; there's only one dim light bulb over the door. It's kind of creepy. I grab Clayton's hand, and the contact relaxes him. We haven't taken ten steps when I see two guys walking along the sidewalk we're heading for. When they see us and stop, my skin begins to crawl. And when they turn and start walking toward us, my heart leaps into my throat. I'm scared.
After one of them speaks, I know why. "Look at what we have here. A little faggot."
First, I pray. God, please don't let them hurt us. And then I scream and turn to run, pulling Clayton behind me.
We don't make it five feet before Clay is tackled from behind by both men.
I'm in full-on panic mode, but I don't freeze up. Instead, I start screaming, "Stop! Get off him, you bastard! Stop!" I jump on one guy's back as he's standing up. I swing my right arm and punch him in the ear, because it seems like the most painful spot within reach. He smells strongly of alcohol and my stomach heaves. He sways under my weight.
After regaining his balance, he manages to pry my hands free from his head and throws me to the ground. "Bitch!" He spits on me.
I land on my side, and the force of hitting the pavement draws all of the air out of my lungs. I wheeze trying to pull it in again. My vision is black at the edges; I must have hit my head. The pavement is rough and grates the skin on my cheek. Staccato bursts of pain pierce through my thigh and stomach, and it's all over before I even realize he's been hitting or kicking me. He's turned his attention back to Clayton, who I can vaguely see, crumpled beneath the other man's knees. I fumble in my bag, which is slung across my chest, and when my fingers recognize the pepper spray, I grip it tightly. Before my attacker manages to assault Clayton again, I spray him in the face at close range. He cries out, clutching his fingers to his stinging eyes.
I lunge toward the man sitting on top of Clayton and kick him in the side as hard as I can. "Get the hell off of him, you son of a bitch!" I kick him again and again and again. I can't spray him, or I risk getting Clayton too. At least he's stopped punching. He grabs my foot and pulls me off my feet.
Just then I hear Morris's voice. "Ge' ya muthafuckin' hands off 'im." From the ground, I can see Morris unbutton his suit jacket and pull it aside to reveal a handgun in a holster on his hip.
The guy straddling Clayton puts his hands up in surrender and stands slowly. The other guy's already backing away. Even drunk assholes understand self-preservation.
Morris's voice is measured but strained with pure rage. His right hand hovers over the gun. "Ge' outta my sight or I swear ta God I'll blow ya bloody fuckin' heads off."
Both men turn and run for the street without so much as a glance back.
Morris kneels and coaxes Clayton to sit up with his help. His lip is bleeding, and he's holding his ribs. His eyes are shut, and his forehead glistens with sweat. Morris's voice is soft and gentle, "Are ya okay, love?" but his hands are trembling.
Clayton's cheeks are wet with tears. "Um, give me a minute." Clayton takes inventory of his upper body. "Nothing's broken. I'm just sore."
Morris isn't convinced. "We should take ya ta the hospital, Clayton."
Clayton sniffles. The tears have stopped. "Sweetie, I've been beaten up so many times, believe me, I'd know if I needed to go to the hospital. This is about a four on the beating scale. It's probably just bruised ribs. I'll be fine in a few days."
I feel physically sick, and my heart is breaking. I figured Clay's had it rough, but I had no idea. "We should call the police. They can't get away with this."
Clayton looks at me like I'm talking gibberish. "Katherine, my boyfriend just threatened someone with a deadly weapon. That's probably not the best idea. Besides, we don't even know who those guys were. I'm a random hate crime. Calling the cops would do nothing but waste my time at this point."
I kneel down on the other side of Clayton and dab the blood off his bottom lip with my shirt.
Clayton grabs my hand. "Katherine, stop. You'll ruin that shirt."
My hand is shaking in his. "Clay, I'm not really worried about the shirt right now." I just watched one of my very favorite people in the world get singled out and beaten for his sexual orientation. People's ignorance and capacity for violence sickens me.
"But that shirt's one of my favorites. It looks great with your skin tone."
I have to roll my eyes because only Clayton would say something like that at a time like this. "Dude, I can get another shirt. You can't get another lip."
Clayton huffs, but lets me finish.
Morris's eyes are running wildly over Clayton. He's at a complete loss as to what to do next. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't 'ave let ya two walk out 'ere alone this time 'a night." His dark, wide eyes find mine, and they're way past anxious. "Ya all right, Kate?"
I gesture to the gun on his hip and answer with a question, "Do you always have that on you?"
"Only when I work late. Never thought I'd need it." He's making fists with his hands, looking like he wants to kill someone.
Clayton is visibly shaking. I wrap him delicately in a hug, careful not to hurt him. "Oh, Clay. I'm sorry I couldn't help you."
He pulls back and looks me in the eye. "Katherine, if you hadn't been here I might not be breathing right now. You're one of the bravest people I've ever met. You scared the daylights out of me jumping on that barbarian's back. And when he threw you down, my heart stopped. Are you hurt? Did you bump your head? Maybe you need to go to the hospital."
My back is sore, and my head is throbbing, but I lie. "I'm fine, sweetie." I kiss him on the forehead before I stand and help him up. The hospital is the last place I want to go, especially when doctors start asking questions.
Clayton looks to Morris. "I probably should head home. I have a History test in a few hours."
Morris is back at his side, and his face softens as he strokes Clayton's cheek. "What can I do for ya?" He's quietly pleading. "What can I do?"
Clayton smiles sweetly. "You can kiss me, and tell me you love me, and you can walk me to Katherine's car."
He does all three.
When we arrive back at the dorms, I help Clayton to the men's restroom where I finish cleaning up his face. I check both his eyes and mine for dilation or any other signs of concussion. Nothing. Normal.
Next, I help him to his room. Despite trying to be as quiet as we can, we wake Pete. He looks alarmed when he sees us both. I don't blame him; we're a mess. While I help Clayton change into his pajamas, because his ribs are so sore he can't lift his arms over his head, Pete gets some ice from their mini refrigerator and wraps it in a washcloth. He offers it to me with questioning eyes, but doesn't say a word. I tell him to go back to bed and promise to tell him what happened after we get some sleep. Pete nods sadly and returns to his bed. He gets back under the covers but never takes his worried eyes off of us. Clayton winces when I gently press the ice pack to his lips and cheek, but exhales as the cold provides some relief.
Bending over him, I kiss his forehead. "Good night, Clay." I'm mentally and physically exhausted. I need to get to bed.
Clayton's whisper stops me at the door. "Katherine?"
I whisper back, "Yeah?"
"Thank you. No one's ever stood up for me before."
My heart tightens. "Anytime."
"I love you."
"I love you, too. Now get some rest."