Saving Mr Fox

Copyright © Meredith Russell 2014. All Rights Reserved, Total-E-Ntwined Limited, T/A Totally Bound Publishing. To describe that night seven years ago as 'it was a dark and stormy night' didn't even come close to what Eric remembered. Rain had fallen in thick sheets and the wiper blades of his old Ford had barely made a difference. Dark clouds had blocked out the moon and the stars and the car's headlights had done little to illuminate the dark highway. The storm had knocked out the power for what had been the third time that month and, as always, nobody had seemed in a hurry to get it fixed. There had been something in the road, maybe a deer or a dog. The animal had run out from nowhere and he'd swerved. He hadn't thought he'd hit it and certainly nobody had told him he had. Maybe if it hadn't been raining things would have been different. There had been so much rain. His car had skidded and hydroplaned across the road and into the other lane. The rest of the story blurred into white and red. There were gaps in his memory and all he remembered were the screams, the bright headlights of the truck and the blood on his hands. "Eric?" Eric Fox leaned forward and focused on the floor. He held his hands in the space between his knees and rubbed them together as he bounced his legs up and down. Composing himself, he raised his head and eyed the lady therapist sitting in the chair opposite him. Despite what many people believed, he wasn't crazy. He didn't need some shrink to rationalise his behaviour. He'd fucked up. Simple as that. The past was the past and it was nobody's business but his—his and the bottle of Jack. "You don't want to talk about it?" she said and lowered her notebook. Her eyes were rich brown in colour and held questions, lots of them. "You know anything we discuss here is confidential." "Sure, unless you consider me a danger to myself or others, right?" Madeleine Keaton gave a short nod. She was here to assess him and see if he was a risk to himself or anyone else. He wasn't. She'd realise that and then this little venture could come to an end. "Well, I'm not. It was a mistake. It's the business, right? Sex and partying?" He frowned. "I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't mean any of it, and if I was anyone else, no one would care. But I'm not, I'm me, so instead I have the press at my door, and men and women lining up to sell my dirty little secrets." "Is that how you see your relationships with them?" There it was again, the topic of relationships. In the hour session, Madeleine had already prompted discussion of his family, friends, colleagues and lovers. The woman seemed obsessed with attaching blame. There was no one to blame, just his own stupidity, every single damn time something went to shit in his life. "No. I'm not ashamed. I'm not some confused kid." He was a twenty-five year old man living in LA. He had slept with men and women, and refused to be put into a box—gay, straight, bisexual. What the hell did it matter anyway? As long as he was happy, right? I am so fucking happy. Male or female, he was attracted to both, but he had to admit he did have a type—dark, tanned, athletic. With a heavy sigh, he tried to push away the memories of the man he'd just described. The man his lovers mirrored—the first person he had ever loved. Tension swept through him as he was brought back to that night seven years ago. They should never have been out on the road. The weather had been crappy and it had just been some stupid high school dance. But he had insisted. He'd wanted to have fun and dance and hold hands. He'd wanted to say, "Fuck you," to anyone who gave a damn about two boys doing all those things. As it turned out, it had...