Chapter 5: No Limits
It was 5:05 a.m. and Jordan was dreaming. It was the same dream he had every night, of dark, quiet emptiness and shimmering pinpricks of stars dusted along the backs of his eyelids, of long silky hair slithering across the nape of his neck, little breaths of laughter against his lips, warm, taut skin under his hand and tiny nudges beneath it that felt so foreign and inexplicable but so very alive. It was a good dream, the best, the last and most happy memory he had to hold onto, and even though he always woke up with an aching heart it was worth it for the few fleeting moments he allowed himself to dwell on it before opening his eyes.
This disorienting hammering in his ears didn't mix well with the dream though, didn't make sense, and he felt himself being reluctantly dragged away from that warm, peaceful place and back into consciousness. He placed a hand on his head and rubbed for a second or two, trying to see if the noise would disappear, before rolling over and reaching out to the nightstand for his glasses. The more alert he grew, the more aware he became that the sound was of someone knocking on his door, though for the life of him he couldn't imagine who or why.
Jordan was almost terrifyingly certain that no one had knocked on that door in 2,127 days, so with a pounding heart he slowly slipped out from under the covers, clumsily unfolding his glasses and clutching his phone with his other tense, white knuckled hand. It was just that so few people knew where he lived, nobody who had any reason to be there knew the exact apartment, or at least nobody still living, and that was a rather unsettling thought.
Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul.
But that was the thing, he wasn't afraid exactly, that wasn't the right word. He was more apprehensive, perhaps, or maybe that wasn't right either. He was a bit uneasy, he had a disconcerting feeling that whatever was waiting for him outside on the landing didn't have good intentions, but that was only the result of his natural human instinct to distrust the unknown. At the heart of it all he was not afraid, because no matter how sinister the presence on the other side of the door might be, what could it do to him that hadn't already been done? Perhaps it could seize him, bind him, take him somewhere dark and deserted and torture him, but that was something he asked for anyway, something he voluntarily gave away already. What could the other side of the door possibly do to him that he truly didn't want?
He felt a thrill zip down his spinal cord and he paused, shuddering, against the door frame of his room, pushing his hands up under his own shirt and pressing firmly against his stomach to still the rat inside it that whipped its tail about in glee at the mere idea of falling victim to something truly sadistic. It wasn't likely, wasn't something to get excited about, it was just his barely conscious brain concocting wild scenarios, but he couldn't help it. A pain that never ended would be welcome, appreciated even, and although he felt crippled and nauseated by it he couldn't stop himself from silently padding down the hallway towards the knocking.
Could it be real, he wondered? This dream, this sick, obscene fantasy that he tried so hard to suppress during waking hours, of being stolen away and tormented mercilessly until he either lost his mind or died, could it possibly be coming true? He had made Andre angry, and true, Andre didn't seem like the type but he knew people, he had the means, he had the motivation, and Jordan had this twisted hope…
He was too unnerved to even breathe – no, he never wanted to breathe again. He wanted a hand to close around his throat, a hood to be thrown over his head, cords to be tightened around his limbs, and he wouldn't fight, nothing like that. He wouldn't call for help. He wouldn't want help.
But he that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved.
But what about those who didn't want to be saved? What about those who wanted to be crushed into utter nothingness by the weight of the universe, gravity pushing in from every side, flattening each microscopic cell and grinding it all into dust, into the tiniest slivers of atoms, pieces so minute that even God himself couldn't reassemble them into something worthy of containing a soul?
"Jordan!" called a muffled voice from the other side of the door. "J, please open up!"
At the sound of that familiar voice Jordan felt his knees go weak and give out beneath him, and he slumped back against the wall, sliding down to the floor. It was only Nate, drunk Nate undoubtedly, showing up in the middle of the night, pounding on his door and giving him stupid, sleep-drugged hope that maybe something was going to change, and maybe there was an easy way out, and maybe he could open the door and find himself staring right into the barrel of a gun, feel the cold metal of it against his jaw, and maybe then someone would even pull the trigger but it wouldn't be him so it wouldn't be his fault so no one could really blame him and he wouldn't have to carry that guilt…but it was just Nate. Nothing even remotely resembling salvation.
"J…" whined the voice behind the door. "Please, I hear you in there. Someone's in there, please, I'm just trying to find my brother. I'm sorry if this is the wrong house, I don't know which one he lives in, I didn't think there was going to be more than one door down here so please, I'm not trying to do anything but just find my brother, please don't call the police…"
After a long pause in which Jordan's lungs burned with the desperate need to suck in a breath he was too afraid to take, Nate finally spoke up again. "Alright, I guess this is the wrong apartment. I'm just going to go to the other one now, so…thank you for your time."
Jordan scrunched up a handful of coarse, brittle hair – Kayden Kassidy's stupid hair, the style chosen no doubt for the fact that it made him look disturbingly young, every pedophile's wet dream. Why couldn't it be someone of that nature outside the door instead? Why did it have to be Nate, drunk, confused, idiotic Nate who was now headed across the landing to knock on the other door? That apartment, Jordan knew, was occupied by a middle-aged, single, exceedingly paranoid woman, the type who would certainly call the police over a crazed, intoxicated man banging on her door at five in the morning. He let out a frustrated sigh, slammed his closed fist against the wall behind him in agitation, and then pushed himself back up to his feet.
"Nate," Jordan said softly as he slipped out the door and shut it firmly behind him. Nate didn't need to see the inside of his apartment, nobody did.
Nate spun around quickly, losing his balance and stumbling into the railing at the base of the staircase. "J!" he exclaimed, steadying himself. "I'm so glad it's you! I really couldn't remember what your apartment number was but I had to just try anyway and I was praying so hard that it was actually this one and nobody was going to call the police on me - "
"Here, let's just…sit down or something," Jordan interrupted, taking hold of his brother's arm and leading him to the stairs before he could start to sway again. The pale yellow light above them hummed and flickered as they sank down, Jordan settling on the bottom stair with his knees folded and pulled in tightly to his chest, and Nate on the one above him.
"Why are you here?" Jordan asked once they got situated, trying not to let his frustration come across in his tone. "It's five a.m., Nate."
"I know," Nate groaned, hanging his head. "I'm sorry, I was just so upset and I had been drinking so I didn't really have my head on straight, and I couldn't sleep because I…I talked to Gabe earlier and he told me that he had been talking to you, and he told me that you were…" He trailed off and fixed Jordan with a watery, glazed, red-eyed look, his mouth hanging open unevenly. "He sent me links to these pictures," he continued in a whisper. "And I didn't want to believe him because they were disgusting and just so wrong, and they were kind of fuzzy so I couldn't be sure if they were really you or not."
"What did he show you?" Jordan protested with trepidation, his heart rate rapidly picking up speed until it was thudding so harshly against the inside of his chest that he was almost convinced he could see it through his shirt. No one was supposed to know about his second occupation, and no one would if it hadn't been for Gabe's vast and ridiculously uncalled for appreciation of male adult film stars. It hadn't been long ago that he'd caught onto the fact that Jordan's rapidly changing hairstyles exactly mirrored Kayden Kassidy's, and a few internet searches later he had been the one confronting Jordan with a pixilated cell phone image, just like Nate was brandishing in his face right now.
For there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed, nor hidden that shall not be known.
"J, what is this?" Nate demanded, shoving his phone directly under Jordan's nose. "Please tell me it isn't you. It looks so much like you but I know you, and I know you would never do something like this so please…just say it's not you," he repeated, his face crumpling into an expression of utter agony.
Jordan took the phone out of his hand and stared listlessly at the photo displayed there. He had never made a practice of watching any of the scenes he starred in for Andre and he had only ever seen a handful of the stills, so it was strange to stare at a picture of himself in such a compromised position, splayed out naked and supine across a metal table, bound at the wrists and ankles with thick black cords that held all four limbs stretched to the maximum. He was just lying there, calm and still, with a gag in his mouth, his head lolling off to the side and his eyes halfway closed, his lower extremities speckled with little splatters of dark red that he knew to be wax, and five huge, silver needles arranged in a neat little row below his navel, each one painstakingly inserted under an inch or so of skin and threaded back out the other side.
He felt a jerk deep in his gut and instinctively clapped a hand over his mouth, swallowing hard. He remembered filming this particular scene very vividly. It had been a rough one. Andre offered him a sedative to help get him through it but he refused, like always. He wanted the pain after all, didn't he? And in that respect it was certainly effective, it was just that afterwards he spent what felt like hours curled up on the floor of his shower, retching and stinging and scrubbing at the wax, trying to convince himself that it had all been worth it.
But I am a worm, and no man; a reproach of men, and despised of the people
"Jordan…" Nate begged softly, reaching out with a shaking hand to nudge him in the shoulder.
Jordan hardly noticed the touch. He felt his jaw clench and in a split second decision he deleted both the photo and Gabe's snide text that accompanied it before handing the phone back to his brother. "Please don't ever mention this to Dad," he murmured evenly, at a loss for any other words. There was no point in denying the obvious truth, and there was no explanation that he wanted to give.
"Oh God, Jordan!" Nate choked, his reddened cheeks glistening with fresh tears. "Why? Why would you do something like that?"
"I can use the extra income," he replied tightly, abruptly standing up again and brushing the dust off of his legs.
Nate's hand latched around his wrist and Jordan could feel the fingernails digging in over his rapidly bounding pulse. "No!" he proclaimed wildly. "You don't have to do stuff like this for money, J! You have people that will help you, me and Dad and Gabe, we'll give you whatever money you need - "
"None of you have money to spare," Jordan argued calmly, using his free hand to break Nate's grip on his arm and then pulling him to his feet as well. "I can take care of myself. Now come on, I'm going to take you home."
"No, why would you take me home?" Nate asked in alarm, staggering sideways until his elbow hit the railing and then leaning his weight against it instead. "We're already here at your place, let me come inside and sleep it off and then we can talk when we're both sober - "
"It's Monday morning, I have work in a few hours and so do you," Jordan reminded him. "I'm going to take you home, okay?"
Nate just gazed at him wretchedly, one hand clutched to his chest and the other wrapped tightly around the iron post at the bottom of the staircase, knuckles white with the effort it took to keep himself vertical. "Jordan…" he sobbed, his voice nothing but a tiny rasp of sound in the cold morning air. "This fucking breaks my heart. Please stop, you have to stop doing this, it's not healthy…"
"You're one to talk," Jordan pointed out tersely, positioning his body so that he could just shuffle backwards to the door, keeping his eyes locked on Nate the whole time to watch for any sudden movements. "Stay here while I grab my keys." And with that said he darted back inside, shutting and locking the door behind him before Nate could so much as take one stumbling step towards it.
He walked quickly down the hallway to his bedroom, keeping his head lowered and his thoughts as blank as he could. He wasn't angry at Nate, he was just disturbed and defensive. He didn't want his brothers meddling in his personal life, didn't need their advice or intervention. He handled things the best way – the only way – he knew how, and neither of them was anywhere near capable of helping him. They had enough problems of their own. At the end of it all only God could save His children – he could save Nate, he could save Gabe, he could save their father – and he would, if they would just trust, if they would just ask…
For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth
But Jordan didn't ask, and he didn't seek, because he didn't deserve to be saved. It was that simple.
When he returned to the landing with his keys he found it deserted and, with his heart riding dangerously high in his throat, dashed up the stairs on tiptoes just in time to see Nate's car peeling out of the lot, white smoke pouring from the exhaust pipe like ghosts in the dark.
For half a second Jordan considered calling out after him, or maybe getting in his own car and tailing behind him all the way home just to make sure he got there, but Nate drove fast and recklessly and Jordan doubted he would even be able to keep up. He put his hand to his head, shivering against the frosty morning air in his thin t-shirt, and tapped out a quick message instead. Text me when you get home so I know you're safe. I love you. It was the best he could do. He was not his brother's keeper.
He trudged back down the steps and into the warmth of his apartment, his figure casting an eerie shadow over his rows and rows of tally marks as he moved through the candle's glowing orb. It was too late to go back to sleep now, not that he'd likely be able to even if he tried. He would have to find an alternate way to pass the dreary, early hours until eight o'clock rolled around and the world started turning.
As he closed the door to his bedroom behind him his phone vibrated in his hand, and he felt his lips twitch at the corners as he read Felicia's customary workday morning message. Rise and shine sleepyhead, it said. I hope you had a good weekend! This morning's verse of the day is Romans 8:24, and this week we're wearing purple ribbons for pancreatic cancer. I'll leave yours on your desk. See you soon, drive safely, and God bless!
He read the message over again and then closed it out and sank down onto his bed, folding his legs up underneath him. He never replied to her messages, was never exactly sure what to say, but she sent them every morning before work regardless. At the office he always smiled at her when she passed by, always wore the pin she left for him on the front pocket of his lab coat, always made an extra cup for her in the little personal sized coffee pot he kept on his desk. Occasionally he would try to make small talk, or say a few words about the verse she had chosen that morning, but he was shy and quiet, a natural introvert and not good at carrying a conversation. He didn't know how to put into words how much her little messages meant to him, how foreign and infrequent his interactions with normal people had become.
The wee hours of the morning were decidedly not a time for dealing with normal people, however. It was times like these that Jordan felt the most lonely, the most dejected, the most desperate, and he needed something to distract himself before he got lost in that dizzying void of confusion and need, so he reached underneath his bed for his laptop, opened it, and set it on the bed in front of him, switching on the lamp on his bedside table. The website he wanted was already up on the screen, all he had to do was hit refresh, enable his webcam, and he was ready.
The first person he was connected to looked far too young, a round, acne-marked face inside a dark hood. Jordan disconnected immediately and hit next. He might be in need of distraction, but he didn't talk to kids. They were too impressionable, left him feeling too guilty.
The next person didn't have a webcam enabled. Their image presented as just a solid black square, and while Jordan didn't always mind talking to people who hid their faces, he felt a tiny bit uneasy this morning. He disconnected.
The next person was an older man, with gray, thinning hair, a goatee, and a bored expression. Jordan saw his eyes flick up and down, looking him over, and then his hands moved to the keyboard.
Take off ur shirt, appeared in the text box.
He preferred people that typed in complete sentences using real English words, but the man seemed commanding enough, so Jordan obeyed. He pulled his t-shirt over his head, deposited it on the floor beside him, and sat with his hands folded in his lap, patiently awaiting his next command.
Ur sexy, typed the stranger. Nice body.
Jordan flashed him a small forced smile in response. I'm all yours, he typed in reply. Just tell me what you want to see. No limits.
The man raised his eyebrows, evidently impressed. U want 2 see my dick? he inquired.
Jordan nearly rolled his eyes. Internet creeps were almost all the same, bored and self-centered and halfway illiterate. I don't care, he typed back bluntly. Do whatever you want. He got no excitement out of seeing naked strangers, but he knew what they liked to do while they watched him strip, and if it made them happy to think that he was watching them as well then he could pretend.
I want 2 see urs, was the man's only reply.
All in all it didn't look too promising, but it was better than sitting alone in his room, staring at the wall, screaming question after question in his ravaged, exhausted mind and waiting indefinitely for answers from a God who seemed to love nothing more than keeping his precious secrets, so Jordan slipped his left thumb beneath his waistband and started to drag it down his hip. Okay.