Fade to Black

A/N: I suppose this, in a style of writing sense, is based loosely on the short story "Brokeback Mountain." Time passes rapidly for these two... Please let me know if the time jumps are confusing. Also, this will eventually be apart of a larger piece, and maybe even perhaps expanded upon. Please let me know your thoughts :D


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"Fade to Black"

"Damn it, Wesley! Give me some privacy!" Sarah yelled to the locked bathroom door, cutting off her husband of years multiple questions.

Are you okay?

Do you have the tests?

Want me to come with you?

I can time it if you like.

God, he was annoying.

In the beginning, she'd thought she could stand his utter boringness for the simple fact that he was a trust fund kid. Instead of traveling at their leisure, living it up, he'd decided he wanted to become a teacher, of all things. She just couldn't understand why he would even bother. But as the years rolled on, she began to find ways to pass the time he was gone all those hours, day after lousy day… Wes didn't know of her playmate, of course.

Of that, she was sure.

But even that began to lose its allure. After five years of marriage, and at age thirty-five, she found her maternal instincts kick in.

She wanted a baby.

His baby, more importantly.

He was intelligent and good looking after all, and she had no doubt that he would be a great father to her child.

After seven months of trying, she found herself once again in the bathroom, waiting for test results.

She was looking down at the plastic stick, holding it tensely between her thumb and forefinger. Her face, once full of nervous apprehension, rapidly fell once realization marinated in as she saw one lonely pink line across the window.

It took three seconds for her knees to give, and she spun and collapsed on the toilet seat, mouth slightly parted open.

Shock overrode despair.

Temporarily.

And then the tears came.


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She said she wanted to be alone. He didn't particularly agree with her, but he respected her wishes all the same, and waited patiently on the other side of the wooden bathroom door.

It was much too quiet.

The only sounds he could hear was that of his own breathing, and the creaking floorboards beneath his feet as he occasionally shifted his wait around.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he crept downward to his knees, wincing slightly as a bone popped, sounding so loud in the silent hallway, and then continuing his descent until he was kneeling before the keyhole. Not willing to scratch his glasses, he took them off of his face, folding them carefully, and then hanging them in the V of his button down shirt. Bracing each hand on opposite sides of the door frame, he leaned forward, squinting through the skeleton keyhole. The feel of the rounded, brass doorknob was an annoyance on his forehead, but was well worth the discomfort.

He saw her standing at the sink, hands braced on either ends of it as she leaned upon the marble surface--much like he was doing out in the hall. Only her eyes were closed. He could see as much from her reflection in the mirrors, for her long, blonde hair hid her face like a golden drape, locking him out even further from her emotions.

He was quite thankful for that mirror.

Several minutes passed, and his forty-one year old knees began to feel quite numb. But then she moved. She stood up stiffly, picking up the test, peering at it. Before he had the chance to read into her look of shock, she dipped downward, then spun around to the left, and out of his view. From the sound of a soft plop, he guessed she sat down on the ceramic lid of the toilet. Putting his ear to the door, he heard something clatter on the black marble tiles of the floor before hearing his wife five years his junior burst into tears.

They did not sound like tears of joys.

He thumped his forehead, once, twice against the door, upset and aggravated, before leaning back onto his haunches, fingers digging briefly into the tops of his muscular thighs. He relaxed his hands, stiffly rising to his feet, and then standing in one swift, fluid motion with as much grace as a dancer with a Julliard degree. He wiped harshly at his face, over the closed lids that housed his tearful blue eyes, with the back of his left hand, and then walked towards the stairs, practically running down, not caring how much noise he made now.

He wished to disturb the quiet.

It was a ritual with them--going seven months strong. His wife would not want to be comforted. In fact, if he showed any grief whatsoever, she would only lash out at him--physically, verbally. Emotionally. So he headed to his refuge.

His study.

Full of leather bound books, classics and so forth, a fire place, and alcohol. Hell, he could even house himself in darkness there, if he so desired. Which he often did, of course. There were large windows that went from floor to ceiling, and a balcony that overlooked their spacious backyard, but there were also heavy, maroon drapes to obliterate the outside world, including its harsh light of day.

He closed the door behind him, leaning against the frame much like he did upstairs, deciding on whether or not to lock the door. He wanted to--lock her out as she did him each time, but he always didn't, hoping like hell that she would finally come to him, so that they could get through it together.

But he knew she would not.

She would not share the pain, nor would she bother opening the door to see what he was up to, or seek his arms for comfort. She did not desire it.

So he left it unlocked.

He pushed back, turning, and heading towards the large hearth. He turned up the gas, feeling a tremor of satisfaction as the flames came to life, licking at the bricks. He glanced at the cart in the corner, and the bottle that housed a dark, amber liquid.

He had all of the heat and desire he needed right here.


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It had become abundantly clear--she had made him fit for a pair of antlers.

As of late, she had not been faithful to him.

He discovered this on his own, of course. He did not need to see her adulterous ways in the flesh, for he had seen it in her eyes; in her walk; in her entire demeanor. He now knew why she pushed him away so readily.

She did not love him anymore.

She couldn't possibly, could she? Love him, and yet hurt him in such a manner? No, she couldn't. And even if she did, it would not matter, for he could not forgive her.

Would not.

She had committed the ultimate betrayal in his eyes.

For the past five years, he had taken care of her, loved her, respected and doted upon her. And when she had been unable to give him children, he simply loved her more. And what did he get in return? Her scorn, her hatred…Her venom. And yet, he remained still by her side. She was his wife, was she not?

But it mattered not to her. No.

She had decided it best to hurt him in the very core of his being--his insides gnawed and ripped apart by emotions he could not fully comprehend.

She had broken his heart.

Such a painful, wrenching thing--the breaking of one's heart. How was he to move on from there? How was he to rectify that which could not be undone?

How could he forgive her?

He could not.

Not that she had asked for it. But if she had, he would not have been able to give it to her. He had given everything else already--all of himself. There was nothing left. Especially not divinity. How could there be, in this shell of a man? Broken, beaten, bloody and cold on the inside? Rotted out flesh and decaying innards.

No, she would find no forgiveness here. Only death, and the disease that some may call love.

Love.

It had all been a lie.

She had never loved him--never even conceived the idea of it. She had always shut him out, leaving him in the darkness… He desperately hoped that the dark was not where he was meant to remain. He hoped for an angel to deliver him to redemption.


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Three days--it had been three days since he had realized the truth. And he had yet to do anything about it. He'd gotten up, gotten dressed, and went to work for the last three days as if nothing were amiss.

It was driving him insane.

On that third day, he couldn't bear the pressure completely. That was the day he started adding vodka to his coffee on his lunch break. It made it easier. It mae it bearable. It made him warm.

He didn't feel like going to the lunch room or the teacher's lounge as he usually did. He had his special drink for one, and another, he didn't find himself to be particularly hungry. He sipped from his navy blue mug, taking out a box of new, golden, unsharpened number two pencils from his desk drawer and got to work.

One by one, he transformed their blunt ends to fine, pointed tips with his electric sharpener. After finishing with the last one, he held them together in his two hands, all five sharpened, lead tips pressing into the softness of his left palm, their blunt erasers digging harmlessly into his right. His grip tightened on both ends, and he pulled downward on the pencils, ignoring the stabbing pin pricks in his left palm. He grit his teeth, and one lead tip gave and broke off, the remaining four steadily digging into his skin. And then all five snapped in their middles, the remaining sharpened ends of lead scratching down his palm, leaving dark gray streaks in their wake. One pierced deep enough below the surface to cause blood to form, though the red liquid never breached the whorled flesh.

He dropped the broken halves, slightly entertained by the hollow clatter they made upon impact on his desk. He turned his palms upward, and noticed on the right that there was an angular cut of thick skin towards the middle--probably from a jagged piece of metal beneath one of the erasers.

He looked at his left palm, and solemnly took in the pencil marks left behind, and hated how disappointed he was that there wasn't more blood shed. He laughed mirthlessly, resting his face in his hands--his slightly damaged palms cradling his sharp, angular cheeks. And, by thier own volition, his hands moved toward the center of his face, close to his aquiline nose, fingers going beneath the rims of his wire thin frames, and then reached upward, knocking them off of his face, his palms digging into his closed lids.

And he cried.

He was startled out of his grief, however, when he heard the door open. It was his student--Madison Morgan. She was one of his favorite students--all A's and a few B's, pleasant, and generally didn't need to be coerced into class participation, but wasn't one of those know it alls who rose their hand at every turn.

But she was also more than that.

He thought it was cute, the little crush she had on him. He could see it in her dark brown, almond shaped eyes ever since the first time they met. That is, when she was finally able to meet his eyes without a nervous little smile, or looking away completely.

He just knew she had been blushing.

This was her second year as his English student--last year in honors American literature, and now for her final year of high school, honors World Literature. He looked at her--nothing but legs in her short, dark blue denim skirt, white tennis shoes and ankle socks, and a form fitting baby T in their school colors of blue and gray with "School Zone--Why am I Here?" emblazoned across her modest chest.

He'd be lying if he said he'd never noticed her before. She was a lovely young woman, after all, even if she was his student.

And she was in fact his student.

But after the drinking and emotional devastation of the past week, and her inquiry to his wellbeing, he realized that right then in that moment, he couldn't bring himself to care.


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It had been a over a year since she last had a gym and health class, and it was there, in her sophomore year that they'd had a seminar on suicide prevention. Dance therapy and activities had been presented, and the instructors showed the most clichéd signs of depression to look out for--heaving sighs, forlorn looks, passing on all things fun, slouching when you sit (accompanied by looking "lost" as one did so), and yada, yada, yada. Though Mr. Williams didn't exactly meet those criteria, he didn't have his usual enthusiasm and zest for teaching and doling out reading assignments. His exuberance that had existed day after day for the past year and couple of months was gone, replaced with half smiles and a strange lack of homework and projects, which were hard to complain about, but still.

It was obvious Mr. Williams was drowning.

"Mr. Williams? I was wondering, uh..." She paused, watching as he tried to hide his tears. She had been about to ask him about the upcoming paper, but upon seeing his overt sadness, her ruse flew out the window.

The tears had been a cold shock.

Instead of beating around the bush, she finished her question with, "...Wondering if you're okay? You just seem...I don't mean to pry. I just wanted to know if you're alright," she explained, walking slowly towards him. She saw his heavy, dark brows furrow at that, and he turned his head towards her. He stood up slowly, damp, cobalt eyes staring at her unblinkingly. She took in his parted mouth, his thin upper lip separated from the angular, plush bottom one, and it made her heart quicken. She swallowed, cursing herself for being all lame, letting her big, girly crush on him affect her. This was important, and so not about her. He needed help. She didn't know if she could do anything, but she was willing to try. Even if it was to just listen.

"You...wanted to know how I was feeling? You wanted to check on me?" he asked in a whisper, shocked awe coloring his face.

"Yeah. I mean, you just seemed so--"

"You've been watching me?" His voice was low and raw, and made her shudder internally. She didn't know how to answer him.

"Um..."

"I've seen you, watching me. You like me."

She lowered her eyes, feeling her skin flush and her pulse race.

"Uh, Mr. Williams--"

"Call me Wes," he demanded in a heady whisper. She gasped when his hands shot out, grabbing her wide hips, and then tilting his head up slightly to make up for the one inch difference between them in height, pressing his lips firmly to hers. Her eyes widened as she became stupefied as to what was actually occurring.

Her teacher, Mr. Williams, was kissing her. Passionately. Wantonly. Chock full of intensity and ardor. When she opened her mouth to ask "What," he took the opportunity to thrust inside, slowly massaging her tongue with his, invading her mouth with his warmth and wetness, with the taste of coffee and vodka.

Suddenly, her question didn't seem so important.

His hands traveled up her back, caressing, before going down again, pulling her by the hips so that her pelvis was flush against his. She moaned involuntarily at the feeling of his hardness pressing so intimately against her.

Height difference aside, they were perfectly aligned.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, thinking Oh...god, and wondering if it was all an elaborate dream. Her fingers crept up the back of his neck, and into his thick, dark brown, wavy hair. She had longed to do that for so--

BUZZZ!

Seventh period lunch was officially over. It was five minutes until it was time for her class.

With him.

They pulled apart slowly. The expression on his face was one full of remorse, as if the wretched bell had broken the spell. And maybe it had, since he looked so...as if he were about to apologize. She swallowed, and turned around quickly, taking long strides to the door.

She didn't want him to apologize; she didn't want him to be sorry.

She didn't want him to regret that kiss. After all...

She didn't.

She turned away--left before he could utter a word.


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What have I done? he thought, leaning back against his desk, heaving a more than weary sigh. He never lost control like that.

Never.

"What the fuck have I done?" he muttered to himself, turning and sitting at his seat once again. Glancing at the stack of graded papers on the right side corner of his desk, he grabbed them, impulsively flipping through them, until he found Madison Morgan's.

Taking out a red pen, he began to write…


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The last time she'd been kissed had been some random guy at the last party she went to. As per usual, she'd had this strong craving to be touched and held intimately by a member of the opposite sex, and found a pretty steady outlet for her sexual frustrations with strangers at parties. It wasn't as if she had a boyfriend to feel guilty about (hence the need for tactile contact and otherwise in the first place), nor was she having sex with any of these random young men, for she deemed such acts as dipping off during a party to get laid in some closet or bathroom or alley ho-acious, but also because she didn't fancy losing her virginity in such a crude manner. The fact of the matter was that she was a warm blooded, sexual being, who happened to be single. With the aide of her alter ego, Autumn Brown, she got felt up or fingered on occasion by some cute guy who she didn't have to worry about seeing again on account of attending a different school (that is, if he was in fact a high school student). Though those instances were fun, they could not compare even remotely to Mr. Williams.

To Wes.

Her lips still tingled, as she walked briskly to her locker. She had less than five minutes to get her book bag and lit books before she had to return to room 303--for World Literature with Mr. Williams.
She grinned stupidly to herself, licking her lips and swallowing his lingering taste. Her schoolgirl crush fantasies had come to life.

It was strange and yet an incredible sense of euphoria overcame her. She wasn't sure what to think about that, and decided to just think of it in the most simplest of ways: She liked Wes, Wes kissed her, and it was good.

So enamored in her post make-out daze, she wasn't even aware of unlocking her locker and pulling out her needed materials. Nor of slipping her arms through her book bag straps, and walking back to the classroom she had practically fled from three minutes ago. She paused as she reached the door, and then backed away a bit, not wanting to be seen by him through the open door, and definitely not wanting to be the first person in there. If they were alone together, that left room for a confrontation. And in that confrontation, it was possible he would take it all back. In fact, if his repentant blue eyes were any indication, she was sure that he would.

And she didn't want him to.

Wanting to appear inconspicuous, she crouched down to her knees, taking off her book bag and rifled through it aimlessly as the other students walked by her, heading into the classroom. Thirty seconds or so before the bell rang, she picked up her things and headed inside, being one of the last few students in. She sat down quickly, mindful to keep her eyes downward, and pulled out a copy of "To the
Lighthouse."

"Hey girl. I didn't see you at lunch. Where've you been?" Miros, her neighbor and buddy in the class, as well as division asked her.

Madison gave her a weak smile, shaking her head slightly.

"Wasn't feeling well--had monster cramps from hell, so I took a nap in the library."

Miros made an "Oh" face, then turned to her bag, pulling out her notebook and what not. Madison tried to not focus on Mr. Will—Wes, who had rose from his seat, and began handing out papers. Of course, when he said her name softly, her eyes left her no choice by darting up, looking at him in response.

"Ms. Morgan?" His eyes had that same hypnotic pull, and she became so distracted that she did not even reach out for the paper he was handing to her.

"Your paper?" he asked, amusement in his eyes.

"Oh, yes. Thank you," she answered dumbly, taking the paper from him.

"Well done, as usual," he commented, before turning away, striding across the room to another student. Madison looked down, flipping the pages until she got to the last one. An A, of course, written green ink. He didn't like to mark up his students papers in red, he'd said at the beginning of the school year. This is why her eyes darted down to the startling red ink beneath the green.

He had added a note.

Madison, please see me after class. There are some things in regards to class work I must speak to you about.
Mr. Williams


Madison swallowed, looking up at him. His back was to her as he discussed something with a student on the other side of the room. He was going to shut her out--she just knew it. The euphoria that had blossomed in her chest moments earlier slowly evolved into a harsh tightness that made it hard to breathe…

Madison couldn't focus in class after that, and refrained from class participation of any kind. Mr. Williams didn't give her a hard time about it--in fact, he seemed a bit distracted himself. But Madison couldn't help but notice the too bright fluorescent lighting in the room, reflecting off of the smooth, shiny beige surfaces of the desktops attached to navy blue, hard plastic and metal chairs. There weren't more than twenty-six students in the room, two rows of desks going around half the square room, and yet, Madison felt a bout of claustrophobia. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she felt as if there wasn't enough air to breathe.

She was terrified.

She couldn't pinpoint why exactly, but she was not looking forward to when the period ended at two twenty-five.

Madison knew how horrendously wrong this all was, and acknowledged that fact. But she wanted him, even if he was, well, not old, but old enough to be her father. What with the twenty-three years between them. And he was married. She could overlook the teacher thing--after all, it wasn't as if she would receive special treatment. Like with most of her other teachers, she was already on his good side, and had been throughout the duration of being his student. And the age thing wasn't a problem either. New, but not a problem.

The problem was that legally, he was taken.

She watched, as he read aloud from their current novel of study, taking in the rich timbre of his voice, and though his pale lids and long, dark lashes hid them from view as he looked down to read, she saw in her mind's eye his hypnotic pale, blue eyes, seemingly icy due to its color, and yet were warm and full of mirth, because of the feeling in them--because he was warm and kind. The windows to his soul appeared cold, but was not an accurate indication to the man that he truly was.

And his hands. Madison had a thing about hands--if they were dirty, unkempt, fingers too short, nails too long or too nubby, too small, too calloused or too soft, then she did not want them touching her. But his hands...they were utterly flawless. Though he was barely average height for a man, standing at five foot nine, his hands were large, finger long, and not too narrow or too wide, and nails trimmed and clean. They were soft, but firm, and did not have too many hairs. She wanted to feel those pale hands of perfection on her--grabbing, caressing, gripping--she did not care. They just needed to be on her bare flesh.

She swallowed, looking down at her slight reflection on her desk. She was certain that that part of her fantasy would not come true. Because at sometime today, after class was over, he was going to apologize for ever touching her in the first place.