This is my first attempt at writing a story for Nifty Archives and you readers, so please bear with the mediocrity that may be found here before I really get into the flow. I am planning for A Light in the Tunnel to be more than a simple stroke story, which means you have to wait for the sex. This is a tale of a life saved and the friendship/relationships that come from that.
I do not know NSYNC or any other celebrities that may appear over time, thus I cannot tell you anything about their personalities or sexual orientations/habits. This is pure fiction. Just as a warning, this follows an unrealistic timeline. Having the gentlemen off doing their own things is not conducive to the story I wanted to tell, so keep that in mind.
If you are under-aged or offended by faceted relationships between men, please go somewhere else!
That said, I hope you enjoy this! Any comments are welcome at cameronwriter@hotmail.com but please be nice to me!
Now, on to:
A Light in the Tunnel
Chapter 1:
Burke Kennedy sat alone in his dark room, a converted off-shoot of a drafty attic. Sounds of laughter drifted up to him through the small grate in the floor, radiant heat the only source of warmth upstairs. His mother and sister were in the living room enjoying themselves, totally unaware of his despair. It was bad enough that Burke was the only man in the house, but being gay made everything worse. His sister thought it a novelty until she supposed people were making judgments about her, and it gave his mother a valid excuse to ignore him, claiming that she could not, as a Christian, associate too much with someone evil. Burke was painfully shy and confined to the home, both adding to his growing feelings of isolation. His only friends were the characters he read about in a small collection of books, or wrote about in a dozen different notebooks. Separated from nearly everyone and everything, Burke felt like an unwanted phantom drifting through the world, a waste of good oxygen. His lonely torment wasn't solely bound to home, but carried over into school as well. Most people overlooked his existence, but there were others who seemed to make it their personal goal to harass and belittle the slight, young looking boy. To appease everyone as much as possible, Burke had taken to covering his pain with faked smiles and withdrawing from sight. The only person who appeared to care in the least was his maternal aunt, but she had her own family to tend to, a task that left little room for Burke.
On that particular night, like so many before it, he contemplated the ultimate solution, suicide. He stared intently at the coil of rope, left over from a church project he was railroaded into helping with, laying, like a cobra ready to strike, in the corner. Burke wondered if it would be strong enough to hold his body weight if used to hang himself. He tried to stifle those thoughts, telling himself that others had worse problems than being chronically ignored, persecuted, or lonely. But, in his innermost being, he knew he was too cowardly to put an end to his pain, no matter how bad it was. That truth began the vicious cycle of self-loathing anew. Burke slipped a pair of earphones over his head, his comfort music streaming through, turned off the lamp, and buried his face in the pillows, unleashing a fresh torrent of tears.
Lisa Franklin slumped into her desk chair, tired from an evening of hosting a cookout for her son's Boy Scout troop. Her body wanted nothing more than a long, hot bubble bath and a full night's sleep, but her mind was preoccupied. She thought about her nephew, Burke. They saw each other only once or twice a month, but she could see the growing emptiness in his eyes, the light of life being driven out by the dark of hopelessness. Lisa pictured her own children, happy pre-teens without a problem worse than not having their favorite shirt clean a day after wearing it, but couldn't help but feel powerless when it came to Burke. He had perfected the art of smiling despite sorrow, and acting as if everything was perfect when the world is crashing down. He was good at it, a master, and she had trouble discerning what was truth and what was cover-up. Every day that passed left her both relived and worried. It was a day that left Burke alive. But how much longer until he broke? How long until she had to help her sister plan a funeral? Unable to find the answers she desperately wanted, Lisa banged her fist against the desktop. Burke's mother was an unwitting contributor, a woman twisted up in her own version of morality, his sister too self-absorbed. Time and space kept herself from being more than the occasional sympathetic ear. Through her sister's endless whining, she knew Burke was now spending long hours shut away in his cubbyhole of a room, listening to the same set of songs over and over. Lisa also knew, from her own observations, that he only mouthed the lyrics to music, a bad sign since Burke's singing brought him, and those lucky enough to be within earshot, immense joy. It was another omen of her nephew's downward spiral. Lisa, frustrated and at a loss, took a few sheets of her homemade floral stationary from the desk drawer, and started writing a letter she hoped would change everything before there was nothing left of Burke to change. Instead of worrying about punctuation and proper grammar, she let her emotions control the pen, tears darkening the paper as she scribbled furiously, crying. Lisa said a prayer of hope as she dropped the letter into the mailbox.Memorial Day, heralding the unofficial start of summer, brought the family together for a morning of the most somber of rituals. No one was smiling or cracking jokes as they stepped up to the graves of the former heads of the family. Before anyone could start crying, the headstones were decorated. Between his grandparents' names, Burke gingerly pressed an ivy decked, wrought iron cross into the soft ground. "That's beautiful, Burke," Lisa said as he moved back. She admired the work he had put into getting each leaf to lay just right. He smiled slightly, and moved away to let the others cluster around the grave, his face becoming blank. After reliving their grief and honoring their ancestors, they went back to their vehicles, heading out to other local cemeteries to repeat the rite. Lisa was not surprised at the equally pretty arrangements her nephew produced from the trunk of his mother's car, nor at his lack of emotions. He was simply going through the motions.
Driving with her family back to her brother's house in the country, where they all congregated for holidays and other functions, Lisa's cell phone rang, breaking the reverential silence in the van. She grabbed it from her purse. "Hello?"
"Hello. May I speak to Lisa Franklin, please?"
She tried to place the man's voice. "This is she."
"Mrs. Franklin, my name is Joseph Fatone. I know you don't know me personally, but my friends and I wanted to call after we got your letter about Burke."
Lisa had almost forgotten her last ditch attempt at saving her sinking nephew. "Oh my God," she sighed, her voice cracking with sprouting tears, ignoring her husband and children's curious stares.
"Ma'am? Is he-"
"No, at least not yet, but it's getting worse."
"We were on tour when your letter came, but we called as soon as we read it. It made all of us cry, and we decided to help in any way we could."
"I appreciate that so much. I don't know how much more he can stand before-" Her voice trailed off, not wanting to finish the statement. The van pulled into the driveway and everyone filed out, running for the house's air conditioning.
A new voice came on the line. "Mrs. Franklin, this is Justin. What can we do?"
Lisa watched Burke plod across the field, walking toward the dense woods covering the property. "I'm not sure Justin. We just got back from putting flowers on graves and everything, and it was like there was nothing there, just an empty shell where Burke should have been."
"Is he there with you?"
"No. I just saw him leave on one of his usual walks in the woods."
"Are you sure that's--safe?"
"I think so. Despite how awful he seems to be feeling, Burke still considers everyone's well being. He wouldn't do something where my kids could find him. I hope that's still a deterrent."
Shuffling on the other end gave way to another man. "Mrs. Franklin, this is Lance. Could you come up with a way to get Burke out for the day? Just the two of you?"
"Probably, school is out for the summer. I could take him craft shopping. It's an interest we share."
"Great. Here's what we'll do-"
Without school to provide the most meager of distractions, Burke's depression doubled in intensity. The sadness he felt pounded his weary brain, overwhelming his every waking moment. Never one to sleep a full eight hours a night, his open eyes now greeted nearly every sunrise. Shame was an unwelcome companion wherever he went. Burke felt childish and selfish, unable to control his melancholy while people around the world slowly starved to death or rotted away in filthy hovels. He had begun to crave a physical pain to justify his emotional hurting. He found that outlet in scratching away layers of skin on his upper arms and shoulders, his fingernails digging deep until they were tinted red when pulled away. The pain was horribly exquisite and just what Burke wanted. He had taken the time to write out funeral plans although he knew his mother was disrespectful enough to do as she wanted without regard for his wishes. He wanted to be cremated, to have no ornate service full of people bawling simply to put on a show. Instead of flowers, he wanted donations made to charity. As a concession to those who might have some feelings, other than hate, he wrote that a simple bench or plaque was all the monument he desired, to be placed alongside his great-grandparents' graves. He thought the view from their cemetery was the most beautiful in the world. He saw his own end nearing, and relished the thought of peace. In his mind's eye, he had plotted his death, seeing himself dangling from a sturdy joist in the attic. Yes, only hanging would do, neat and effective, not iffy like overdoses or gory like a gunshot to his temple. Burke found a morbid serenity in the plans, only waiting for the will. Soon there would be no tears left for him to shed.The telephone rang, interrupting Beverly Kennedy's night of television. Sighing, she hefted herself from the oversized recliner and went to answer it, her sister's number appearing on the caller ID. "Good evening!" she chuckled into the phone.
"Good evening to you too, Bev. How are you?"
"Oh, fine, I guess," she replied in a voice tinged with melodrama. "And yourself?"
"Good. Bill and the kids say hello, by the way. Bev, is Burke around? I need to ask a favor of him."
"I assume he is. That same annoying music has been playing all night. He must have his stereo set to play those CDs over and over. I swear that damn boy is trying to drive me crazy!"
"Have you ever though that something might be wrong with him? That the music is his way of coping?"
Beverly snorted, "Burke? Nothing's ever wrong with Burke. He does what he's supposed to, and never argues or complains. Besides, what does he have to worry about? I pay all the bills."
Lisa shook her head, not wanting to believe her sister could be so blind or callus. Beverly honestly thought that money was the answer to everything, including caring for her children. That, added to her need to appear a martyr, drove Lisa to distraction. "That's true," she muttered, not wanting to get into another lecture session. "Could you see if he's available to talk?"
"Sure, Lisa. Hang on a minute." Covering the receiver, Beverly yanked open the door to the upstairs, and shouted to her son. The music stopped and Burke appeared at the bottom. "OK, here he is. It's your Aunt Lisa."
"Mmm, hello?"
"Hi Burke. What's going on?"
"Not much, just reading. How is everyone on your end?" They chatter for a few minutes, discussing the upcoming summer leagues his cousin's had joined.
"Burke, I was hoping you could help me with a project I want to do in Joanie's room. I called to see if you were free tomorrow, and if you would mind going to the craft store with me."
"Well, let me check my day planner real quick," he snickered, alluding to his near constant state of having no plans. "I think I can pencil you in!"
"Great! The kids are spending the day at a neighbor's house, so it'll just be the two of us. How about I come by your place, then we can go? Around nine?"
"Sure."
"OK, it sounds like a plan! I really appreciate this Burke."
"No problem. Do you want mom again?"
"No, I need to get to bed and you know how long we can talk once we get started. Just tell her good night for me."
"Alright."
"See you in the morning Burke."
"You too, Lisa. Bye." He hung up the phone, then reset the caller ID. "Mom, Aunt Lisa wants me to go do some craft stuff with her tomorrow, so I'll be gone part of the day." She nodded her head, not bothering to move her eyes from the television. Knowing he would get no other response, Burke returned to his imposed solitude. He crawled into bed after putting a bandage over the hole in the right should, wiping the blood he had just drawn from his hand. His skin screamed as he purposely pressed the padded gouge into the mattress, hissing softly as an arrow of pain blazed through his body. As with every other night in recent history, Burke was lulled to sleep by his own muffled sobs.
Burke's dreams were the unwilling accomplices to his demons, driving him out of bed with a gasp and soaked in a cold sweat. Panting from a nightmare, he struggled to peel off his dripping t-shirt, tossing it to the floor with a heavy plop. The only light in his room came from the alarm clock, its red numbers reading two a.m., only four hours after he had fallen asleep. Burke laid back, his head sinking into the pillows, and though about his dream, it being the only thing his jumbled mind could focus on. He had been standing in a small, dark, circular room, doors surrounding him. People he cared about loomed in each space. One by one he approached them, only to see them slam the door in his face. As the same thing happened over and over, he ran faster, hoping that he could reach someone before they cut him off. First had been his father, who left when Burke was only six. Then old friends and family members, each muttering an insult as they locked Burke away. Finally, when everyone was gone and he was alone in total darkness, he collapsed to the floor in anguish. He was alone. No one wanted the disgrace he was. Burke shook as his fingernails broke through a nickel sized scab on his left arm, pulling away tender flesh underneath. He was what everyone had said. The pointed nail of his index finger bored into the hole as he repeated the names they had called him. He was stupid, ugly, worthless, a disappointment, a faggot. Burke groan at the feeling of warm blood oozing down his arm. Most of all, he was an unwanted mistake. Laying awake in the hour of ultimate night, halfway between sunset and sunrise, Burke truly knew his death would be for the best. It would make people's lives better if he were not there to screw things up. That's why his father had gone, why his mother was always angry. Burke hurt people. His mind was finally, absolutely made up. Burke would go shopping with his aunt, and then, after his mother and sister were asleep, he would go into the attic, string up his noose, and hang himself, a gag of some sort in his mouth to blanket the choking sounds he assumed would be made. He would set his funeral plans, futile as they were, on the bed beforehand so they would not be missed. Burke was almost peaceful, nestling into his slightly damp bed wearing his first real smile in ages. One last obligation would be fulfilled, then he would fall into an eternal, restful sleep. That darkness would be so wonderful. No more dirty looks, no more harassment, no snide comments, no more being shut out. The greatest reward was going to be no more Burke. For the briefest of moments, he wondered about what would happen to his soul, but realized he didn't really care. Heaven, he thought, is what he deserved after such torture, but, on the other hand, he had already experienced hell. Besides, he would not be alone amid the fire and brimstone. Perhaps, he chuckled, he would see his mother there someday.Burke bounded down the stairs, happier than he could ever remember being. He pretended not to notice his mother's disdainful sneer when he whistled while cooking breakfast. He wouldn't let her ruin his last day on earth. As his sister stuffed her face with a stack of freshly cooked pancakes, He jumped into the shower, taking the time to savor each warm droplet sliding over his body, the fizzing shampoo in his light brown hair, the tingling of his skin when he stepped out still wet. He was being silly, and unabashedly enjoyed it. He dressed for the day in black denim shorts, tight black tank top, and an unbuttoned red over shirt. Tying his shoes and fixing his hair, he emerged from the bathroom to find his aunt chatting with his sister. "Good morning, Aunt Lisa!"
The woman was startled to see a truly genuine smile on Burke's face. "Good morning, Burke. You seem chipper today."
"Why wouldn't I be? Everything is perfect!" He found that he whole-heartedly meant that.
Lisa was no one's fool, the thought crashing to the forefront of her mind terrifying her more than any other before. She had read, in an attempt to help and understand her nephew, that people considering suicide often seemed blissful once their minds were made up. She shook inside, realizing this day was possibly the last chance she had to keep a tragedy from occurring. Lisa watched Burke as he moved around the kitchen. There was a graceful ease with which he moved. His face was beaming. Burke, for all intents and purposes, seemed like your average happy teenager. If she didn't know better, she might have believed. "You ready to go?" He nodded eagerly. "OK then."
Burke and Lisa chattered away on the ride to the craft store half an hour away. After she presented her ideas for the project, Burke scowled. He didn't understand how someone so enthralled by decorating shows would need help with something as simplistic as creating a night sky in his cousin's room. Despite his confusion, Burke volunteered his insight and aid. They picked out supplies: an one hundred bulb count box of white Christmas lights, a bundle of polyester batting, heavyweight silver poster board, navy cloth dye, glass etching glaze, a small set of paintbrushes, and silver glass paint. Lisa was pleased by the interest Burke was taking in transforming Joanie's room, a necessary task since the girl had a sudden bout of being scared of the dark. Burke chewed his lip, wondering if it had anything to do with the horror novels he had loaned his naïve cousin.
Lisa suggested take out for lunch, mentioning a nearby park where they might eat and enjoy the beautiful day. Burke readily agreed once she suggested Chinese, his stomach rumbling at the thought of fried rice and cashew chicken. He had cooked, but not eaten, breakfast. Lisa's cell phone rang halfway through their meal. "Hello?" she spoke, choking down a mouthful of lo mein noodles.
"Lisa? It's Lance."
"Oh, hello."
"Is he there with you?"
"Yes. My nephew and I are eating lunch right now." Lisa rolled her eyes, mouthing the word 'telemarketer.' Burke covered his mouth and snickered.
"How is he?"
"Really bad, but you wouldn't know it."
The voice on the other end gasped, then continued. "I've heard that depressed people seem happy once they decided to--kill themselves."
"I know. I think that's the case here."
"Oh God!" he cried. "OK, we're almost there. Are you by the lake?"
"Yes."
"Alright. We'll call back once we get in the parking lot. Bye."
"Thank you. Goodbye." Lisa clicked the phone shut with a dramatic sigh before laughing.
Burke chuckled with her. "You are way too nice! I just hang up on them. Or I give the phone to mom since she's the one they actually want to talk to. I think it pisses her off."
Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. Shrugging her shoulders, Lisa once again answered. "Hello?"
"Hey, it's Justin. We're here and walking your way."
"Oh, hi! That's fantastic!" Pretending to stretch, Lisa twisted and saw five men coming up the dirt path from the parking lot.
"Can you put Burke on the phone?"
"Sure. Here he is."
With a questioning glance at his aunt, who gave no hint as to who it was, he took the cell. "Hello, this is Burke."
"Hello Burke," a crackling, sinister man's voice spoke, "what's your favorite scary movie?"
That's it for chapter 1. PLEASE! Let me know what you think. Write me at cameronwriter@hotmail.com But, remember, please be nice. Mean people will be ignored, but the nice ones will definitely get an answer back! Thanks Cameron