Author: Juxian Tang
Rating: R for references to m/m sex and rape
Pairing: Adebisi/Peter Schibetta
Disclaimer: Oz and the characters are legal property of Tom Fontana, Barry
Levinson, Rysher Entertainment, Viacom and HBO and have been used without
permission. No copyright infringement intended.
Timing: set by the end of season 4.
Summary: Sometimes a lie is the only thing you can afford to believe in.
This story is for Quinn, with love
I know he will take me away from here; he told me he would. At night when
the sleep abandons me, leaving me lonely to listen to the messy sounds that
others make in their cells - I think about his words. I clench my fists on
the blanket, looking in the blue shadows flitting on the ceiling and try to
forget how many hours ago I have taken the pills and that they probably don't
work any more. There are dizzying, threatening memories covering me -
memories that seem so real and detailed: of the cold steel of the table under
my belly and the thought of utter impossibility to repair what is happening.
But I know better - these memories are delusions. They just try to deceive
me by coming at the moments when the barrier built with the medicines in my
mind is crumbling. I know the truth: he loves me. And he will get me out of
There is nothing here to remind me about him any more - the cell he had
occupied is taken by another loony a long time ago. No thing, no smell - no
even special sharpness of reminiscence - days and months that had passed
blunted and blurred everything in my not-so-resistant mind. But when I try
very hard, I still can recall the unrelenting white light of the shower room
- and feel his closeness, the presence of his long lithe body pressed to
mine. I can feel again his long fingers, their tips so soft but their
strength so undeniable, running over my face; caressing - but I know that
they can grasp and crush, too. I recognize the danger that others sense
coming from him - but I can't be afraid of it. He won't ever hurt me.
And his voice, through the annoying rustle of running water - a strange
accent turning it into a primitive melody:
"I'll make it feel good, I'll take care of you."
And as I nod, dazzled and electrified with his touch, turning my face to
catch his palm with my lips, he leans against me, as close as possible, as
much as the wall behind me lets him. But it is not the hardness of the tiles
I feel - it is the hardness of his chest, the unbearable silkiness of his
dark skin - the straining shaft of his cock pressed against mine through the
cloth of our pants.
His long arms envelop me - vices of muscles and bones - and his breath is
scalding on my lips opened to accept his tongue, opened to breathe in his
smell: bitter, warm musk that is stronger than the smell of soap and
medicines. He chuckles:
"So, you do like how I smell?"
He kisses me; bliss of his mouth sucking on mine and pain of his fingers
twisting my nipples. His bottom belly is hitting against mine, heavy, fast
strokes - although his cock enters nothing, just rubs against mine that is so
excruciatingly hard, too. For a moment the rhythm arouses something in my
mind, a terrifying image - but he holds me even harder - until heat and power
of his body make it vanish.
"I will never let you go," he leaves my mouth to whisper it, his
eyes of agate-black are dazed, the eyelashes not fluttering. Oh, I know he
won't. He is my angel of black wings and a striking sword - the only one who
could rescue me from nothingness - and who can send me back there.
As he freezes against me, his cock pressed to my belly and the little
pulsing of it tells me that he has reached his peak, the door swings open. A
hack with disdainful eyes pulls him away from me, dangling the stick.
"Adebisi, fuck you, what the hell are you doing? You are supposed to
take a shower here, aren't you?"
Behind them I can see one of our idiots giggling and making faces.
Bastard... ratted on us.
"Sorry, boss, it won't happen again," my beloved's face is an
expressionless mask, arms hanging submissively - but as he is led out, he
looks back and I see a flicker in his eyes, bright and fiery. They won't be
able to watch us all the time, right?
He is gone now; others are here and the hacks are - but not him. They say
he's got well - got back to normal - sane - people. They say I might get back
there one day, too. If I admit what they call the truth but what really is
another world, the one that is seeping in when I don't watch it properly. The
world where my father is dead and where I know how much I had and how I lost
The bird-like tiny nun with ardent eyes tells me that I must accept it and
live on with it - but she doesn't know anything. When I tried to accept it,
it was killing me, tearing my mind apart between grey emptiness brought by
the pills and sickening fear of clarity.
I can't try to do it any more.
When they brought him to the loony bin, everything changed. At first I
just thought I had to know him - and it felt bad. Looking at his face,
enraptured with what his unseeing eyes could see, I craved for another dose
of the pills that would veil me away - that would let me forget about him
being in the next cell. And at night, when I could control myself worse than
ever, the pseudo-memories crowded on me so hard, that I scraped my lips raw
kissing my crucifix, praying until nothing but the muddle of familiar words
stayed in my mind.
I didn't know he was what I prayed for.
One day he came to my cell - I was cleaning my teeth, sixth or seventh
time this morning but one can never be too clean. I felt him at my side,
turned to look at him - in a weird fit of panic thought it was too late, I
let him trapped me. But he didn't do anything.
"Do you remember me?" he said.
The toothpaste tasted mint and salt of my blood as I said, not knowing if
it was a lie:
"No, I don't."
He reached his hand to me - the back of it as if he was going to strike me
- but just touched my lips. I willed myself into staying, not flinching away.
There was no threat in his eyes, just sadness.
"What did they do to you, Peter? Don't you remember how you loved me?
How we loved each other?"
It was not the truth... How could it be? But as I looked at him, so close,
his thumb wiping the toothpaste off my lips, I suddenly thought that he might
be right. If I knew him like this - then those sick, abominable visions I had
were simply nightmares, were nothing. If I only could believe that I
remembered his soft palm against my cheek - his beautiful eyes in those
straight feathery eyelashes smiling to me - instead of the shiny surface of
stainless steel and nauseating pain and Peter-the-family-is-embarrassed chant
in my temples.
I saw smile passing from his eyes to his soft lips - and his voice became
soft, too, caressing like the tips of his fingers on my cheekbone.
"Can you still love me?"
"Yes," I said, "yes."
He told me things - what a good time we'd had together - and how he'd
missed me what I'd been taken away from him. He told me what I liked him to
do to me: his hands on my body, his tongue or his cock in my mouth.
He didn't tell me how it happened that he wound up in the hellhole of the
psych ward; but he said to me, his eyes aglow and laughing wildly:
"They will pay me for it. Every one of them."
And he told me that he would build his own world with no place for his
enemies there - the world just for those who were on his side.
I knew he would have to leave some day: here was not the right place for
Once he returned from the meeting with Sister Pete all quietly radiating
the triumph. He gathered his possessions and I stood at the bar of his cell;
he turned to me - and one more time, before the hack split us, his arms were
around me, pulling me towards the unbearable heat of his strong body.
"I'll get you out of here," he said. "When I am
And this day comes at last. Sister Pete looks at me with her kind, tired
and indifferent eyes as she says:
"You can be moved to Em City again. It is the safest place in the
prison now, the crime rate is lower than ever. Do you want to go back
"Yes," my voice sounds so definite that tiredness in her eyes
dissipates for a moment; but she doesn't need to wonder - it is the only
thing that I know definitely - that I want to go back there. Back to him.
"Simon Adebisi will be there. You had troubles with him."
Yeah, a good way to put it.
"I think we got along pretty well in the psych ward," I
interrupt her casually, leaning back in the chair, "no reason why we
can't do it in Em City."
I don't feel ashamed with lying to her. We are even: what is her question
if not a lie?
"You aren't going to do anything crazy, are you?" her voice is
suspicious. She is smart. But I know she is too bone-weary, too wrapped into
her own miseries to really care.
"Oh no, sister," I smile lazily. Do I do a good job of
pretending to be my old self? "There is nothing to deal out between us
Is it what she always wanted me to do - to accept? Just please, please
don't let her make me repeat word by word what they want me to believe my
beloved had done to me.
She doesn't. She just nods and makes some small notes in her papers.
Maybe, writing that I am sane again - not delusional any more. She raises her
head only to say:
"I am going to keep you on your medicine for a while longer."
Oh I won't mind. Maybe, the truth is that I am afraid to stay without it.
At least for now. And when I stand with my things in front of the gate of Em
City, I feel nicely cloudy. The bar moves open and I come in, meeting two men
who are leaving the place - I don't know one but I recognize the other
"Hi there, Chucky," I say. He raises his head as if spurred -
looking at me for a few seconds as if not being able to recognize me - and
then turns back, a glare of fury in his eyes.
"Fuck you, Adebisi, if you only..."
Come on, Chucky, do you want to say that you care?
I look over his shoulder and see my beloved there - on the upper floor,
his hands on the rails - and his bare long arms are spread like wings of
night black. He grins with his eyes glow unkindly until he eye-fucks Pancamo
Then he looks at me and I see a long slow smile appearing on his lips. I
know what he doesn't have to say - he brought me here. Didn't he promise it?
He walks towards me, slowly, step by step downstairs - and I never look
away from him - submerging into his eyes. It is not that I don't hear the
voices around me - but it doesn't matter. The thought of being marked for
life, being - damaged - hovers somewhere in my mind - and I know I don't want
to think what it means. I can forget it as long as I look at him.
And when he just glances at them and they hush, I understand that
everything he told me is true. It is his world.
He takes me to the pod with white curtains on the glass walls. The smell
of things comes over me there - clothes and booze and thin teasing blend of
some incense. A small reedy kid is gathering his possessions quickly, trying
not to look up and still seeming guilty. My beloved captures his neck, pulls
him closer, locking his mouth on the kid's lips - a savage, possessive kiss
that draws blood.
"You shouldda hurry, Shot."
The kid leaves, looking at me with a mixed expression of relief and
resentment - and as the door is shut behind him:
"Whores. They all are whores. I want nothing about them."
And making a step towards me, his voice, his eyes changing to impossibly
mellow, the softness and strength of his arms overwhelming as he puts them
"You are not like them, are you? You are not a whore. You are
Oh yes, I am, my hands hurt of using the cheap soap they gave in the psych
ward - and they were not happy that I spent a piece of it per day. I raise my
hands to show him - and he grasps them suddenly, his fingers so hard as if he
is going to make the bones snap.
"Don't lie to me," he says, "don't you ever lie to
After the doors are locked he stands in front of the mirror, looking at
his face - not doing anything, not washing, not cleaning his teeth. I can see
the look in his eyes - wistful and sad - and then he turns to me and holds
me, peering in my eyes but his look doesn't change. As if he stares at just
Then he relents. The touches of his fingers on my face are so light - like
feathers - and so urgent as if he is taking a mask of my face by touch, is
going to model it.
"You are safe with me," he says. "I promise you."
Others think he topples me over on the bunk and fucks shit out of me -
isn't it what he is supposed to do behind these curtains? They don't know
His scull is warm and round under my hands, his mouth burning against my
groin - bringing me so high that I bite my palm to keep silent. Later he
grabs me and shakes me hissing in my face:
"Don't you tell anyone about it."
He doesn't need to say it. He is the one who un-made me and made me whole
again - can I do anything that can harm him? I stroke his temples lightly, I
know it's here where pain and fear start. Until he goes quiet.
And in the morning he is as usual; he talks to me, tells me what he had
done to get me in here, the games he played with Querns to make the man
believe it was what he wanted... too many colored inmates in Em City? Well,
why not to prove those who say it that they are full of shit - by bringing in
a white inmate?
He stops me before I am going to leave the pod:
"Don't forget your pills."
Sister Pete calls for me.
"I heard, Peter..." not knowing how to come to that. "If
you think I can do something..."
Do something? Nothing can ever be done.
"I am contented where I am."
"Is it true?"
She is a psychologist; surely she can see if I lie.
"I am. Do you know how long I hadn't felt like this? Since the moment
when I'd understood that I was supposed to be as good as my father... that it
was what everybody expected it from me. Nothing was the same since
"Because you were afraid to fail?"
"Because I knew I would fail, sooner or later, sister."
Now she must ask me if I know how exactly I failed. But she doesn't.
"Keep taking your medicine, Peter."
Of course, I do. The pills are the same good at keeping me where I want to
be - in my own reality. The pills, his arms - and three showers per day,
sixty times of washing hands. He says he wants me clean. Never again he will
see me as he had seen me in the loony bin when he had to help me to wash my
A man comes up to me.
"They think you gave up, friend. But I know you are going to get even
with him. You didn't deceive me."
"There is nothing to deceive you about, O'Reily."
They all are wrong; they don't know that I can't exist anywhere beyond my
beloved's encompassing arms and absorbing eyes. That I am hardly anything now
- but the mirror for him. To reflect him not as others can see him - but what
he really is. Innocent.
But the world around - the world he had created - is not stable, not
secure. And he is not secure, too. When he holds me in his arms, I can feel
doubt coursing through him. That I am not who he wants me to be, I am not
clean any more.
Through the glass of the shower room door I see him talking to Said, in
front of the mirrors, see the slight sway of his body as he backs away from
the touching, soothing hands. Said's words I hear when coming in, full of
grim force and disappointment:
"You think you re-created the world?"
Said meets my eyes, a single moment when he really sees me and not an
abomination I am for him. After he is gone, under the showers:
"Look at me," my beloved's hands capture me, slick on my wet
arms and still clasping, pulling me closer. "Are you happy? You are one
of - people around me. Does he need to worry about you?"
"Forget it, it doesn't matter," I say trying to calm him down; I
am getting used to doing it recently. "You told me - we love each
He looks at me so long and strange that I feel pain start throbbing in my
temples. And trying to fight it, to fight the sickness that always comes at
these moments, I reach my hand to his face. Doesn't he remember? Does he need
me to remind him about it now?
My fingers slide over his eyebrows as he takes my wrist, squeezing it so
tightly that I bite down a moan. But he can't scare me. I know he can't mean
"I'll show him..." he whispers.
At night his kisses are so wild that I am afraid his fury will remind me
too much. I know there will be the traces of his teeth on my collarbones
later, purple and blue ones - but the heaviness of his head on my chest is
what I am ready to pay for. His fingers entering me are long and bringing no
pleasure - and then he gets up, yanking me up, too - and pulls the sheets on
the door apart, pressing me to the glass, cold on my naked skin.
He thrusts into me sharply. His hand slides around me to my cock, rubbing
it to life as the waves of nausea cover me.
I don't want to think. I won't think.
He fucks me and strokes my cock and a part of me is pleasure, a part is
terror - and a part realizing coldly that Said looks at us from his pod. I
should've known - it's all done for him. To prove that I want what is going
Said's eyes look angry and dark and he doesn't watch to the end. My
beloved doesn't see him turn away and disappear in the shadows - maybe, he
sees nothing by the time when he is about to come and my cock twitches in his
"You whore," he whispers against my hair and his fingers dig in
my shoulder. "You are no better than all of them."
But later his hands are heat and silk against my chest - and I still think
we can win some more days in the world that falls apart.
His kitchen clothes are impeccable white but his eyes are bloodshot and
fierce. He is not completely lucid, has snorted too much - and he growls at
the hack that runs his metal detector over him.
I hate the kitchen; it makes me feel sick to be here. But he wants me to
be where he is, all the time. I am slicing paprika when he comes up to me.
His gloved hand lays down on my shoulder. He says nothing. He takes me behind
the shelves, to the deceptive privacy of the kitchen's appendix - and for a
moment the intrusion of the other - frightening - reality gets so strong that
suddenly I can't breathe. I gasp but no air comes in. He smiles, his teeth
flicker white and his eyes shine black.
"So, you do remember it?"
He holds me so hard that it hurts but my head hurts worse as I try to shut
down the gaps for the delusions to slip in. I grasp my head, pushing my fists
into my temples, squeezing the memories out, in all their frightening resemblance
of the truth.
"No, no, no," and it is not the answer to his question, it is
what I say not to let myself believe - remember.
"And this?" he turns me around abruptly, pushing me against the
steel table, face down. His presence behind me - his hands holding me down -
the long scratch on the steel surface in front of my eyes. I almost remember.
"I'm gonna get my honor back by the end of the day."
"Do you still want me to love you?" he asks and I feel his hand
sliding along my thigh. Warm and heavy - so familiar.
The pain in my head gets worse - too hard a task to keep myself from being
swept away - and I know for sure that soon I won't be able to do it any more,
the faint smell of disinfectant from the table is just like then... like then
when I had lost everything. He could've put me in the bodybag but he's spared
me; could he do any worse?
I know what he will do now - the memory is deeper than in my brain, it's
in my body: of his hands yanking down my pants, the coolness of the air on my
backside, of his cock entering me. I thought I had forgotten it or had never
been conscious enough to feel it.
I could lie to Lenny, could lie to anyone. But to myself?
He never does it. He yanks me up, turns me, squeezing my scull between his
palms, staring in my eyes.
"Don't... don't, I won't do it... I am sorry..."
And looking at him I can breathe again - I can sob - with unbearable
relief of the bad dream coming to the end - and catching his dark beautiful
face in my hands, I whisper in the same accented monotone as he does:
"Why do you do it me? Please don't do it again."
At night, after our lovemaking, he doesn't fall asleep. He stands at the
glass door with his arms braced wide. Not like wings - but like a crucified.
He looks into the dim lights of Em City. He is so alone. And although he
doesn't make me stand in front of him this time, his hands don't roam around
my body - I know who he looks at. Said - who isn't asleep, who stands and
looks at him, too.
"You think I don't know it," he talks and I know he doesn't talk
to me but to him. "You think you deceived me. I promised you the world
if you agreed to serve me - and you agreed. But are you still the only one
who speaks the truth to me? Do I need a conscience that can lie? A false
prophet? A corrupted judge?"
I feel my breath halt at the sound of his mournful voice - and then he
turns to me, his eyes glowing and full of pain:
"And you - I thought you were clean, not like any of them. But how
can I still believe it when I made you my bitch? An angel can't be a whore. I
need to clean you again. I need to return you where you belong. This world is
not good for you. I am not good for you."
Before getting up into his bunk, he leans towards me and takes my hand,
looks at the imprint the crucifix left in my palm. For a moment his face
became empty - a soulless mask that can hide anything but, maybe, is hiding
nothing because everything is burnt out behind it.
"Yeah, pray," he says.
Next day, in the shower room, he hits me and throws me down on the floor,
my clothes wet and dirty at once - and makes a sign to his buddies. Their
hands are on me, groping and handling, stripping me naked. But I don't fight.
Over the first cock pressed to my lips I look at him as he stands there
with his arms folded - his eyes unblinking under the wing-like eyelashes. He
never looks away from me, even when I can't be silent any more, when the
memories merging with reality of piercing pain and of being filled again and
again become too much for me. I am the one who stops looking at him. I look
at the dirt from their boots and blood leaking out of me.
"Man, he's tight!" someone says.
It hurts - but nothing snaps in my mind. Once the same thing had shifted
everything in mind - and it never got back right, I had never allowed it to
get back because then I would have deal with it then. Being mad was safer.
Not safe enough, of course, taking into account their cocks slamming into
me from both ends.
"Grab your ankles, be a good whore."
They take turns - and there is nothing I can clutch at, just water under
my fingers, mixed with blood and my shit washed off of their cocks. I know I
taste some of it when they push them in my mouth.
And no way to slip into nothingness.
I have never been so sane as when seeing Mondo Browne's face as he is
fucking me through the floor in the shower room.
When they are done, I don't try to get up. I let them leave me and feel
the water swirl around me. I am on my side, taking hitching breaths and
bleeding from my torn mouth and torn anus.
He comes up to me. I can see his dark hand hovering over me - as if he
doesn't know where to touch. I try to raise my head to see his face - and his
hand lays down on my neck - hot and strong. He turns my face towards himself.
"I did this for you. I cleaned you."
Am I clean enough now? Lying in the pool of my blood and with streaks of
shit on my thighs.
"I know what I do," he says. "You couldn't bear it when I
raped you. You prefer to go mad... Go mad again - I've done worse to you
I can't fight a chuckle and some clots of blood come out of my mouth.
"You've done nothing to me," I say.
"Liar," he hits me. "Fuckin' stupid bastard. I killed your
father and I'll kill you."
I can't fear him. I can't fear death. In fact, death is the best that can
happen to me now. About twenty more years here, in Oz - and with no
nothingness to swallow me... that's what I fear.
But when he gets up, his face this hollow smiling mask again, I know he
won't do anything.
"Coward," I say.
He leaves and I let myself slip into pain and unconsciousness at last.
The huge ward of the hospital is like deją vu - and peace is seeping into
me through the needle to my vein carrying the pain away. An angered voice
"I knew it all would end up like this!" Sister Pete.
No, she doesn't know. No one knows. When he was doing it - he was doing it
to himself, not to me. And he is going to do worse - and Said, his white
angel, his Nemesis, his mirror and his judge, will be helping him eagerly.
But I won't be there to see it. I'll end up where I had been - in the
psych ward - my body will heal and I already know how to make them believe
that my mind hasn't healed. And there will be long nights - when I already
know he's dead - as I will be lying in my bed, staring at the dancing shadows
on the ceiling and running my tongue on my dry lips, feeling the small scar
his last blow left me. I will try to believe that he is not dead - he is an
angel, after all. He just flew away.
But I will be missing him.