For the fans, p.58
For The Fans, page 58
And honestly, if they thought my attraction to boys was a choice, then they were probably pretty stupid, too. My entire upbringing was based on the idea that boys should like girls. Being a boy who wanted to be with another boy, despite all of those ideals that are drilled into your head from the time you’re an infant, would mean there’s no possible way it’s a choice, right?
I mean, who would choose something knowing it directly contradicts their biological nature?
Anyway, over the course of that year, I also grew to really hate church and all of its forced activities for us Catholic kids. Because it didn’t even feel real. It was like almost everyone was just going through the motions. It was an image they wanted for themselves, like a banner that screamed to the rest of the world, hey, look at me! I’m a great person! While simultaneously using it as an excuse to be judgmental and sometimes even downright nefarious.
Case in point… the man responsible for my trauma.
Father McAdams.
I never liked being around the man. He’d always given off a yucky vibe, but the problem was that there was no evidence of his wrongdoing. Not yet, anyway. It was just a feeling, like when there’s a gas leak. You can’t see anything, but you know it’s there, and you know it’s very harmful.
Father McAdams had taken a shine to me, and was always saddling me with new responsibilities, acting like they were special and only tasked to the best kids. But really, it was just busy work. Moving things in his office, helping him set up before mass. The only thing that made it slightly tolerable was that a few of my friends were there too, including Cody.
I caught Father McAdams watching Cody and me once, after we’d been talking and joking around, as we did. And the feeling of him staring at me stood all the hairs on the back of my neck on end.
The summer when I was twelve was understandably my last time at church camp. I had already been planning on asking my dad if I could stop going, seeing if maybe there was a football camp or something I could do instead that would be more in line with what I actually wanted, and not six weeks spent listening to the same stories being told over and over again by the hive-mind of our counselors.
It wasn’t unusual for some of the local parish priests to make appearances at camp, for special services and whatnot. But when Father McAdams showed up on the last night to observe our youth prayer circle, I knew right away something didn’t feel right.
He’d been coming at me more and more lately with all the things I now recognize as grooming, in a way. Paying special attention to me, offering me things, trying to get me alone. It was easier to rebuff when other people were around.
But on that last night, he managed to corner me when I was alone.
There are a lot of reasons why it hurts to think about these things… Why remembering it all, and so vividly, causes me an emotional pain so strong I can actually feel it in parts of my body; like the way it turns and clenches my stomach, burns like acid in my throat, and triggers stiffness in my knees and my back.
But the main reason is knowing how badly my trauma fucked me up. How far back it set me, mentally.
That man stole the comfort I’d had in myself. The experience stunted my self-awareness. It was like one big explosion that leads to the collapse of an entire city. The abuse, me telling my father and his denial, my family’s deterioration… it all buried me, the real me, in years of rubble.
I knew who I was, and I was ready to grow into that person. But he stole my identity. He, and my father, forced me into shame and remorse that wasn’t mine.
And so, like a form of fight-or-flight response, I ran away from the truth and recoiled into the image of a new Kyran Harbor. The straight boy who focused on only school, and girls, and sports, becoming popular as a means of control. A mask to wear, one so believable, even I began to feel like it was the real me.
I stuffed my truth down for years, fought against it tooth and nail. Even after Avi and I started our business, I told myself repeatedly that it was just that; a means to make money. But the whole time, in my bones, I knew it was a lie.
Being with Avi… being close to him, seeing and feeling and breathing with him, all those things we did together… it’s what set me free. He was the shovel, slowly scooping away the debris to uncover the real Kyran from where he’d been buried alive.
It was never a choice, and I know that now because despite everything I did to cover it up, it still came back to me. I came back.
I don’t want to lie anymore. I don’t want to run anymore…
Which, yes, sounds idiotic coming from someone who’s literally running away as we speak. But this time, I’m not running. I’m driving.
Driving on new roads, to clear my head and find myself. So that the next time I knock on his door, there won’t be a shred of doubt.
The real Kyran Harbor wouldn’t be alive without Avi Vega.
He’s my reason, my rescue.
Slow down, broken boy… and let him catch you.
What a difference a week can make…
When I left Somerville, after packing up my stuff and moving out of the Walsh dorms at BC, I wasn’t really sure what I planned to do. All I knew was that I needed to get away and prepare myself for some major internal reorganizing.
I knew I wanted to be alone for a while—at first, anyway—to get my thoughts together before the next part of my plan. So I rented a Mercedes SUV for the drive, just like the one I got when I took Avi to the drive-in. And no, that’s not a coincidence.
I wanted to feel closer to him throughout this process, knowing full-well I’d be forcing myself to ignore his calls and texts the entire time.
It’s been killing me not to talk to him… but I know it’s necessary.
Getting the real Kyran back is work I need to do myself. I can’t put it all on Avi. Sure, in many ways, he saved me, and I want him to know that. I hate the idea that he might think I left because I don’t love him… I do. His love is what’s kept me driving when so many times I thought about turning back; giving up on this mission to fix myself and just going back home.
But I don’t want to return to him half-hearted. Because the real Kyran is still a stubborn control-freak in a lot of ways. He’s a determined motherfucker. Sets his mind to something and makes it happen.
No more hiding. No more doing what I think will look the best.
When I come back to Boston, it’ll be because I’m ready to face the world as me.
Gay. In love with my stepbrother. Sexual assault survivor. Football quarterback. Okay, that one didn’t change. But now I’ll be doing it for myself, instead of as a means to make my father less disgusted by me.
For the first few days on the road, I just drove. I wasn’t going anywhere in particular, just clearing my head and deciding on my next move. And a lot of it was intense, but also cathartic. I kept the music off and just cruised the streets with my own thoughts. I let the stuff out that I never think about, and when things got heavy enough, I spoke the words out loud.
I cried. I laughed. I screamed. I pulled over a few times to get my bearings before I drove myself into a tree.
But as torturous as it was at times, I came out of it feeling a lot better.
It prepared me for the next part of my plan.
Two days ago, I ended up at a hotel near the Berkshires, which is a quaint and quiet place, especially in winter. I remember coming here on a camping trip when I was little. It was a lot of fun, and thinking back on the solitude of the mountains made me wish Avi was here even more.
We’ll have to go camping here in the spring.
That is, if he’s not still mad at me for leaving.
I have to assume that when Avi finds out how much good I’m doing for myself, he’ll understand. He’s always been that way, after all. He’s patient and caring, loving and supportive. Everything I need from my real family. And everything I need to understand why my actual family couldn’t give me that.
Settled in my room with a bag of fast food as my dinner—no more football until training camp, so I get to splurge—I allow myself to decompress from the day.
I had my first honest to God therapy session today, with a nice counselor named Anna. She’s very easy to talk to, which I appreciate. It was the first time I’ve ever opened up to someone face-to-face, regaling them with the entire story of my abuse.
I talked to someone on the phone my second night on the road, from the RAINN hotline. Honestly, I forget his name, because I was just so wound-up, almost manic, spilling my guts for the first time ever. And I’m talking all the details… The ones that still haunt me, coil me with nausea and anger and make me want to retreat into myself.
But I didn’t, and I’m proud of that.
It was after that conversation that I almost broke my rule and called Avi. I just want so badly to hear his voice. To tell him what good things I’m doing and hear his smile when he tells me he’s proud and he loves me.
But then I don’t want it to feel like I’m doing this stuff for his approval… Because I’m not. I’m doing it for me. So that I can have a relationship with him, and share things with him without being scared.
I’m still afraid it’ll terrify him. I know it’s dumb to think that, because of how supportive he’s been. But I just can’t help feeling like the idea of your boyfriend being sexually abused as a child and the reality of the gritty details are two very different things.
I also know that I don’t have to tell him anything… He made that clear the night before I left. But I want to. I don’t want to hide or be ashamed of it.
Still, it’s like Anna said earlier… it’s a work in progress. My own acceptance comes first, and after that, I can worry about my partner’s, in however much time that takes.
Hesitantly lifting my phone from where it’s been resting on the bed, I power it back on. I’ve been keeping it off for the most part, because I don’t want to be tempted to read Avi’s gut-wrenching texts, or answer the phone when he calls. But more importantly, I’m purging myself of the desire to snap miscellaneous pics for Instagram… one of the coping mechanisms that’s kept me wrapped up snug in denial for years.
I’m not saying social media is bad… It’s just not real. My entire account was full of pictures I posted to fit the fake image of myself. Shirtless workout pics, smiles and kisses with girls I didn’t really care about, sunsets and food… The happy, glamorous life of someone who never even existed.
I deleted them all.
I still have my account, but there are no current posts. Someday I’ll post something again… And when I do, it’ll be the truth.
Imagining posting a picture of Avi and me kissing sends a flutter to my gut, and I bite my lip. I wonder what he’s doing right now…
Tapping on Instagram, I search for Avi’s profile. The one with only a handful of random posts, that I still believe he used mostly to cyber-stalk me. The thought has my lips curling into a smile that feels really freaking good.
I miss smiling for Avi. I miss laughing at his dumb jokes, and forcing scowls at him to cover up how truly witty and adorable I think he is.
When I pull up his profile, I find that he changed his name… From AviVega420 to Backwardz_Avi.
I purse my lips. I guess he’s just embracing it now… The Fans.
As far as I know, his Twitter is still inactive, and so is the OnlyFans. But this name change has me wondering if maybe he’ll start it up again, now that he doesn’t have school to worry about.
He wouldn’t… find a new business partner… would he?
Swallowing down that icky feeling, I scroll over his bio, which just says, Art is love, and I find a recent post from yesterday. It looks like a wall of some kind, maybe concrete, spray painted with a black background and a yellow frowning face.
The caption reads:
I am alone. I am utterly alone.
I blink at the screen a few times, wondering why that sounds so familiar… And then I remember. It’s from Beetlejuice… One of his top five favorite movies ever.
Grabbing the TV remote, I flick around all the available streaming services, searching for Beetlejuice. It’s on Amazon Prime, so I turn it on, letting it play in the background while I stare at the picture.
I’ve never known Avi to spray paint, but then he’s an artist. He can use anything he wants as his canvas, which I think is pretty cool. I just wish in this one case it wasn’t something so depressing.
Swiping Instagram away, I open my text chain with Avi, looking over all the messages he’s sent me since I left California. And there are a lot.
Aside from the ones he sent me that day, after I vanished, he’s sent me at least three a day for the last week. Everything ranging from…
Avi: I love you baby… please come back to me
To…
Avi: I’m just gonna be honest… I know you’re hurting, but it’s pretty messed up that you won’t even RESPOND to me. *annoyed face emoji*
And even…
Avi: Robin misses you. She just meowed and it sounded like she was saying “Kyran”. I’m not even kidding.
The most recent one is just a screengrab from the video of our first makeout session, in Theo’s bathroom. But the actual video, not the one with my face blurred out.
It squeezes the air out of my chest to see it, sending all the sensations rushing back. I remember how afraid I was… Because of how amazing his mouth felt on mine. I couldn’t stop shaking.
The picture captures it perfectly. It’s like I’m falling for him, even then, and I both love it and hate it at the same time. I just wish I hadn’t wasted so much time pretending.
Typing out a text to him, I hesitate for only a second before hitting send.
Me: Hey, baby. I know this might hurt, but push through it for me. I’m fine and safe and I promise I’ll be back soon… Knocking on your door for good this time. I love you, angel. Thanks for saving me.
Then I turn my phone off. Because I have to.
“You know that I’ve seen you… Looking at the other boys.”
My knees are sore, and my back is stiff.
“It’s alright, Kyran. Don’t be afraid. God loves you. He made you this way.”
There’s a black rosary wrapped around his hand.
The one I dropped when he came into the room and locked the door.
“But you’ll need to beg His forgiveness for your lustful ways. I can help you…”
The white cloth of his robe brushes on my face as it lifts.
“This is you, Kyran. This is who you are.”
“But I haven’t done anything… I don’t w-want to,” I whisper with fear in my voice.
“God sees everything, you know. He can tell that you’re lying.”
My head shakes, again and again, but he holds it still. The scents of smoke and oil fill my lungs.
“Plead salvation with your body, Kyran. Loud enough that He can hear you.”
My eyes shoot open with my gasp, and I sit up in bed, glancing around the unfamiliar space.
Oh, right. I’m in a new hotel room… back in Boston.
Cambridge, to be exact.
I spent a month at that hotel in the Berkshires, seeing my counselor Anna and working through a lot of difficult stuff I’ve let fester for eight years. And after weeks of rough, emotional reconstruction, I decided it was time to come back to Boston. To do something very important…
Confront my parents.
Anna said I can keep seeing her over Zoom, or she can refer me to someone here, whatever I prefer. I still haven’t decided what to do, but I think I like the idea of sticking with her. Speaking face to face is cool, but I’ve already built a rapport with her. And as nice as the Berkshires are, they’re not home.
It’ll be hard to be in the Boston area without seeing Avi. But honestly, I’m really fucking sick of being away from him, anyway.
My trauma will always be with me, no matter where I’m located. It’s a part of who I am, and as I’ve learned in these past weeks, I just have to make room for it inside myself. Work on acceptance, and giving myself the time and space to heal.
I want to do that with Avi.
At this point, the nightmares are already getting less scary. The rage and hopelessness are still there, but I’m learning to cope with it; I think because I’m no longer using all my energy to bury them with denial.
I’ve also been reading a lot, listening to music. I started meditating and doing yoga. The last five weeks have been like a form of rehab, to kick my habits of avoidance, and I finally feel ready to get back to life.
But mostly, I want to get back to Avi. I miss him like crazy.
Sliding out of bed, I wander into the bathroom. After splashing water on my face, I gaze at myself in the mirror… and I remember all the times I’ve done this. When I would stare at the stranger gazing back at me and wonder if I would ever recognize him again.
I don’t feel like that same, terrified twelve-year-old boy anymore, struggling to breathe over the knowledge of what had been done to him. Running my fingers through my hair, my lips quirk, because I finally look like me again.
And I recognize this person, this real Kyran. I’ve seen flashes of him before. With Avi.
I blink at my reflection. “You deserve better parents. But you’re stuck with the ones you have. So you’ll go, say your piece, and close that chapter. No matter what happens, you’re here. This is you.”
Hours later, I’ve showered, dressed, and I’m heading downstairs to meet my parents for lunch. It’s almost crazy how difficult it was for me to get them both together in the same room. Even after knowing that I left school and home because I’ve been struggling so badly, it still took several texts and phone calls of convincing.
But eventually, they agreed to come to lunch at the restaurant in the hotel where I’m staying. I reserved a booth in the back for privacy, and it should be fine.
When I walk into the restaurant, the hostess looks up, and I just tell her I’m meeting someone, sauntering by and making a beeline for the back booth. I can see that my mother is already here, but not my dad.
